Nisa Paris Dare

My first daughter Nisa was born on my birthday, today, November 10th. I'm 55 and she's 18. As a legal adult, for the first time in her life she is no longer under the jurisdiction of a custody arrangement from a court that ordered me to stay away. She is free to contact me, I'm free to contact her, and there's nothing any court can do about it.

Unfortunately, from my side, there's nothing much I can do but write this, a blatantly sentimental attempt to regain a lost relationship. Short of kidnapping her years ago and living our lives as fugitives, there's no way I could have been Nisa's father. The decks were too stacked. I've had no choice but to wait until this very day, November 10, 2006, to initiate contact, but the barriers are still in place. I live near Palm Springs in California. She lives in Phoenix, Arizona with her aunt who controls every aspect of her life. She has no phone of her own, and the last time I called to talk to her, auntie told me she couldn't come to the phone because she was "busy playing." Auntie doesn't allow access to the internet, always answers the phone first, blocks the mail, and has taken away all pictures of me. I can't call or write so what's left but journalism, my paltry slice of the World Wide Web, and the hope she'll Google herself someday, find this article, and try to contact me.

Sure, I could linger around her school, but what school? Who knows if she's still in school. I don't even know if her name is Nisa Dare or Nisa Paris or Nisa Paris Dare. Does she hate me? Does she have any idea I've done things of which she should be proud? Does she have plans for college? Does she have any idea she's half Jewish? What kind of music does she like? Has she seen "The Man who Would be King?" Democrat or Republican? Bush Bozo or free thinker? Sure of herself or emotional wreck? Does she smoke? Drink? Date? What does she want to be? Did she go to the prom? What does she look like? Have any of my talents filtered through? Can she play a musical instrument? Does she write or draw? A million bucks she's never heard Elvis Costello or seen Kandinski. These, and countless other things, are what Nisa's dad wants to know.

I also want Nisa to know that whatever she's been told, I never gave her up, never let go, fought every inch of the way, not just that she's got a father but has always had one. There isn't a moment in the past eighteen years that I haven't been here for her when she needed me. It's just that contact had to be initiated by her, and decades of brainwashing can be mighty effective. I have no idea the level of hostility she may feel towards me, or even if reconciliation is emotionally possible. I only know I've spent Nisa's childhood a wounded animal, my baby ripped from my arms, a hole in my life effectively filled by the constant privilege of raising my boys, knowing that I love all my children equally, no matter what the circumstances. It's amazing that I've been able to accomplish anything in the intervening years considering my constant emotional distress. It's not the kind of thing I can let go. It's my subtext to everything. I think of my girls every day.

Nisa was taken from me when just a baby, and I participated in her life to the best that circumstances would allow, considering the fact she had been moved out of state and I had limited resources to fight the enormous legal battle I found myself in, one of the most complicated imaginable, five children, all under the jurisdiction of different courts.

One day Nisa's mom simply drove to Phoenix, Arizona, gave Nisa to her mother, and drove back. Ta-dah! No more Nisa. She's been there ever since, in the care of her grandmother, who eventually bestowed custody to another of her daughters, one with little likelihood of starting her own family.

In order to keep my daughters in Arizona, they succeeded in implementing a diabolical scheme from which I'm suffering the consequences to this very day. How easy it is make a false charge in the middle of a custody hearing, especially one that crosses state borders. One word from a social worker in Arizona who never met me and I was suddenly a child pornographer in California until proven otherwise. During the nine months it took to get the court to just look at the goddam tape, not only was my career as a professional film critic destroyed, but the rest of my kids were shuffled around from mother to wards of the state to father to group home to grandmother to aunt to homeless shelter, from court to court, from one ruthless social worker to another, each with their own agenda, advocating one way or another, dozens of ruined lives in the wake of an endless succession of different judges given ten minutes to read through paperwork a foot high, a total gamble, just as I'd get a judge in my corner they'd be replaced and I'd have to start all over again.

All for what? I ended up with legal and physical custody of my boys with orders to protect them from the rest of the family, and grandma ended up with legal and physical custody of my girls with orders to protect them from me. You are cordially invited to find the logic in that.

They protected my daughters from me with a vengeance. Here's my favorite stunt. The California court miraculously ordered a bunch of monitored visits with Amanda and Alex, my two other girls. During these visits I always saw all three of my daughters, but one day grandma and auntie realized that Nisa was under a different jurisdiction - that the visits with her weren't "court ordered" - so they deliberately left her out of the visits, sometimes in particularly diabolical ways.

One time they sent Nisa to the pony rides. Amanda and Alex wanted to go too, but were told "You can't go to the pony rides, you've got to stay home and visit with your father." They were crying when I showed up. It took all of ten minutes to calm then down and have a loving visit, but the court was later told that my visits were traumatizing the children, that they cried when I showed up. End of court ordered visits.

It all came down to money. 10,000 bucks and I could have gotten Nisa back, but to what? If my career had skyrocketed, if I was perched on a Hollywood hillside with film deals and money for private schools, there would have been no contest, but instead I lost everything in a series of seriously unfortunate events including bankruptcy, treachery, and theft. All I would have had to offer the past few years was welfare, foodstamps, an abandoned house in the middle of the desert, and no car. Judges are always interested in improving the lifestyles of children in their care, but the only group of people for whom my lifestyle would be an improvement is the homeless.

We were all playing in grandma's living room when I remembered something I wanted to get from the car. I was sitting in the driver's seat looking through baggage when Nisa ran out of the house and gave me a big hug. She thought I was leaving without saying goodbye. I kissed her and reassured her I'd never do such a thing. She sat in my lap and we talked and cuddled. I looked back towards the house and there stood grandma and auntie looking at us like I was raping her. It was the worst thing they had ever seen, this blatant display of genuine affection between a father and daughter. I could see them making up their minds then and there to prevent anything like it ever occurring again. I haven't seen Nisa since then.

Nisa, you were kidnapped, a legal kidnapping endorsed by a court, but a kidnapping nonetheless. I miss you and love you as much as any father has ever loved a daughter. Your brothers miss you too, and we all hope this finds you well. Send us a picture.