My Embarrassing Dad

Dads are good at embarrassing their kids. We excel at it, whether intentionally or not. There are times, however, when those embarrassing events come with unexpected lessons and gifts that long outlast the limited scope of our embarrassment.

Fourth Grade is a great example.

I had been out riding my bike on a weekend afternoon in Jefferson City, TN. I came home with a bloody nose. My sisters and parents were concerned as I told them the story. Three bigger kids, middle schoolers all, had found me riding my bike in the church parking lot and started using a basketball to knock me off my bike. Before I got away from them, they ended up breaking my nose with the basketball.

Dad wanted to know who they were. I only knew one of them from the school bus stop. Dad determined to walk with us to the bus stop on Monday. My sisters were ready to crawl under the rug. We tried to talk him out of it. We were all sure we would be embarrassed and never live down that experience. We had no idea what Dad would say or do. We were sure that he would cause us irreparable harm, at least in regard to our interactions with the other kids who rode to school with us, as well as anyone they happened to tell about it.

We got to the bus stop on Monday, and I dutifully told Dad who had attacked me. I did not want Dad fighting my battles for me, but I was not going to disobey him, either. I also knew there was little I could do in response to bullying by three boys twice my size.

Then Dad spoke to the kid. He did not threaten. He did not take him aside out of everyone's hearing. He did not yell. He did, however, confront him with what he had done to me. More than that, he forced him to question his own motivations.

I don't remember everything Dad said at the bus stop that morning. What I do remember is this. “Did it make you feel big and powerful to pick on a boy smaller and younger than you? There were three of you, all bigger boys, bullying one younger, smaller child. How does that make you powerful or strong? All it really does is show you to be weak.”

I have little idea what impact Dad's words made on the bully. I have no idea if he continued hanging with the other bullies or if he relayed any of Dad's words to them. I do know some of the impact Dad's words had on me. I saw the imposing figure of my big, strong father refusing to use any physical force, but using his words to change attitudes in others. I watched this “big kid” shed tears akin to but very different from those I had shed. I watched him sense a loss of any power he might have had in the eyes of those around him who saw him in a pitiful light under my father's words.

Much more than that, however, I recognized something else. I did not need my father to step in to fight my battles, but I could count on him to help me look beyond the surface issues of those same battles. I learned from him to ask why people act the way they do. I learned to seek understanding by asking the deeper questions. I learned that being a bully stems from feeling inferior. I learned that when I am comfortable with who I am, I have no need to lash out at others to increase my sense of self. I also learned that while words can be weapons, they can also bring resolution in a way that fists and basketballs cannot. I also learned that words can have effects that last a lot longer than acts of violence.

I don't remember the names of the boys who attacked me. I don't think I had ever even seen two of them before and haven't since. I still remember a lot from that embarrassing episode with my father. I may have been embarrassed at the time, but I was also proud. I felt loved. I felt cared for. I was also given a lesson that day that has stuck with me now for some 40 years. Actually, they were several lessons.

My father may not be perfect. He is, after all, human. Even so, he loves me and is willing to speak up for me. He taught me that violence can be overcome with something other than violence, with words. He taught me it is okay for fathers to embarrass their children, for they may well understand better what is going on than their children. He taught me to look behind the surface to understand one's motivations. He taught me to address the real issues, not the presenting problem. He taught me to stand up not with fists, knives, and guns, but with the courage to address the presenting reality.

Dad did not escalate violence or use intimidation to protect me. He used strong and powerful words to de-escalate. He addressed the elephant in the room. He called it out by name. He called its bluff. He showed it for what it really was. In so doing, he rendered it powerless.

It has taken a while to learn some of those lessons. Some were intentional. Others were less so. There was another thing I learned that day, however. If my Dad is bigger than your dad, it's not because of his fists, knives, or guns. It is because of the wisdom of his courage to look past playground violence. It is because he understood how to find another way forward.

So, thanks, Dad. I love you. I still hope to grow up to be more like you in so many ways, even if that means I still embarrass my children from time to time. After all embarrassment is really only about bringing to light what most just want to ignore. It takes courage to address the 300 pound gorilla. Thank you Dad, for teaching me to do just that.

—©Copyright 2017, Christopher B. Harbin
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