A Different kind of Father

Stephen Frueh

His “teacher- daughter” called him the ‘un-father.’ “Is that an insult?” he said. “I mean, should I feel put down by that?” “No,” she said. “It’s just you. You’re the un- father. I tell my friends that you are unlike any father I’ve ever met.”

He was unsure and uneasy. Had he failed his children? He thought maybe he had an idea of what his daughter meant. But he didn’t want to assume anything so he said “tell me more about the un- father.”

“Dad, when I was growing up you did things that my friends fathers never did. Like the times you took us out of school in the middle of the day to go see the whales. You said it would be too crowded on the weekend and besides, who knew if the whales would be there on Saturday.

Or the time you confronted my third grade teacher who had given me a ‘C’ on an art project. You said “art should not be graded. Art is a creative activity in all aspects. No one should receive a grade for art, but especially a third grader shouldn’t.’ My friends were all listening and silently clapping.

You didn’t agree with dress codes or curfews or grades or anything else that taught conformity. You were always saying, and I can still hear you saying, ‘that’s ridiculous!’ when I brought home my report card. And, that’s another thing. When in middle school I got straight A’s you didn’t congratulate me. You said, ‘Is that what you wanted?’ I said yes. Then you said, ‘well good for you!’ You thought that if we were going to be graded then we should set our own standards. I tell my students that and they laugh and then I tell them to decide at the beginning what kind of grade they want and what kind of grade they think they’ll make.

I loved your stories. You didn’t read stories very often but you told us stories every night. I know you made them up as you went along because you’d often ask us to tell you what happened last night. If we couldn’t remember, you’d say, ‘well I guess it wasn’t a very interesting story and then you’d start another. Sometimes, when it was late, you’d fall asleep in the middle of a sentence as you sat on the floor between our beds. We’d get out of bed and gently lower you to the floor and throw a blanket over you. I remember one night when you were still there in the morning. The first thing you said was ‘where were we?’

My friends liked coming to our house because you would stop what you were doing and talk to us. Our house didn’t always look good, lawns needed mowing, paint job not finished, but you spent time on the front lawn listening to our stories and laughing with us.

And the stuff you brought home when you were painting houses. All my friends loved the day you drove in with a car full of clothes. You were working for a lady who compulsively, I guess, bought a lot of clothes and you told her about us. She loaded your car with dresses, shoes, purses, custom jewelry, scarves and other things and you came into the driveway beeping your horn so that our friends on the block all came running.

What a time we had! Six, seven and eight year old girls dressed in expensive evening wear, high heals, shiny new patent leather purses, scarves flying in the wind.

When mom worried that we’d ruin them you said, ‘that’s what they’re for, to ruin.’

I take you now, dad, my ‘un-father’ into all I do and every time conformity or compliance wants to bully me into being who I clearly am not, I simply murmur ‘hi dad.’