Calling Dad in the Rain
I'm turning 28 in two weeks, and if I've learned anything about happiness in my life - it's that it is a constant practice. The older I get, the more synonymous gratitude and happiness seem to become.
It’s raining heavily in the Bay Area; uncharacteristically so, for a part of California that boasts 60-degree weather even in the middle of winter. My already tedious hour drive from San Jose to Oakland is made intensely more nerve-wracking with the addition of intense fog and strong winds clouding my view. I grip the steering wheel more tightly and gradually glide my foot over the brake to increase the distance between me and the car in front.
When I’m feeling tense, silence exacerbates my anxious thoughts. I am a nervous driver. Youthful recklessness and an unfortunate accident paved the road for me to turn into an overly cautious adult. Usually, I have someone sitting in the passenger seat, who distracts me with conversation or turns on some music to take my mind off of the road. Without another person to quell some of my irrational fears, my mind is free to race wildly, creating one possibly distressing scenario after the other. If the rain increases in the next few minutes, I could hydroplane and hit the cars next to me. The truck behind me is probably driving too fast, will it be able to stop quickly enough when I break, or will it barrel into me?
I decide—for my sanity, and the safety of other drivers around me—to call someone I love to get me through the rest of this journey. Though no one is next to me to physically hold my hand for comfort or pat my head endearingly, conversation with the right loved one feels reassuring. I think about who to call. I need someone on the phone who keeps a cooler head than I do, and whose voice will put me at ease. I need to call someone who loves me unconditionally enough that they’d want to hear me talk in the middle of the day about simply nothing at all. There are not many people who will give their time and expect nothing in return, especially just to quell my nervousness. Friends might give you some energy, but calling some of them feels like an imposition—like I’m taking up some of their precious time. Who are the only two people in the world whose time I don’t care about taking? Who I know—somewhat selfishly—cares about my happiness and well-being above my own?
I’m lucky to say that those two people in my life are my parents. Though both of them are likely to pick up the phone in the middle of the day for my call, I decide to dial my father for this specific situation. He is steady, has a gentle demeanor, and maintains an inhuman level of calmness in even the most stressful situations. I have observed, for years, his ability to remain undisturbed during moments when most would have a more explosive reaction. My mom feels everything externally; she is loud, she yells, she expresses herself to the world. My father, much like his own, is internal; he processes the world inside of his head, keeping his emotions to himself. It often translates to him being perceived as difficult to read. But I have always inherently understood my father.
Dad picks up on the third ring, his familiar voice pouring through the speakers of the car. I immediately begin to feel better. He greets me with his usual, “hey Cookie”, the nickname my parents have called me since I was six, and asks me about my day. We reflect on our respective drives, my nervousness, his work. The way the intensity of the rain differs where we are, even though we can’t be more than 50 miles apart. I fill him in on details of my upcoming trip to Spain, where I’ll be flying to celebrate my 28th birthday next week with my boyfriend.
My Dad, in many ways, helped shape my ideas of right and wrong by constantly challenging me to ponder complex questions at an early age. A movie night would be accompanied by gentle inquiries; “Why do you think the character did that?” “What do you think of their decision?” “How would you feel if this happened to you?” He instilled the importance and love of reading in me at an early age, teaching me to read by age four and gifting me Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men on my eleventh birthday. My Dad raised me with his philosopher’s mindset: to curiously question the world around us, and consider what our world says about us and each other. Many of our signature deep Dad-and-daughter talks devolve into larger, existential conversations where we consider our meaning, our purpose, our value. He asks me the question he asks annually, where he wonders what I’m thinking about as I’m approaching a new year.
I’ve become less self-centered as I’ve aged. I used to think my birthday was a seismic event, a time when the past year would come barreling down to my door, demanding to know what value I had added in the past year, and whether I had accomplished enough to be worthy of celebration. As birthdays have passed, I (hopefully) aged gracefully, and my lens of the world shifted from just myself to others around me, I have realized that this conundrum is not a unique one. Many of us view growing older as a demarcation for certain life goals to be accomplished, wealth to be accumulated, targets to be hit. I agree that setting a standard for specific ages brings you closer to the life you want and the person you want to be.
Yet, I’ve also shifted my view of what I’ve come to expect of myself when March 25 returns every year. Rather than viewing my past year against a series of checkboxes that I have or haven’t checked, I’ve come to view the act of growing a year older with happiness and health as an event solely worthy of appreciation and celebration, in and of itself. When I start to look at my life this way, with gratitude for living another year, I naturally also start to celebrate the people around me who have made that possible.
I share these sentiments about my upcoming year with my Dad. I tell him that I spent so many years focusing on what I didn’t have, in turn creating a negative environment for myself. I now know being grateful for what you have is a practice that demands your attention every day, much like choosing to love and care for your partner every day, or continuing dedication in exercise and fitness. You practice and invest, and you reap the rewards. Happiness is not something that magically arrives at your doorstep once you’ve reached a certain goal. It is a constant meditation, a path that you actively choose to take even when self-pity, desperation, and isolation may seem like the easier way.
The rain has somewhat slowed and given way to a lighter drizzle. The hum of traffic now feels soothing rather than scary, now that my destination is a few minutes away. “I have to go now, Cookie” he says warmly at the end of our 45-minute conversation, signaling that he had put off a meeting long enough to attend to my needs, but now had to return to the real world. “It was really nice to talk to you.”
Lately, he’s been saying this often at the end of our conversations, which have become more infrequent now that I’m no longer living with my parents. We always love talking to each other, but I sense that this phrase has now taken on a different meaning. The end seems tinged with a bit of longing and melancholy. “It was really nice to talk to you, especially since it doesn’t happen that often anymore” feels like the real version of the entire sentence, which often remains unsaid.
I relieve my Dad of his fatherly duties and let him return to his work, while I complete the remaining few minutes of my drive in a warm, sleepy silence. I think about how my approaching birthday is a victory of my mark on this world rather than a clock counting down how many years I have left. How lucky I am to have a car to drive and complain about traffic in. How lucky I am to love others, to experience love, to be truly seen. How lucky I am to have a Dad to call when I’m nervous, who’ll pick up my phone no matter what. Even in the middle of the pouring rain.
Thank you for reading. I appreciate the time you’ve taken to read this, and the time you are giving to support independent writers. If this piece moved you or made you think, I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments or directly at anbhanot@gmail.com. Dialogue is what makes this community so valuable. I hope to see you again.
You've always had such a way with words Keets. I appreciate the time and thought you put to an interaction (phone call on the commute home) that many of us don't pay enough attention to as an act of care and intimacy but also take for granted.