What stands out in my memory is this: My father would wake up early and catch the train from our suburban neighborhood to downtown Chicago. He worked tirelessly all day in a tall office building on Jackson Boulevard, a place I visited only once on a special Saturday when he brought me along. I can still picture the greenish tint of the train windows, the overflowing ashtrays, and the cluttered desks. I remember my ears popping as we ascended the elevator to the top of the Sears Tower during our lunch break.
Every evening, he returned home on the 5 o’clock train. As soon as the front door swung open, I would sprint from the family room, dash through the kitchen, and circle around to the foyer to greet him. I would throw my arms around him, my cheek pressing against his trench coat, which carried the scents of chill, smoke, and train exhaust.
He would then retreat to the basement, where I could hear the rhythmic thumping of the punching bag. After quenching his thirst at the kitchen sink, sweat glistening on his chin, we would later cuddle on the couch, his deep, smoky voice resonating through his chest as he read me tales from various worlds.
This was how I perceived his life—routine, secure, and joyful. It wasn’t until I grew older that I learned he endured a job he loathed.
I can still envision him, shaking his head with a hint of sadness in his blue eyes, imparting the advice: “Never take a job you dislike. It’s simply not worth it. Pursue your passions.”
As a child, my father found solace in books, diving into classics like Treasure Island, Crime and Punishment, and comic books, all while seeking refuge in his bedroom from neighborhood teasing. He consumed literature voraciously.
This love for storytelling was passed down to me. Engaging with my dad taught me the art of narrative: how to build a compelling story, analyze character arcs, and appreciate the subtleties of dialogue and setting. I vividly recall his amusement at the way Fargo repeatedly discussed the weather, highlighting the universal human desire for connection, even when words were scarce.
During his college years, my father contemplated majoring in literature and becoming an English teacher. Unfortunately, a well-meaning advisor suggested he pursue accounting instead, emphasizing his aptitude for math and the job security it offered. He took that advice, ultimately becoming an accountant, marrying, and supporting a family. I know he felt a sense of loss for not following his true passion. However, he didn’t intentionally sacrifice his dreams for us; had he foresight, he might have steered clear of the accounting path and rushed toward a literature class.
Yet, in a way, he did make a sacrifice. The missteps of our parents often become profound lessons for us. We learn from their experiences and, hopefully, strive to live happier lives. It is our duty to do so—otherwise, what’s the point?
I have followed my own journey and pursued what I love. I’ve worked as a reporter, a political communications director, and an author, driven by my passion for writing and storytelling. I understand the fleeting nature of life and the importance of creating our own happiness. This invaluable lesson came from my father.
Now, as a parent myself, I recognize that I will make mistakes, and my children will learn from them. Just as my father ensured I learned from his experiences, I will do the same for my kids. They will not only inherit my mistakes but also the most important lesson I can share: “Do what you love.” His grandchildren and great-grandchildren will carry this message forward, too.
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Summary
This piece reflects on the profound impact a father’s lessons can have on one’s life choices. It highlights the importance of pursuing passions rather than settling for unfulfilling jobs, drawing from personal anecdotes that illustrate the father’s sacrifices and the wisdom he imparted. As a parent now, the author recognizes the responsibility to pass on these valuable lessons to the next generation.