A suitcase from my father

Imagine that your father—or your father figure—left you a suitcase, either real or metaphorical. What would it contain? Words of wisdom? A check to cover therapy? Precious family heirlooms or nostalgic tchotchkes? All of the above? Tell the story of what you’d find inside.

A few weeks ago I wrote some things about my mum in honour of her birthday. I was meaning to do the same thing for/about my dad, but when the time came I chickened out – I knew some of the things I wanted to write but couldn’t hold my pen more than a few seconds before finding an excuse not to write “right now”. Not right now became a while, and a while turned into a whole month. This prompt from Orhan Pamuk was a perfect reminder, and inspiration. It was part of the Isolation Journals (Day 82).

My father’s suitcase isn’t so much of a metaphor, nor is it tangible. Or maybe it is both, for I am the suitcase. I am my father in all the best ways. I have his brow and his chin, slightly pointed; I also have his hairline, some of his taste for music and a nice combination of stubbornness and bad faith which has sometimes led to hilarity (but mostly it has led to my mother rolling her eyes into madness).

My father already left some of the most important stuff in the suitcase he’s building. He taught me to persevere, to value other people’s work when mine is not good enough, and to allow myself to be bold – and unapologetic about it. I have been told many times that I am “too honest”, “very frank”, or, a personal favourite, that I “don’t wear gloves”.

Very often when I hear this, I am reminded of one of the suitcase’s precious gifts: my father has never once expected any of his children to compromise about their honesty (or confidence, or loudmouth-ness), even when it was perceived as arrogance. He taught us that while we must be honest and respectful (of people and of things), we should stand up for ourselves and what we Feel Strongly about – and he supported us in doing so when we needed him to.

I will always remember how he stood up to my brother’s school when he was in trouble – a mixture of unreasonable people, stalled bureaucracy, and real bad faith. He was so mad at them that I knew he was right, and they were wrong; and my brother, even though he hadn’t exactly been a model student, was a victim of a fucked-up system made by fucked-up people with fucked-up lives.

(I swore back then that I would slash that woman’s tires if I ever saw her, but I never saw her again. Being a bit more grown-up now, I know I wouldn’t slash her tires – but I like to think that I would explain to her how fucked-up a person she is.)

Being a veracious person has had its downsides (quite a fair share of awkward silences), but it’s a trait I have grown to love – I like how it defines me a little bit, and I like that people ask for my advice within the realm of stuff that I’m good at, because they know that my empathy will not wash out the important stuff I have to say.

So, in honour of my dad’s birthday more than a month ago, here’s your prompt – what trait do you possess which you have grown to love?

Mine is that I am honest, and I got it from my dad.