Tim Russert writes of fathers' advice and love

< Prev | 1 | 2 | 3

The announcement
It was a tough thing to hear, and an even tougher thing to say, but within a day they were right back on track.

Coming out to my dad was one of the most difficult experiences of my life, as it is for most young gay men. After all, our dads represent all things masculine, strong, and “normal” -- words not commonly associated with the gay community.

My announcement was not exactly a textbook example of how it should be done. Note to closeted gays: Don't tell your dad during the ten o'clock news, right before he's going to bed.

Despite my poor timing, my dad responded as many dads do. He cried all night. The next morning, he watched me pass in the living room, my head and shoulders slung low and my eyes focused on the floor beneath me. I was feeling the utter shame of the grave disappointment I had caused him.

By the fourth time our paths crossed, he had seen enough. He grabbed my shoulders, pulled them back, and said, “Look me in the eye.” I refused. Again he said, “Stephen, look me in the eye.” This time I did. With tears rolling down his face, he looked right at me and said, “I love you, Stephen. I don't care what you are. I just want my boys to be happy.” Then he hugged me, just like he did the day before, when I was straight.

That's all I ever wanted and needed — to know I would still be loved. Five years later, my relationship with my dad has never been stronger. We still talk daily after each Cubs game. I still ask for advice with my job. And my dad still asks if I'm dating anyone, although this time around he wants to know if I've met any good guys lately.

Unconditional love. That's all we ever want, and I got it. — Stephen Westman, Chicago, IL, vibe manager, son of Gary Westman, sales (1945)

The graduate
Just because a dad doesn't show his emotions doesn't mean he isn’t full of feelings.

My father was the strong, silent type who wasn't effusive or openly affectionate.

I was the first one in our family to graduate from college. Two weeks before graduation, we were having a normal family dinner when out of the clear blue, my father broke into uncontrollable sobbing. He left the table, followed by my mother. A few minutes later she came back with tears in her own eyes. She explained that my father was overcome by the emotion of my imminent graduation from college, and that if it hadn’t been for the Depression and the war, this was what he had hoped to do at my age. Never again did I see such emotion from him, and that included my wedding and the adoption of my only son. He passed away more than twenty years ago, but each spring, with the arrival of graduation season, I think back to the day when I learned how proud strong, silent Stan was of his oldest son. — David S. Wrobel, Syracuse, N.Y., retired, son of Stanley J. Wrobel, machinist (1918-1983)

The breakup
Time is not the only thing that heals. So do kind words.

When one of my silly boyfriends and I broke up and I thought I was heartbroken, my whole family tried to cheer me up. When everyone else had gone off to bed, my father turned back to me and said, “You know, I love you so much that I'd marry you if I could.” That was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to me, and I was speechless. I don't think I even said good night. — Jean A. Astorino, Media, Pa., optometrist, daughter of Ross Astorino, equipment operator (1922-2001)

The shave
Who ever imagined that the memory of learning to shave with Dad could turn a man's life around?

A few years ago, I became the victim of a senseless, unprovoked act of violence that left several scars on my neck. I survived, and the assailant is in prison, but I will never really be the same. When I shave I see one of the scars, and, until recently, to see that scar was to trigger a visual memory of my assailant’s rage-filled face.

The obvious solution was to stop shaving, but that didn’t work. I began to remember the terrible event with increasing vividness, until I finally sought help.

My therapist’s first question to me was, “Do you have a good relationship with your father?”

I said, “Yes. We have a great relationship.”

The therapist asked if he had taught me how to shave. Before I could answer, a memory I had forgotten for many, many years popped into my head, and I smiled.

“Doctor,” I replied, "this is so cool. I remember standing at my dad’s side as a little boy, infatuated with the process of shaving. It got to the point that when he shaved in the mornings I was always there, watching him. My dad bought me a little toy razor, with a little knob on the bottom of the handle that opened the top, just like his. The blade was a piece of cardboard that looked like a razor blade.

Topics

More

Marketplace

Tim Russert writes of fathers' advice and love