Advice From My Father
The following is adapted from Between the Lines by Jay Lind.
I summoned my dad into my room one night when I was maybe fifteen years old. I wanted him to listen to a song I liked. This practice of trying to convince my dad that there was indeed some music worth listening to that was created after Buddy Holly’s death would continue right up until the year he died. In fact, we spent most of 2003 engaged in an ongoing and sometimes heated debate regarding the artistic and cultural value of hip-hop music. But the song I was introducing him to on that particular night was almost universally acclaimed. I figured it would be an easy sell and that maybe it could bring my dad and me one step closer to finding some common ground.
“Man in the Mirror” was the song, and at that time, the full extent of Michael Jackson’s personal struggle, as well as the majority of his controversial behavior, hadn’t yet been made public. So, when my dad reluctantly stepped into my room that night, I immediately pumped up the volume on the oversized boom box I was clutching on my lap. And I watched his reaction carefully as the King of Pop sang to us both. The verse I played for him had a pretty clear message that I wasn’t quite internalizing at the time, but it was one that was obviously relevant to my behavior and attitude at that stage of my adolescence.
I was looking in the mirror for all the wrong reasons back then, usually just to check my hair. It must’ve been clear to my dad that I was missing the metaphor because he just smiled and slowly pivoted away from me, apparently choosing to leave my room without offering any kind of analysis or opinion on the song. But I paused the cassette long enough to stop him and ask him what he thought. Without even turning around or breaking his stride, he suggested, in a tone that can only be described as mildly dismissive, that maybe I should listen to the lyrics.
A few years later, in the fall of my senior year in high school, my dad accidentally overheard a phone conversation I was having with my girlfriend, Melissa. It was a few days after the homecoming dance, and Melissa, who earned the unfortunate honor of being my date that night, had a few not-so-nice things to say about the way I behaved at the hotel party we attended after the dance. She was letting me know, in not-so-gentle terms, how disrespectful, unacceptable, and disgusting it was of me and some of the other guys who were there to make fun of, demean, and flat-out bully one of the girls at the party…a girl who clearly drank too much, too fast.
I still remember this conversation with Melissa and how it made me feel as if I had just now returned the clunky phone to the cradle mounted on the wall of my childhood bedroom. I was embarrassed and ashamed of my behavior, as I often was those days. But, as usual, I was unwilling and unable to look in the mirror and acknowledge any of the very real mistakes I’d made. The guilt and shame I felt back then were sometimes crippling. So, as was the case whenever I was confronted about my behavior, I fell back on my pitiful routine of denial and excuse-making. My half-assed apology on the phone that day was more of a declaration that I wasn’t really responsible for my behavior on homecoming night, on account of my obvious drunkenness. But unbeknownst to me, my dad was standing in the hall just outside of my room, and he heard every word of this feeble attempt to avoid being held accountable for my actions.
After Melissa was done giving me a much-deserved piece of her mind, then rightfully refusing to let me off the hook for what I had done, my dad walked into my room and sat down next to me on my bed. This always meant that it was time for us to have a little man-to-man conversation. We sat side by side on the edge of my bed and talked pretty regularly during that stage of my increasingly problematic adolescence. But that night, after he had finished listening to me making cowardly and weak excuses to Melissa, we didn’t have much of a conversation at all.
On this particular occasion, my dad did all of the talking. And his message was clear. He told me not to use being drunk as an excuse for my bad behavior. I got drunk, he reminded me, and that decision was all mine. Therefore, the consequences were all mine too. I needed to accept that fact and learn from the experience. If I refused to face that difficult truth, then I was bound to make the same mistakes again and again, and the consequences would only get worse. And my dad didn’t want that for me. After each and every one of our man-to-man sit-downs, he made sure to tell me how much he loved me before leaving me in my room to consider everything he’d said. That night was no exception. Melissa broke up with me a couple of days later. And although I continued to get drunk and make bad decisions for approximately twenty-five more years, I never used “I was drunk” as an excuse again.
My dad was always sympathetic and understanding, but he didn’t mince his words. Whenever he gave me advice, he started by reminding me that he only felt comfortable and qualified to advise me on such matters because he had made many of the same mistakes in his life. Sometimes he told me what those mistakes were, but usually, he just made it clear that he had been there. As it turns out, most of my dad’s fatherly wisdom was built on and supported by a fairly impressive and diverse portfolio of impulsive behavior and bad decisions that often left him saddled with the same brand of guilt and shame that I felt. But at some point in my dad’s life, he started to look in the mirror a little more often. And he finally began learning from his mistakes, and making changes, and evolving. He desperately wanted me to see the benefit of this practice of self-reflection earlier in my life than he did, and even though that wouldn’t happen, I will always appreciate how hard he tried to pass it on.
I love my dad, at least in part because of his weaknesses. He was flawed like I am. He told me about it, and he tried to help me learn from the mistakes he’d made. And although I still made many of those same mistakes, along with a few doozies of my own, I did manage to learn some truly valuable lessons from my dad, and I think of him every time I sit down with either of my sons to have a little man-to-man conversation. And I always tell them that I love them before I leave the room.
It took more than forty years for me to fully internalize what my dad spent so much time and energy modeling for me, but there is no doubt that it has become an integral part of who I am today. As a direct result of my dad’s thoughtful parenting and painstaking efforts to get better with age, I now know that a real man owns his weaknesses, and his mistakes, and the hurt he has caused. He wears his flaws like scars on his heart. He heals, and he learns, and he never stops evolving. He doesn’t want to cause any harm to anyone, especially to the people he loves the most. He makes it his mission to know everyone’s story and make a difference in the lives of others. And after leaving an indelible mark of compassion, wit, and wisdom on his family and almost everyone he encounters in his life, he dies at home with a whole heart and a clear conscience, surrounded only by love.
For more advice on how to be honest, you can find Between the Lines on Amazon.
Jay Lind grew up in Oak Park, Illinois. After traveling the world, he came home to become an English teacher. He married a wonderful woman, and they started a family. But when his father was diagnosed with terminal brain cancer, Jay’s occasional drug use exploded into full-blown cocaine addiction, culminating in terrible choices that threatened everyone he loved.
As an addict in recovery, Jay found the strength to bounce back from his collision with rock bottom. He continues to make progress today.
