Five Times My Dad Was Right

My dad is a weird dude.

I mean, he's not serial killer weird or anything, but he's never quite fit into that Suburban Dad mold I grew up around. In mid-1980s Small Town USA, dads were either contractors or mid-level Bell Telephone executives who drank beer while they mowed the lawn and joined bowling leagues and watched baseball on TV every Saturday. My dad was never into sports. My dad worked in the human services field and listened to Broadway musicals. His mowing-the-lawn beverage of choice was iced tea, and he cultivated sourdough starters decades before it was Covid-cool.

Tom (as I affectionately call him when he's not around and definitely not to his face even though I'm a 43-year-old grown-ass adult) was a great dad, but that didn't mean he was an easy dad. He was strict, and he expected a lot out of my brother and me. He grew up in a large, poor Catholic family, so he always stressed the importance of fiscal and social responsibility; follow the rules, do honest work, save for the future, and don't embarrass ourselves (or him) in public. He never raised a hand to us, but he yelled when he was angry, and his punishments were sometimes a bit dramatic.

For instance, once when I was in the throes of a junior high rage, I slammed my bedroom door in my mother's face. Tom's response? He took the door right off the hinges and refused to give it back until I wrote a letter of apology. (I did, although it took me about a week of stubborn refusal to acknowledge any wrongdoing.) I realize that this is a pretty common punishment these days, but it was an innovation in creative punishments in 1991.

About 10 years ago, Tom asked me if he had been a good parent.

"Of course you were!" was my response, and I meant it. He provided for us. He came to baseball games and concerts and dance recitals, no matter how terrible and boring. He kept us fed and clothed, and we never really wanted for anything (except for a pool in the backyard, which he refused to build and which I'm still bitter about).

But at that time, I didn't really understand the gravity of his question, and I don't think that the answer I gave him was a good one.

My dad was a good parent not just because of the things he did, but also because of the things he said. Little, seemingly inconsequential pearls of wisdom that have had a lasting effect on the shape of my life.

"Brownie points matter!"

When I was a sophomore in high school, I wanted two things:

1. For the cute boy in 8th period Jazz Band to love me
2. To be in the super-elite choir that all the popular music geeks were in

My dad couldn't really do anything about the Jazz Band Boy (although he did say "Jess, I don't think that boy likes girls", which turned out to be true 10 years later), but after the millionth time I whined about how much I wished I was in that choir, he asked me, "What do you have to do to get in?"

"Sing better, I guess."

Then he dropped this gem on me.

"Y'know, Jess, brownie points matter."

Because it wasn't enough to just...sing better. I had to stand out, and I had to make absolutely sure that the right people saw me standing out. So I asked the choir director for singing teacher recommendations. I volunteered to organize the music library. I learned all of the Alto 1 parts for all of the songs they sang, just in case.

By the end of the year, I did sing better. But more than that, the choir director and the popular music geeks knew my name.

And by my junior year, I was singing Alto 1 in the super-elite choir, running with the popular music geeks, and starring in the school musical.

"Brownie points matter" is a mantra that repeats in my head to this day, and it's paid off numerous times in my professional life. It's not ass-kissing; it's visibility.

Oh, the company needs someone to volunteer for some asinine thing? I'm your girl!

The company needs people to get certified for some nonsense? I'm the first one to complete it.

Important deadline? You'll have it a week before it's due.

Suddenly I'm an invaluable and trusted member of the inner circle, and when I ask for things, I get them.

Most of the time, anyway.

"You're not going to be a star."

Oh, how I wanted to be a star.

When I was a kid, my dream was to star on Broadway, win millions of awards, write best-selling books, and sign autographs on airplanes. I was certain that these things would happen. Hell, the lines on the palm of my left hand even form a star!

So I was gobsmacked when, at the tender age of 11, I asked my dad, "Do you think I'm going to be a star?"

And his reply?

"Nope. I don't think you're going to be a star. I think you'll grow up and be very happy, but I don't think you're going to be a star."

This dose of reality really pissed me off back then. What kind of father crushes the dreams of his kid?

A good one. A realistic one.

And the reality was that I was only moderately talented, majorly lazy, and terrified of rejection. I was never going to star on Broadway with those qualities. I was a decent writer, though, but I didn't see the point of writing anything if it wasn't going to be a best seller so I didn't bother.

It took a very, very long time for this bit of wisdom to sink in. All I ever heard was You're not going to be a star. I was well into adulthood before I finally remembered the second part of it.

I think you'll grow up to be very happy.

Turns out, I am very happy. I never starred on Broadway. My half-baked novels may never see the light of day. No one has ever asked me for my autograph on an airplane. But I have a great career, a great family, a pretty house, and a peaceful life.

So Tom was pretty spot-on about that.

"Get a job. Get two jobs if you have to. You have to make your own money."

The deal was if I wanted to get my driver's license when I turned 16, I had to pay for my own car insurance and gas. I'd be able to use the family station wagon to get to and from extra-curricular activities, but I HAD. TO. PAY. FOR. THE. CAR. INSURANCE. AND. GAS.

As an adult, I recognize that this was an incredibly generous and completely reasonable arrangement. As a 16- year-old, this was the meanest thing any parent had ever made any teenager do in the history of parents and teenagers. But, I wanted to get my license, and this was the deal. So I got a job at a grocery store.

And I haaaaaated working. (I mean, in the interest of transparency, up until about a year ago I still hated working.) So I did as little of it as possible. The boss offered extra shifts, and I turned him down every single time. When overtime was available, I ran the other way. I worked the bare minimum because in my brain, a 16-year-old high school student shouldn't ever be burdened with such responsibility. I should be able to enjoy my youth! Right?

When I got to college, the deal was that I had to contribute a certain amount to my tuition. My parents, loans, grants, and scholarships covered a big chunk of it, but I had to pay my share, too. And if I wanted spending money, I had to earn it myself. That meant I had to get a job during the summer breaks.

So I did, and I earned what I needed to earn. Nothing more, nothing less. I earned the exact amount that I had to pay the bursar at the beginning of the semester.

"You really should get a job over the holidays," said Tom at the end of my first semester of college. "Or get a job off-campus. You need to start making money if you want to do things."

"Psssh," said I. "I have a work-study job. That's enough."

Spoiler alert: it wasn't enough.

All I was concerned about was relaxing. I earned it, right? College was hard. Final exams were hard. Being a freshman at an overpriced conservatory was hard.

You know what else was hard? Starting spring semester and realizing that a work-study job barely paid for essentials like shampoo and tampons. But nights out at that one club in town? Midnight trips to Denny's? Weekend road trips? Forget it!

A few months ago, Tom found the letter I included with my first work-study paycheck.

I wrote this as I was sitting on the floor of my dorm room, counting loose change that was mostly pennies, and praying I had enough for a pack of cigarettes.

The saddest part is, this habitual delusion followed me well into my 20s. In fact, it was only within the last 10 years or so that I've gotten my act together enough to understand that if you want things, you must work, and if you don't work, you can't have things.

But it still counts as a lesson learned.

"The small roles are so much more fun."

As I mentioned before, I was a music geek in high school. A big one. And I turned into a diva music geek when I landed one of the leads in the school musical.

But then Guys and Dolls happened.

Guys and Dolls was our senior musical, and I did not get a lead role. I wasn't vocally or physically right for either Sarah Brown or Miss Adelaide, but that didn't stop me from being absolutely devastated. I got a part, but it wasn't the lead. It was a small, stupid comedic role, and I cried myself to sleep for days after the cast list went up.

"There are no small parts, only small actors," quoted Tom.

"That's dumb," I probably wailed.

"Small roles are so much more fun," he responded.

Right again, Dad!

I had a blast milking that part for every laugh I could get. What I wasn't prepared for was how much that translated into regular life.

When I was 24, I got a promotion. It was my first grown-up job out of college, and after I'd been with the company for a few years, they promoted me. Suddenly I was in charge of people. I was expected to make schedules and go to meetings and run payroll. People counted on me, and I was very, very bad at being their supervisor. I was stressed out and afraid to make any decisions because I constantly second-guessed myself.

I was at my last job for nearly a decade, and I held the same position for 8 of those years. Only once did I apply for a supervisory role, and even then I knew I wasn't going to get it because I simply wasn't suited for it.

The "small roles;" the front-line folks that keep the wheels churning, are the best roles. They're the most comfortable, and often the most rewarding. And if you get lucky enough to have good coworkers, they're the most fun, too.

"Just be a good, authentic person."

Tom said this--and variations of it--a lot, and it's probably the most powerful piece of advice anyone can give a child.

Especially these days.

Tom didn't just say this, though. He demonstrated what he meant on many occasions.

He tipped well at restaurants. He said please and thank you all the time. He held doors for people.

He helped one of my mother's friends escape a domestic violence situation.

He treated his low-income clients like decent, deserving human beings.

He took care of my high school best friend when they got violently kicked out of their house.

He was by my mother's side throughout her chronic illness; driving her to appointments, holding her vomit bags, and keeping things as normal as possible for her until the day she died.

He has always been a staunch supporter of the LGBT community, and when he came out of the closet in 2015, he volunteered for the local Silent Witness Peacekeepers organization.

He talks to my daughter like an actual person and not a seven-year-old child.

I mean, he gives her way too much sugar and tells her embarrassing stories about me, but hey; you win some, you lose some I guess.

So Dad, the best way I know how to thank you for all of it is to say this:

You were right.