Mon Pere

As I sit down to write tonight I am suddenly reminded of when I was in kindergarten and the teacher asked us to write about our hero. Back then I most likely wrote about Super Shark, an anthropomorphic shark that I made up because I felt like I was the only one who didn't have an imaginary friend. I never talked to him, and he was mainly just a list of things I thought were cool at the time; my family provided more than enough companionship for me, I didn't need to make anyone up.

Nowadays I wish I could go back and change my answer that day, now that I have a bit more experience and wisdom. If I could go back and change that answer, this is what I would write:

Who is your hero: My Dad.

What makes this person your hero: My father is the nicest, most selfless, intelligent man I know. My father spends a lot of time on the road due to his job, so he couldn't be home for a lot of big events, but every time he was home the whole house would change. I would watch my mom get happier (even when she was yelling at him). I would wake up to the sound of great jazz and pancakes, and the rest of the day the whole family would go out and have a blast. My father almost always did all of the cooking and cleaning when he was home (not to put the fantastic job my mother did down), and he is a wonderful cook. When my dad was home he would do every little thing you asked him, even if he was feeling tired, and every night that he could he would read to me and my brother, often after a taxing "airplane" ride for me where I would try my best to cling to the walls in order to stave off bed (which explains why he often fell asleep mid-sentence). And what a storyteller! My dad would make sounds, do voices, really put his whole heart and soul into the reading. I remember hearing a professional storyteller read to our class in middle school, a man whose job was literally to read books to people, and he sounded just like my dad did, even a little worse.

I know my dad worries about how much he was gone when I was younger, and I know what he would give to go back and be there for me and my brother. It hurts him, he feels so bad about it. I've told him many times how little it bothered me, because when he was home, he was there person and soul. When I look back at my childhood it barely feels like he was gone at all.

My dad is the guy who gives a hitchhiker a ride 300 miles out of his way, and makes a new friend at the same time. He's the kind of guy that you could ask for help from when you're having trouble financially and not feel ashamed.

My dad can build a trailer overnight, spend the next day driving, and that night prep a campsite for four people (including a fabulous dinner) without breaking his smile. If there is something I don't know how to do, or make, or find, I ask my dad, because I know that he knows, or will figure out a way.

I had anger issues when I was younger, and it's still an effort to control my temper, but my dad can take grievous slights and not be bothered at all. He is the calmest, kindest person I know, but I know that if he had to fight, he could, and boy could he. My dad defined what a warrior was to me, a man who would fight only as a last resort, but not be afraid to fight. To have fearsome strength, yet only use it when there was no other way.

I could go on and on, but recess is in five minutes, so I'll end it with this:

I love my dad with my whole heart, and when I grow up I only hope that I can be a fifth of the man he is.

My father defined what it meant to be a man, a warrior, a poet, even a cook to me, and to think that he only gets one day a year to celebrate that.


Happy Father's Day Dad!