My Dad, Someone Who Will Always Watch Over Me

My dad's passing seems like only yesterday, even though it happened a bit more than 21 years ago today. The reason, that the family tragedy feels this way, is because some of us never really dealt with the whole thing. Grief was something you faced and just worked through like walking through deep snow.

There were cliches you always grew to recognize as paradigms in times of youth: "Children are to be seen and not heard."

Death is one of the most difficult things in the human condition, regardless of a person's point of view. It's about loss, it's about nostalgia, it's about disconnection: a severing of a relationship that you not only desperately needed, but life as such will also never be the same.

The positive side is what some unfortunate people never obtain, which is a support system that cradled you through difficult times of youth.

On this day, I remember so many examples of how my dad stood in the shadows watching me. It was not a bad thing.

It was about his being there, just in case I needed "back-up."

"You select friends, who will fight with you back-to-back. You get into a corner, lock arms and you swing at anything within reach, without letting anyone get between you or behind you. You and that friend become one." This explains why dad was always there.

I had a creepy teacher in high school, one that influenced my own career more than most people will ever understand.

The man was always "on my case," and I would mutter just loudly enough for him to hear, whenever he pulled something on my my junior year of high school. I called the man every nasty "farmer" euphemism you can imagine.

A classmate and friend by the name of Pam Facer sat in front of me, and she came from "outspoken" roots as well, would turn and whisper to me. "Jon, he can hear you."

I hoped he could. I really did. I hated how he bullied me, how he embarrassed me. And I was not the type of person, who gave a teacher a "rough go of it," unless they really deserved it.

I took it one year, and then, as ironic as it could ever be, the man actually talked to me about taking another class from him. My feelings show on my face--the did then and they do now. It's a family trait. It kept me from losing lots of money in poker. I just could never be artificial or counterfeit about anything.

In the fall of my senior year, my class elected me to be their class president. Suddenly, the man came into the room and embarrassed me by saying I didn't "make the academic requirement."

I felt so much shame, but characteristic of our class, it took two or three additional votes to find someone, or at least a face the teacher would accept on the student council.

We exited the door, and another junior teacher cornered me and took me into the counselor's office. We looked at numbers she already knew spoke of the unfairness of what happened.

I went home. I slammed doors. I stomped around.

While playing pool, I kept playing so hard that an occasional ball would shoot off the table and strike against the wood paneling in the basement. My dad came home early that night, and I heard my mom tell him he needed to speak to me about something that must have happened at school.

Dad listened. "I have a question for you," he said. "Are you going to behave like a man, or are you going to act like a little boy?"

We talked about the alternatives available. I would meet the teacher the next morning. Dad told me a number of things several times: "You don't swear at him. You don't hit him. But if he hits you, you kick his ass." Dad reminded me of that at least three times, and two more times before I left for school that morning.

The "little meeting" began in an interesting way. I waited, until a neighbor and man studying to be a teacher left the room. It was only ten minutes before the first bell.

"What can I do for you this morning Jon?" The voice was surprisingly kind, understanding--artificial.

"I just want to thank you for your support in the election yesterday," I said. I didn't yell. I didn't act rudely, maybe very sarcastically, but certainly not rudely.

The teacher made the mistake I hoped for. He took his index finger and pushed it into my chest. I pushed it away in a manner that shocked the man. And I spent the next ten minutes telling him about the issues I had with him for an entire year before that election, and then I reminded him that I did have the grades to qualify.

What made the whole thing so much fun is watching an entire class waiting in the hall, knowing they heard my "soliloquy."

Years later I told the story to a friend. "Nobody ever got the best of that man," my friend said. He didn't believe a word.

When I told my dad, his reaction was consoling. He smiled broadly. "Oh no, you told him really well. I stood outside the door and heard the whole thing."

Dad was there for me like he always was--like he still is, when things are gloomy and grim. I feel him closely. I sense the confidence and pride he has in me.

His words still echo an important reminder: "Are you going to behave like a man, or are you going to act like a little boy?"

He taught me never to bully anyone, but dad also told me never "to take a wooden nickel."