My Dad Doesn’t Wear Ties
As I opened my computer this morning, I discovered the “l” in “Google” had been replaced with a tie, thereby reminding me today is Father’s Day. It appears that the tie has become the international symbol for dads, which I not only find classist and sexist, but also inaccurate because my dad has never worn a fucking tie in his life.
My dad has a uniform, and it’s flip-flops, swim trunks, a hat, and globs of sunblock (he’ll put on a shirt, but only if he really has to). He wore this outfit to my birth, my graduations, and every event in between for the 27 years I’ve known him. He even wears this uniform to work, because when you’re employed as a PE teacher and volleyball coach, you can totally get away with a wardrobe comprised entirely of beach clothes.
Growing up, the first sounds I’d hear upon waking every morning were breathy “Choo! Choo! Choo!”s coming from my parents’ bedroom as Dad exhaled during his daily pushups and sit-ups, which he performs promptly upon rolling out of bed, right before he brings my mom coffee and the paper. I soon became a part of this ritual when, from Kindergarten on, I was expected to drop and give him 20 before being granted access to the bathroom to brush my teeth. He also demanded 50 sit-ups, and before long he installed a bar over the door to the garage, upon which I was to perform 10 pull-ups before he gave me a ride to school. Words cannot express how much I hated him for this, but to this day, I can still knock out 20 real, on-your-toes, military pushups at any given time, even though I haven’t worked out in years. Dad gave me guns.
It became startlingly clear that the main reason he wanted a kid was to have a sports partner. If my dad’s not playing volleyball, he’s surfing, or windsurfing, or playing tennis, or riding his bike, or swimming, or skiing, or snowboarding, or line dancing, or kiteboarding (I don’t even know what the hell that is). Once I left home, he built a little shack in Hawaii, where my parents spend the majority of their time so Dad can windsurf all day, every day. He just never stops moving, and is consequently in much better shape than most dudes my age that I date (which is disgusting). There was no way I was going to escape being dragged into this world, and the fact that I’m female didn’t alter the plan for a second. Let’s be real – there are plenty of “sports dads” out there that, upon realization of their child’s absence of dangly genitalia, would demand they keep trying for a “son they could play ball with.” But Dad was unphased, and I received no play ovens or princess paraphernalia for Christmases or birthdays – instead I got snowboards and windsurf sails and a basketball hoop. My mother told me his biggest fear was that I’d end up a cheerleader, standing on the sidelines rooting for dudes instead of playing the game myself.
Every night after dinner, we’d go outside to play H-O-R-S-E, or catch, or pepper. Every weekend was a skiing trip, or windsurfing beach days, or a volleyball tournament. I was swimming before I was two. I was on skis by five. I was windsurfing and surfing at seven. I was snowboarding by eight. I did tap, jazz, and ballet, played soccer, basketball, tennis, and volleyball. The only sport my dad shot down was baseball because he found it intolerably boring to watch, which was a considerable disappointment since my favorite movie was A League of Their Own and I practiced that Geena Davis foul-ball-catch-while-doing-the-splits move endlessly. He cringed when I told him I wanted to join a bowling league, but I think he let that slide because he figured it would at least strengthen my right arm, hopefully improving my volleyball spike. He was at every single game/match/tournament I ever played, which at the time I found overbearing, but I understand now was truly special. I am very, very lucky.
If Dad wasn’t regaling me with musings on the personal and social value of athletics, he was drilling me in multiplication tables, or teaching me the value of responsible economics. My father is, to put it simply, cheap as fuck. We clipped coupons every Sunday, always bought generic brands, and took weekly trips to Costco back when it was called Price Club. Rollerblades, shoes, and ski boots were purchased two sizes too big to extend the time between growing out of them (if I complained, he’d have me wear three pairs of tube socks to compensate). When I begged for a pair of Nikes like all the other girls on my ball team had, Dad presented me with a pair of Chuck Taylors, claiming “they’re the original basketball shoe!” He threw a credit card at me when I was 16, said “don’t spend more than you have,” and required me to pay off the entire balance every month…and to this day I’ve never accrued debt. He was going to stop at nothing to help me become an independent, self-sufficient, intelligent young lady with a plethora of valuable skills, even if he had to annoy the shit out of me to do it. And you know what? I’m a great little saver with my own lifetime membership to the Cheap As Fuck club, and it’s this reason and this reason alone that I’ve managed to maintain a relatively decent lifestyle on very little income.
He’ll be the first to admit he’s, um, exceedingly frugal, or fess up to other shortcomings. Fully fluent in sarcasm, my father expertly trained me in fine art of self-effacing humor and not taking yourself so goddamned seriously. Our family communication style centers around giving each other massive amounts of shit, and I received endless demands to “lighten up” if I even thought of bristling at one of his jabs. It’s how he shows his affection; so if my dad makes fun of you, consider yourself lucky. Also, whatever he’s saying is probably dead-on anyway - objecting only makes you look oversensitive and self-unaware. Take it with love, because that’s what’s intended. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.
None of this means he’s not incredibly giving, impossibly nice, compassionate, and friendly. Considerate and generous, he never missed an opportunity to grow my sense of empathy, and he drilled the importance of public service and helping others in my thick head from a super early age. He always involved me when writing out checks to various homeless shelters, food banks, and Planned Parenthood. We’d “adopt” families for holidays, give lots of toys to tots, and he arranged several volunteering family field trips. After a particularly impressive trick-or-treating haul one Halloween, Dad demanded I donate all but five(!) pieces of candy to needy children, a request I obviously initially refused. But he persisted, painting a heart-wrenching picture of kids who weren’t lucky enough to don plastic costumes and beg for vittles door-to-door, and I eventually relinquished the goodies. In hindsight I realize he was just trying to keep me from gobbling a bunch of junk food and probably didn’t actually drive a bag of mangled, fun-size candy bars down to the homeless shelter, but the fact that he chose to hide the pill of healthy eating in the peanut butter of philanthropy is kind of amazing.
My dad is the opposite of an overprotective, paternalistic, misogynist father. He didn’t grill or threaten my boyfriends, try to keep me locked in the house (that was my mother’s job), or question my right to sexual education or fulfillment as a young woman. I never once heard the phrase “I know how boys think,” because he doesn’t think about women the way most men do, and he didn’t assume my gender somehow rendered me incapable of deciphering bad intentions (or thinking the same thing the boys were). I wasn’t seen as a thing he owned that needed protection, as property that required trespassing enforcement, and I believe wholeheartedly he treated me the same way he would have had I been born male. His unwavering trust in my judgment and independence, despite hefty cultural messaging to the contrary, was invaluable to my self worth. He would never call himself a feminist, but…sorry Dad, you’re a total fucking feminist, and thank god for that. He is so one of the good ones.
As I continued to evolve from an upstanding little kid into a terrible adult person, some of his most admirable qualities were totally lost on me, despite my best efforts to absorb them. My father is restraint and discipline epitomized. The man does bedside strength-training every morning, for Christ’s sake, and his diet is enviably balanced and healthy (though he’ll never refuse fettucine alfredo or key lime pie). Soda was absolutely verboten in our house, and fruit was what Dad considered “dessert” in my brown bag lunches. A literal natural high guy, he doesn’t smoke or do drugs, and the only things he ever drinks are orange juice and water (an ungodly, stomach-turning amount of water).
Dad is also thoughtfully private and hates attention. I’m not even going to show him this post because he’d be embarrassed beyond belief about any amount of text spilled for him. Composed and patient, he rarely raises his voice and never, ever swears. The worst you’ll hear is “Jiminy Christmas,” which is his grand pinnacle of anger, the expletive that emerges only when he’s Bruce Banner-to-Hulk pissed off. These are all traits I’ve hopelessly failed to adopt, the ones that make me wonder if I’m even his kid at all. Maybe my mom hooked up with a lazy, obnoxious, reactionary, garrulous, potty-mouthed milkman who has a thing for cheese, Diet Coke, and gin.
So today I raise a giant glass of ice water to the coolest, nicest, most fun and inspirational dad a silly little girl could ever hope to have. I credit him with a lot: my ability to kick ass at pretty much any sport you drop me in, exceedingly bloody liberal heart, hella fly money skillz, penchant for self-deprecation, increased odds in pushup contests, love of Bob Dylan, and hatred of Jimmy Buffett (of which I was subjected to an endless loop on various beach/ski trips until I begged him to buy me a Walkman). My dad is amazing and undoubtedly responsible for the majority of my positive qualities - any personal shortcomings can be blamed exclusively on me…or my mother.
(Just kidding. She’s great too.)
Happy Father’s Day, dad. Here’s to another year of not buying you ties.
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