My dad and I never got along as well as we liked. There's no easy way around that. At the base of it, we just had too many disagreements on too many things to ever be the daddy-daughter duo that we see all too often in life and media. We would fight, we would argue, we would yell; about anything from differing opinions on a baseball team or politics or whether or not Kim Petras had "the Surgery" (this argument is where I learned that it's easy to shut someone up on this particular topic by going "what, do you want to see her dick or something?"). He was an old soldier from a different time — I was, and remain to this day, the anarchist trans daughter with tattoos and piercings and a middling writing career. We were never going to see eye to eye on everything.
I don't say all this to make him look like a bad guy. In fact, I say all this to present the opposite; my dad was the greatest man I ever personally knew. In spite of everything I could ever say to malign him or make him look like a terrible person, he was always one of the shining pillars of my life. Without him, there's no Hana Willow. And all it took for me to figure that out is for him not to make it out the other side of a heart attack.
My dad was a man defined by his upbringing as much as anyone else is. Growing up bouncing around the United States, from Georgia to Kansas to Chicago and everywhere in between, my dad was not a man for what I like to call "active friendship." He wasn't going to the bar every week with his friends, he wasn't calling them once a month to catch up, but if anyone he ever knew was in town for even a brief moment, or if he was in theirs, the conversation would pick up as if the time between visits was never even real. I didn't know how valuable this would be when I saw this pattern of behavior throughout my childhood until I reached my late twenties. Unfortunately, I am currently in my late twenties while writing this.
He was a tough guy who cared so much about everyone around him. When I was graduating high school, the class ring catalog came by our house. I wasn't much into it, even in my pre-transition phase; the rings were gaudy, large, masculine, and ugly. Even the more feminine styles were something I would never want to wear or look at, so I pretty much ignored it. That night, when he came home from work, he looked at it and laughed out loud at how they're still using the same company his school had used for his class ring almost 40 years prior. I asked him why I'd never seen the ring if he had one — he replied, "Oh, that thing? Some assholes were making fun of your uncle, so I got in a fight. Lost it somewhere in the snow during that. Went back to find it the next day and I never saw it again. Oh, well." My mom pointed out that the ring was about $150 in 1985 money, which is worth about $450 today, and the only rebuttal he had was "What was I gonna do? Let them call my brother a fag?" (His heart was in the right place. My uncle is gay.) I would go on to hear many more stories over the years of my father getting into fights on someone else's behalf that would take up too much of this piece to list.
He was one of the most silently thoughtful men I've ever seen. Too many times in my adult life, I have been infirmed due to illness. Sometimes, it was as simple as me complaining about a cold only to come home from the office to see his beaten up old cooler sitting on my doorstep full of cold medicine, orange juice, and crackers. Other times, it was me complaining how hard it was getting to walk due to my ankylosing spondylitis and him showing up with a new wheelchair and instructions on how to put it together. Never once did he expect anything as thanks for this. Never once did he allow me to give him anything or do anything for him as explicit thanks for this. When I asked why, he would simply say, "Well, it's my job, ain't it?" At his funeral, I heard stories I had never heard before of my dad knowing his best friend was gonna fly into the barracks at some bumfuck early hour, so he started smoking up some of his famous brisket and ribs at what must have been about eleven at night so that the two of them could have barbecue and beers when his friend landed at about 5 AM. They hadn't seen each other in years at that point.
The old man was silent when it came to his thoughtfulness, but by god, did he love to yap. He was always cracking a joke or saying something silly — even if maybe the joke wasn't in the best taste. He had a crass, goofy, borderline misogynistic sense of humor, but never to the point where anything he said in jest was outright offensive. He would make jokes about how he wanted his next wife to be someone like Pamela Anderson; when someone pointed out that a supermodel would never deign to go out with a 5'7" 300lb baldie, he would rub his gut and say "Even with alllllll this lovin' to go around?" just to make my mom roll her eyes. For him, getting my mom to say something like "You're so stupid!" would be tantamount to an entire theater into an uproar of laughter. I guess we know where I got my appreciation for a silly joke, even when it isn't the most appropriate time. At his funeral, the coffin was placed too high for my mom to give him one last kiss goodbye, so she was practically hoisting herself up onto the casket to do so. I nudged my sister to point it out and choked out, "They couldn't have lowered the fuckin' thing a bit?" while we were both crying. She said, "God, you are definitely his daughter."
Earlier, I mentioned he didn't go out much. That was true about 50 weeks out of the year. Those other two weeks were a mostly-annual trip to Las Vegas, Nevada. This is where I first saw Dave, the man, and not Andy, the soldier. When my dad got to go to Vegas, it was like all the weight of everything in life came off his shoulders. For those two weeks, money suddenly became a minor barrier to getting the things we wanted, work was nonexistent, and we actually, finally just got to Hang Out. Ever since I was about eight years old, the yearly Vegas trip would be something I dearly looked forward to, just to get to see my dad be a Regular Dude. If he was normally at a 6 or 7, Vegas turned my dad up to 10 or 11. The man who was always in bed by 10 PM at the latest, waking up at 5:30 for PT, flying twelve-hour missions, etc. was suddenly staying up until 5 or 6 AM playing blackjack, drinking whiskey, and smoking cigarettes. For those two weeks, I got to see my dad just relax. It was the best shit in the world. I'm sure the buffets, seemingly-unlimited arcade card, and rollercoasters helped, too, but my favorite memories of those trips will always be getting to see my dad just cut loose. I will always fondly remember the time that he felt bad for staying out too late the one time we went together when I was an adult but not old enough to gamble; he tossed a wad of bills at my pillow as he walked in and slurred, "Get yourself something nice tomorrow, kid. Sorry I fucked around all night." I still have the money clip from that wad. I use it when I need to save up cash for something important. We never went to Vegas together after I turned 21; it will always be one of my greatest regrets in life.
As much as I loved to disagree with him, he will always be a foundational part of who I am. There would not be what I affectionately refer to as "the white girl trapped inside my soul" if it weren't for him; my love of a good beer, good barbecue, country music, shooting a gun, playing cards, and going fishing would never have existed without the old man. I wouldn't have spent time on the farm growing up if it weren't for him. And now, I'll never get to go out and hunt, or fish, or have a beer, or smoke some meat with him. Ever again. I'm gonna miss that old man every day.
