Gratitude #10 – Daddy

There are so many reasons I am grateful for my dad. Here are some favorites…

One of the very best things about my dad is that for my entire life, I have known that no matter what, I can depend on him. He will *always* be there for me. By the time I was born, my dad had left the Marine Corps and was working as a sales driver for Wonder Bread. It was a tough job: physically demanding and requiring both excellent people skills and the capacity to quickly do lots of math in your head. Daddy would leave our house at 4am and not return until evening every day but Sunday and Wednesday. His bread route took him through Anacostia, DC. It wasn’t a very safe area and it was some distance from our house and the schools I attended as a child.

I vividly recall an after-school activity from Fourth Grade – a Flute Club “bring your dad to school” thing. For my dad to leave his route in the middle of the afternoon, drive all the way to my school, and then have to go back to work to finish his deliveries was a really big imposition. He told me he’d try to make it, but not to expect him: a not-so-solid maybe. The school day came and went and I was sitting in Flute Club as the other parents filed in and squeezed into tiny desks next to their kids. I kept an eye on the clock and noted that all the other parents had arrived, but I wasn’t worried; I had absolutely no doubt that my dad was coming. Him not showing was something I literally could not fathom, even though he’d all but said he wouldn’t make it. I knew in my bones, with certainty, that my father would *always* show up when I needed him. And he did. A touch after the starting bell, still wearing his work uniform, my daddy walked through the door of the classroom. Just like I knew he would. I can only hope my kids have a fraction of that kind of faith and certainty in me, and that I am the kind of parent who deserves it. The Flute Club story is not vivid because of its rarity. Despite his schedule, Daddy was there for me at ballet classes, Girl Scouts ceremonies… you name it. He even made my high school graduation despite it being smack in the middle of a work day AND at DAR Constitution Hall – a concert and event venue on the other side of DC, in a location where just finding parking can make a person miss the event they were coming to see. It involved the same drive to work, load and get in the work truck, make some deliveries, go back to work, get in his car, drive to my event, go back to work, get back in the work truck, and finish his route rigamaroll that Flute Club did. For graduation, though, he also managed to change from his work uniform into a suit (and then back) as part of the process.

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I’d love to get my dad one of those This Is What A Feminist Looks Like shirts. He’s a conservative Republican kinda guy; I doubt he would wear it. Also, I am pretty darn certain he does not self-identify as a feminist even though his attitudes and behavior speak loudly in favor of such a description. I fear Fox News probably ruined the term for him. All that notwithstanding, my dad’s totally a feminist. And he helped me become one. Growing up as the youngest child (by 6 years) and the only girl in a family of Marines, one might expect that I was a wee bit spoiled. I’ll concede that this would probably be an accurate assessment. What I wasn’t, however, was coddled or patronized.

My father has never treated me like I am less because I am the girl. As a child, he talked to me about politics and history; he showed me how to change a tire and check the engine; and, when I told him that I when I grew up I wanted to be a doctor, he never suggested I might be happier as a nurse. Though we have differing opinions about some issues of politics and social justice, my dad has never belittled me or implied that my left-leaning tendencies are a result of my membership in a gentler, weaker sex. To the contrary, he has expressed to me that as long as my beliefs and positions are well-considered, he supports me in having them. We haven’t discussed it, but I feel pretty confident that my dad would consider it as ridiculous as I do that 2 people with the same qualifications, job descriptions and work output could be paid differently based solely on gender. My father is a fair man. And fairness is the foundation of feminism, isn’t it? It’s just that simple. People should be treated the same – according to their intellect, skills, and other merits – not on whether or not they have a uterus.

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I can trace many of the things that interest me most back to my dad. Like history and politics. I don’t remember bedtime readings of Free to Be You and Me or the like, but I do recall enthralling stories about the Peloponnesian War. Not just the issues involved, but what the battlefield must have smelled like. How the charred grass would crunch underfoot. He also told me about Julius Caesar and how his own senate – some of them his friends – would be the instruments of his demise. Marcus Aurelius, Machiavelli, Plato’s Republic… studies on the role of government and what it means to be free. Art, literature and oratory… A giant book of Michelangelo’s work prompted discussions about the Old Masters. My father was an avid reader and modeled a love of the written word for me. He also wrote. I found a manuscript he wrote when he was a Marine Corps Embassy Guard in Singapore in the 1950s; I’m obviously not objective, but I found the witty writing style, subject matter and point of view delightful.

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One of the best things I inherited from my dad is my wanderlust. Cross-country family vacations were common in my childhood and I loved them. I learned that the journey is as cool, if not cooler, than the destination. I grew to appreciate the joy of spontaneous discovery – wondering “What’s down this road?” and adventuring to find out. So many treasured experiences come from having been willing to be open to possibility instead of married to a timetable. I am still always on the lookout for a roadside sign telling me to turn at the next intersection to see The World’s Largest Ball of String. The U.S. road trips and international jaunts of my youth gave me the curiosity and confidence to drive cross-country with my bestie in college; to drive the complete Al-Can Highway through Canada and Alaska; to travel to nearly every continental United State; to backpack across Europe solo; and to spend a full year backpacking through Asia, Western and Eastern Europe, and a wee bit of Africa. I am never happier than when I am on the road.

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To keep this blog post from going on indefinitely, I’ll close by sharing one of the funnest things ever. As I noted earlier, until my father retired a few years ago, his days off were Sunday and Wednesday. When I was little, on Tuesday nights, my daddy would take me out to dinner. Just the two of us. We’d go to an Italian restaurant called The Capri. It was probably just a regular kind of place, but to me… to me, it was the epitome of fine dining and sophistication. Daddy would let me order (lasagna and a coke, please) and cut my own food and walk to the ladies room all by myself. I felt so grown up. I imagined that when I was an adult I would go to fancy places like this. The best part was having my daddy all to myself. He would tell me great stories about our family history, what it was like when he was a kid, and all kinds of things that I found fascinating and fun. It was the best.

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