just like my dad & me

My dad, born in 1923, wounded as a soldier in WWII fighting fascism, went through the Great Depression, lost his historic hotel/home in an electrical fire when I was 2 and my brother was 1, started a dozen small businesses to provide for his family of 5 kids. He thought the leadership of Donald Trump was worthy of buying 3 MAGA hats with who knows how much hard-earned cash. My dad was part of the Great Generation. I am a boomer. My son is a millennial/Gen Zer. I see now how these value dividers are not worthy of separating us, rather to appreciate the strengths of the lessons we each learn and miss learning along the way.

I drove 7 hours one way to attend a MAGA rally wearing one of my Dad’s bright red MAGA hats to blend in so that I might understand why Americans would support such values of division. I learned they loved their families- just like my dad & me. They were devoted to educating their kids-just like my dad & me. Many served in the military just like my dad & me. They were religious-not like my dad & me. My dad was raised Catholic, while my mom was raised Methodist. They raised us, kids, by sending us to Methodist Sunday school- possibly to give my mom 90 minutes of peace each Sunday morning. I was confirmed a Methodist. Relying on lessons I learned there to be a more decent human daily, I no longer rely on formal religion. Just like my Dad & me, many are leaving behind formal religion.

My dad used to watch conservative FOX news all day long. Once, before leaving from my annual visit, I turned to him to adamantly assert, “Dad, this is not the full truth. Stop watching FOX, please!” Last summer while feeding him his meals, I had CNN on. He did not object. He also could not speak by then. He could hear. I would have conversations about world events with the “boob tube.” So in his final year, we seemed to fill the gap with at least tolerating, while serving, each other’s needs. My dad got to hear how I saw the world. I got to feed his body, if not his soul.

Last month I inherited my Dad’s three bright red MAGA hats. Just like my dad & me, we wore those hats differently. He celebrated a leader he believed in. I’ll wear them to remember my dad. Across the generation gaps, we heard each other in the end. I can adjust those hats to fit my head, flashing back memories of all the sacrifices, delights, lessons learned we shared in 64 years of living in Earth together. The gap is already filling in with missing the meanings in the moments when his smile is simply a digital sliver of the man who gave me life, a life so different than his. Just like my dad & me, I wonder how my 25-year-old son will live the life I gave him?