When I knew my dad was proud of me

Achievements and? versus? Relationships

Every once in a while I dust off my resume and I can still feel my Dad’s pride and see his smile and the beam in his eye because of one particular line.

I know he was proud of the adult I became in general (after some rough patches in adolescence, when I was pretty sure he loved me but didn’t particularly like me very much), but believe me when I tell you that In May of 2001, he pretty much told anyone in the Boston metro area about my grad degree and the GPA I graduated with.

4.0.

He wants me to tell you it was a 4.0.

He would for real bring this up as a non-sequitur, out of nowhere.

I know he was proud of me for a lot of things.

He was proud of my three published novels.

He was proud of the husband I had the good sense to marry.

He was proud of my aptitude for academics.

He had a Ph.D. so it makes sense he was very proud of my graduate degree.

And then came my child, Sam.

And I can tell you that the proudest and most surprised he ever was of me, I think, was in witnessing my patience and steadfast persistence in raising and advocating for and making room in the world for a child with learning differences and mental health struggles.

“I did not know you had this in you,” he told me.

And even more than being proud of me, he was so, so proud of his kind, thoughtful, hard-working grandson.

If we’re very lucky, we have someone in our life who will look at us the way my dad looked at me.

There is nothing like a dad’s love of his daughter. If we’re lucky.

And yet.

I don’t know. As a Gen X white cis-gendered woman I was raised with two simultaneous and opposite messages:

“Girls and women are relational and define identity through relationships”

vs.

“Carve your own path, do NOT let yourself be defined by your relationships.”

It was all very gender-coded. It was all opposites and confusing.

And I understand the good intentions.

You do want to be self-aware. Yes. Cosigned. You do want to know who you are, on your own terms.

In college, a guy asked me, “Oh, are you Jim’s Jen?” because there were so many Jennifers at SUNY-Binghamton in the early 90s.

Oooh did I get mad though. “What am I, an object? Like a basketball?” I scoffed, hands on hips. “‘Are you Jim’s basketball?’”

The guy apologized. He was duly chastened by my fiesty, feminist self.

But honestly?

It was a legit question, however awkardly worded. Because yes, I was in a relationship with Jim.

And along with my friendships, and my nascent yet propulsive activism, and my returning to dance, and my classes, and living away from home, my relationship with Jim was a huge part of my college experience.

(We’re still friends. Hi, Jim!)

Humans are relational beings.

We are defined and refined by our relationships.

There’s old advice, “Don’t expect anyone to make you happy. You must make yourself happy.”

It’s not bad advice - it’s a close relative of my belief that the only way to guarantee a life filled with live is to be the most loving person you can be.

But that’s the thing - it’s still *in relationship.*

The mistake is thinking “I shouldn’t expect anyone else to make me happy, so I shouldn’t try to make anyone else happy. Their happiness should be independent of my actions.”

No, Ayn Rand. That’s just plain incorrect.

We are relational.

Community IS resistance.

I should, and do, care about your happiness and liberation.

Because it’s bound up in my own.

We are all one great big brood of puggles belonging to the Great Cosmic Echidna.

So, back to Dad.

I’m so proud that he would be proud.

And it’s ok with me if you want to call me Jen, or J.J., or Unruly Quaker; or Sam’s Mom; or Noah’s wife; or Andrea’s, Jen’s, Leah’s, or Nishi’s, or Salma’s bestie; or Lisa and Fouad’s daughter-in-law; or Earl and Juanita’s daughter; or the Everett’s American fam; or so-and-so’s writing coach; or thus-and-so’s friend; or that weird lady who always smiles at me in the courthouse lobby; and on and on endlessly.

Because again, I ask: What if we all belonged to each other, on and on, through generations, into infinity?

XOXO

P.S. It makes me think of indigenous folks in Australia, who ask, when meeting you, “Who’s your mob?”

Meaning “To whom do you belong?”

What if we all asked this question, then had a deeply root AND ever-expanding answer?

What if we all had a specific yet expansive sense of belonging?

To family, to the land, to communities, to our ancestors, to a healthy cultural identity, and on and on?

Who’s your mob?