When my father walks into a room, he cannot help but radiate badass. Since high school, he has often reminded me how much cooler he is than I am. I usually ignore the comment and roll my eyes, but deep down, I know he’s right.
During my last visit home, my father tried to convince me to drive to Atlanta with him and his friends.
“I don’t feel up to it. I just want to stay home tonight, “ I pleaded with my father, who is twice my age.
“No, come on. We’ll just take two cars so you only have to go to dinner and everyone else can go to the party,” he reasoned with me. His voice is hoarse and deep with a thick New York accent. Numerous people have told me that he sounds like the Godfather.
Twenty minutes later, I went downstairs to meet my father, who is a very handsome man, according to my entire high school basketball team. He’s wearing a tailored cotton-silk dress shirt and slacks. The shirt was royal blue with rich gold stripes running through the fabric; the pants were baggy with cargo pockets hanging near his knee. My eyes fell to his shoes, which matched the exact blue and yellow found in the rest of the outfit. I felt underdressed in jeans and a fitted white tee. Accepting this as a loss, I left the house with my father.
In the city, we don’t have to wait in the line at the door of the restaurant or for a table. It was almost as if people were mesmerized by my father’s neon outfit. Surrounded by chic décor and patrons, I couldn’t help but feel plain.
“We got the hook-up at this club down the street. It’s supposed to be Kanye’s BET after-party,” my father said.
Yes, that’s Kanye as in Kanye West. My father, while an orthodontist by day, is a manager of sorts of an up-and-coming hip-hop group named Duo Live. He was at the MTV Music Video Awards while I was in my apartment watching them. While most people would immediately jump at the opportunity to pop their collars with a number one hip-hop artist, I tried to muster the energy to party like a rock star with Kanye, but there was no hope.
“I just want to go home,” I declared in response to his question. I was tired, underdressed, and wanted nothing more than to curl up in my bed back in the quiet suburbs.
My father’s eyes widened and he laughed, at the same time accidentally spilling a cup of water on me. Tired, wet and frustrated, I felt my eyes beginning to water. I rushed from the table to the bathroom, making a spectacle as I did. He bid adieu to his friends and took me home minutes later.
I finally accepted that my father will always be hipper than I am. Born and raised in New York, he has witnessed the birth of hip-hop first hand, whereas I have witnessed the rise and fall of Britney Spears. His wardrobe is loud and colorful. My wardrobe is full of blacks and neutrals. I prefer a quiet evening at home. He goes out and parties with hip-hop superstars during the weekend. I’m pretty much a dweeb compared to my father.
Yet I’m okay being the dweeb. I like that my father draws more attention than I do. In high school, I didn’t have to worry about the pressures from the “cool” kids because I knew they could only aspire to be as “with it” as my father. I don’t have to worry about finding something to do at night when I’m home. I simply look to my father, and he always comes through with one of his amazing connections. I can afford to be plain because my father is cool enough for the both of us.
As I’ve gotten older, my appreciation for my father has only grown. While my father sometimes describes my style as “boring”, he accepts that we are very different people. I know he’s only trying to help when he insists I get the designer-embellished sweater rather than the comfortable plain one from the Gap. I can only hope that as I get older I can maintain my own identity while expanding my coolness, even if that involves biting the bullet and partying with Kanye and my pops.
