The kids and I spent the first week of summer down at my parents’ house, basking in all the delights of a pool, homemade bread, and lots of grandparent time. And though I appreciated these things, along with library days and a visit to my favorite cookie spot, my favorite part of the trip was easily the night the kids went to bed early, and my dad and I watched Rogue One together.
I always enjoy showing a movie I like to someone who has not seen it before, but this was more than that. This was the sort of enjoyment you get when you settle down by a warm fire after being out in the cold or hug your little one when she falls asleep in your lap—the kind of enjoyment that makes you smile even to remember it.
Part of this has to arise from nostalgia. In that evening, my parents’ spacious living room, with its smooth leather sofa and hand-blown glass lighting, took me back to the living room of my childhood, with a curving sectional sofa and brick fireplace, where dad and I watched Star Trek: The Next Generation and The X-Files on a television that was definitely not flat. My mom had little interest in either of these shows, at least compared with dad, and my brother was a bit on the young side, especially during the Star Trek years. He watched with us sometimes—he was even Worf for Halloween once—but I still felt that those were somehow special things between dad and me. It was like Dad and I were in a club, and when we’d sit and watch our sci-fi together, the living room was our clubhouse, only it wasn’t a club for kids. Watching Dad’s shows with him made me a grown-up for a little while.
When I hear the phrase “daddy-daughter time,” I think of gender-specific events, like dances, concerts, or date nights. Those are fine in their way, but our sci-fi nights certainly weren't that sort of thing. For one, my mom and brother were often with us, and for another, it had nothing to do with my being a girl and Dad being a man. Dad wasn’t treating me like his little princess; he was treating me like a little person. He was sharing something he liked with me because he thought I might like it, too. Fast forward a few decades, and our quiet night watching Rogue One not only brought back happy memories, but allowed me to be the sharer.
There is still more, though. I didn’t think of it when I suggested the movie, but Rogue One is a father-daughter story. Yes, its overall narrative is more of a “Band of Brothers” sort of genre, but the protagonist’s arc is a daughter’s discovery of and response to her father’s choices. For me, the scene where Galen Erso delivers his hologram message to Jyn is one of the most moving in the film, but when I first saw it, I experienced it primarily from the parent’s perspective, thinking of my love for my children. As I watched with Dad, though, I noticed that he glanced over at me fairly often, and it struck me that if he, too, gravitated to that parental perspective, then he would think of me, even as I first thought of my daughter.
I often joke with my parents that when I had children, I was downgraded on their priority list. It’s the grandkids whose pictures adorn the walls and shelves, the grandkids who get the first hugs on each visit, the grandkids whose milestones often prompt visits to our house. I make these observations in good humor. I rejoice in the reciprocal love between my parents and my children, and I know that it enriches my love rather than detracts from it. But that doesn’t mean that two hours one night to remember that I am my father’s beloved daughter does not come with a particular sort of sweetness.
So on Father’s Day, I want to thank my dad both for those sci-fi nights in the 90s and for the Star Wars night a few weeks back. Thank you for inviting me into your club. Thank you for sharing everyday pleasures with me. Thank you for being the sort of dad whose love and character allow me to interpret fictional fathers with affection. Thank you for being the sort of dad who continues to inspire me to face challenges and change the world. I love you.
Love, Lins
I always enjoy showing a movie I like to someone who has not seen it before, but this was more than that. This was the sort of enjoyment you get when you settle down by a warm fire after being out in the cold or hug your little one when she falls asleep in your lap—the kind of enjoyment that makes you smile even to remember it.
Part of this has to arise from nostalgia. In that evening, my parents’ spacious living room, with its smooth leather sofa and hand-blown glass lighting, took me back to the living room of my childhood, with a curving sectional sofa and brick fireplace, where dad and I watched Star Trek: The Next Generation and The X-Files on a television that was definitely not flat. My mom had little interest in either of these shows, at least compared with dad, and my brother was a bit on the young side, especially during the Star Trek years. He watched with us sometimes—he was even Worf for Halloween once—but I still felt that those were somehow special things between dad and me. It was like Dad and I were in a club, and when we’d sit and watch our sci-fi together, the living room was our clubhouse, only it wasn’t a club for kids. Watching Dad’s shows with him made me a grown-up for a little while.
When I hear the phrase “daddy-daughter time,” I think of gender-specific events, like dances, concerts, or date nights. Those are fine in their way, but our sci-fi nights certainly weren't that sort of thing. For one, my mom and brother were often with us, and for another, it had nothing to do with my being a girl and Dad being a man. Dad wasn’t treating me like his little princess; he was treating me like a little person. He was sharing something he liked with me because he thought I might like it, too. Fast forward a few decades, and our quiet night watching Rogue One not only brought back happy memories, but allowed me to be the sharer.
There is still more, though. I didn’t think of it when I suggested the movie, but Rogue One is a father-daughter story. Yes, its overall narrative is more of a “Band of Brothers” sort of genre, but the protagonist’s arc is a daughter’s discovery of and response to her father’s choices. For me, the scene where Galen Erso delivers his hologram message to Jyn is one of the most moving in the film, but when I first saw it, I experienced it primarily from the parent’s perspective, thinking of my love for my children. As I watched with Dad, though, I noticed that he glanced over at me fairly often, and it struck me that if he, too, gravitated to that parental perspective, then he would think of me, even as I first thought of my daughter.
I often joke with my parents that when I had children, I was downgraded on their priority list. It’s the grandkids whose pictures adorn the walls and shelves, the grandkids who get the first hugs on each visit, the grandkids whose milestones often prompt visits to our house. I make these observations in good humor. I rejoice in the reciprocal love between my parents and my children, and I know that it enriches my love rather than detracts from it. But that doesn’t mean that two hours one night to remember that I am my father’s beloved daughter does not come with a particular sort of sweetness.
So on Father’s Day, I want to thank my dad both for those sci-fi nights in the 90s and for the Star Wars night a few weeks back. Thank you for inviting me into your club. Thank you for sharing everyday pleasures with me. Thank you for being the sort of dad whose love and character allow me to interpret fictional fathers with affection. Thank you for being the sort of dad who continues to inspire me to face challenges and change the world. I love you.
Love, Lins
Nothing sweeter than father/daughter love!
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