When my son’s mom and I divorced, losing the chance to be part of his daily life left a void in my heart that could never be filled. That loss crushed me. I spent three years in bed. My great sadness was being unable to get up with him every morning, ask him how his day was every day after school, have dinner with him every evening, and tuck him in and kiss him goodnight every night.
I had a surplus of dad hugs that I couldn’t give my son. Knowing that so many of my queer brothers and sisters suffered a deficit of dad hugs, I wore a “Free Dad Hugs” t-shirt to Philly pride. With each hug I gave, I said, “I’m so proud of you. This dad thinks you’re perfect just the way you are.”
Dozens of young people broke down in tears, ugly crying, sobbing in my arms:
“I don’t hear that very often.”
“I wish my dad said that.”
“My dad doesn’t love me.”
“I never knew my dad.”
“My dad passed away last year.”
“You’re supposed to give me a hug, not make me cry.”
“No one has ever said that to me.”
“I needed to hear that.”
“I just came out to my dad yesterday.”
“My dad doesn’t hug me.”
“My dad tells me I’m an abomination.”
“We turned my dad from a homophobe into an ally.”
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