Giving Thanks: Pop

The Christmas Eve’s of my childhood were always spent with Pop at his office in Metropolis. It was a great treat for a young boy, riding the train in from the suburbs, staring up at the huge buildings as we walked to his office, and of course, a trip to a fancy, sit-down restaurant for lunch (which probably wasn’t all that fancy thinking back on it.) Today, the tradition has not changed much, but I was not nearly as excited to wake up before noon, stand on a windy platform waiting for the train, and instead of zooming around his office waiting for lunch, I’m instead at my desk waiting for 1 p.m. so I can go back home.

Writing about your dad is an impossibly difficult thing to do. You love your father, but you never say it, and you often don’t feel it if he’s doing his job right. He has a constant watch on you to ensure you don’t fall into the traps that fell many young men without fathers, and you can never quite understand why he’s always on your ass, always scrutinizing. His criticism is “constructive,” but is rarely partnered with praise, building a vicious circle where you chase your father’s approval but can never quite catch it.

He was the disciplinarian, the one I feared. I ran to my mother to shield me from his anger and disappointment over my mistakes, and she called for him when I refused to budge for her. His heavy feet on the stairs caused me to tremble, fearing he was coming to admonish me for another mistake, be it an unclean dish, a stray shoe or a call from school complaining of my talkative and disruptive day in class. We were not buddies; he was the master, I the apprentice, and I was to learn his trade the way he saw fit.

I never wanted to take his advice, I always wanted to complete a task my way, even if it wasn’t as good or took me a great deal longer. I wanted to prove to him that I could succeed without his aid, but for all my efforts, I was rarely rewarded. I couldn’t understand why he nit-picked, even at things I considered accomplishments, when all I ever wanted to hear was, “Good job, bud.”

As we parted ways this morning, I mentioned the memory of Christmas Eve’s past and how we’ve come full circle, and he gave me a wink and a smirk, and I know I’ve finally caught the carrot. He and I are so different from one another; he has a logical, math-oriented brain that served him well through his doctoral work in economics, whereas I am more creative, toiling instead with words and aphorisms. He can build a car engine, I can only build a casserole. I am emotional, talkative and loud, whereas he is pensive, quiet and stoic.

But, our differences aside, never have I revered anyone the way I do my father. His accomplishments are staggering in my eyes, and for the majority of my childhood, I was crippled in an attempt to earn his praise. I often acted not for myself, but for what I believed my father wanted. I cannot recall all the times he would turn to me in frustration and say, “You know Bud, I don’t know everything.” But he did to me; anything I ever wondered, I asked him. Looking back, it was absurd to think he’d have an answer, but he was my Dad, he had to know.

I remember seeing my parents at the dinner table, tired, frustrated and weak from their days at the office, and I often thought, “Why do they do this?” I always knew they worked as hard as they did because of us; neither of my parents has terribly stimulating jobs. They traded that perk in for more pesos. They always drove crappy cars and wore cheap clothes, and I always got the new basketball shoes. Growing up, I promised myself I’d never have kids, because the way I saw it, I ruined their lives, because they were all about me and Lil’ Sis. They never took time for themselves, never went out because they were too tired from work and running us to and fro, and they never seemed to have money left over to spend on extravagant gifts for one another. I was as appreciative as a 15-year old could be expected to be, but my response was a selfish one, a promise I would never turn into my parents.

My parents taught me a powerful lesson, though. They work hard for their money, and a lot of it still is spent on my sister and I, but I know they are happy. Pops lost his mother when he was three, and spent his childhood in and out of orphanages and group homes as his father struggled to hold a job in the 1970s. He would eventually drop out of high school, something he is still embarrassed of today, but secured his GED, worked his way through college and on to graduate school, where he earned his doctorate in economics. I have always been so proud of that, the true rags-to-riches story that causes millions to flock to the U.S.’s shores. I am most proud of his outlook on life, that his wife and children are what he cares about and works for, even more so because he had a father that did not do that for him, who often was not there for him. He has built a family, and given me every advantage that I could ever hope for or need; he fulfills that great Jackie Robinson line, “A life is only worth the impact it has on others.” I’ve always loved that quote, but I never appreciated it until associating it with my father.

My life will not be guided by money or fame. I hope to teach people the lesson of my father, that your unique gifts and talents are not for you alone to profit from, but to be shared to build up all those you come in contact with. He has spent 21 years teaching me how to be a man, a man that gives to the world, a man that takes responsibility when no one else wants to (“If not you, then who?”) and to leave your mark with all who will listen. I do not know what lies ahead of me after leaving school, but my Pop has given me a solid base to face the world with. I hope everyone has a Blessed holiday, and that you are as lucky as I am in friends and family.