Instead, I'm going to write about my dad. More specifically about how, after 20 years, I can finally say that I love him, and mean it honestly. Which probably sounds horrible, or angst-filled or both. But I don't mean it how you think I mean it, and I wouldn't write it unless it was true.
Growing up, my dad was always a figure of authority. Like the Israelites and the God of the Old Testament, our relationship was based on reward and punishment. One day he might bestow upon me manna and honey, while the next he might take away my first-born child. (Here, insert ice cream and Super Nintendo, respectively.)
I felt the same way about my dad as I did about the god I was taught about at St. Joseph's. I didn't realize it then, but I would later recognize this feeling as fear, not love. It's not that he was always stern with my siblings and I--he rarely had to be because, for as long as I can remember, our number one priority was trying not to make him angry.
As I reached middle school, the fear of angering him quietly transformed into the fear of disappointing him. I worried that I wasn't trying hard enough in school, though I was always on the honor roll. I worried that he didn't trust my friends, even though I never got into trouble with them. I worried that I wasn't living up to his expectations.
Time moved on, and high school turned into college. As my life grew in complexity and I (gradually) gained more responsibilities, I started to see how difficult life as an adult was. Paying for textbooks and tuition after a year of unemployment finally taught me the value of money.
When I finally secured a job over the summer after freshman year, I began to realize a fraction of the responsibility my father shoulders in order to give me the life I live. I realized that which I couldn't as a child or an ungrateful teen. I realized that the only way my dad could do what he does every day is out of love for his family.
When he comes home from work in a bad mood, I now understand why. Or, rather, I understand that I can't understand. I can't understand how many hoops he has to jump through or how many fake smiles he has to plaster in place just to get through a day. I can't realize any of this, because there is so much to his life than he ever lets complicate mine. My dad is one of the hardest working people I know, and he never complains about it.
Yesterday, when I was saying goodbye to my parents before leaving for school, I hugged my mom just like I did before I left on my flight to New Zealand. As I turned to my dad for our usual handshake, I decided to do something for the first time in recent memory. I hugged him. And I realized that I didn't want to let go.
I tried to put 20 years of gratitude into that hug, but I knew it was impossible. However, for one brief, awkward moment, he wasn't the God of the Israelites. He was my dad.
And I loved him.
This is beautiful. Although I knew that it was an uncommon occurrence, I guess I had no idea what I was witnessing when i saw you hug your dad...
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