ABSTRACT
I could not help but know that I had disappointed my father by pursuing my academic interests. He disdained “intellectuals” as goof-offs, as non-productive members of society, almost as akin to parasites. He tolerated lawyers because they were needed. Doctors were necessary, but one had to remain on guard with them, since they were apt to exaggerate the seriousness of debilitating conditions in order to overcharge. Academics, psychologists and psychoanalysts were beyond the pale. After all, what tangibles did they produce? So, for him, I was a fictitious doctor. I don’t even think that he meant to put me down when, the only time he ever referred to my title, he introduced me to the surgeon who had operated on his ulcer: “This is my daughter, she is a doctor too, but not a real one.”
