When I was a little girl and exhausted, my father used to pick me up and let me sleep on his shoulder. In grocery stores or boring adult gatherings, he’d hold me while I drifted off into my own world. Just to be close, I’d sometimes lift my arms just so he’d let me rest my head. My dad would always lovingly oblige. Knowing sometimes that I was feigning sleep, he’d pretend to scold my siblings and all who could hear, “Everybody, don’t you know ****’s trying to sleep? Everybody quiet! SHH!” It didn’t matter who was around, he’d tell the world to be quiet for me.

It always made me feel that I was the most important thing to my Dad.

He does this now with his grandchildren and I remember it with such tenderness, I often want to cry.

My conservative father doesn’t know that I blog, he’ll likely never read this. But I hope he knows despite our many differences, both big and small, I hope he knows his feminist daughter still loves him, deeply.

Happy Father’s Day.

Love, Shaoloo

I’ve been thinking about fathers, good fathers, and how hard they’ve got it. Sometime ago, they were subject to stereotype, told emotions were for girls, and highfivesnohugs/dryeyesalways policies. Somewhere they learned to have daughters – sharp, sometimes conniving daughters. Somehow my Dad raises me and my sister in a culture completely different than his own; one he understands but does not approve. He raises us grand, great and proud. Seeking only the best, he gives all he’s got. Some fathers have a hundred dollars and give $20 of it to their kids. My Dad has a $5, then he’ll give a $5. He’ll keep nothing for himself, except his dreams. He can be as stubborn as wet sand, as jittery as a swatted fly, and as gentle as a fluffy summer cloud, but he emerges heroic. Everyday.