I didn’t know if I would want to, or be able to, write about my dad again. I talked a bit about my father and his passing, about the anniversary of his death just a few days ago in this blog. And I thought maybe that was enough, because of course it’s always difficult to write about things that are so very close to my heart.
But maybe a little more. Maybe just a little. Because even if I thought I got through the day without a conscious knowledge of this being the anniversary of Dad’s death, it was there. It was in the air, or in my subconscious, or in my heart. It was there, and I felt it. I was a bit more on edge, a bit crankier, a bit more tired, a bit sadder.
And the truth is, even though he died back in 1988, after all of this time, I still miss my father. And it’s not even that Dad and I were always that close; we had our rocky times. It wasn’t always the easiest of relationships, that’s for sure. But we had our good times too, and the love was there, of that I’m sure. And I always, always had respect for the man that he was, for the values that he held despite the upbringing that he had, for the things for which he fought, for the unconditional love that he had for his family, for his faith, for his belief in us — his wife and 4 children, and for his belief in humanity, no matter how many times it disappointed him. He was a flawed person, of course (who of us isn’t), but he was a good person.
My dad. I could have used his intelligence and reason last week when I debated, yet again, with a young person who challenged me with, “why is a white woman so interested in diversity?” As I did the fish-mouth thing, mouth opening and closing because I couldn’t believe that she’s asked me this yet again, she put it in another way: “it’s awkward for a white woman to be so interested in diversity.” And I was off . . and running. I started with elementary school and went on and on and on . . . and I’m not really sure I can relate exactly what I said because I’m not even sure that I took a breath. But the reason I could tell her those things is because of my parents. My father, against the odds, having been raised with an equal opportunity bigot of a mother (oh yes, she hated everyone who wasn’t . . . well, HER!) become a man who loved all people. THAT impresses me. It also impresses me that I was sent to the elementary school with the most diversity in the town in which I was raised, Kent, Ohio. Granted, that may not be saying much, but still . . . it’s something.
We had all kinds of people over at our house for dinner. He was an education professor at Kent State University and when China began opening its doors and sending scholars over to study, they sent a lot of students to the Education Department. He made a point to invite all of them over for dinner at one time or another. He came to be known as “Uncle John” by the Chinese students in the Education Department. He just took them under his wing. His kindness wasn’t limited to the Chinese students, though; we had other international students over too. If someone were to ask me why, I would probably say because Dad was fascinated with other cultures, because he was extremely outgoing and liked entertaining, because he liked people. Mostly, though, because that’s just what Dad did. It was part of who he was. He didn’t judge people by the color of their skin or what they wore or where they were from. He just liked people.
He was funny too, often in a really goofy way. As teenagers, that used to mortify us. Dad would dance through the living room in a silly, exaggerated way and there were large windows in front. My one sister and I especially would say “Daa-aad, stop!! The neighbors are going to see!” Of course now I see how very much I’m like my father and how I SOOO have his sense of humor. It’s a comfort when I do something and then kind of turn around, almost looking for him — “Dad?” It makes me feel like he’s right here with me, and really, I guess he is.
I like to think of what Dad would have said if he had been with me when I was challenged with “it’s awkward for a white woman to be so interested about diversity.” Or maybe he would have just let me go for it, his upside-down smile on his face, watching me sputtering and ranting, but proud as proud can be because in some ways, I am sooo like him. The passion. The causes. The temper. Ohhhh, yes, the temper.
I miss you, Dad, I do. But as this has helped me realize, once again, you’re always with me. Always. I love you.
