Not all my sons

Arthur Miller’s missing act

From Vanity Fair, a powerful and well-written article that examines the tragedy of one father’s refusal to accept his son’s disability. Upon his death two years ago, playwright Arthur Miller was extolled as America’s moral compass, a champion of personal responsibility. Yet Miller’s personal life was at odds with his literary reputation. When his son Daniel was born with Down syndrome in the 1960s, Miller sent him to an institution, cut him out of his life and never acknowledged him publicly. Friends said the playwright never visited with his son until the years preceding Miller’s death.

Contributing editor Suzanna Andrews attempts to understand Miller’s actions and explain them within the context of the day. At the time of Daniel’s birth, it was common for doctors to recommend that children with Down syndrome be institutionalized, although many parents were disregarding such advice.

Andrews tracks down Daniel Miller and describes the hellish conditions in the institutions in which he grew up, where children were warehoused without supervision and tied to chairs if they misbehaved. She describes Daniel as an engaging and personable man who has a job, a huge network of friends, and a passion for disability advocacy work, despite the fact that he did not receive a formal education. Upon the death of his father Daniel was granted a quarter of his father’s estate. Still, he never enjoyed a father-son relationship with the man who authored “All My Sons” and “Death of a Salesman.”

It would be easy to judge Arthur Miller harshly, and some do. For them, he was a hypocrite, a weak and narcissistic man who used the press and the power of his celebrity to perpetuate a cruel lie. But Miller’s behavior also raises more complicated questions about the relationship between his life and his art. A writer, used to being in control of narratives, Miller excised a central character who didn’t fit the plot of his life as he wanted it to be. Whether he was motivated by shame, selfishness, or fear—or, more likely, all three—Miller’s failure to tackle the truth created a hole in the heart of his story. What that cost him as a writer is hard to say now, but he never wrote anything approaching greatness after Daniel’s birth. One wonders if, in his relationship with Daniel, Miller was sitting on his greatest unwritten play.

Today, Daniel Miller lives with the elderly couple who have long taken care of him, in a sprawling addition to their home that was built especially for him. He continues to receive daily visits from a state social worker, whom he’s known for years. Although his father left him enough money to provide for everything he needs, Daniel has kept his job, which he loves and “is very proud of,” according to Rebecca, [Miller Day-Lewis, his sister] who visits him with her family on holidays and during the summers. “Danny is very much part of our family,” she said, and “leads a very active, happy life, surrounded by people who love him.”

Some wonder why Arthur Miller, with all his wealth, waited until death to share it with his son. Had he done so sooner, Daniel could have afforded private care and a good education. But those who know Daniel say that this is not how he would feel. “He doesn’t have a bitter bone in his body,” says [disability rights advocate] Bowen. The important part of the story, she says, is that Danny transcended his father’s failures: “He’s made a life for himself; he is deeply valued and very, very loved. What a loss for Arthur Miller that he couldn’t see how extraordinary his son is.” It was a loss that Arthur Miller may have understood better than he let on. “A character,” he wrote in Timebends, “is defined by the kinds of challenges he cannot walk away from. And by those he has walked away from that cause him remorse.”