I can currently hear you playing guitar from my vantage point upstairs. It's a Leo Kodke-induced fever melody full of capos and strumming (as it has been for the last ten years you've been learning how to play) and it's the perfect accompaniment to this letter. Because apparently, it's Father's day.
Or something.
Now, if you're going to ask me how I feel about Father's day, I'd say something about capitalism and Corporate America and how I feel like parents are better served by being treated well by their children year-round instead of just one day in the middle of June, for some reason. Why June? What's so particularly paternal about June?
In spite of my skepticism, I'm going to write you this letter anyway.
You already know the story of my earliest, clearest memory of you. But the internet doesn't know, so I'm going to tell the good bunch of strangers and friends about that time I called you a bozo on accident, and you put me in time-out.
Your main defense here is that I was a particularly precocious child, and my vocabulary was ridiculously wide for a three-year-old. Actually, technically, that's all yours and Mom's fault, because you guys insisted on reading to me and letting me watch Looney Tunes. It wasn't my fault I happened to take to reading like fire takes to tinder, or understood all the jokes in the Looney Tunes by some weird sort of transubstantiation of knowledge. You just gave me too much credit in assuming I'd know what bozo meant.
Child Hilary: 1.
Apparently, you were also dressed rather shabbily because you were out doing yard work, and what I meant to say was hobo, not bozo. They're totally different. In my defense, I had had a cheap bozo costume set that consisted of a plastic bowler hat, but apparently the manufacturers of this set were convinced that bozos looked like hobos from the 1940's, so technically, again, I'm not in the wrong here. It's not my fault that those costume-makers had serious discrimination issues where poor people from the Great Depression were concerned.
Because telling your dad he looks like a hobo is way better than telling him he looks like a bozo. Right?
I know, I know. That's debatable. The point is, I called you a bozo in good spirit, and you got angry--"MY DAUGHTER IS NOT GOING TO CALL ME A BOZO" and put me in time-out. Which, as a child, I was confused and hurt by. I stared at the corner where the walls met for five minutes, wondering what I had done wrong, feeling indignant and betrayed, even though I probably had no idea I was feeling indignant, but betrayed sounds like a word I would have known.
At three, I didn't understand the larger meaning of this incident: that you were never mean to me or reprimanded me physically, that you thought I was smart enough to know what I was saying, because I was, in a way. I didn't understand yet what a blessing it was to have a father who was invested in making sure I knew I was smart, and invested in helping me develop that intelligence.
I understand now how lucky I was to have you read books out loud to me (even though by the time I was about eight we both knew that I could read faster than you could, but I let you read to me anyway). I understand now how lucky I was that you wanted me to be a smart and powerful woman. I was lucky to have a father who impressed upon me the importance of doing well in school.
I understand how lucky I am, now better than ever, after I was the recipient of a large and generous investment: my college education. I'm fairly sure I made a return on the investment by graduating with a 3.9, and I'm glad I did that. I honestly only did as well as I did because of the way you and Mom raised me. Also partly because I'm a perfectionist, but mostly because of the raising thing.
You might not be one of those dads who loads up the shotgun every time I bring a guy home (which, granted, hasn't happened a whole lot), or makes up obscenely complicated and patriarchal rules for men who want to date me, but to be honest I'm glad you're not. I'm grateful that you aren't overbearing, even though I'm your only kid. I'm glad that you trust me to make wise and well-informed decisions.
Thank you for being a quiet yet constant source of support in my life. And also for introducing me to Looney Tunes, Monty Python, Harry Potter, Nova, and Shakespeare. But not in that order, obviously, because if you'd gone right from Looney Tunes to Monty Python I think I would have been scarred for life.
Thank you for being encouraging and for being real, honest, and up-front with me at every turn. Thank you for the guidance during high school and for the college education. Thank you for believing in me and my dreams, no matter what.
Your Good Parenting: 1,000,000.
So I guess we can let the time you put me in time-out because I called you a bozo slide. Mostly because sometime within the next few years I hid in the coat closet, waiting for you to come home from work so I could jump out and scare the crap out of you. Which I did. Points to me.
Love,
Hilary
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