I come from a family of educators. My dad is a principal & superintendent of an elementary school. My mom is a transition coordinator at a high school. My grandfather was an assistant superintendent. Education is something I was conditioned to enjoy. On days when I just wanted to give up on an assignment or not turn in my math homework, I’d remind myself of the wrath I would face from my father. That makes him sound scary-- he’s not. To give you some perspective, he’s about 5’6”. My dad was not the epitome of a strict parent, but he had high standards, and my sister and I did not want to know what it would be like if we disappointed him.
My dad values every aspect of education, though I know he may not have always been this way. I’ve heard too many stories about him in college to think he was ever top of his class, but he was smart. English and writing are things that came naturally to him, the kind of effortlessness that other people find annoying.
My mom tells stories about when they were dating and taking classes together for their master’s degrees. My mom would slave and struggle over a paper for hours, while my dad would write a beautifully constructed A+ paper overnight. You wonder how people end up like that. Who gets to decide who becomes a natural writer?
I wanted to be smart like him. I thought it was amazing. As we progressed through school, I could tell my sister had gotten this “naturally smart” gene that he has. My mom thought it was because she read a lot. She said the best writers were the people who loved to read.
I tried to make connections between his behaviors and my own. I noticed that he didn’t read a lot of literature. Every morning he’d read Newsday, a Long Island newspaper. He’d sit at the kitchen counter with his lips pressed out and a furrowed brow. He looked angry, but I knew he was just concentrating. Maybe this is where the long sharp wrinkle across his forehead comes from. Since he was a little boy, he loved to read the newspaper. I bet he made the same face he does now.
It was exciting to watch. I’d come home from school and sit down on the floor next to our family computer and watch him write. I always had my own homework to do, but I didn’t care. My legs would be criss-crossed on the cold living room floor, and I’d wait for him to pause and ask my mother and I to listen to him read it. Almost every time, they made me cry. I never even knew the people he was writing about, or writing for, but something about the way he constructed the speeches made me care. Each year he’d use the same opening line, “when I thought about what I wanted to say to you all tonight, a lot of things came to mind.” He’d then list different personal accomplishments of students in the graduating class. It was so simple, but so smart. Even as I write things now, I sometimes hear echoes of his voice reading the speeches.
I started to do a lot of writing myself. I loved to write stories. I always kept the stories private, as I felt too vulnerable sharing my own writing with anyone else— that was, until I wrote a story I was really proud of. I vaguely remember the subject. I think I was in the fourth grade. The main characters were a man and a woman. I had given them the most unusual names. The story was a form of a love story, I believe, inspired by some rom-com I had most likely just seen in the movie theater. I showed it to my mom, and she thought it was so good that my dad should read it. Once he did, he told me how impressed he was. I was so proud of myself that I brought the story to school, scribbled on a large notepad I had taken from my parents’ room. I had officially caught the writing bug. Maybe one day I would be as good as my dad.
In elementary school, we were tasked with writing a poem that my teacher informed us she might send into a competition. While most of my peers scribbled something together, I sat in the corner of the classroom and quietly pieced together a poem about a garden. I was proud of it, but I didn’t think it was anything too special; that was, until it was chosen to win an award.
I’ll never forget the pride I felt, but more importantly, I will never forget how proud it made my parents. Whenever I talk to them about my writing, this is always the accomplishment they refer to. It seems so silly, a fourth-grade writing recognition, but it means so much to us. Even when I recently asked my dad about my development as a writer, he said, “obviously, your recognition in fourth grade as one of the top writers in Suffolk County will always be a proud memory”. I’ll never get tired of listening to him talk about it. I see it as the first time I had proved myself to him, the first time I showed him I could be a writer like he was.
My dad decided that he was going to write a children’s book. The subject was going to be about one of his greatest loves, baseball. He decided that the main characters would be a father and a daughter, Molly. He told me Molly would be inspired by me. He’d sit for hours at the computer during the summer and work on it.
How cool is it that my dad was going to be a famous author? I wanted to help him, and I hoped that he’d let me. Eventually, he gave in. I’d pull over a chair from the dining room table and he’d let me sit next to him to give edits and suggestions. We did this for a couple of summers. Nothing ever came of his children’s book, though he’ll never admit that he’s done with it. I think of it often; I think of the lessons it taught me and the way it made me feel.
Writing is something I’ve never tired of. There’s still something about sitting down and piecing together a story that excites me. I think this is because of my dad, too. He’s shown me how much education can do for you. He’s shown me the many doors it will open for you. It won’t just help you keep food on the table, but it will fulfill you and keep you grounded somewhere. It will give you roots.
My dad is extremely devoted to what he does. He loves it. He’s proved to me that if you try hard enough, if you love something enough, it will help carry you. I’ve watched his career carry him through every hardship in his life, from car crashes, illness, strains in relationships, and beyond.
I asked my dad how he believes my experience as a writer has been unique. He said, “Each writer's experience is unique. You bring your perspective, passion and intelligence to your work. You’ve worked at your craft and truly developed yourself. I find your exposure to and understanding of the world another reason you are different than most. Your drive and commitment to be your best also makes your experience unique.” Honestly, though, I think my experience has been unique because of him.
Credits:
Created with an image by Aaron Burden - "Writing with a fountain pen"