When I was a kid, I had no idea my dad was a CIA spy

Boston Globe

20 hours ago

Later, his story changed. I overheard him on the telephone saying he worked for the State Department. Nothing had altered in our lives. That's when I knew he was hiding something.
Another time, when I was 13, slumped in the backseat of the family car as we drove through the leafy suburbs of Northern Virginia, my mother said out of the blue, 'Tell the girls what you do for a living.' The energy in the car shifted. I couldn't believe Mom was talking about the thing we never talked about — Dad's job.
He tiptoed around an answer. His job was to 'research events,' he told us. Mom asked him to say more, but he resisted. 'I manage people,' he finally said. Mom whipped around and asked my sister and me if we had any questions about his work 'managing people.'
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We jumped in. What kinds of things did he research? 'World events.' What kind of world events? 'Events of the day.'
When Mom saw we were about to give up, she pressed her lips together firmly and said, 'You work for the CIA, don't you?'
Dad said nothing for the rest of the drive. My mind raced through the James Bond movies we watched at home. I tried to put Sean Connery and my horn-rimmed glasses-wearing Dad in the same frame, but Dad was no 007. Still, it felt liberating to be out in the open. I wanted us to share more — the fact that I liked girls — but our family reverted back to silence. Three years later, my brave mother died of breast cancer. The truth-teller was gone.
When I was home for the summer my sophomore year in college, I discovered the definitive truth. Dad had picked me up from the airport to take me to his new home. We drove through winding back roads and eventually arrived at a small cinder-block building. A uniformed official came out and motioned for us to get out of the car. I heard bright popping sounds in the background but tried to ignore them.
Were those gunshots? Where were we?
Clipboard in hand, the man announced, 'This is a CIA base.' His words sped through the layers of my life. I had to agree not to disclose this to anyone. He offered me the clipboard and a pen. Numbly, I signed.
Thirty years later, in a call with my sister, those memories came rushing back. After growing up close, sister-allies in a family of loss and secrets, our adult lives had taken different turns. But the day I called, I was sorting through the past: My father's habit of skirting the topic of work, his rejection of my being gay, the unhappiness my mother experienced as the spouse of a clandestine officer.
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Then, when Dad was in his 70s, I started writing a book which sparked conversations that led to our reconciliation. He agreed to meet my wife and they hugged.
The facts have fallen into place. Dad had worked at the CIA for nearly 32 years and was twice awarded the Intelligence Medal of Merit.
But I'm still unraveling. Still pondering. Recalibrating.
is a writer in Oakland and the author of
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