Father’s Day invites lots of gender stereotypes. But my dad doesn’t fit any mold

There are a lot of tired tropes about fathers: the father who left the family, or secretly harbored another family, or who was always traveling or never there to begin with, an eternal ghostly absence. There’s the mad-men-era workaholic dad and the disciplinarian “wait until your father gets home” dad who strikes fear into many a childhood heart. There’s the well-meaning but oblivious dad and the coach dad who energetically yells corrections from the sidelines. Then there’s the divorced dad, who sees his kids only on the weekends, takes them out for ice cream on school nights and loves to break all the mom rules. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

But my dad, and many others, thankfully does not fall into these rigid categories.

My dad, 86, grew up in New Rochelle, N.Y., with an Italian mother and Jewish Russian immigrant father. In 1955 he got into Harvard because, in addition to having good grades, he could run incredibly fast (in college he would place seventh in the NCAA finals as a low hurdler in the 220-yard race). Amid the silent quotas for Jewish students at the time, Harvard made it clear that his high athletic ability was a key factor in his admission. Years later, he moved out to L.A., became a successful real estate developer and met my mom in group therapy.

Old Sacramento, Ca., along the Sacramento River as seen on Sat. August 3, 2019. (Photo By Michael Macor/The San Francisco Chronicle via Getty Images)
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As his life story suggests, my dad is unique for a lot of reasons. But most of all he’s unique for being a father who defies stereotypes, mainly because of his determination to be fully present in my life. After my parents divorced in 1984, when I was 7, he insisted on dual custody, an unexpected effort from a father of that era.

I switched houses every week until I left for college. During his week, my dad — an alpha male who radiated masculinity — was both a mother and father. I remember him trying to fix my hair into a ponytail, pulling the strands over my ears while I looked on in horror at the mirror. He wore the glittery paper crowns I made for him to the grocery store. Once, because I directed him to (I played the queen and he the court jester), he ate a rose, chewing on it thoughtfully before concluding it tasted like chicken.

During long car drives he taught me how to “hit the ball back over the net” in a conversation, to help remedy my painful shyness. Only later did I realize how important it is to know how to talk to people. Sometimes, when I find myself in an awkward social situation, I still picture that net and the tennis ball sailing gracefully over it.

A perfectionist, my dad sometimes lost his temper when I didn’t clean my room, sharpen my pencils or keep my homework organized. But after a big fight, he would always apologize, understanding the necessity of repair. fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs fhs

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