Fathers and Sons. Teachers and Students.

 

Today is the 40th birthday of his that my father did not live long enough to celebrate.   I am embarrassed to admit that it is just the second one in the four decades since his death that will occur without my foot being placed firmly on his throat.  

I was fourteen when Dad died.   Forty years after his death, I am forced to confess that I did not really understand my father while he was alive.  While I fancy myself to be a reasonably intelligent man (I can point to the rather impressive array of framed diplomas, degrees, and Bar admissions that adorn my office wall in support of that hypothesis), it took me slightly less than thirty-nine years after my father's death to finally understand him.   Sadly, I did not have an epiphany.  Instead, I experienced firsthand what he had experienced for years in his own professional life.  It was then, and only then, I understood that the man I had viewed as aloof, disconnected, and uncaring for most of our time together was dealing with forces beyond my limited, selflish, little kid ability to understand.  

I began, towards the end of 2019, to comprehend what and why it was Dad seemed just so fucking worn-down by life most of the time.  For it was then that I found out just how maddeningly similar the trajectory of my professional life was to his.  It was then that I felt for the first time what Dad had felt every day for so many years.  I am embarrassed to admit that it was then, and only then,  I understood what he had endured for us, his family, and for the first time ever appreciated him for what he had done.  It was only when I felt exhausted by the stress of my day-to-day that I finally walked a single step in Dad's shoes.  

In slightly more than a month, I shall turn fifty-five.  My father was fifty-seven when he died.  Whether irony or coincidence I know not, but it was at this time last year (actually it was on the eve of Dad's birthday), I received and signed my formal offer to join Kennedys.  Afforded an opportunity to change the trajectory of my professional life - and my entire life - I seized it.  Had I not watched, and apparently (through osmosis perhaps given how long it took for the lesson to be learned) taken to heart how much his decision to not pursue a new opportunity (out of a fear that failure would have ruined us) tortured my father, I might not have seized it.  

WPK, Sr. was an extraordinary educator.  It was his greatest gift.  So great in fact that four decades after his death, he finally reached me; a uniquely hard-headed and difficult to reach pupil.  Nicely done, Dad. 

Dad - Browning School for Boys

Happy Birthday.