Jennifer Landis pays tribute to her father for the life lessons he taught her by his own examples.
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Right around Father’s Day, we begin to see tributes to fathers popping up everywhere: on our Facebook feeds, in television commercials and on countless card racks at the grocery store. I hope most people can celebrate their dear old dad without a second thought. Still, for some of us, this holiday brings a bit more self-reflection with each passing year.
Maybe your relationship with your dad has been blissfully simple and without conflict or confusion. Cheers to you and your family if that’s the case. However, for some of us, I think there have been some bumps — or maybe massive road blocks — in this relationship. That doesn’t mean there isn’t hope and love at the end of the road.
My dad, whom I love very much, was an alcoholic when I was a child. He’s been sober for nearly three decades but early in my life, his alcoholism led to the demise of his relationship with my mom. I’ve written about my father’s alcoholism before, so I’m not going to repeat all of that here. Despite—or maybe because of—this adversity, I have a very close relationship with my father today. In fact, it is even stronger than my relationship with my mom (but don’t tell her I told you that).
Why? Upon reflection, I was able to pinpoint some of the lessons my father taught me, probably without even realizing he was teaching me.
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My father taught me that we are not defined by our mistakes.
Maybe this is an obvious lesson, but when a man is addicted to alcohol and cigarettes, and then decides that he has the power to stop both and be a present, loving dad, he illustrates learning from mistakes and changing bad behavior.
When I think of my dad, I don’t think “alcoholic.” That’s not what defines him, for me or for anyone else. When I think of my dad, I think of my support system. I think of my hero. He’s not defined by his low moments; he’s defined by his steady support over all of these years.
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My father taught me that people can change.
This was an important lesson to remember when I discovered that genetics account for 60 percent of your risk of becoming an addict. For a while, I stayed away from even a drop of alcohol for fear of his addiction becoming my own.
This lesson plays over in my head when I become fanatic or overly scrupulous about potentially addictive behavior. Yes, I have, to be honest with myself, but I also have to remember that I can change, just like my father did.
I have to be kinder to other people as well. I don’t know what addiction or struggle they might be experiencing. I have to give them the opportunity and space to change as well. My father taught me to be a bit kinder and gentle, with both myself and others.
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My father taught me about respect, regardless of gender.
I’m not an only child; I grew up with a younger brother and my father has two other children with a woman who’s not my Mom or his wife (we can save the remaining details for another essay). Some of my girlfriends have talked about the ways they were treated differently from their brothers growing up: sent to cheerleading camp instead of soccer practice, not encouraged to run for student council or told that boys might be teasing them “because boys do that to girls they like.”
To my father, my brother and I were capable of the same achievements. Sure, we had our own interests, our own strengths, and our own activities, but none of that had anything to do with me being a girl. Those who teased others were wrong, no matter their perceived motivation.
My father probably doesn’t realize that he is a feminist, but he is because he was raising equal little people in his house, regardless of our gender. When I say “I’ll always be a daddy’s girl,” it does not mean that I will always rely on my father for financial support or emotional fulfillment. I don’t need to, because he raised me well.
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My father taught me to play (and win) the long game.
What would a blog post about fathers be without a sports analogy? My father was addicted to cigarettes. While I treasured our time together, I always hated walking away smelling like stale cigarette smoke.
Then, one day when I was 17, he quit. Cold turkey. Without patches or a special program, he just stopped buying the things. When I asked him why, he said “This shit’s gonna kill me.” It was that simple.
Think about it. In the moment, those cigarettes gave him immediate gratification. The first draw satiated a desire. The familiarity of the cigarette between his fingers. The routine of stopping at the store to buy a pack from the friendly clerk. All of it, in the moment, was good, happy and satisfying.
The long game told a different story: the thousands of dollars spent on the addiction, the damage to his mouth and lungs and the power that this addiction had over his daily life. He saw the larger problem and stopped. In the John vs. Cigarettes game – my Dad won.
I think about that often in my own decision making. Sure, this action might make me happy now, but how will it impact my life in years or even decades? I learned that thought process from my dad.
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Think about your favorite heroes from literature or movies. There is always adversity, seemingly insurmountable odds and quirky flaws. You root for those heroes, and feel the satisfaction and excitement that comes from their victory.
Those are books or movies, but real life doesn’t end after a couple of hours at the theatre or ensconced in your favorite chair. My hero exists in real life, and that hero is my father.
While I’m vigilant about not inheriting his addictive tendencies and dating habits (yeah — you know what I’m talking about Pops), I can think of no greater compliment than “You remind me of your father.”
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Photo Credit: Flickr/Johnny Ainsworth