father's day: a love letter

Hello you,

I’m sitting under a tree next to my deck in my backyard, right now. I just finished mowing, and it’s feeling pretty perfect out here. With less than twenty-four hours from the official first day of summer and no clouds blocking the sunshine, it’s warming quickly; but the breeze is nice, and it’s amplifying the smell of the freshly cut grass. I love the smell of freshly cut grass more than most things.

Anyway, it’s Father’s Day, and I’ve got a little story about a lesson from mine. Those of you who know me may be surprised by it. Those of you who know me well, decidedly will not.

First, though, there are some things you should know about my dad. He was flawed and innately human like the rest of us, but he had a handful of specific qualities that made him a pretty perfect version of who he was. His ability to retain information was exponentially better than the average person. He appreciated good humor and sarcastic nuance, grasped the importance of both art and science, and loved good documentaries almost as much as he loved Johnny Carson. He was cerebral in an approachable way - a rare quality in most.

He also, however, had questionable taste in coffee, an unfortunate love of just-add-water Krusteaz pancake mix, and a cynical side that kept him just out of reach. He curiously bleached his house with regularity, and the furniture was always covered in sheets. I loved all of these things about him.

I was enamored by him, as a kid. He taught me to read before preschool, he gave me my first journal soon after, and through both of those things, he showed me the importance of self-discovery, individualism, and critical thinking. And this is why, when I was sent to the principal’s office early into my kindergarten year, I was able to walk down the endless hall decorated with dinosaurs and rainbows, holding my teacher’s hand and my head high.

You see, forty years ago, kids in Alaska started their school days reciting the Pledge of Allegiance, followed by a painfully tone-deaf version of Samuel Francis Smith’s “America.” I liked how the rhythmic nature of the lyrics felt as they escaped my mouth, so I participated without protest. I participated without protest, systematically, each morning, for countless mornings, until the day that I didn’t.

I couldn’t, then, articulate my reason for refusal, and, as I sit here now, under this tree, telling you this story, I still can’t. I just know that I didn’t want to, and when my teacher asked why I was still tucked into my desk instead of standing in patriotism with the rest of my classmates, I said something like this, “My dad says that things like church and the Pledge of Allegiance are personal and we should only do them if we feel them. Today I don’t feel them.” When she suggested I pretend, I told her that I wasn’t allowed to lie.

Minutes later, I was sitting across from the principal explaining myself as only a tiny human with a mere five years of life experience behind her could, which is to say not very well. And so it goes…

I tell you this story not to be endearing, rather in celebration of a man who was constantly imparting wisdom, even in unintended ways that landed me in trouble. I’ve told this story before, which usually ends up in a pseudo-lecture about how that’s not what he meant. The thing is, though, is that is precisely what he meant. It’s just that at five years old, I didn’t really understand it.

My dad taught me all of the normal things dads teach their littles - to read, to write, to climb a tree, to ride a bike - but his insistence that I either believe in what I’m doing or change what I’m doing is the lesson I love most.

I could keep going with more Dad-caused-a-ruckus stories, but I’ve got a few weeds to pull, and hopefully you’ve got some celebrating of your own fathers to do. Cheers to the return of summer and the dads who paved the way for us to be exactly who we are.

With love always,



Adi