tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.

tell me we'll never get used to it
My parents at prom, c. 1970 Today is my Dad’s birthday. There are so many stories I could tell about the infinite patience, selflessness, and curiosity my Dad possesses, but for this particular birthday, I feel like the world needs to know about the period of my life from ages 9-11 when I was. Obsessed. With. Baton. And in addition to cooking breakfast, packing lunches, driving us to school, helping us with homework, and cooking dinner—not to mention teaching special education full time in the roughest high school in the Bay Area—my Dad diligently schlepped me to baton practice in the evenings and listened to me prattle on endlessly about the merits of sparkly baton tape. He recently revealed that to this day, he can no longer listen to Peter Gabriel’s “Sledgehammer” without breaking into a kind of Pavlovian cold sweat, ever since the fateful San Jose Parade of ‘92 when he pulled a boombox in front of us for five hours in one hundred degree heat with it on repeat while I twirled my heart out. Ian recently pointed out to me how particularly admirable this was, since “Sledgehammer” is a song with no musical resolution in its chorus, or something. Happy Birthday, Dad. Thanks for passing along the following genes: teaching, squinty eyes, messiness, patience, an infinite love of books, and the blissful unawareness that 86% of the time we are wearing our clothes inside out.

My parents at prom, c. 1970

Today is my Dad’s birthday. There are so many stories I could tell about the infinite patience, selflessness, and curiosity my Dad possesses, but for this particular birthday, I feel like the world needs to know about the period of my life from ages 9-11 when I was. Obsessed. With. Baton. And in addition to cooking breakfast, packing lunches, driving us to school, helping us with homework, and cooking dinner—not to mention teaching special education full time in the roughest high school in the Bay Area—my Dad diligently schlepped me to baton practice in the evenings and listened to me prattle on endlessly about the merits of sparkly baton tape. He recently revealed that to this day, he can no longer listen to Peter Gabriel’s “Sledgehammer” without breaking into a kind of Pavlovian cold sweat, ever since the fateful San Jose Parade of ‘92 when he pulled a boombox in front of us for five hours in one hundred degree heat with it on repeat while I twirled my heart out. Ian recently pointed out to me how particularly admirable this was, since “Sledgehammer” is a song with no musical resolution in its chorus, or something.

Happy Birthday, Dad. Thanks for passing along the following genes: teaching, squinty eyes, messiness, patience, an infinite love of books, and the blissful unawareness that 86% of the time we are wearing our clothes inside out.

  1. fatmanatee reblogged this from petitchou and added:
    “Sledgehammer”. And Sneezer’s Dad’s mustache.
  2. chairofbullies said: Happy Birthday, dad.
  3. petitchou posted this