Father’s Day is here, and yet another year is passing where I feel like I’m not acknowledging my father on this day nearly as much as I acknowledged my mother on her special day just a month ago. It’s not news to anyone that Father’s Day is Mother’s Day’s red-headed step-child. Why? Perhaps because American masculinity can’t be afforded the kind of emotionally charged tribute we pay to our mothers. Perhaps it’s because American fathers are changing, and American fatherhood is being redefined in both good and bad ways. Perhaps it’s because American motherhood seems to be getting harder, while participatory American fatherhood is dying and we unnecessarily praise American fathers who act like real parents (what a notion). Father’s Day should be just as important as Mother’s Day. Perhaps we ought to just have a “Parents Day,” where we celebrate the people who have lovingly reared us, whether they are our fathers and mothers, uncles, aunts, grandparents, neighbors, friends, daycare workers, etc. However, just like I said on Mother’s Day, not all of those people are my Mother. It is no different for me on Father’s Day. I have incredible parents and incredible parent figures in my life, but I only have one Father, which may be more than some and less than others, but at the end of the day I have one and he has solely defined the word “father,” for me, something for which I will be eternally grateful.
I am a writer, an emotional creature who empathizes greatly and feels deep compassion. That makes me a natural lover of stories. As I sit here thinking about Father’s Day, and specifically my father, I have realized that I have always thought of my father in the context of a story. My father (in all seriousness) is Forest Gump. My father is a textbook American story. While America’s collection of stories that compose our values and our innate sense of connection is massive, my father’s stands out to me…maybe because he’s my father, or maybe because it embodies the tenants on which Americans found their lives, like a cornerstone. While my father’s story is far too long, detailed, deep and broad to share in this small tribute, I would like him to know what it has meant to me, how it has shaped me, and how he has shaped me, how no one else could’ve done that, how I wouldn’t be the person I am without him and how my deepest roots are set in his soil.
My Dad built his own life, and in turn he built ours. My father came from very little. I obviously cannot know what his childhood was like, but the few times I’ve heard my father tell more than just a generalized story, what I imagine is a far cry from the childhood I knew myself. He did not grow up in a family like the one with which he was blessed, the one where he was known as “Dad.” In order to explain to someone what the term “self-made man,” means, I would tell my father’s story. I talk over and over again, boastfully proud of my Italian heritage, of the stock from which I come. I don’t think my Dad knows how overwhelmed with pride I feel when I am reminded of him. Two people created me, two people reared me, two people poured themselves into shaping my life. I am the product of two stories, two lives lived, two great histories. While my father’s traits may not be as readily identifiable in my day to day, he is permanently there. I will strive every single day to embody some semblance of my father’s work ethic. I know what success means because of my father. I understand the word “father,” as this man. I want to provide for a family the way my father did. I want it to be unquestionable that I am his daughter when I am seen learning new things, broadening my mind, reading, and trying to be the best version of myself that I can. I want my patronage to be easily recognizable when I am constantly changing, growing, working, providing, appreciating, giving, loving and simply in my contentment.
What I want my father to know more than anything is that to me, he managed to mold himself into the kind of father that stands out amongst his peers, and it has not gone unappreciated that he did this in spite of his role model. It is difficult for me to show my appreciation for my father without using heavily gendered expressions that don’t in any way apply to our relationship. This is how we’ve built fathers in America. I am not a “Daddy’s girl.” My father is not a “man’s man.” My father is a man, but my father is really an exemplary person. It isn’t that I don’t appreciate his masculinity, but rather that I don’t want my father to just be a “good guy.” I don’t want him to be measured on a scale where a “good guy,” is no more than a man who doesn’t do negative or destructive things. My father is not simply par. I want him to be known as good. Period.
I would like to think that part of this “good,” that my father is has been engrained into me. While my mother may have created my day to day, my father supplemented my character with his stories, his opinions and his innate diplomacy. My Dad is a Vietnam War vet, yet he is the most passive person I know. I have heard, to the point where it is now jokingly laughed at, since I was a small child that “War is chaos,” and that, “You do it for your buddy.” While those may be two sentiments that could easily go in one ear and out the other, the larger message in them has always resonated with me. “You do it for your buddy,” is a part of my Dad’s character. I learned what it means to be self-sacrificing and charitable from him. My Dad is not the typical patriotic war veteran, but rather a man who questions the good in all things, seeks it out, and tries to make it achievable for his neighbors, even within and beyond his own service. He has always taught me that giving back is a pinnacle part of our experience on Earth. I hold that firmly in my heart.
This Father’s Day I want my Dad to know that he isn’t just “father,” as defined by our culture or society, or in Webster’s Dictionary, or by someone else’s expectations of him as a man. He is my father. He shaped me, and to me, he is in my foundation and I cannot truly express how grateful I am for that. A day will never pass where I am not grateful for my father going to work, for paying our bills, for our blessed and privileged life, for being my Mother’s best friend, for checking my oil, for washing my car, for helping me move boxes from one place to another every summer, or for following me for five miles at 4:30 in the morning through a blizzard to make sure I got onto the freeway ramp safely. While I rely heavily on words to show my feelings, one thing my father has taught me, uniquely from anyone else, is how to show them without the words, but to convey the very same message: I love you. Happy Father’s Day, Dad.
From my first few days...to twenty-five years later. My Dad has always, always, always been there.
