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If my father was a poster boy for physical fitness, he looked more like a “before” photo than an “after” one: overweight, a heavy beer drinker, and a four-pack-a-day smoker. In my wedding photo, he had a lit cigarette in his hand. He died of a severe stroke He was 67, so none of us were particularly surprised.
My father seemed to have few memories of his youth. At least, he never wanted to talk about them. In elementary school, we were asked to ask our parents about their childhoods. As I approached my father to ask him about his memories, he replied, “Tell your teacher…” I waited impatiently, pencil in hand. He continued, “Tell your teacher… It’s none of your business.” I remember feeling embarrassed. Nine-year-old me realized that, somehow, my father’s life was none of my business.
I tried really hard to connect with him.
In my early teens, I thought I could impress this eccentric, standoffish guy by sharing my interests with him. His main interests were beer and cigarettes, but he also Listening to the radioIt was a reminder of my dad’s own lonely childhood. While my parents were out on the town (which was almost every night), the radio was his nightly companion. He grew up as an observer, an eavesdropper on life. He never told us what his favorite shows were when we were little, but by the time my sister and I were born, he had become an avid listener of police radio. From behind the door of his home office we would hear dispatchers’ voices, mysterious numeric codes indicating a robbery, assault, or car chase in progress.
One week, when my father was away, I memorized the code paper I found so that we could spend quality time together as father and daughter. I turned on the radioI said, “Family dispute, huh?” He coldly replied, “No, what are you talking about? All the rules have changed,” and turned away. I felt even more embarrassed and disappointed that my father didn’t care about my efforts.
Since my father passed away, I have thought less and less about him. He was a bystander in his daughters’ lives, a silent listener to the dramas of others. Police RadioSo I removed his memory from my own.
I am the same age as he was when he died.
I am 67 now, the same age my father was when he died. I think I have a little bit more to live, but as this anniversary approaches, I ask myself how much time I have left. I am in much better health than my father, There is no guarantee of longevity.
How do I celebrate this day when I am older than him? How do I spend the time I have left? I know I will not sit on the sidelines of life listening to other people’s adventures. I will continue to engage with my family, friends, and the world. I will continue to do what I always have. Completely different from my father.
But here’s the strange thing. Even though I seem to have an extroverted personality, I sometimes struggle to connect with people. I, too, have my awkward moments and say hurtful things to those I love. I, too, have a history that I don’t want to share. Maybe I’m not exactly like my dad after all.
Now I think about him every day. I know now that it was a big mistake on my part to expect things from him that he couldn’t. In my heart, I know it’s not fair to criticize him harshly. For 67 years, he struggled and did his best. I will try to live “wiser” than he did and to live a better time on earth. But now, I remember with compassion the lonely boy who listened to the radio in his dark apartment.
This Father’s Day, as we both turn 67, I finally got to love my dad for who he is.