My Father: The Best “Operative” I Know
I recently found myself in a bathroom in Barcelona, experiencing profound heartbreak and calmly texting “I’m okay, but I need to come home ASAP” with my return flight confirmation number to my dad. How I came to be in that bathroom in Barcelona isn’t the story here; the fact that I simply sent that text and my dad immediately changed the flight, promptly sent the itinerary, and the meet up plan at Logan Airport is the story I want to share. I sent one text and a plan to exfiltrate me quickly came together. My dad works from home and he wears the most ridiculous headset to communicate with colleagues around the world. This look earns him a fair bit of ridicule from the rest of my family. With the headset and multiple screens, his small office resembles command central. And this is where he navigated the logistics of my exfiltration plan.
See, my dad is a guy’s guy. He grew up on a farm in the midwest, worked insanely hard in his studies so he could lead a different kind of life. He played football in college and his first time seeing lacrosse he was playing in the game. He is an athlete, a coach at heart, and a master of both logistics and geography. He traveled a lot for work when I was younger. Until I was five years old we lived in Hong Kong and then returned to the states to make it our home base. Between his work schedule and his personality, there was little capacity for engaging emotionally with my dad. Anytime I wanted to communicate something to him, I just would go through my mom. He and I very rarely initiated communication with each other. In high school, guys were afraid of my dad. His demeanor and affect initially seem to be similar to Robert De Niro in “Meet the Parents”. His erratic travel schedule and exotic destinations in addition to our house’s proximity to the CIA outside Washington, DC led many friends to be believe that he was some sort of operative.
And to me, this was always somewhat hilarious because my dad is the most transparent person, with no hidden motives. Whenever my parents travel, my dad (an annoyingly consistent morning person) always gets my mom her preferred kind of caffeine and a copy of the New York Times so she has both before she wakes up (she is a not a morning person). Whenever my sister and I had friends who were in need of a getaway from stressful living conditions or in need of professional advice, my dad would never hesitate to help, treating them like his own kids. He is always working hard whether it be at work, around the house, or just as a human supporting other humans. He never vocalizes his efforts and never seeks gratitude or praise. He wouldn’t express being inconvenienced (although often he definitely was) or feeling resentful. Not once.
From an early age, I always knew my dad would be there for me. We may not have talked often but I never doubted his support. His actions spoke for him. In high school, if I was at a party and needed an exit, I could call my dad and he would get me no questions asked. If I was lost and panicking in another city or country, he would help me navigate from afar. My mom, sister, and I have each called him way too many times frantically asking “Where am I?!” and he always calmly, patiently responds with “I’m not sure yet, where are you?”. This is absurd, but sadly true.
I am now thirty years old and certainly can exfiltrate myself from situations if needed, perhaps not always in the most efficient manner. I have learned that my dad treasures these opportunities to be there, to let his quick response time and mastery of logistics demonstrate his love for me. And I, in turn, treasure them too.
Thank you, Dad, for making me feel that no matter how old I am, where in the world I might be, or the crisis I might be experiencing you are just one text away. A couple weeks ago when I was in that bathroom in Barcelona, I realized how deeply comforted and empowered I have been by your unwavering support. I wouldn’t have pursued certain opportunities, taken risks, or be the person I am today without it.
And perhaps, I need to stop reading so many spy novels. Happy Father’s Day!
