In the spring of 2008, I found myself in San Francisco with my daughter, Emily, who was on the verge of turning 14. This was a time when she was transitioning from childhood into adolescence, a period marked by new experiences and independence. During this trip, I allowed her to use my cell phone, a decision that came with its own set of challenges. Since we had decided against giving her a phone of her own, my wife and I unintentionally positioned ourselves as obstacles to her budding autonomy. I watched with admiration as she skillfully navigated texting and walking without colliding with anything around her.
We had hoped that this trip would serve as a distraction from her friends, and as I presented my paper on comic book histories at a conference, I felt a sense of reconnection. I was pleasantly surprised that she seemed engaged, her focus unwavering as I spoke for a full 18 minutes—though her fingers were likely busy on my phone.
Afterward, we enjoyed coffee and explored City Lights Bookstore, where I introduced her to the Beat Generation. I bought her a copy of Howl, thinking it might be a bonding experience. Our day continued at a bar and grill near Fisherman’s Wharf, where I let her take a few sips of my beer. The light buzz we both felt was fun, and we shared laughter, discussing people we knew and those we didn’t. I wondered if this moment would linger in her memory.
Later, we visited Virgin Megastore in search of a Bloc Party album I had heard about. As she put my phone away, she suggested I buy the record, and I did, hoping it would bridge our musical interests somehow.
On our last night in the city, I scored tickets to see The Black Crowes at the Fillmore West—a venue I had long dreamed of visiting. I shared my excitement with a bouncer, who pointed out historical spots where music legends once stood. I hoped Emily would find some appreciation in the atmosphere, even as she quietly stored her phone away again.
As the concert began, I positioned myself to shield her from an overly enthusiastic concertgoer nearby. When the aroma of marijuana wafted through the air, Emily turned to me and said, “You can smoke if you want to. It’s all right.” Her words left me momentarily stunned, but I responded, “That’s okay. I’m good as is.” I pondered how she might perceive me if I had chosen to partake—would she see me as cool, or merely as a man trying too hard to fit in?
By the time intermission arrived, we were both feeling the late hour, so we left the concert early and took a cab back to our hotel. I couldn’t shake the thought of whether Emily truly believed I would smoke. Was her comment a mere guess, or did she possess a deeper understanding? Reflecting on my journey into fatherhood, I questioned if I ever wanted to be the type of dad who would share such experiences with his children.
Fast forward to 2014, and I found myself at another concert with Emily, this time watching The Black Keys. The familiar smell returned, and we exchanged knowing smiles. Emily stood the entire time, while I settled in, relaxing to the music. She was unashamed to be seen with me, her non-smoking father, who could barely stay awake past 11 PM.
After the concert, I returned home to join my wife for a brief moment of relaxation while Emily drove off to reconnect with her friends. In that moment, it became clear that she was transitioning into her own world, while I remained anchored in mine.
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In summary, attending concerts with your teenage daughter can be a profound experience filled with opportunities for connection and understanding. Navigating the complexities of this relationship requires patience and an open heart.