Blood, Sweat, and Tears

Four-Thirty in the morning, my father rolls out of bed, fixes his lunch, has a quick coffee, and drives the thirty minutes to the nearest city. This has been his routine for as long as I can remember. He works hard for a pontoon boat factory, every job from constructor to painter and foreman. Through recessions and the company changed hands and layoffs. My father has been the backbone of the factory. Even a bummed right knee, injured before I can remember, would not stop him. He worked overtime through pain and exhaustion.

“Fatherhood is a lifetime of responsibility with its challenges, sweetness, and bitterness.” Oluwakemi Ola-Ojo

I vividly remember him plodding into the house every night; after driving the thirty minutes home. He would drop his coat and lunchbox on the couch and plop down in his armchair, dogged and tired. He unwound in front of the tv, and we kids ensured he was comfortable. He was always tired, but we knew his love for us. We bonded over movies, music, and dinner.

Because of his work schedule, he missed many basketball games, baseball games, and minor tournaments. He attended the big games, dance recitals, and plays, but work always came first. With childish ignorance, I did not understand why he was often too tired to play. I resented how much he seemed to miss by never being home. Deep down, it was because I missed him. I used to leave him letters beside his bed when I was upset. I wonder if he kept any of them.

My father is a protector. He viciously guards his children, grandchildren, and family. I remember a confrontation with another girl; my father defended me in front of both the counselor and principal. Because I was the bigger of the two of us fighting, they got it into their heads that I was the one to blame, but she bullied me. He stood up for me and put an end to it.

He also viciously guarded our education, always wanting more for my brother and me than the hard labor he endured. “Work with your minds, not with your hands,” I can still hear those words echoing inside my head. I had two teachers during my Elementary years that were failing their students. He made complaints to the principal and the school boards. As a result, two teachers were ultimately fired because of their poor teaching ability. He cared so much about our education because, growing up, no one cared about his education.

My father is brilliant, a quick learner, and mechanically minded. I do not doubt that if someone had cared about his education, he would have been an amazing engineer. But, because of factors outside his control, he could not pursue higher education. But, there is not a problem he cannot solve. But, his natural abilities and diligence have made him an asset to the factory.

It was not until I worked my first forty-hour workweek in College on an ankle still recovering from surgery that I understood. I gained perspective, glimpsing his exhaustion and pain. The first thing I did was call him after I got off work. In tears, I apologized. I apologized for every moment of suffering he endured to take care of me—a responsibility he took as his sacred duty. He forgave my ignorance and reminded me that he did it because he loved me.

My father is a man of integrity. He did so much more than just work a job all the time; he provided us with the sweat on his brow and the bow of his back, ceaselessly, through pain and strife. The older I get, the more I understand. I see it cannot always be playtime. Some realities and responsibilities need tending. But, I will always admire my father, is he perfect? Not in the slightest, but he has always been who we need.

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