There are many tired tropes about fathers: the father who left the family, or secretly harbored another family, or who was always traveling or was never there to begin with, an eternal ghostly absence. There is the workaholic father of the crazy era and the disciplinarian “wait until your father gets home” father who strikes fear into the hearts of many children. There's the well-meaning but oblivious parent and the coach parent who forcefully shouts corrections from the sidelines. Then there's the divorced father, who sees his children only on weekends, takes them out for ice cream on school nights, and loves to break all of the mother's rules.
But my father, and many others, fortunately do not fall into these rigid categories.
My father, 86, grew up in New Rochelle, New York, with an Italian mother and a Russian Jewish immigrant father. In 1955 he entered Harvard because, in addition to having good grades, he could run incredibly fast (in college he would place seventh in the NCAA finals as a low hurdler in the 220-yard dash). Between The silent fees for Jewish students. At the time, Harvard made it clear that his high athletic ability was a key factor in his admission. Years later, he moved to Los Angeles, became a successful real estate developer, and met my mother in group therapy.
As his life story suggests, my dad is unique for many reasons. But above all, he is unique for being a father who defies stereotypes, mainly because of his determination to be fully present in my life. After my parents divorced in 1984, when I was 7, he insisted on dual custody, an unexpected effort for a father at that time.
I changed houses every week until I went to university. During his week, my dad, an alpha male who radiated masculinity, was both a mother and a father. I remember him trying to fix my hair into a ponytail, pulling the strands over my ears while I looked horrified in the mirror. He was wearing the bright paper crowns I made him to go to the grocery store. Once, because I told him to (I played the queen and he played the court jester), he ate a rose and chewed it thoughtfully before concluding that it tasted like chicken.
During long car trips, he taught me to “hit the ball over the net” in conversation, to help me remedy my painful shyness. Only later did I realize how important it is to know how to talk to people. Sometimes when I find myself in an awkward social situation, I still imagine that net and the tennis ball sailing gracefully over it.
My dad, a perfectionist, would sometimes lose his temper when I didn't clean my room, sharpen my pencils, or keep my homework organized. But after a big fight, he always apologized, understanding the need to make amends.
One time, he drew a picture of a big box with all these other little boxes in it. Leaving the others blank, he colored a small picture and explained that it represented our fight, the bad feelings we both harbored. “But,” he added, “look at all the other blank boxes.” Then he slowly erased the fight box, showing how apologizing eased the pain and that any disagreement between us would never affect our entire relationship.
Recently, after a shouting match with my own daughter, I drew the same picture. I realized how safe she felt watching this visualization, which made an abstract idea concrete: I would always love her, no matter what she said or did.
In college, during my study abroad year, an ex-boyfriend followed me to Europe. When I refused to see him, he became increasingly belligerent and threatening. Somehow, my dad got the FBI involved and my ex magically stopped contacting me. I never knew how my father accomplished this.
After university, I lived in London with my fiancé, but after a few years and many red flags, the relationship soured. One night I called my dad and confessed that he didn't want the wedding to happen, even though 300 invitations had already been sent out. I longed to return home. Without missing a beat, he responded, “Great. I'll call the hotel and cancel the wedding. Don’t worry about the deposit.”
It was a great deposit.
Years later, after losing my first child, my father visited me every day for six months and met me at a coffee shop around the corner from my house. We sat together in the blinding afternoon sun, my eyes swollen and red from crying, the sudden loss sinking me. He listened to me talk, resisting his natural urge to problem-solve, and simply recognized the depth of my pain. During those 30 minutes we spent together each day, I felt less alone.
Even now, in his 80s, my father stops by for a quick chat, ready to talk about whatever thorny parenting issue he's struggling with. He will say that he needs to “think about it” and the next morning I will find an email from him with a list of creative ideas, detailed with bullet points.
Our culture could use more stories about different types of fathers, including those who are inherently caring, who embody both masculine and feminine energy, who willingly share emotional and domestic labor with their spouses, who show up for their children without question ( and without expecting a medal for it). We should expect the same dedication from fathers as from mothers, and not marvel at a father with his young child in the supermarket or congratulate him for making an appointment with the pediatrician.
My dad isn't the only father who has wisdom to share, although I often feel like he's in a category of his own. Every day, I strive for his ability to show up and pay attention, hoping that my children will experience the same love and unwavering commitment that I feel as his daughter.
Alexis Landau is the author of the novels “The Empire of the Senses”, “Those Who Are Saved” and “The Mother of All Things.”
