It’s My Birthday, and I’ll Cry If I Want To

Last Saturday, I delivered a eulogy at my father’s funeral. I’d say it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but it wasn’t. (Nothing was more challenging or rewarding than teaching high school in Baltimore.) Weeks ago, in preparation for a goodbye I knew was coming, I wrote a draft eulogy that resembled this article in praising my father’s numerous good deeds as both a preacher and teacher. I’m blessed that I had the opportunity to read that draft eulogy to Dad before he died, one of many loving exchanges and tender moments we shared in the weeks preceding his death.

However, at midnight before the funeral, I realized that draft eulogy was all wrong. Sure, it honored my father’s life and accomplishments. But while I talked about the biographical “Tom Bello,” I somehow neglected to talk about my dad — as I knew and loved him. So I started from scratch and for the next two hours, I cried silently in front of my laptop as I recalled the everyday things that made Dad dad. His booming voice. The simple breakfast of fruit, granola, and yogurt he ate every day. His habitual, non-discriminating tardiness to every. single. event.

Today, I celebrate my 30th birthday. Every year on this day, I would call my mom and tell her, “I don’t understand why everyone is celebrating me. You did all the hard work!” After Mom would catch me up on family updates, she’d hand the phone over to Dad who’d call me Koog, my family nickname, and tell me how much he loved me.

Today, Mom told me she loved me, and then there was silence.

This morning, in one of my favorite Stanford GSB classes, Conversations in Management, Professor Irving Grousbeck posted the following quote: “People may remember what you said, they might remember what you did, but they will always remember how you made them feel.” (A version of this quote is often attributed to Maya Angelou.)

My dad made me feel special, confident, and loved. Thirty years ago, he and my mother brought me into this world, and today I celebrate them, not me.

I’ve cried twice today, and I’ll probably cry some more. That’s okay. It feels good for my outside to match my inside sometimes.

My dad was a writer, but I’m new to this. I’m putting these thoughts out there as a way to honor them but also release them. As my Stanford meditation teacher, Aneel Chima, taught me: “It’s impossible to turn off your thoughts. Notice them; allow them to happen.” Pouring out my thoughts here allows me to be more present everywhere else.

Dad, I love you. I’ve loved you for the past thirty years, and I will continue loving you for the next thirty and beyond. As e. e. cummings wrote: “i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart).”