September 15, 1990

I will never forget September 15, 1990. I was in my early 20s working in an office when my mother called to let me know my father passed away. As it took what seemed to be an excruciatingly long ride on the LIRR to my parents’ home, tears intermittently streamed down my face as a sea of memories flooded my mind. I was now a young adult, but I still needed my father’s presence and guidance.

I consider myself very fortunate to have had a loving father in my life despite it being just over two decades before his passing. I was definitely a Daddy’s Boy. I cannot deny that he pampered me much to the chagrin of my considerably older siblings, but they knew not to voice those concerns in his presence. He and I loved to watch the television show The Courtship of Eddie’s Father. To this day, I smile when I think about my father singing to me the lines from that television theme: “He’s a one-boy, cuddly toy. My up, my down, my pride and joy.”

My father was dedicated to my education and empowerment. Every open school night, he would put on his suit or at least a blazer and tie and gather his signature spiral-bound pad and ballpoint pen to take detailed notes of his discussion with my teachers. Gratefully, and to my father’s bliss, I was the teachers’ pet into perpetuity and loved learning, so he was always beaming with pride when he returned home from these parent-teacher conferences.

Speaking of pride, my parents were lovingly accepting and supportive of my coming out as a teenager. My father’s heartfelt advice to me was that I only be with someone who valued me and to never forget that I was raised to be a gentleman and no one could ever take that away. Probably one of my father’s most endearing private moments with me was when he referred to me as the gay male version of the character on The Mary Tyler Moore Show because I was such a giving soul. To this day, I cannot hear the Mary Tyler Moore theme song without thinking fondly about him.

Despite my father’s acceptance of my being gay, there were still cringe-worthy moments that are inevitable between a parent and a child. My father was definitively overprotective of me despite my being 6’3” since I turned 14. It took him way too long to refrain from reaching out to hold my hand when crossing the street. My parents thought it was charming. That charm was lost on me during that stage of my life.

The most infamous clutching-my-pearls moment was in high school. There were only paper permission slips (pre-email) at that time, so the parent needed to fill out the permission slip manually and the student returned it to the teacher. My father declined to give permission for me to attend a Broadway show, which was already irritating enough, but he decided he needed to elaborate ad nauseam as to why he was declining to grant permission.

In retrospect, my father was undoubtedly a visionary because, before horror fonts were even a thing, my father used a red-ink ballpoint pen to write in his signature cursive writing the following:

“Due to the crime and terror on the city streets, I do not grant permission for my son to attend an evening play with his class in New York City. If this Broadway show is essential to his studies, I will arrange to take him myself to see the performance.” 

Innocently and foolishly, I showed the permission slip to my classmates, and all semester they jokingly led with “Due to the crime and terror on the city streets” for any scenario they could conceive to mercilessly tease me. When my teacher read the detailed note from my father, she politely smiled and said, “I’m sure you’ll enjoy the show as well with your very invested father.” For my sanity and maintaining world peace, I refrained from relating her response to my father when I returned home that afternoon.

There was also that time when my father did allow me to attend an evening poetry reading in an outer borough with my two teachers. This only occurred because my teachers agreed to have dinner with my father first and personally escort me back home after the poetry reading. Congressional hearings today pale in comparison to the line of questioning my teachers had to endure during that infamous dinner. I recall my dad authoritatively peering out the window as my teachers dutifully pulled into my driveway to return me home safely from the poetry reading.

Surprisingly, my father never refused my request to attend parties as a teenager. I learned the reason why years after he passed away. My mother told me that my father would wait in the car several blocks away from each party for hours and would only pull up in front of the house when it was time to pick me up. He insisted that my mother not tell me because he didn’t want to ruin my having a good time. I am so grateful to have had a selfless and caring father. In retrospect, his overprotectiveness and devotion weren't so torturous after all.

It has been decades since my father passed away, but there is not a day when something randomly reminds me of him. There is no longer pain or sorrow. There’s just a plethora of memories that I recall fondly and increasingly cherish. I was going to save this post for Father’s Day next year, but it seemed right to post this now as I reflect on his passing 36 years ago this September. I miss you, Father, and try to pay forward every day the things you taught me during our way-too-brief but still amazingly profound relationship as father and son.