In a time of strongmen, a few words for tender-hearted dads

A Father's Day card for a world done wrong by ego and bravado

Pictured, two people I love a great deal

I’ve never written a Father’s Day essay. Never even considered it, truth be told. There are just too many knots to untie. You’ve got people’s wildly varying relationships with their own fathers, the general state of heterosexual marriage (not all dads, sure, but many dads), and all the treacly Hallmark holiday baggage. Plus, as I write this, the world is on fire, we may be on the cusp of a new war in the Middle East, and the United States is currently at the “Marines deployed against civilians” stage of authoritarianism. Filial piety? In this economy?

But if ever there was a year for a Father’s Day reclamation project, it’s this one, when Trump’s return to power is greeted with unironic “Daddy’s Home” refrains, when untold numbers of dads are forcibly deported, when fathers in military fatigues drop bombs on other fathers’ houses, when the richest man on the planet is on a mission to redefine fatherhood as a personal mass insemination project. 

Oh God, how awful. All of it. And at the risk of pretending as if the tiny and lovely can singlehandedly counter the large and horrific, I’d like to share something with you. In times like this, that’s what we can give each other. Humble sources of joy and comfort. Like this video, for instance. A postcard from a quieter time on the Internet.

It’s a pretty simple video. Just a dad and daughter playing a guitar duet. “Your Hand In Mine,” by Explosions in the Sky, a real tear-jerker, though the song itself isn’t the point. I know that the guy in the back is a dad because the video’s minimalist caption reads “Michelle on 72 Les Paul Custom. Dad on 76. 3rd guitar and drums played by computer.” A real dad caption, that one.

You all, I have no idea if this guy is a perfect dad. Michelle may very well have notes. Actually, I’m not pretending that any of us are perfect dads, least of all myself. I am well aware of the phenomenon of being over-praised for doing what would be considered the bare minimum for moms. Have I been the beneficiary of overly enthusiastic compliments at the tot lot merely for applying sunscreen on my own child’s shoulders? Do you even have to ask?

But listen, it’s not often that I get to see images of dads being gentle, quiet and proud of their children in public, so I’ll take this. It’s all in the staging, really. The daughter’s in the foreground. The dad’s in the back. He doesn’t talk. Neither does she, but there are moments when they both look at the camera at the same time and you can see him smile at her. And then, there’s the end, when she turns off the video. They did it. She looks so pleased. Oh God, I’m tearing up. 

I tear up quite frequently, as a dad. I tear up because my children do cartwheels and invent inside jokes and solve math equations and ask after friends who are having a bad week and I get to watch it all and wonder “where did these two human beings come from and how can I do right by them?” I tear up because the creators of Bluey had the audacity to create “Camping,” an absolute weapons-grade elictor of parental emotion. I tear up because my eight-year-old reaches out for our hands when she has a bad dream and joins us in bed and also because, when we are out walking, my twelve year old will (occasionally but miraculously) forget how old he is and do the same. Muscle memory, I’m sure, but if that’s what assures him that he’ll always have a home in my arms, I’ll take it. I tear up because I’m frightened about the world that awaits them and worried that I’m not doing a good enough job of preparing them for it. I tear up, most of all, because I very much remember, just a few blinks ago, when I could hold them in the crook of my arm.

The tearing up, in and of itself, doesn’t prove anything about me as a dad. At best, it’s a reminder, a filter against more selfish voices both inside and outside of my head. At worst, too much focus on my own tears can flood the room.

The funny thing is, I’ve never seen a list of advice on “how to be a dad,” including from the most reactionary sources, that doesn’t include at least a few helpful tidbits. Even Joe Rogan and Jordan Peterson talk about things like attention and trust and vulnerability from time to time. Most parenting advice is oatmeal— harmless but familiar mush. There are only so many ways to say “it’s probably good to listen to your kids.”

The problem is, those guys also talk about a whole lot more, some of it bizarre (Rogan encourages his children to punch him as hard as they can, which is worth unpacking) but most of it is just tired and schlocky. What is a good father, we’re told over and over again? A protector, a provider, a “rock.” Somebody who is present in a vague sense, but not fully immersed in the messy, unglamorous work of care and emotions. Somebody, in the case of the Instagram trad husbands, who looks like a man (which is to say, either a cowboy or a mechanic, thanks

Sara Petersen

). Somebody who— like the gun-toting stand-your-grounders or the aggro sports dads standing as a bulwark between their cis daughters and the most fiendish adversary they’ll ever face (trans girls who are good at softball)— view the world as a nonstop compendium of threats. 

Fatherhood discourse is a mess because masculinity discourse is a mess because patriarchy is a mess. And yeah, that’s the kind of sentence that would probably cause all the manosphere fellas to roll their eyes, but for their sake I wish that wasn’t the case. Because jeez, what a terrible bill of goods we’ve all been sold. Don’t show any weakness. Be strong, which is to say be perennially afraid. Act like you have something to prove. Bottle it up and explode. Take other people for granted, because care is somebody else’s business. 

Man, that’s no way to live. It’s definitely no way to be in relationship with other people– our neighbors, our partners, our kids. A closed heart isn’t a low maintenance heart. Far from it.  Leave it that way long enough and it’ll grow brittle and shatter, leaving those in your wake to pick up the pieces.

What a minor miracle, then, that in the midst of all this noise, there exist in our midst a precious few imperfect but tender-hearted dads, ones focused less on proving what kind of dad they are then they are in reveling at this profound gift. A tether. To other people. For an entire lifetime.

Some of you may be tender-hearted dads. Bless you. Some of you may be fortunate enough to have or have had a tender-hearted dad in your life. Man, what a miracle that is, right? I’m lucky, in this case, to speak from experience.

Do you know how I can say, without a shadow of a doubt, that I was raised by a tender-hearted dad? It’s not in the total volume of hugs I received (though there were hugs) nor his willingness to cry in front of us or say “I love you” out loud (though yes, those things were present as well). It’s not just that he takes feminism seriously or that he and my mom have worked hard to maintain a mutualistic partnership. It’s that, for as long as I’ve known him, my dad has been completely enveloped in delight. He’s dumbfounded by us. My mom. His kids. His grandkids. My dad’s a gentle guy, not much for histrionics, but when he talks about the people he loves, especially when they’re not in the room, there’s something else in his voice. It sparkles. “Garrett, you need to know that your brother is really remarkable” or “kids, you should have seen your mother yesterday,” or “your daughter– I just can’t believe her! I’ve never met anybody like her!”

He lives in awe, my dad. He does so in spite of the fact that at least one of his offspring (you can guess which one) is absolutely worthless at most of the things he does particularly well (my father is meticulous, detail-oriented and able to fix, grow and arrange things in order; I, by contrast, write a newsletter for a living). That’s what a bursting heart gets you, I’ve come to understand. So much gratitude that you can’t help but make the space in between you and your loved ones tilt more towards them and less towards you. So much gratitude that you return, again and again, to the work of care. So much gratitude that you fight for a world that is less cruel, both for those you love and those you’ll never meet. You don’t just wake up in the morning and become the kind of grandpa who marches in Pride parades and peace rallies and who spends his retirement in an endless loop of community meetings. You do it when your heart has long been full of love and awe and thanks.

I hope there’s some of that in my own parenting. Goodness knows I’m trying. The tears help, even when so much else doesn’t– my ego, my distractability, a world that incentizes far more huffing and puffing than it does awe. I do love trying, though. It’s the best thing I get to do every day.

Father’s Day is this Sunday. On Saturday, our petulant President (a closed, brittle heart if ever there was one) will throw himself a military parade. This comes after a week of assaults– on immigrants, on Angelenos, on whatever shared sense of humanity binds us together. There will be protests on Saturday, thank God. Earlier this week, for reasons I can’t quite explain, I chose to read somebody else’s comment section (Heather Cox Richardson’s). There were grandads in there, more than one, talking about how they will be out in the streets this weekend, placards in hand. For their grandkids, they said. That’s not a novel statement (I hear it plenty from elders in my life, especially my awe-filled dad). But you never know when a stranger’s words will trigger more tears.

This Saturday, my son, daughter and I will be in the streets. My wife will cheer us on from work. We will, no doubt, march alongside many true tender-hearts. Not just dads and granddads, but yes, them too. We will shout loudly. The words “I love you” will not come out of our lips, but that’s what we will be saying.

This Sunday, Father’s Day, my wife works again, and my kids have agreed to let me pick the day’s activity. We’ll go to a Brewers game. An immensely dad activity if ever there was one. I will cheer too loudly at William Contreras’ at-bat song. My son will want a couple slices of mac and cheese pizza from Ian’s, and my daughter will request time at the concourse playground. In those moments too, the same message.

And then on Monday, there will be another morning and no doubt a million reminders that our world is far more full of harm than care and at least another million reasons to open our hearts wider in response.

We will remember, I hope, to keep saying it. With a raised fist. With a list full of errands and chores. With a glance and a nod, quiet and proud.

End notes:

1. This Saturday, if you’re able, please protest. If you’re reading this after Saturday the 14th, don’t worry. I’m sure there will be more opportunities.

2. This Sunday, whatever your relationship may be to this holiday, I hope you don’t feel alone.

3. I know we all aren’t lucky to have a tender-hearted person in our lives, but if you do (dad or otherwise), it’s never a bad day to tell them thanks.

4. Shout out to all the dads I know who are trying to lead more with love and gratitude than ache and brutality. There are a whole bunch of you. An extra shout out for folks trying to craft a shared space for dads trying something different (I see you,

   Dads for All
   ).

5. It wasn’t until I finished this piece that I looked up the phrase “tender-hearted” to read if anybody else uses it. The answer, it seems, is mostly Evangelical Christians. Huh. The more you know, I guess. That’s not my world, but I hope that they’re using it well. I hope I am too.

6. Unless my children are somehow reading this (which if they are, that’s weird— are you already finished your library books? don’t you have something better to read?), I definitely don’t expect a Father’s Day gift from any of you (were I to receive one, I would worry— wait, are there children about which I was previously unaware?). If, however, you feel compelled to support this work (being that is both my day job and, I hope, a useful offering for the world), each individual subscriptions helps far more than you know. Thanks for considering.