This is what I recall: My father would wake up early each morning, commuting by train from the suburbs to downtown Chicago. He spent his days in a high-rise office building on Jackson Boulevard, a place I visited only once on a special Saturday when he brought me along. I remember the tinted green windows of the train, the overflowing ashtrays, and the chaotic stacks of paperwork on brown desks. I can still feel the sensation of my ears popping as we ascended in the elevator to the top of the Willis Tower during our lunch break.
He returned home each evening on the same 5 o’clock train. As soon as the front door opened, I would dash from the family room, through the kitchen, and into the dining room, eager to surprise him. I would embrace him, my cheek resting against his trench coat, which carried the distinct scent of cold air, smoke, and train exhaust.
After arriving, he would retreat to the basement, where I could hear the rhythmic thumping of the punching bag. I would observe him taking a long drink from the kitchen sink, sweat glistening on his chin. Later, I would settle into the crook of his arm, listening to his deep, smoky voice resonate as he read me a story.
This was the life I knew: routine, safety, and happiness. It wasn’t until I matured that I learned he woke each day for a job he despised.
I can’t pinpoint whether he conveyed this lesson to me once or many times, but I can visualize him now, shaking his head, his blue eyes reflecting sadness, saying, “Never accept a job you don’t enjoy. It’s simply not worth it. Pursue your passion.”
As a child, my father cherished reading. He lost himself in classics like Treasure Island, The Ted Williams Story, and Crime and Punishment, along with comic books. He read in the solitude of his room to avoid the ridicule of neighborhood kids. His love for storytelling shaped my understanding of narratives—how to construct them, what makes them engaging, and the importance of elements like arc, dialogue, and setting. I still recall his enthusiasm for the mundane weather discussions in the film Fargo, recognizing it as a universal longing for connection.
During his college years, my father contemplated majoring in literature and becoming an English teacher. However, a well-intentioned guidance counselor advised him, “You’re skilled in math. Pursue accounting. It guarantees employment.” Following that guidance, he became an accountant, marrying and supporting a family. I know he felt a deep sadness for not following his passion. Yet, he didn’t intentionally sacrifice his dreams for us; if he had foreseen the years of numbers and tax forms ahead, he might have darted straight to a literature class instead.
In a way, he did sacrifice, for the mistakes of our parents often impart the most profound lessons. We learn from their experiences, hoping to become better, happier individuals ourselves. It’s our duty to learn from these lessons, or else what is the purpose of it all?
Thus, I have forged my own path, guided by my passion for writing and storytelling. I have never entertained the idea of a job that would bring me discontent. I have worked as a reporter, a political communications director, and an author, driven by the understanding that life is fleeting and it is our responsibility to seek joy. My father instilled that in me.
Now, as a parent, I too will make mistakes, and my children will learn from them. Just as my father ensured I would learn from his, I will impart the most significant lesson I can offer them: Do what you love. His grandchildren and great-grandchildren will carry those words forward.
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Summary:
In reflecting on the life lessons imparted by my father, I learned the importance of pursuing one’s passions rather than settling for a job that brings unhappiness. His own experiences shaped my understanding of storytelling and the significance of following one’s heart. As I now navigate parenthood, I strive to instill the same values in my children, ensuring that they learn from both my triumphs and missteps. The core message remains clear: do what you love.