My Father

I used to be embarrassed to take my father in public. He was not at all what I thought a father should be. I was a self-conscious teenager and he was a balding, boisterous, poorly dressed parent. He was, in short, no Cliff Huxtable. He wasn't a doctor. He didn't listen to jazz. He didn't construct amusing plots to teach lessons. Instead, he was a social worker who listened to talk radio. He taught lessons by talking straight, nothing fancy. One weekend during my freshman year of college, in an effort to warn me about the dangers of HIV, my father told me: "If you get pregnant, I can help you. If you catch VD, the doctor can help you. But if you get AIDS, there's nothing anyone can do." Eloquent, he was not. But I remember his message.

I also remember his sense of style and how desperately I tried to change it. I often wondered what crossed my father's mind as he stood in front of his dresser selecting the day's outfit. Did he think that yellow shorts looked good with red striped tube socks pulled all the way up? Didn't he know that Converse All Stars were out and Nike and Adidas were in? To facilitate the necessary wardrobe transformation, I gave clothes as presents. Patterned sweaters and coordinating corduroy pants, just like Cliff Huxtable's. Tasteful, professional-looking socks. Current footwear. Since he didn't care much about clothes, he easily slipped into the ones I'd bought (with the exception of the shoes) and over the course of a few years - with the help of my sister who had also been contributing to the Bob Smith Make-over Project, he started dressing in ways that better suited my image.

Last year at my sister's high school graduation, my father - appropriately dressed -- cheered loudly as the senior class processed in. "Yeah, Carrie," he shouted as my sister passed. She blushed. I laughed, not at all surprised by my father's exclamation. He did the same thing at my graduation.

At church my father is equally outspoken. In the choir, his voice is the loudest. Even when he sits among the congregation, he belts out each note. During the sermon, he punctuates the message with Amens. From time to time, he'll shout out "Preach, Rev." as if to encourage Pastor McLee. My sister used to ask my father to remain quiet during the service. His utterances reflected poorly on her. Now she avoids embarrassment by staying home.

My little brother, on the other hand, has adopted the Bob Smith persona. On his most recent visit to Denver, he assumed the role of my father while visiting my church one Sunday morning. As we sang a familiar hymn, Stanley's voice rang out above the others. I gave the evil eye to silence him. Later in the service, when we gathered with other members of the congregation in communal prayer, I could hear Stanley saying "Yes, Lord" and "Thank you, Jesus." At prayer's end, he used his full voice to shout out "Amen!" I squeezed his hand, asking him what he was doing. "That's what Dad does," he explained. All this time, my sister and I had been trying to be as unlike our father as possible and here was little Stanley, deliberately following in his footsteps. When I later related this story to my dad, he simply said, "That's my son." I could hear him smiling through the phone.

By all accounts, my father is proud of his three children. Not long ago I went to my father's office to meet him for lunch. His former secretary, Lynda, came by to say hello. "How are you enjoying singing in the church choir?" she asked. Startled by her familiarity with my life, I told her about our upcoming concert with Mary Mary, a nationally known gospel duo. "I know; your dad told me," she responded. I wondered what else this woman knew about me. Later, over a mediocre Chinese buffet lunch, I wanted to ask my dad why he had told his ex-secretary about my choir, but I knew his response would be uneffusive and unsatisfactory. He told Lynda about my choir for the same reason that he told her about Carrie's stint on the varsity ice hockey team and her photography exhibit at the state house. My father doesn't have to tell me that he's proud of me, that he loves me, because his friends and colleagues do. In addition, he has shown me how he feels time and time again. Perhaps because I spend less time with him now that I live thousands of miles away, he has begun voicing his emotions more and more often. Just before we hang up the phone, he might say "I love you, kid" or "You're doing alright, daught. I'm proud of you."

Most times, though, we just hang up with promises to talk tomorrow. A conversation about church, the weather, and our respective jobs doesn't last all that long. Discussions about my finances tend to take more time. My father repeatedly relays his financial history to me and reminds me of the importance of a budget. He then encourages me to cut back on take-out, clothes, traveling. For some reason, even though he disapproves of my spending habits, checks from him keep coming. According to my father, he didn't give me enough financial support during college. To atone for this shortcoming, he has started to send $200 a month to pay off my student loans. At first, I didn't cash the checks. But he begged me to deposit them so that he could balance his checkbook.

I can't count how much money my father has given me over the years. Money for the family reunion cruise last summer. Money for my new used Volvo after my old, old Volvo was totaled. Money for the down payment for my condo. Money for new clothes when mine were stolen from my dorm room. As thoughtful as my father is, he does not send notes or letters with his checks. All I want are a few words scribbled on a piece of paper. In the fifteen years since I left home, I have received one note with a check. A note that is in my memory box.

While he isn't a letter writer, my father has gotten better at verbal communication in the last eighteen months. Ever since he and my stepmother separated, he and I have been talking nearly every day, if only for a few minutes. He still isn't one to linger on the phone after all we aren't -- in his words -- "talking over the back yard fence." Free nights and weekends deals from cell phone companies have done much to increase our telecommunication. Not too long ago, I received a message from him that rivaled Bill Cosby's humor. "Hi, Sidra. This is your dad. Just wanted know to know that I am having a heart attack. Oh, there's a pain in my arm. Before I die, I want you to do two things: Be a good big sister to Carrie and Stanley. And finish that paper. I don't ask for much, but I would like for you to finish your Ph.D. before I die. That's all. (pause) I'm just kidding. I'm fine, but finish your paper."

His voice mail cracked me up, but only because I knew he was not in any physical danger. I hate thinking about the death of my father. I don't want to know what life will be like without this loving, generous man. I can't imagine what I would do without his unsolicited commentary and his increasingly articulated praise. His tremendous - though often invisible - presence in my life is part of who I am. If only we could spend more time together in the same space. I plan to fly back east to visit him before summer's end.

This past fall, my dad flew to Denver to see me. He brought a navy suit, gray corduroy slacks, and a handsome wool sweater. But I wish he had packed more comfortable clothes, things more his style. I took him to my choir rehearsal since he would miss Sunday's service. I took him to school where he gave a guest lecture in my principal's American history elective. I took him to a student diversity club meeting. I wanted him to meet everyone and everyone to meet him, my dad, the most important man in my life.