The way I figure it, my pop accomplished two things:

Made me a shy and fearful kid.

Made me a reserved and forceful man.

I tend to complain about him and sometimes I try to stop the negativity to consider what his style of parenting allowed me to become. It encouraged not to put up with others dictating my actions. It showed me what uncontrolled anger can accomplish. Very little, it turns out. It demonstrated a measure of manhood that is antiquated, but based on principles of sincerity and not bowing to the pressure to change or be different than what one is.

It’s a matter of who’s in charge around him. He was in charge for a long time but things have been leveling out over the years. Time has tempered his temper. It’s unsurprising that I secretly revel in the displacement. I’m the oldest, most successful, not tied down to one place like him or my brothers. I don’t stop. I feel as if I’m in my prime and the only settling that’s going to happen is someone coming along for a ride and learning something along the way.

He never fed us bullshit about being president, my pop. It was more simple.

“I take care of my family. I take care of you because I love you, and I love your brothers, and I love your mom. You’re my family. I do what I have to do. You can do whatever you want, man. You’re smart. You got opportunities that no one else got. You gotta be happy with yourself and your life.”

“I know, pa.”

I’m probably going to ask him for advice regarding women—a first for us. I anticipate he’ll reach the same conclusion that I have. Father’s son and all that.