Lisa Brennan-Jobs talks about how she learned to
love the co-founder of Apple, who claimed for years she wasn’t his child
It is a good thing, says Lisa Brennan-Jobs, that
she did not write her memoir of growing up in the shadow of her father, Steve
Jobs, when she was still in her 20s. The 40-year-old, who lives with her
husband Bill and their four-month-old son Thomas in Brooklyn, could not have
done justice to the story, she says, because, “I don’t know if I’d have been
able to get over the self-pity.” She is also glad she didn’t wait until her 40s
to write the book, when the experience of having Thomas has made her “softer,
more forgiving”. Instead, she spent the best part of her 30s writing a book
that is neither self-pitying nor soft, but is a portrait of a childhood in
which the key factor is not that her father was a man who changed the world,
but that he was a man who, over and over, tried and failed in mostly ordinary
ways.
It is relatively well known by now that Steve
Jobs, the co-founder of Apple who died eight years ago of pancreatic cancer,
had a child with his high-school sweetheart when the pair were in their early
20s, and that a few years later, when on paper at least he was worth hundreds
of millions, had to be sued for child support – events around which the whiff
of scandal still lingers.
There is no point denying what happens when one
first meets Brennan-Jobs: the extent to which one looks through her for her father’s
outline, in terms of both appearance (she is fair-skinned and, as her father
himself noted, very much his child around the eyebrows), and her manner
(animated to the point of nervy). There is also no avoiding the fact that
interest in Brennan-Jobs is stoked by her father’s fame, or that walking into
her Brooklyn apartment, which is small and three storeys up, one’s thoughts
immediately jump to the question of what happened to the inheritance. (And
again, when it transpires it’s a spare property, used as an office, and not the
house that she lives in.) These are the rapid mental calculations that
Brennan-Jobs has grown used to seeing flash across strangers’ faces, and in
spite of her chipper demeanour she gives the impression of being exhausted by them.
So, too, by the central drama of her early life as she tells it: that Steve
Jobs, a man lauded by the world as a visionary, appeared for long stretches not
to love her, or even to admit she was his.
She can say all this now, and with a smile, but it
wasn’t always this way. “When I first started writing the book, I wanted to
garner self-pity, because I felt really badly about myself,” she says. Thomas
lolls on her lap, and she looks slightly daffy with happiness. “I mean, gosh,
that’s gone. A lot of the veil of shame has dissipated and I don’t know if it’s
age, or writing the book, or both. But I wanted to have some scenes that would
make you feel really bad for me, because I felt ashamed of the fact that I had
this father – clearly I was not compelling enough for my father, this
incredible man, to unequivocally own. I would think, was I an ugly baby? I even
asked him that once. And I knew it was cheesy and facetious even as I asked it,
or possibly manipulative. But it was a feeling that kept coming up because he
wouldn’t look at my baby albums. I’d leave them out, and then once he was like,
‘Who’s that?’ And I was like, ‘It’s me!’”
Brennan-Jobs talks very quickly and often
backtracks to undercut what she has said – not, I think, because she is unsure
of herself, but because she is operating in a constant mode of simultaneous
translation: there is the meaning of what she says in the moment she says it,
and there is the use to which it will be put, at some unspecified date in the
future, in service to the myth of Steve Jobs. It gives her the brittle air of
someone running for political office.
She is also wrestling with an origin story that
has been interpreted so many times by other people that she must fight tooth
and nail to possess her own story. In outline: Steve Jobs and Chrisann Brennan
got together as hippyish teens at high school in Cupertino, California, and
were on-again off-again until Brennan got pregnant, at which point they were
decisively driven apart. Jobs had just founded Apple with Steve Wozniak and was
working on early versions of what would become the Macintosh. To put it mildly,
fatherhood was not in his plan. And yet, after the baby’s birth, he called his
early (failed) version of the personal computer the Lisa, then spent the next
20 years pretending the name was just a coincidence.
It was the kind of infuriating denial that,
according to Brennan-Jobs, characterised almost every stage of his parenting,
including most famously his denial that she was his. Forced by the state to
take a DNA test, Jobs quibbled with the results, and in 1982, when his daughter
was five, told a journalist from Time magazine that “28% of the male population
of the United States could be the father”.
What was this? The best Brennan-Jobs can do at
explaining is to say, “His love for me blindsided him. And then if you’re
someone who’s used to controlling things, and succeeding at everything, and you
find this one thing you can’t succeed at, it’s hard not to push it away.”
He would not be the first man to ditch an unwanted
child to focus on his own self-advancement, but what is interesting about the
story is that Jobs never seemed quite able to make up his mind. For the first
seven years of his daughter’s life he was almost entirely absent, after which
he would drop by, occasionally, at one of the series of small houses where she
lived with her mother – or else promise to drop by, then stand her up. Enough
of a relationship developed that, when Brennan-Jobs fell out with her mother
during adolescence, she was able to move in with Jobs. But it was never
something she could rely on.
Many of the most shocking scenes in the book turn
on small acts of unkindness that seem to come from Jobs’ perpetual shock at having
a daughter at all. “You’re not getting anything,” he snaps at nine-year-old
Brennan-Jobs when she asks winsomely if she can have his Porsche when he’s
done. “You understand? Nothing. You’re getting nothing.” When she lived with
him as a teenager, he wouldn’t get the heating fixed in her room or have the
dishwasher mended. He dragged his feet over her college fees at Harvard,
refusing to pay after her first year, in retaliation for some perceived slight.
(Wealthy neighbours who’d befriended her stepped in and paid, and it wasn’t
until years later that Jobs reimbursed them.) He had stringent rules about how
she had to behave in order to be considered part of his family: be home early,
not spend too much time with her mother (whose requests for money enraged him
in spite of his wealth), respect his authority as total.
There is a small, excruciating scene in a
restaurant, which takes place when Brennan-Jobs is a teenager and out to dinner
with her parents and her teenage cousin, Sarah. Jobs becomes enraged when Sarah
orders a burger – he hates meat – and, turning to the girl, says, “Have you
ever thought about how awful your voice is? Please stop talking in that awful
voice.”
When I bring this up, Brennan-Jobs looks
embarrassed and mutters something about her cousin’s voice actually being quite
annoying. “I look back and think, was that a day when he learned that his
company would fail? I don’t know what happened. I do remember that when he was
in a mood you could tell.”
It is hard for her to resist rationalising away
his worst behaviour. “It’s not a memoir of suffering,” she says forcefully.
“There are those – people who were locked in closets. This had so much joy.”
And after all, her life has been successful. After
graduating from Harvard, Brennan-Jobs moved to England to do a postgraduate
degree at King’s College London, and lived intermittently in the city for much
of her 20s, working in finance and getting the occasional freelance journalism
gig, before returning to the US to study creative writing.
The fact is, she says, at least some of her
father’s unpleasantness came from the fact he was awkward. “Really awkward.
It’s hard to overstate that. I had a surprise party for my mother when I was
eight [organised by Jobs’ then girlfriend, Tina], and he sat on the floor and
his awkwardness had its own charisma. You could hardly pay attention to other
things because you were so worried about him. Even at eight I felt it: ‘Oh God,
are you OK?’ And people have been forgetting that he wasn’t successful when I
was growing up. He wasn’t succeeding, not with me, not with his relationship –
because he and Tina were off and on – not with his work. And he kept on trying,
even though he kept on failing.”
There is almost nothing about Apple in the book,
beyond Brennan-Jobs’ timid boast to school friends that her father invented the
Macintosh computer, and that’s because, she says, “I didn’t feel like my
childhood was set up against his work. Because when he was engaged with work,
he was often delightful. It was fun, we got to look at different things
together… looking at font serifs is fun.”
Looking back, she says, she supposes this was
somewhat naive; clearly his ability to engage with Brennan-Jobs and her mother
was indexed to what was happening at Apple. “When he wasn’t doing well at work,
he’d come find us – his heart would open enough to allow us in. So I imagine we
were in competition, not with his work per se, but with the state of mind that
isn’t focused on family. It’s not a fun thing to be the person set up in
opposition to the work everyone loves. And also… if he was able to love me more
fully when his work wasn’t going well, then what am I? I’m the person carrying
around the wish for his failure.”
She adds quickly that she never did wish failure
on him. She wished he’d be more charmed by her. She wished he’d be normal. “I
was not capable of making him melty the way fathers seemed to be around
daughters, and I of course took that personally.” She wished he knew better how
to be around a child. “All I wanted was closeness and sweetness and for him to
relieve me. To let me be the star, probably. To be like, ‘Well, how was your
day?’ And to listen. And at such a young age, and so used to the spotlight, and
to everybody fawning on him... he didn’t know how to be with me.” (She used to
envy her three half-siblings, a brother and two sisters born when she was in
her teens, and wonder if “maybe he was more conventional to them”. But she has
doubts about that, too – she’s not convinced he was any more present in their
lives than he was in hers.)
It is still slightly amazing that she dared to write any of this. As a child, Brennan-Jobs’ fear of displeasing or disappointing her father was excruciating. When she was eight, it was established that she would spend every Wednesday night at his house, but she became so anxious that she wet the bed and her mother made other arrangements. This book would surely have enraged the control-freak side of Jobs, and yet, she believes, he gave her tacit permission. “There was a phrase that my father kept using at the end: ‘I owe you one, I owe you one.’ And I thought, ‘What an odd phrase.’ I had never heard him use it before. And he kept on repeating it and crying. And he was very serious about it. And there was a feeling I had that was, ‘OK, this. You can give me this, that I’m allowed to tell my story in the most honest, kindest way possible, and with love.’” (He once asked her if she was going to write about him and she replied, “No.”)
It’s the love she returns to, again and again: the
times he would come over with his roller skates when she was a child and they
would skate for hours through the streets of Palo Alto; the time he sat in a
freezing cold amphitheatre without a sweater, to watch a play starring her
middle-school boyfriend. He was weird about sex, kissing and groping her
stepmother in front of her and making jokes about how Lisa would grow up to be
a stripper – things she concedes it is difficult to relay “so that it doesn’t
sound creepy”. But even here, she is determined to defend her father’s efforts
as “odd and wonderful”, an attempt by Jobs to strip sex of shame and insist on
the prevalence of love, so that in spite of her parents’ woeful relationship,
“I never felt that I was the unwanted spawn of an accidental coupling.”
She wishes he could have resolved his “ambivalence
and guilt” about her earlier on in their relationship, and after the tuition
fee fight about Harvard there were long periods of silence between them in her 20s.
But when he got ill, she remembered the other stuff. “It took me a long time to
realise he was dying,” she says. “I couldn’t quite get it. And finally I
thought, ‘Oh God, I’d better tell him some good things; he probably won’t
care.’” She thanked him for his honesty about sex, “and it was like pouring
water on dry ground. He was like, ‘I really tried!’ I thought: I didn’t know
there was any back story behind his parenting, that he was being methodical.”
And yet: “One of the difficult things you realise when you’re very sick is that
the only thing you could do to make it better is time, and it’s the one thing
you don’t have. And that is the position you don’t want to be in on your death
bed.”
In 2014, Brennan-Jobs learned there was a movie in
the works based on Walter Isaacson’s authorised biography of her father. She
hadn’t read the book in its entirety, but what she had read and heard of it,
she hadn’t liked. And so she did something shrewdly calculating: she called
Aaron Sorkin, who was writing the screenplay, and arranged to have coffee with
him.
In many ways, the film that came out in 2015,
simply entitled Steve Jobs, is devoted to Brennan-Jobs: the blameless child who
exposes and ultimately begins to resolve shortfalls in her famous father’s
humanity.
As it turns out, this was precisely Brennan-Jobs’
intention on meeting the screenwriter. “We had coffee three times and my goal
was to charm him,” she says, “so that if he did put me in as a character in his
movie, I would not be a bad character, or untrue. Because I heard that in
Walter’s book I wasn’t coming home, I wasn’t visiting [Jobs]. And I did love my
father. And so I sought Sorkin out, just to make sure he knew I was a human
being.”
Brennan-Jobs is clearly conflicted about her
father’s approach to his fortune. While she was living in London, a friend of
her father’s “called him and said, ‘Why don’t you just help her with some
money?’ And he said, ‘No, I’m not going to send her money, because I’m not
going to ruin her.’” These days Brennan-Jobs has convinced herself it would
have been much worse to have been raised a spoilt heiress, or to have had a
father who ignored her and then bought her off “with a pony and a few pretty
dresses”.
At other times, however, she finds it odd to have
been so punitively treated, to have been, as she sees it, “the one other person
who is supposed to uphold the value system that involves some degree of
deprivation – except for him. He deprived himself. He had one house. But if he
could go back, I imagine he would not have done to us what he did when I was
little.”
I suggest that Jobs’ decisions about money could
seem spiteful at times, and she says, “But maybe he didn’t know how to do it.”
However misguided he was, she believes it was still all about values, and “in
moments of joy, he communicated a value system that I believed in”. Jobs didn’t
believe in adornment, in his emotional as in his professional life, although of
course the hair shirt can be as vain as the gold cuff links. At root, however,
it was the dream of what having been a hippy once promised: “That there is an
importance to simplicity and the best stuff is, ‘Did you do your work as well
as you could? Did you love who you loved as well as you could?’ You don’t die
and think, ‘How comfortable was I?’”
Jobs would seem to have failed substantially at
the love part of these aphorisms, but the point, says his daughter, is that he
tried. And when, for example, he snapped her head off for asking about the
Porsche? “He was worried that I was going to be a little shit.” She smiles.
“And maybe that was mixed in with not having wanted me at all.”
These days, her idea of family is a million miles
from the cold hearth of her father’s house, or the hippy chaos of her mother’s.
Brennan-Jobs and her husband Bill, a software designer – “apparently that’s my
type,” she says, drily – met online and “it was so wonderful, because for a
while he didn’t know who my father was”. She only let him find out “when I knew
he was smitten. That was so important to me. I sometimes feel, ‘Oh, I know my
dad would’ve liked you’; he’s straightforward, kind, good.”
Being in New York is important, too. Her father
loved California and she needed to find space for herself elsewhere. And the
fact is that the inheritance, said for each of the children to have been in the
millions – the majority of Jobs’ $10bn fortune was reportedly left to his wife,
Laurene Powell Jobs – has surely helped. “The story of the bitter, axe-grinding
daughter – that’s where the inheritance question can play in. But I feel pretty
at peace with what happened,” she says. “I wish we’d had more time together after
he’d unburdened himself of his guilt, because I think we had a similar sense of
humour and it was always a delightful surprise how much fun we could have.” In
fact, she says, “When he was dying, I said to him – and it was a little bit of
a stab, but – I was like, ‘Maybe next time, if there is a next time, we can be
friends.’ And what I meant by that was, wouldn’t it be fun to be colleagues and
work together?” She understood, at some level, that his heart was elsewhere,
that it was the people he worked with – or the work itself – that got the very
best of him.
In spite of his regret and his sorrow, in some
ways her dad was himself up until the very end, and there is consolation in
that, too – the integrity of even an unpleasant truth. “I remember when he was
really sick, he was holding a whole bowl of candy and I teased him and said,
‘Hey, wanna share them?” She smiles. “And he responded, ‘No. They’re all
mine.’”
‘I
felt like we were the centre of the world’
An
exclusive extract from Small Fry by Lisa Brennan-Jobs
Now on weekends when he was around, my father came
over to take me skating, my mother waving goodbye to us as we set off. I was
nine.
By this time he’d been kicked out of his company,
Apple. He was in the process of starting a new company called NeXT that would
make computer hardware and software. I knew he also owned a computer animation
company called Pixar that made a short film about two lamps, a parent and
child.
He called me Small Fry. “Hey, Small Fry, let’s
blast. We’re livin’ on borrowed time.”
I assumed small fry meant the kind of french fries
left at the bottom of the bag, cold and crusty; I thought he was calling me a
runt, or misbegotten. Later, I learned fry is an old word for young fishes
sometimes thrown back into the sea to give them more time to grow.
“OK, Fat Fry, let’s go,” I said, once my skates
were on. Sometimes he worried he was getting too thin. “They say I need to gain
weight,” he said. “Who?” I asked. “People at work,” he said, standing in the
middle of the room with his skates on. “What do you guys think?” Other times he
worried he was getting a paunch, and asked us about that, too.
We would head for Stanford University. On this day
the road was still wet from rain.
The palm trees that gave Palm Drive its name grew
in the dirt between the sidewalk and the road. We looked up at the hills beyond
the university – from far away they appeared smooth and unblemished. The
neon-green blades shot up through the dirt clods two or three days after the
first heavy rain and remained through winter. “I love the green hills,” he
said, “but I like them best when they’re yellow, dry.”
“I like them green,” I said, not understanding how
anyone could like them when they were dead.
We reached the Oval and then the Stanford
quadrangle with its covered, shaded pathways made of diamonds of cement in
alternating earth-toned colours, like a faded harlequin costume.
“Want to get on my shoulders?”
He leaned down and grasped under my armpits – I
was small for my age – and hoisted me up. His weight tilted and bobbed. We did
a loop around the square, under the arches, past the gold numbers on the glass
doors. He held my shins in his hands, but let go when he started to lose his
balance. He tripped, tripped again, struggling to stay upright – I swayed,
terrifyingly high up. And then he fell. On the way down I worried for myself,
for my face and my knees, the parts of me that might hit the ground. Over time
I learned he would always fall. Still, I let him carry me because it seemed
important to him. I felt this like a change of pressure in the air: this was
part of his notion of what it meant to be a father and daughter.
We got up and brushed ourselves off – he wound up
with a bruise on his butt and a scrape on his hand; I got a skinned knee – and
headed for the drinking fountain at the side of the quadrangle.
On the way back through the campus, on the sloping
downhill on the rough cement, I was a tuning fork for the road, flying out
ahead of him. “Ah AH!” I sang, my throat vibrating with the stones. “You’re all
right, kid,” he said. “But don’t let it go to your head.”
“I won’t,” I said. I’d never heard the phrase
before: Let It Go To Your Head.
“You know, I didn’t go to college,” he said.
“Maybe you won’t go either. Better just to go out and get into the world.”
If I didn’t go to college, I would be like him. At
that moment, I felt like we were the centre of the world. He carried it with
him, this feeling of centre.
“They teach you how other people think, during
your most productive years,” he said. “It kills creativity. Makes people into
bozos.”
It made sense to me. Still, I wondered why he
always wanted to skate around Stanford, why he seemed to love it, if he didn’t
believe in it.
On University Avenue he pointed to a bum crouched
in a nook with a cardboard sign. “That’s me in two years,” he said.
***
When my father and I got back to my block, kids
were out playing in the yards and on the sidewalks. We stopped across from our
house, and a few men who lived nearby gathered around my father – three fathers
holding three babies. They wanted to know what he thought about this or that.
The mothers chased after the toddlers to give the fathers a chance to talk. I
stood nearby, proud that it was my father they wanted to talk with. They
discussed people I’d never heard of and companies I didn’t know.
The babies began to fuss, squirming, letting out
little cries and yelps.
My father continued to talk – hardware, software –
the same discussions that seemed to come up over and over with all the men we
saw in Palo Alto those days. Soon, all three babies began to wail and the
fathers had to stop talking and take them away.
***
This was around the time, my mother would say
later, that my father fell in love with me. “He was in awe of you,” she said,
but I don’t remember it. “You know she’s more than half me, more than half my
genetic material,” he said. The announcement caught my mother off-guard. She
didn’t know how to respond. Maybe he said it because he’d started feeling close
to me and wanted a greater share.
“You gotta stop and smell the roses,” he said, on
another skate. He said it urgently, then stopped and put his nose deep in a
rose and sighed. I didn’t have the heart to tell him it was only an expression.
But soon I got into it anyway, and we looked for the best rosebushes in the
neighbourhood, crisscrossing the streets. I noticed good ones he’d missed
behind fences, and we trespassed across lawns on the toes of our skates to get
to them.
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