Monday, June 4, 2012

My Dad and a Hookah Bar...

My Dad was a lot of things.

He was a son. He was a husband. He was a father. He was a disciplinarian. He was a provider. He was a boss. He was an employee. He was a world traveler – maybe even a spy. That’s a lot of things to be, especially at one time. Many of those titles he carried caused him stress. Especially the ‘father’ one.

I know I caused more grey hairs than I should have. Dad and I had a tumultuous relationship, to say the least. We butted heads more times than I can count. It took me a long time to see him as more than the interloper who took my mom’s attention away, and even longer to see him as more than just my disciplinarian. It took me longer still to see him as a Father who loved me and was just doing what he thought was right, the best way he knew how.

One of the things that helped me see my dad in a new light was the letter he sent to me when I was away at a Christian retreat. I thank God for the blessing that letter has brought to me. It is a treasured possession. When I read it I can hear his voice now that he is gone. Having a father share in his own words about his feelings and his reasons for living his life the way he did, is not something every child gets. I am grateful for the gift of it.

One of the other things that helped me to see my dad differently was a trip several years ago to a hookah bar.

After having a less than ideal dinner celebration for mom’s birthday at the Cheesecake Factory, we were getting ready to head home when I commented on a conversation I overheard in the ladies room. Upon expressing my ignorance over not knowing what in the world a hookah bar was, my Dad decided an education was in order. After an incredulous “You don’t know what a hookah bar is!?” he made a (possibly illegal) U-Turn and drove us to Sahara, in Sterling.

This is where I saw something akin to the rarity of an actual bigfoot sighting. I saw my Dad relax. I saw his barriers sort of melt away. His posture changed, his attitude changed, everything changed as soon as the hookah was put in front of him. Yes my dad took charge of the evening and our experience, but more like an excited kid wanting to share something enjoyed than a know-it-all trying to show off to the uneducated. He taught me a lot that night. He showed me that hot tea is better with some fresh mint in it and that a restaurant can be a home away from home. We had a wonderful time and I got to see what my dad was like as just a man instead of a father, a disciplinarian, a provider, a boss…

My Dad died a year ago tomorrow. Surprisingly, I’ve found I miss all the things that annoyed me when he was alive. All those times I would sigh and shake my head and say “oh, Dad!”. Even the things that irritated me… what I wouldn’t give to butt heads with him one more time! But over this past year, when I’ve missed him the most – when I’ve wanted to feel close to him in some way – I’ve gone back to the hookah bar. I can’t help but think the man I saw that night is who he would want me to remember. And I’m not the only person that remembers him when I go there.

You see, Dad apparently spent more time at Sahara than anyone knew. So much time that he had his own waiter. When I went there for the first time a few months after his death I took his picture with me. As we went to leave I felt compelled to tell the people there that he wouldn’t be coming back anymore. When I shared the picture with the woman who had served us (one of the owners) she recognized Dad immediately. She commented on how funny and wonderful he had always been and quickly called out to one of the other workers to go get Sameer. When Sameer came and I told him that Dad had died, he cried. He asked if he could keep the picture because Dad had been his friend. A year later, Sameer has his own hookah bar and remembers my father who was his friend. He is my friend now too. Every time I see Sameer, I am reminded that we share a picture of my Dad as a person not a lot of people got to see.

I miss my Dad a lot. I wish I had the chance to get to know him better as a person instead of all those other titles he carried that weighed him down so much. I love you, Dad. I’ll see you and Sameer tomorrow.