Fatherhood begins with chosen stories
I phoned my father a few minutes ago to wish him a happy father’s day.
My mom answered that he’d gone out for a bike ride, and would probably be back in a few hours.
My dad will turn 88 years old in October.
My father, just like yours, is an author.
But I’m not talking about writing books, articles, and research papers. Although my dad has done that as well.
I’m talking about authoring people.
In many ways, my father wrote me into existence. Every parent, consciously or unconsciously, lays out a path of narrative for their children that stretches into the future. Those narratives come in the form of values, beliefs, behaviors, rituals, reactions, decisions, and commitments. They are more demonstrated than told. Some of those narratives lead to mountain tops and sunrises—others into dead-ends, windowless rooms, or corners of shame.
Narratives and family stories are handed down from generation to generation and many parents and dads just pass along the stories that were offered to them, not even knowing an alternative is possible.
Anyone can pass along the random inheritance of their own story archive—the ones that have accumulated in their soul from generations past.
But I believe someone becomes a father the day they take inventory of their own stories and make a conscious choice about which ones they’ll pass along and which ones they’ll allow to fade away by deciding not to repeat, enact, and stage them for their own kids.
My dad’s story
My dad didn’t have a close relationship with his own father that I know of. His dad struggled to make ends meet while trying to make sense of a rough past, rough neighborhoods, and painful family secrets that never came to light.
My father Richard would break a chain of poverty and minimal education by being the first in his family to go to university. He became a teacher, and somewhere along the line he chose to create a different story than the one his factory-worker father was destined to live out.
My dad had three guiding principles for life, which he may have repeated a couple of times in words, but more so demonstrated in action, again and again.
Keep your cool.
Give others the benefit of the doubt.
Take a bite out of life.
Principle number one was about having a strong mind:
He encouraged the practice of critical thinking, asking good questions, seeking truth, and refraining from jumping to conclusions. He practiced not drawing oneself and others into unnecessary drama, pain, and confusion with conditioned perceptions and sloppy logic. He introduced me to Stoicism by way of modeling it.
Principle number two was about having a strong heart:
He started with the assumption that all people are doing the best with what they have, and that shortfalls in performance, behavior, or attitude were not character flaws, but gaps in education—which he patiently dedicated himself to fill whenever and wherever he could.
Principle number three was about have a strong body:
A lifelong athlete, my dad was always keeping his body strong, responsive, and engaged with the world around him.
I remember riding on the handlebars of his bicycle when he’d let me go to the college with him while he prepared lab lessons for his biology students. Instead of taking the elevator to his third floor classroom we’d take the stairs, because having a strong body was a privilege that literally deserved to be exercised.
Having a strong body meant using it to fully participate in your own life, ensuring it remained toned and alert by practicing responsiveness and agency in your world.
My favorite childhood photos were taken by my grandfather on my third birthday while my dad encouraged me to put my face right down into my own birthday cake and take a big bite.
First dad has to assure me it’s going to be okay to take a big bite.
Gently, he guides me to take the plunge.
I finally dive in.
Little Ricky discovers the pure joy on the other side of having your cake and living it too.
My dad taught me that my life is my cake, and I can choose to eat it anyway I want.
Happy father’s day
Today on father’s day, I salute every dad out there who is doing his best to pass along the stories that matter and with dignity to set aside the ones that don’t on behalf of their own kids.
It’s not easy work to consciously author oneself, much less another.
But offering a variety of good stories to your kids will send more positive ripple effects into the world, and endure through the actions of others, well beyond the pages of any novel, blog, manual, or textbook we could produce.
May we all live by the worthy standards and expectations our parents held up for us, and with tenderness in our hearts, let go of those stories they may not have meant to pass along.
Today I’m grateful to be in the midst of fatherhood, to have a living father of my own, and to have children who inspire me with their innocence and love to be a better man.
Now, later in life, I’m not ashamed to say that I’m still seeking my dad’s approval.
I fully admit that sometimes seeking parental approval is a fool’s errand.
Other times, it’s a beacon you can follow for the rest of your life.
Absolutely beautiful Rick. This has been my first Father’s Day as a father, and having lost my own a few years ago I envy you for still being able to seek your dad’s approval. I miss it. But as you put it, I’m excited to “pass along the stories that matter and with dignity to set aside the ones that don’t”. The curation is going to be marvelous
Rick this is such a beautiful piece. Thanks for sharing your dad's wisdom alongside your own with the photos to go along with it.