I hate the apostrophe in Father’s Day.

To my grammatically hardwired mind, the apostrophe-”s” construction is trying to force me to choose a dad. And that’s a problem, because I’ve never really had just one.

My relationship with my first dad — my biological father — exists somewhere between the “guilt trip” e-mails my mother sends me every couple of months to remind me of his birthday, his role in my birth or the fifth commandment and his phone number stored in my cell phone under his first name. We haven’t spoken since Christmas two years ago, and I can’t remember the last time we had a real conversation. Still, I am beginning to appreciate what he has given me; I’m pretty sure my natural affinity for math might have something to do with his, and I love that my pretty feet and skinny fingers match his mother’s.

I appreciate some of the genes, but beyond that, and more importantly, my dad gave me the freedom to look for others to fill in the gaps in our relationship.

And I found them.

Three of these men, in particular, have made such an impact on the way I view my future — and my past — that the official way of punctuating last Sunday’s holiday seems insulting.

Glenn Kahler

When I left Broken Arrow to start at a brand new school, I wanted everything to be perfect. The first thing I remember trying to control was the identity of the girl who sat across from me in Ms. French’s fourth-grade class. Her name was neatly lettered on the pencil-shaped name tag taped to her desk: Jessica Kahler. So, each time a girl walked into the room (usually accompanied by her mother) I sent out mental messages, trying to will the girl to either be Jessica or to walk away from her desk, depending on how I liked the looks of her. When a cute, smiley, blonde girl walked into the room holding her mom’s hand, I wished and wished and wished and wished for her to turn way from that seat. But for all the wishing in the world, that girl sat down, introduced herself and declared that we would be friends.

I didn’t quite believe Jessica’s prediction at first, but about two hours later we had bonded, and within the week she had invited me over.

Fourth grade was a long time ago, and the story of how Jessica ended up as my best friend is the only thing of that year I remember in vivid detail. But I do have muddled memories of the time I spent at her house. I remember eating meals at the Kahler’s kitchen table and being treated like a member of the family. And I remember her dad, Glenn, asking me about my day at school as though he truly cared about the crush I had on a boy in my class (I wouldn’t tell him who because Jessie liked the same guy) and the books I enjoyed reading. Mr. Kahler even engaged my fourth-grade mind in religious discussions — he believed, I didn’t.

It wasn’t until recently that I understood the impact Mr. Kahler has had on all my relationships with men. He was, though I never phrased it like this, the archetype of a father — and thus a crush, a boyfriend, a future husband, perhaps — for my fourth-grade self. And, though a recent description of my ideal guy would include characteristics from many different people from my past, Glenn Kahler, as my first Ward Cleaver, taught me about fathers.

Grandpa

I think I was in middle school when I realized my grandpa — on my mom’s side — was a dad. I mean, I knew he was my mom’s dad, but I hadn’t really ever thought about what that meant. My grandpa is no Glenn Kahler; he doesn’t pray at the table or offer rides to the mall or the movies … he’s a different kind of dad.

While Glenn would bandage a knee skinned on a bike ride and talk you through hurt feelings, Grandpa is just there. Always. He is a safety net kind of dad.

My mom takes him out at least once a week — gambling and dinner, usually — and she talks to him at least once a day. Most of their phone calls are initiated by Grandpa, who just wants to know how his stocks are doing (Mom looks online for him) and whether she’s had any business at her shop.

Grandpa is also a tomato plant-delivering, big coloring book-buying, can’t-remember-which-kid-is-which kind of dad (it’s OK because he has eight children and 23 grandchildren).

He’s a “there” kind of father, and this realization — that he’s a dad — has allowed me to see that someone in my family (my family) can be there. He’s also helped me to start considering what I will do when a “there” kind of dad isn’t anymore. Grandpa is 86.

Dennis Jacques

Grandpa and Glenn showed me that dads could be reliable, that I didn’t have to be strong because they would be there. My best friend’s dad, Dennis, though, showed me that dads could be people too.

One night in January 2006, as I ate apple slices standing up, in my favorite party dress and brand new black heels, my best friend talked on his cell phone. But then he hung up, and everything changed.

“Becka, I have to go home.”

My first reaction was annoyance. He had promised to be my date to go chaperone my little sister’s church dance, and he was going to bail.

“Your cousin has been in an accident.”

“Haley? She’s OK, right?”

He just shook his head.

My relationship with the men in that family allowed me to be strong, be weak and recover from a death for which I was really a second-hand griever. Yes, Haley was my cousin (by blood), but she was also my “adoptive” father’s “adopted” daughter. She was my best friend’s little brother’s best friend. She was mine, yes, but it was at their house that she ate dinner frequently, and they were the ones who gave her rides and asked her about homework and treated her like family.

When Dennis stepped in front of the pierced, dyed, studded denim and leather crowd at Haley’s funeral and said the words her best friend was unable to say, the words we were all too shocked and sad to say, I saw that dads can cry. His tears didn’t change his being the strongest father I had ever had — the one who could (and would) change the oil in my car, the one who gave me a bike and helped me with school projects … the one who stuck Post-it notes declaring his love for his wife all over their house.

These men have taught me what it is to be a father’s daughter — and what to look for when trying to find a father for my future daughters. And so, despite what Wikipedia and Whitehouse.gov (I checked) say about how to punctuate last Sunday’s national holiday, I still hate that apostrophe.

Happy Fathers’ Day, Dads.

One Response to “Dads”

1. skippy Says:
   June 24th, 2008 at 11:28 am

   oprah said biology is the least of what makes a person a parent. or something like that. cheers to you.

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