Father's Day

With the family being as scattered around the globe as it is right now (BrynJoe in Sudan, ArtHistory in Baltimore, me in NYC, the 'rents in 'Bama), we don't get to see as much of each other as we used to. This means that the annual honor-thy-father-and-mother days are primarily marked with phone calls from offspring to parent, rather than the cheap ties or K-mart perfume that we would present to them in our much younger days. Come to think of it, this may be an improvement in their eyes.

This year, what with the internets and all, I feel compelled to write something in praise of fatherhood, specifically my own father, who has been a person of relative importance in my life and the reason for my distinctive grin. Everybody knows, as Ben Folds says, it sucks to grow up. But the sacrifices of my father certainly made it suck less for me.

First, a little background. My father and mother came to the United States with a pittance of cash, a chest of belongings, and a job lined up and ready to go. Dad was a lowly entry-level professor at the Materials Science department at Lehigh University. When I eventually arrived, Dad was already working his ass off on a regular basis for his department, something he would do fairly consistently for the next thirty years. This hard work meant two things. One, I didn't see a whole lot of Dad on a daily basis. Mom tells the story that I used to call Dan Rather "Daddy" when I saw him on TV. To be fair, they had similar hairdos at the time. Regardless, it remains a fact that my formative years were spent mostly with Mom, while Dad was out bringing bacon, nosing grindstones, and other such stuff. Now secondly, Dad's relentless work ethic meant that we got to travel. A lot. Yes, we're a family with relatives in Australia and Europe, but on top of that there was a never-ending supply of conferences, research appointments and sabbaticals that meant the whole family would tag along for a week in Seattle, a summer in New Mexico, and almost a year in Sweden. By the time I entered high school, I'd already been to Australia thrice, toured around Europe and Scandinavia, and driven across the country. The world was already a much larger place for me than for most of my peers.

So even though those years of working hard meant that Dad didn't see a lot of me and my brothers all the time, he made absolutely sure that the time we spent together was quality time. Even when he wasn't showing us around the planet, he saw to it that we had good experiences in our own neighborhood as well. He signed us up for Little League because, well, that's what they do in America, right? I was horrendous, but I was never pressured into doing it for longer than I wanted to. The same thing happened with the Cub Scouts, piano lessons, violin lessons, racquetball lessons, GBSL, Junior Golf, CYO basketball, cross-country, track, theatre, choir, band, orchestra, or any of the activities that I was always allowed to try, but never forced to stick with. Life was a buffet and I was free to try out whatever I wanted. The only exception was PeeWee football, which Mom vetoed when I was in grade school. Since I remain under 5'8" and less than 180 lbs to this day, that was a pretty good call there, Mom.

Being the eldest son, I got the first crack at everything, and my goal was always to try and beat Dad. Beating your younger brothers at kickball, or soccer, or a foot race, or chess match, or just beating them in general is kind of predictable: you're older, you're bigger (at least, that used to be the case), and it's just not much of a matchup. But if you can beat Dad? Well! You're king of the family if that ever happens. So of course, Dad never let me win. Ever. I mean, at anything. You know, like walking from church to the car when I'm five years old.

"Hey Dad! Race you to the car?"

"Sure thing, son. Readysetgo!"

Thirtysomething man, the former 200m sprint champion and winger for Cambridge, tears off towards the parking lot, leaving his family in the dust. Toddler putters along after him.

Add to that the innumerable times that he's destroyed me in chess, cards, board games, golf, or anything else and you may get an idea of where my competitive spirit comes from. In all those times, when I never got to win, he's let me know (once he'd beaten me) what I could do to be better. And when I did finally beat him --I still remember the first run that we did together when I actually got home before him-- it was the culmination of years of practice and advice from him. It was worth something.

When I was young, my Dad was basically the font of all knowledge. I was convinced fairly early on that my teachers weren't exactly well-informed about the ways of the world. My 3rd grade teacher couldn't even identify the rock that I brought in from my backyard. Dad, however, seemed to have an unlimited supply of explanations about how things worked, which was good because I also had an inexhaustible supply of questions. To his credit, he always gave me an answer to the questions I asked and never brushed me off or laughed at their simplicity. I never felt stupid for asking.

As I got older and it got to be time for me to choose what I wanted to do with my life, I was supported in every possible way. Whatever college I wanted to visit ("It's no good applying to schools you haven't seen," he said), he went with me, flying across the country to see Berkeley and Stanford, driving 10 hours to see U. Chicago and Northwestern. I was never given a maximum radius from home or even a maximum price tag. Quite simply, I was told, "You'll go to the best college you can get into." Oh, and if I couldn't get into one that was better than Lehigh, I'd be at Lehigh. I believe this threat was the reason that all three of my Dad's children ended up at top-tier schools.

In the years since I've been out of college, things haven't always gone well for Dad. The years of running and playing rugby (with reprobates such as those pictured at left) took their toll on his hips, and eventually they both had to be replaced (the hips, not the reprobates). It was hard to watch the man I always wanted to outrun being confined to a hospital bed, unable to walk. But being the stubborn bastard that he is, he was up and walking days before his doctors suggested it would be prudent. He now no longer has the distinctive hobble that marked his gait for so many years, but he's also not getting back onto a rugby pitch any time soon.

Worse than the loss of his hips was the loss of his best friend, George (the middle reprobate). Because of their friendship, I've known George's kids since we were infants. George was an uncle in ways that my far-flung blood relations could never be. He is still sorely missed at family gatherings of all kinds.

On top of all of this, my father's time at Lehigh had become more of a chore than a labor of love. After six years as an vice provost (increasing the research budget by 80% during that time) and eight as department chair, he was being forced back into the same position he'd held fifteen years prior: professor. It was hard on him; after 30 years of ladder-climbing, he was being knocked back down again. It was hard on me too! I was watching this man who'd seemed nearly invincible to me years ago struggle with the effects of aging, losing a dear friend, and being marginalized in his job.

Then something amazing happened. With Lehigh apparently willing to discard someone who was eminently gifted at acquiring large sums of research money, other institutions took notice. Suddenly Dad was in demand. That's how, 18 months ago, my brothers and I found out that my parents would be leaving the home they'd had since before any of us were born to go to Alabama. What the hell? Well, it turns out there's a little research university down there that has its origins in the U.S. Space Program and really needed someone good to be its President. And Dad was the man for the job.

Cue the silly academic robes, please. Yes, now my parents are Alabaman. Or, at least, as Alabaman as two Europeans who spent most of their lives in Pennsylvania can be. This is the job that Dad's been working towards for longer than I've been alive. It's quite literally the culmination of his life's work. He's running a whole university, and is recognized and rewarded for the hard work it's taken to get to where he is and the hard work that he's still doing now that he's there. I find it a shame that the place where he spent 30 years of his life didn't see the opportunity they were throwing away, but I'm glad that someone else recognized a great leader when they saw one. So Lehigh's loss is UAHuntsville's gain.

The party that was thrown when my Dad was inaugurated was huge. Fully one third of his former grad students flew down for the event. His sisters flew over from Britain. Bethlehem emptied. One guest related the following story. As he was checking into his flight at the ticket counter in ABE, the woman behind the counter asked, "And where are you going today?" to which he replied, "Huntsville, Alabama." Then she exclaimed, "Why is everybody going to Huntsville? What the hell's going on in Huntsville today?"

My Dad's going on in Huntsville. In the year that he's been down there, he's already established himself as someone who people will follow. I think the English accent helps, but the sheer force of his personality helps too. He can still walk into a room full of important people and end up being the most talked-about guy there. I was honored to sit at his inauguration ceremony and watch person after person (including the commander of Redstone Arsenal!) come up to the podium and say great things about my Dad.

So here's to you, President Dad. You've made it! You raised three (relatively) grown-up boys, you've risen to the top of your field, you've got the big house, the fancy car (when it works), and the expensive scotch. So though we can't be with you on your day, know that somewhere, in the wilds of Sudan, Baltimore and Queens, we're raising a glass to you.