End of the Beginning

To the best of my knowledge, I have only disappointed my father once.

It had seemed like the end of the world. Perhaps so, in that it ended one epoch of my life--one I do not like to think about often anymore. Like it or not, though, I owe my cherished present to that unpleasant past.

In the winter of my senior year in high school, I withdrew my application to the Naval Academy, for which I had prepared the three years previous. My father has an Irish temper, and usually it flares bright and brief. That event, however, infuriated him to such an extent that I could not talk to him for nearly a month.

It probably did not help that my eldest brother had done something very similar years ago.  He had changed his mind about attending West Point at the last minute, went to a liberal arts college for a short while, then hared off to some Ashram in California.

Dad attributed my change of heart to 'nerves', cowardice, the liberal media's brainwashing, and pretty much everything except for the reasoned decision I thought I had made. Neither he nor my mother would accept my choice, and kept waiting for me to 'get over it'

I heard them talking in the living room at night about how I would never make it in civilian life. They thought me too intellectual and too sensitive to brave the world without the structure of the military to prop me up and give me direction.

At the time, I believed them.

Like my brother, I did find my own way to higher education. Unlike my brother, I did not drop out to join a commune, but our life experiences still have their parallels. Academic scholarships made moot my parents' reluctance to foot the bill, and I never returned home again except for short, uncomfortable visits.

Though I kept in touch with my parents by email and by telephone, we rarely had much to discuss. They no longer brought up military service, or other unsolicited advice that they knew I would ignore. Nevertheless, it seemed plain to me that they did not particularly approve of my life choices. I could live with that.

A couple of months ago, I called my father to wish him a happy birthday. We talked about the weather and our workout routines, and about my mother, as usual.

Then, he dropped this bomb: "I don't think I say this often, but I'm proud of you. You may not have done things the way I would have, but you've done good, and I love you."

To put things in perspective, I do not come from a warm and demonstrative family. By "I don't think I say this often", my father actually meant he had never said it before--at least not to me.

So I gaped for a moment, wondering who had kidnapped Major Farrington, USMC (Ret.) and replaced him with this understanding, modern dad. No, it defied the bounds of belief to imagine someone breaking into the home of my aging but freakishly in-shape ex-military parents and leaving with anything other than injuries.

"I love you, too, Dad," I replied at last. "You're my hero, and the best father a son could have."

Even typing that now kind of makes me cringe, but I meant it. Before we hung up, he added that, in retrospect, he believed I had made the right choice in not attending the Naval Academy, and he respected me for holding my ground against him.

It felt like some strange, belated rite of passage: a blessing from the man whose opinion I had valued above all others for the better part of my life. Sure, I did not any longer wait on his approval like the child his anger once devastated, but in a way that made it easier for me to appreciate the gesture.

Entering military service, in and of itself, would not have made me like my father as I once hoped it would. Becoming my own man, honoring my word, respecting others, and taking responsibility for my actions--these things make me my father's son.

And I did not even have to join the Navy to do it.