My Dad

On being my father's daughter.

I can’t bring myself to write in the past tense, so I won’t. Not yet.

I wake up in the morning and look at the wall of books across from my bed. My dad is a voracious reader and is so thrilled that he has written not just one but two books already—one about his life and one about our great aunt Ruth. Given my line of work, he asked me to read over his copy, almost shyly, and I poured over his slanted, hand-written pages. Our handwriting is so similar, meaning basically illegible, but I can always hear his voice through the words. He’s like me in that way. Or rather, I am like him.

My dad is a terrific storyteller. He commands a room with his roster of stories like an impish general, hitting all the beats with perfect tempo and his great booming laugh. Although I’ve heard them all more times than I can count, I’m still happy to listen to his history. I request my favorites when we’re together, sipping whiskey (one rock) because I want to make sure I don’t forget them. Comparatively, I’m not quite as good but I at least know exactly where my own storyteller tendencies come from, because I am like him.

My dad is a Taurus and stubborn, sometimes to a fault. When he believes he is right, which is often, there is no bending him. But as he’s gotten older, and I have too, we’re able to talk a bit more about the things that make us each so angry and impassioned. There is a small fissure in our resolve wherein we try harder to listen. We do our best to understand each other, even if imperfectly, and even though it’s not necessarily in our natures. It is one of my many weaknesses, but, true to form, I am like him.

My dad has impeccable style. When he asked my sister and I what he should wear to her Brooklyn wedding, we told him a navy suit, and so he had one made. In the photos, he looks so dapper, towering over us all, even in our heels, with his dark eyeglasses and silk tie (is it the one that we gave to him for his birthday?). I stand next to him in my own custom suit and he tells me that I look beautiful, and I’m so happy to be dressed just like him.

My dad has developed quite a tattoo obsession later in life. He denies that he hated my tattoos when I was a teenager (his Taurus selective memory coming through), but I can’t deny he looks pretty badass with his half sleeves. He excitedly tells me about his next idea and we compare my latest design. Somehow, he looks more tattooed than me even though I had a 15 year head start. I never would have guessed that in this way, I am like also him.

My dad is curious about the world. He’s well-traveled and once toyed with the idea of buying an apartment in the south of France (a dream my sister and I never quite let him forget). When he asks how many countries I’ve been to now and I can’t totally remember (32? 33?) he whistles, admiring that I’m in the thick of my own adventures, collecting my own delicious stories to tell. He always listens, eager to learn the details of my history, as I do with him.

When I call, my dad answers “hey Han!” and I cry on the phone about a boy, a boss, a fight, a failure. He asks if I want him to get on a plane and I tell him no, even though I secretly always do. If I told him so, he wouldn’t hesitate. He sets the bar high, raising my own standards in the process, because I understand how a good man should act. They should be like him.

My dad is a complicated man, imperfect and unyielding, but he is always there when I need him. He shows up, no questions asked, and he never fails to remind me that I am loved, and important, and building a life I should be proud of. In truth, there is nothing I want more than for my dad to be proud of me. Luckily, he tells me, often. He never lets me forget it, even when I feel defeated—especially then. He tells his daughters, and the people he cares about, that he loves and appreciates them, and I do too. I follow his example, now and always. I am forever grateful to be my father’s daughter, and for all the ways I am just like him.

I love you, Daddy. Thank you for everything.

xxHB