Picture this: It’s a vibrant spring day in 2008. My daughter, almost 14, and I find ourselves in San Francisco for a pop culture conference. She’s on the brink of her teenage years, a time when kids start growing up faster than we can keep up with.
On this trip, I decide to let her borrow my cell phone. You see, my wife and I have opted to hold off on giving her her own phone, which apparently makes us the ultimate villains in the quest for teenage freedom. She tucks my phone into the back pocket of her skinny jeans, and I’m honestly amazed at her ability to text while walking without crashing into anything.
We had hoped this getaway would distract her from her friends. I feel like we’re reconnecting—she’s engaged while I present my paper on comic book golems. Eighteen minutes in, I’m delivering my thoughts, but her thumbs are moving so fast that I don’t even notice!
After my presentation, we grab coffee and hop on a trolley to City Lights Bookstore. I share tales of the Beats and the legendary Ferlinghetti. We buy her a fresh copy of Howl, and then it’s off to a bar and grill near Fisherman’s Wharf. I let her take a few sips of my beer, and we both enjoy a light buzz, laughing about people we know and those we don’t. I wonder: can this moment of joy last beyond our time here?
Next, we stroll into the Virgin Megastore searching for a Bloc Party record that one of the speakers had mentioned. As we flip through the bins, I catch her texting again. What’s she saying about me? About us? I can’t help but wonder if she thinks I’m cool for allowing her to tag along on this little adventure.
On our final night in the city, I surprise her with tickets to Fillmore West—a legendary venue I’ve dreamed of visiting since the days of Santana and Hendrix. The Black Crowes are performing, and it’s amusing to think I traveled across the country to see a band from our hometown.
Upon entering the venue, I chat with a bouncer who points out the historical corners where music legends once hung out. I hope she can appreciate this rich history, even as she quietly follows me, her phone resting in her pocket—perhaps out of battery, I think, but I don’t ask. Does she wish she were here with a friend instead of me?
As we get settled, a slightly wild character to our right lights up a joint. I remember a Jackson Browne concert from the ’70s when I declined a toke out of respect for a friend. But tonight, my daughter turns to me and says, “You can smoke if you want to. It’s all right.” Her words throw me off balance. I manage to respond, “That’s okay. I’m fine as I am.”
What would she think if I had indulged? Would she tell her friends her dad is cool, or just an old guy trying too hard?
At 11:00 PM, we were exhausted (East Coast time!), so we left the Fillmore and caught a cab back to our hotel. I ponder why my daughter thought I would smoke. Was it just a guess, or did she have an intuition about me? I also found myself reflecting—did I ever want to be that dad who would casually get stoned with his kids? Certainly, I must have had those thoughts during my cooler, younger days. But what changed me?
Fast forward to another concert night in 2014, where my daughter and I are at a Black Keys show in Greenville, South Carolina. The unmistakable scent fills the air, and we share a knowing smile. She stands for the whole show, while I happily sink into my seat, thankful for the chance to enjoy great music alongside her.
After the concert, I drive us home, and she heads off to meet her friends. In that moment, I realize that our worlds are beginning to diverge, each of us in our own life stages.