"Father’s Day invites many gender stereotypes, but my dad doesn’t conform to any of them." You
There are many familiar stereotypes about fathers: the absent father who left the family, the workaholic from the Mad Men era, the disciplinarian who strikes fear into childhood hearts with the threat of "wait until your father gets home," and the well-meaning but clueless dad. Then there's the divorced dad who sees his kids only on weekends, breaks all the rules, and loves to spoil them with ice cream on school nights.
But my dad, and many others like him, doesn't fit neatly into these stereotypes.
My dad, now 86 years old, grew up in New Rochelle, N.Y., with an Italian mother and a Jewish Russian immigrant father. In 1955, he earned admission to Harvard not only because of his academic achievements but also because of his remarkable speed as a low hurdler in the 220-yard race, placing seventh in the NCAA finals during college. At a time when there were unspoken quotas for Jewish students, Harvard acknowledged that his athletic prowess played a crucial role in his acceptance. Later in life, he moved to Los Angeles, where he became a successful real estate developer and met my mom in group therapy.
My dad's life story sets him apart in many ways, but what truly distinguishes him is his refusal to conform to stereotypes, especially in his unwavering commitment to being fully present in my life. Following my parents' divorce in 1984, when I was just 7 years old, he insisted on dual custody—a surprisingly progressive stance for a father in those times.
I spent alternating weeks between houses until I left for college. During his weeks, my dad—someone who exuded alpha male energy and traditional masculinity—assumed both maternal and paternal roles. I vividly recall him attempting to style my hair into a ponytail, clumsily tucking strands behind my ears as I watched in amusement. He proudly wore the glittery paper crowns I crafted for him to the grocery store. Once, at my direction (as I played queen and he played court jester), he even tried eating a rose, chewing on it thoughtfully before humorously declaring it tasted like chicken.
During our lengthy car rides, he imparted invaluable lessons on how to "hit the ball back over the net" in conversations, aiming to alleviate my painfully shy nature. Only later did I fully grasp the importance of these social skills. Whenever I find myself in awkward social situations, I still envision that imaginary net and the tennis ball gracefully sailing over it.
A perfectionist at heart, my dad occasionally lost his temper over my untidy room, unsharpened pencils, or disorganized homework. Yet, after each heated argument, he always extended an apology, recognizing the significance of reconciliation.
Once, he drew a picture depicting a large box with many smaller ones inside. Leaving most of them empty, he colored in one tiny box and explained that it represented a recent disagreement, the negative feelings we both harbored. "But," he added thoughtfully, "look at all these other blank boxes." Then, deliberately erasing the colored box, he demonstrated how apologizing could ease the hurt, emphasizing that any single disagreement between us would never define our entire relationship.
Recently, after a heated argument with my own daughter, I found myself drawing the same picture. I could see how much comfort she derived from this visual representation, which transformed an abstract concept into something tangible: my unwavering love for her, no matter what words were exchanged or actions taken.
During my college years, while studying abroad, an ex-boyfriend unexpectedly tracked me down in Europe. When I refused to meet with him, his behavior grew increasingly aggressive and threatening. Somehow, my father managed to involve the FBI, and miraculously, my ex ceased all attempts to contact me. To this day, I remain in awe of how my father orchestrated this intervention, though the details of how he accomplished it remain a mystery.
After college, I lived in London with my fiancé, but over time, the relationship began to unravel amid numerous warning signs. One night, I called my dad and admitted that I no longer wanted to proceed with the wedding, despite already sending out 300 invitations. I longed to return home. Without hesitation, he responded, "That's okay. I'll take care of cancelling the wedding with the hotel. Don't worry about the deposit."
It was a substantial deposit.
Years later, after I lost my first child, my dad visited me every day for six months. We would meet at a coffee shop around the corner from my house, sitting together under the blinding afternoon sun. My eyes were often swollen and red from crying, the weight of my sudden loss sinking me deeper each day. He listened patiently as I poured out my heart, resisting his natural urge to offer solutions, simply acknowledging the depth of my pain. Those 30 minutes we spent together each day made me feel less alone in my grief.
Even now, in his late 80s, my dad will drop by for a brief chat whenever I'm grappling with a challenging parenting issue. He'll mention needing to "sleep on it," and by the next morning, I'll receive an email from him filled with creative ideas neatly organized in bullet points.
Our culture sorely needs more stories about fathers who are inherently nurturing, who embody both masculine and feminine energies, and who willingly share emotional and domestic responsibilities with their partners. Fathers who show unwavering support for their children without expecting recognition or praise. We should hold fathers to the same standards of dedication as we do mothers, without marveling at a dad grocery shopping with his toddler or praising him for scheduling a pediatrician appointment.
My dad isn't the only father with wisdom to share, but he often feels like he belongs in a league of his own. Each day, I strive to emulate his ability to consistently show up and pay attention, hoping my children experience the same profound love and commitment I've always felt as his daughter.
Alexis Landau is the author of the novels “The Empire of the Senses,” “Those Who Are Saved” and “The Mother of All Things.”
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