What My Dad Gave Me

My father gave me his freckly skin and, like him, I had melanoma. He gave me asthma and protruding elbows that are identical to his own. He gave me reddish hair that’s kindly reluctant to go gray. He gave me an aversion to drinking by not having one himself.

He did not give me the seat next to him at a San Diego Chargers game. He had season tickets when I was a kid, but I only found out about it years later.

He gave me the ability to talk to anyone because I couldn’t stand the awkward silences that he provided.

He gave me really nice houses to grow up in, but we moved a lot for his work, and things never seemed to be going well, so he gave me financial anxiety, too.

He gave me the tools to withstand a sexist world. He would say: Hillary looks ugly in her pantsuits. And her voice! Women don’t belong on the golf course. This was my exposure therapy. He gave it generously.

He didn’t give me a response when I was little and watching a baseball game on TV with him. Why, I wanted to know, did the umpire call a strike when the batter didn’t swing his bat? He couldn’t be bothered to explain.