The unrecognized heroes

The unrecognized heroes

Fathers give their hearts, souls and deserve our
appreciation

By Aaron Howard

Daily Bruin Columnist

Mothers get all the credit. When a football player scores a
touchdown, he never says, "Hi Dad!" We all know about Whitney
Houston’s mother, Cissy Houston, but have you ever seen her father?
Fathers play the background role.

They’re the stagehands, the prop boys. They’re the ones who have
to pull the curtain closed, while the mother receives a standing
ovation. Fathers are the ones who work in the pit stop, change the
tires, refuel the car, while the mother gets all the glory after
passing the checkered flag.

With Mother’s Day comes much fanfare and attention. Hallmark
dedicates whole stores to this occasion. With Father’s Day comes
"25 percent off all ties" at Robinsons-May.

In the African American community, fathers are less and less
evident. As men succumb to the Aaron Hall "nastyman" syndrome,
trying to be players like R. Kelly and all these knuckleheaded
L.A.-based rappers, fatherhood is becoming extinct.

In our lust to do "all the things that your man won’t do," like
Joe, we forget about the crooners, like Brian McKnight who has a
wife and two children. He even dedicates a lullaby to them on his
album "I Remember You." When overall, these young brothers and
sisters grow up looking to Michael Jordan and Penny Hardaway as
their male role models, we got a problem.

And that’s why I’m so thankful. I’m thankful for the father that
God has given me. Throughout my brief 20 years, my dad has always
been there for me whenever I need him – to comfort, to guide,
correct and lead.

It was my dad who bought my first musical instruments. I
remember my tambourine, my drums and my little brown guitar. I
remember sitting next to my dad as he played our antique upright in
the living room while I banged black and white keys
indiscriminately. I often wondered how his fingers moved so fast
over the keys … and how did he know which ones to press?

Dad used to play the organ in church while I played the drums.
When church got real good, we’d break out into that shoutin’ music
where I played as fast as I could. I always wondered if I would
ever learn how to play the organ. Well, I don’t wonder anymore. But
even now, as I sit atop the organ bench in church, my dad is right
there behind me, always giving me instruction, always helping me
improve and become better.

Growing up, as all kids do, I sometimes had a fear of the dark.
I would call my dad into the room, and he’d sit with me until I
fell asleep. Sometimes he would fall asleep on the floor. I used to
wish he’d fall asleep on the floor because then the monsters
wouldn’t get me.

And then there were the times he took me and my sister to the
museum. Because my dad has his master’s degree in fine arts, and
his bachelor’s degree in philosophy, he’s big on art and culture
and things like that. Saturday became an adventure for my sister
and me as we visited the La Brea Tar Pits, the Museum of Science
and Industry, the California Museum of African-American Art, the
Museum of Natural History, the L.A. County Museum of Art, the
Children’s Museum and the list goes on and on.

But it was on these Saturdays that many of my impressions about
life were formed. From these simple museum trips I discovered the
many dimensions of life and the interrelatedness of color, space,
texture and structure that combine to make up the world in which we
live.

Because of my father, I can see the beauty in all of God’s
magnificent creation. I can see the hole in the doughnut as
important as the doughnut itself. I can see the sculptures in the
newly built Rolfe Hall courtyard and marvel at the grace and
elegance embodied in the human form.

It is because of my father that I know how to treat women, for
he always treats my mother with the utmost respect and dignity. I
learned about opening doors for women, standing whenever a woman
excuses herself from the table, pushing a young lady’s chair in
when she sits down and opening the passenger side-door of the car
for her to get in. All my notions of romance came from my dad. My
mom often talks about the time before they were married when my dad
wrote her a poem and cried as he recited it.

I think my heart rejoiced as much as my mom’s did when my dad
would come home with flowers on their anniversary, Valentine’s Day,
Mother’s Day and sometimes, on no special occasion. Big on giving
gifts, he would bring my mom and my sister things from work. When
I’d ask "Where’s mine?!" he’d say, "They’re women. We men give the
gifts, and they receive them." I never did quite understand that
explanation. Many things are hidden from the mind of an 8-year-old.
But now I see.

I don’t think my dad knows how much I appreciate his sacrifices
for me, even now. Back in the day, during my freshman year, when I
played basketball with Hamid, Dean, Jose and Damien, I would stay
out until 12 a.m. They’d ask, "How are you getting home?" I would
reply, "I’ll just call my dad."

In retrospect, I realize how concerned about me he was. He would
get out of the bed, travel 20 minutes from Crenshaw and 52nd and
take me all the way home, never complaining or reprimanding me for
abusing his great love for me.

And as I look into the corridors of my future, I wonder what
kind of father I will be. Will I be the kind of father who, when my
kids do wrong, purposely spanks them lighter than I should because
I don’t want to hurt them? That’s how my dad spanked me and my
sister.

Will I be the kind of father who constantly pushes my kids to
enter competitions and engage in oratory, music, art and other
activities to uplift their self-esteem and enhance their skills?
That’s exactly what my dad did to us.

But most importantly, will I be a strong, God-fearing man, who
puts God first in the household and emphasizes the Bible as the
authority? That’s what my dad did.

As a minister, he’s the one who (even now) gathers us together
for family prayer and says the blessing at the dinner table. When
I’m sick, he prays for me. When I’m healthy, he prays that I stay
that way. He’s the one who wakes us early on Sunday mornings to get
ready for church. And that’s what’s so great about my father: He
leads not only by words, but by example.

I thank God for my father. To put up with my disobedient,
stubborn butt, he had to be patient, loving, stern, kind and
long-suffering. I realize now what an outstanding job he did in
raising me. I can now see him as the ultimate role model; as the
wisest man I know.

Thanks dad, for everything you’ve done for me. I love you, and I
only hope I can impart the same values you’ve instilled in me to my
children. Peace.

Howard is a fourth-year anthropology student. His column appears
on alternate Thursdays.

Aaron Howard

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