Consistent readers might note that I write frequently about my father. He’s a pretty wise, humorous, and laid-back man who offers commentary across many topics: pain management, personal finances, music, pest control, and security. I occasionally write concerns about his health and well-being. He’s a backbone in my life, and I am grateful for his enduring, consistent presence.
I ask him open-ended questions every once in a while. His answers are always thought out and somewhat profound, lending me greater insight into rarely explored territory- his mind. Our relationship strengthened through the years; we converse as equals. His responses leave me with something to think about because he lays everything in the open with honesty- his strengths, insecurities, and unfiltered emotions. Today, I realized he is not vocal, but his actions taught permanent, subtle, and careful life lessons that did not need words.
When I was barely in elementary school, my father would hold regular “family nights.” These evenings consisted of us gathering around a table to play Trivia Pursuit (I didn’t know how to read, but he patiently asked and answered each question while I moved the pieces around the board happily) and more regularly, the television. His face glowed with excitement as he gingerly unpacked and powered up his Atari 2600. My sister and I inched closer, Generation Y kids and curious by technology, but my mother held us on the living room couch lovingly, yet firmly.
“My turn!” my diapered sister squealed, kicking her legs to move away from the sofa, little fingers reaching toward the coveted console joystick.
“Easy there,” my father hushed each time, eyes fixated on the screen, “Daddy has to kill these centipedes. You don’t want to kill nasty bugs, do you?”
My sister’s eyes widened (each time) and she would turn into his encouragement, “Go Daddy! Get them!”
I couldn’t blame his protective stance; we had a habit of using his records as frisbees against walls and he probably tired of us breaking his treasures. Still, I was content to watch. Then, I was content to watch my cousins play their Nintendo. Finally, he bought us SNES and family nights included everyone.
My father was a responsible gamer. He inadvertently taught us to respect others’ belongings. He gently led us to set aside time for family and encouraged us to grow with the technologies surrounding us, and not try to shield us or mold our childhoods into something more aligned to his upbringing.
Several years later, in the glory of N64, my father came home with a sad expression. It was mid-December and there was snow on the ground. I just came inside from playing in it, but remember feeling disconcerted after seeing him. My father was usually stoic or laughing, but never noticeably upset. I sat next to him and asked, “Daddy, what’s wrong?”
My father, a welfare case manager, sighed, “Nothing, sweetheart. Sometimes, work is tough.”
I did not know what my dad did for a living, but the best description I knew redeemed him as someone who helped others.
“Lots of people needed you?” I pushed, truly a social sciences nerd in the making.
” We are very lucky,” he replied, picking me up and explaining, “Mommy and I work very hard to make sure we have food, clothes, and shelter, (even though we don’t have as much as some others) but there are some families who work even harder and are not as successful. There was a mommy and two kids today, just like you, and they don’t have anything for a nice Christmas this year, honey, that’s why I’m upset. I will be okay, though.”
I remember absorbing that information with shock and sadness. Then, I asked hopefully, “Can we give her kids something for Christmas?”
My father said he would have to talk to Mom, but hugged me. I resumed playing. Several days later, he and my mother sat us down on the couch.
“I was thinking that you girls are looking forward to Christmas so much, and we already sent Santa your wish list,” my father started.
“And since you two are so good, there is no way you won’t get at least one thing you wanted from him,” my mother continued.
“So, what would you think about helping out those kids I told you about?” my father queried in a serious voice, holding my gaze, “Would you be willing to give your SNES so they have something to open on Christmas?”
A small gasp might have escaped me; I am, after all, my father’s daughter. After a few minutes, I hesitantly agreed. My sister drank from her sippy cup and nodded her approval with enthusiasm.
My father smiled and quietly said, “I am very proud to have such caring daughters. They will be so happy.”
Days later, we unexpectedly received a N64 for Christmas, and somewhere, I knew another little child was opening up their first console with even more excitement than me.
Thank you, dad, for caring about your family and others’ enough to share. Thank you for influencing me to follow in your footsteps and pursue a career that allows me to keep an empathetic heart.
