I feel a little bad writing this, because my mom was the one who taught me to read. She bounced me on her knee for hours as I whined and complained about dogs picking up sticks and how much I hated that stupid semantics book. But, as late-night sitcoms and inspirational placards have taught me, I will never fully appreciate my mother until I have children of my own, haunting me with bad childhood karma. Moving on.
My dad was a total nerd as a kid. Growing up with three older sisters, he usually just retreated to his room and read comic books after school. He had a small group of close, intimate friends--he cared more about the people than the noise. Just like me.
Growing up, my dad and I bonded over weird, quirky things--the latest episode of Spongebob, trips to Menard's, our hatred of tomatoes--but most of all, books. It was the one toy I was almost never denied; it was the one thing I was never ordered to put down in lieu of chores.
When my second-cousin Harrison graduated from high school, my family drove to the outskirts of Chicago to wish him well. It was extended family--but family we held dearly, family that accompanied my cousins and I on our summer camping trips. I winced my way through cupcakes and streamers until the sun set and the people that mattered came inside. We laughed and talked and asked questions for hours until I dreamily stumbled downstairs. I picked up my waterlogged SOLO cup, and beneath, discovered a coffee table book: some arduous picture show about the history of Stonehenge or something. Two hours later, my mom came downstairs.
"Where were you? We've been looking for you everywhere."
I shrugged. "I dunno. Here."
She shook her head, smiled, pressed her lips together. "You're so much like your father."
It was a few years later when I was sitting in the dining room, trying, and failing, to come up with some sort of point about how Arthur Miller's Death of a Salesman made me feel. I had liked the play, a lot, and there was some inchoate point I had in mind. And, as usual, I awkwardly danced around it for hours.
My dad walked to the refrigerator and saw me sitting there--chair tipped back, hands in my hair, casualties of rough drafts scattered on the floor.
"What's up?"
"Nothing. I'm just trying to write this paper for Miller's class. I just can't write anything--I--I know what I want to say and I can't say it."
Having no knowledge of the plot, he patiently asked me a few questions, tapped the door frame, and left. He returned in a few minutes with a worn-out Bible, pages opened to a verse circled in pen.
"I don't know. Maybe this'll help you."
And there it was: a thesis statement in red letters.
There's something about books that fostered a natural rapport with my father--a mysterious, casual bond that always went without saying. I love that my dad has boxes of old books in our attic, even though he doesn't need them anymore. I love that my dad has forgiven me for slowly acquiring the Calvin and Hobbes collection I got him for Christmas. I love that my dad never forced reading on me, but willingly entertained my obsessions with Lemony Snicket and The Guardians of Gahoole. I love that my dad constantly chides about how I'll be sleeping in our basement, but still encourages me to write.
Because there's a natural curiosity and sense of discovery fathers and daughters share--learning how to ride a bike, watching someone shave--that's gentle, sacred, and hidden somewhere inconspicuous. And for me, it's nestled in the pages of a book.
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