A little nostalgia, and a perfect song

 

Have you heard this song?

 

I can’t get through it without choking up (and singing along, of course). It reminds me of my dad, and the way I’m coming to understand that he wanted to raise me.

My dad with me, 1982 (I was about Ethan's age)

 

If you look at my dad, you wouldn’t call him a hippie or a liberal or anything. He’s like my husband in that he ALWAYS has on a non-iron dress shirt and actual shoes rather than sneakers. But, if you dig a little deeper and have a conversation with my dad, the picture changes. The details of my dad are what I respect more than anything. The details of my dad are steeped in justice.

My mom, dad, and brother Rex with Ted Kennedy

I remember one night when I was about 7, sitting on the couch with my dad. He was watching a documentary of some sort. I remember it being about the Civil Rights Movement, but that might be my memory changing things a little. Anyway, I remember saying, out of the blue, “Dad, you know who I don’t like? I don’t like black people.”

My dad’s reaction changed everything for me. He didn’t yell at me, I didn’t feel like I was in trouble, but he didn’t brush it off, either. He talked to me, differently than he had talked to me before that moment. He talked to me in a way that felt respectful. But the most important part was, he hasn’t stopped talking to me in that same way since. He made me understand in no uncertain terms, that we do not judge people based on how they look. In fact, it is not our place to judge people, period. It is never right to think of anyone as less, never right to try to make another person feel bad about themselves. My dad expects me to have a kind heart and be respectful. My conscience now sounds like my dad, and it’s awesome.

 

Besides talking to me, telling me stories of his past (which are really stories of our country’s past), he shared music with me. GOOD music. Folk music. I was pretty much the only 10 year old listening to Harry Chapin or John Prine in Overland Park, Kansas J In the evenings, my dad would play his old Martin guitar and we would sing songs that really mean something. Songs that, even today, impact the way I exist in the world.

So now, today, as I drove home with Alice and Ethan in the backseat, we listened to ‘Light One Candle’. Alice sang along, her voice clear on every word. I know that right now she doesn’t understand the full force of what she is singing, but I know that what started with a conversation between my dad and I when I was 7 is being passed on to her when she is three. What continued with me having a passion for social justice, is hopefully going to go so much farther in her life.

Maybe my grand plan to start my own country in the basement didn’t pan out, but I have my dad to thank for the things that have: travels around the world, conversations with people of so many different backgrounds, and an unending commitment to change the world for the better in whatever small way I can. I think Alice and Ethan are a big part of that. They are my candles.

 

 

My dad with ME!



My dad with a little Alice

My dad with a brand new Ethan