This day last year, I was working a 14-hour double shift at a restaurant in Austin. It was the busiest day of the year, and I waited on three groups of the rudest people I had ever encountered in my life. I was yelled at and insulted the entire day by people that were totally missing the point of what Father's Day should be about - love, family, and appreciating the man who gave you life, not yelling obscenities at your waitress because she forgot your sixth cup of ranch dressing. I reached my breaking point after about the seventh straight hour on my feet and went to the break room to cry. It was truly a horrible day.
But this year is different.
This Father's Day, I am at ease. I am not working in a restaurant anymore (thank the Lord), I'm surrounded by my friends and family, and I have a new appreciation for the time I was able to spend with my own dad. He may not be here in body, but he is in spirit; and I am truly thankful for the life he made for me while he was here.
In honor of the day, I decided to ask some of my closest friends to contribute to this post. I asked them all the same question:
What is the best thing about your dad? Here is what they had to say.
The best thing about my dad?
The way he cracks jokes like he's 12. Whenever I'm sad, he gives me these special hugs -- the kind where I feel like I'm 5 and my dad's arms are the safest place in the world.
The way he makes all the women (my mom, sister, niece and myself) in his life feel like the most beautiful girls in the entire universe.
The way he supports and believes in us, even when we don't believe in ourselves.
The way he always has a quote to fit into any situation.
The way he makes my favorite coffee with Grandma's vanilla cookies that I have yet to master how to make.
The way he takes me to the doctor when I'm sick and out to stuff my face afterwards.
The way he can fall asleep anywhere.
His attitude about life.
The way he has instilled a confidence in me that has made me set high standards for myself. The scary look he gives me when he's mad at me.
The way he will drop whatever he is doing if I need his help.
The way he says, "OK, God bless you," at the end of every phone call.
And of course, the way he tells me he loves me every day.
My dad, though not perfect, he has been the
best and most amazing father I could have ever dreamed of having, and for that, I thank God. Happy Father's Day to all the wonderful daddies out there!
Everybody says their dad is the greatest dad in the world, but I really believe mine is the best of the best. No matter what, I can literally depend on him to pull me up from whatever hole I've fallen in. One of the absolute best things about him, though, is his ability to act like the goofiest, silliest person in the world, no matter the circumstances. All we have to do is look at each other a certain way or say an inside joke and it's all over. Not everyone has an old man they can do that with.
When I have a problem, I call my mom. But that day, my mom wasn’t answering. I remembered, while walking out of the most difficult final of my life, that my semi-hippie mother had gone to a week-long meditation retreat where electronics were strictly forbidden. Knowing I wouldn’t be able to vent to her for at least a few more days, I decided to call my dad. Within a minute I was in tears and insistent that I was dropping out of college.
(Reminder: I had just bombed my Spanish final and hadn’t slept in days.)
I could tell that my dad didn’t know what to say as I proceeded to mumble something about the difficulty of Spanish verb tenses in between sobs. But when I finally calmed down, we had the most rational and reassuring conversation of my life. He asked me what my plan was if I dropped out and we went through all the options - from culinary school to spin instructor - and even though he knew all along that I wasn’t actually going to drop out, he listened and respected my point of view. Then he shared a story about the time he bombed a final in college and how his life miraculously went on. After nearly two hours on the phone, he told me to have a beer and get some sleep. And that’s why my dad is the best guy I know.
Not to mention, he makes a mean grilled cheese.
For as long as I can remember, my dad has given me the same piece advice for when I become a real adult and have a family of my own: “Be better than me.” Those are some enormous shoes to fill, but thankfully he’s been preparing me for it my whole life. My dad has taught me nearly every practical skill I know, from developing my voice as a writer, to marketing myself as a brand for potential employers, to holding a fake smile for several hours when I had to ride in the homecoming parade my sophomore year of high school.
Above all, though, my dad has taught me how to be an upstanding man of character who is devoted to his family. I am constantly amazed at his ability to run a company that requires around-the-clock dedication while still finding time for dinner at our favorite Italian restaurant on a weeknight. Even when he isn’t giving verbal instruction, my dad leads by example, showing me what it means to be a worker, a husband, a father and a compassionate human being who is always willing to help somebody in a lesser position.
Like I said, those are some enormous shoes to fill, but thankfully I have the best mentor around.
When I was 14, I’m sure my dad was wishing sex had never been invented. Because this thing — this somehow human, female thing that had resulted from it — slammed doors in his face, broke down in tears on the phone with a child she called her boyfriend, and sobbed “I hate you” through the cracks of her door when she started her period.
Yeah, I was no picnic.
He didn’t understand me, and he knew it. I was his first-born, an interesting creature with a set of lungs that could out-scream him through any argument or impress his friends with a loud rendition of Johnny Cash. And, despite his interests or my mother’s, I grew up to love books, nonsensical hypotheticals, the way the Sun shone and curious people. An insensible match for his love of simplicity, a good gun barrel, and booze. Once, when he asked me if I was Conservative, I curtly replied that I didn’t like Democrats or Republicans, and he leaned way back in his recliner — nestling his head in the oil-stained patch of leather his hair had made from years of use — and he lectured me for three hours about politics. But, as hard as I listened, I didn’t learn a thing. We didn’t speak the same language. After I spat the word “asshole” in his face for the first time when I was 16, I bet he thought we never would.
If we yelled enough, I got something out of him, something more than a clenched jaw and fist. I got some good words, some complicated feelings, maybe a “well, when you get older, you’ll look back and realize how stupid you are” or “I really can’t stand you right now.” What he didn’t know is that every fight I picked over his playful jokes or his stern rules was really just to get him to talk. When I was 17, he came to one of my singing gigs for the first time, and I was so happy that I forgot I was just a back-up singer wearing an elf costume for a Christmas show. He left in the middle of my two solos, because he thought I was done, but I was old enough not to yell anymore. I didn’t want his words. We had nothing in common, and I had given up.
When I moved to college and people brought my father up, I usually shrugged and said “it’s all good,” verbally deflecting any further question, mastering the careless, blank stare, conveying “this is not a trigger subject for me.” One day, a guy I had been dating retorted that I had “daddy issues” during an argument, and I went home to my apartment. I sat on the edge of my bed, eyes on the wall, wondering if it were true. Yeah, my dad and I fought, but did I have daddy issues? No. I mean, I hadn’t talked to him in weeks (the last time we did, I think we had had a record-breaking 30-second chat), hadn’t seen him in months, and I hardly thought about him. Because, sometimes, when people don’t speak the same language, and neither enroll in a class or make any effort to ask what the other means, silence becomes a better option.
But I wasn’t happy with that. And having “daddy issues” was not a label I could wear on my heart, because I knew I didn’t have the privilege. My dad was a hard man, but he did everything he could for me. I knew that the bags under his eyes, the vodka and coke on a weeknight, the Mondays-through-Saturdays and the missed award ceremonies had bought my clothes, my car and my education. I knew that.
Guilty, I called him the next day. He answered, and our conversation was painfully brief, but it was something. I hadn’t called about money, or loans, or problems, or guarantor forms, or the dents on the bumper of my car.
“What? You just want to know how my day’s going?” he said.
“Yeah, Dad. That’s all I want to know.”
“Well, it’s good. Thanks for calling.”
“Yeah… well, goodbye, Dad.”
“Goodbye, Jane. I love you.”
The conversation ended, but he had said he loved me first, I later told my roommate that day, a smile sneaking out before I could replace my expression with usual nonchalance.
What began with a couple of calls a month turned into multiple calls a week. It was difficult. Some days, it felt like trying to force a forest to grow out of concrete. But I kept talking. I talked about my school work, I talked about my accomplishments, I talked about the people I met, the people I didn’t like, the friends I hadn’t seen, the places I’d like to go. He sounded happy to hear from me. He asked follow-up questions. He told me about his day. He remembered my stories from the week before.
Then, one day, I called him in a fit of tears. I had locked my keys in my car that already had a broken window. I had spent the morning walking with my favorite professor who was reluctantly retiring. I had missed my appointment and my interview. I had reached my breaking point, I was exhausted, and I was crying.
The second I called, I regretted it. This was going to break my streak. I hadn’t called him to complain in ages. Here goes our new relationship, I thought. He listened to me in silence, and I knew he was going to yell at me when I heard the rush of air on the other line as he inhaled. My stomach twisted into a knot. I braced myself for the “stop being a baby,” “you’re so dramatic” and “give it a rest.”
“You are strong,” he said. “Do you want me to drive up and get you? Do you want to drop out of school? I just want you to be happy.”
Taken by surprise, I babbled about how discouraged I felt, how much life could really suck, how much people could really suck, and how much I just wanted a hug. He listened quietly. I unloaded, unraveling, becoming completely vulnerable — a mess of sniffles and whines through the receiver. He calmed me down, assuring me he could be there within five hours. I told him it was okay. I felt “much better, thanks.” Before hanging up, he told me to hang in there.
“I love you,” he added.
And I felt it.
I had spent years refusing to communicate, refusing to understand, refusing to relate. Thankfully, I have the kind of father who doesn’t mind teaching me to talk twice.
First, the English language.
Second, the love language.
Dad, I love you, too.
Happy Father's Day, everyone!
