Dad and me
Reputation, distance; consistency and change; perspective; these are a few of the themes running through my head after a week with my dad and at a conference with people I now consider friends. (Not that I didn’t like them before, but for whatever semantic or sociological reason it is easier to attach the “friend” label to someone I’ve shaken hands with.)
I got from DC to Raleigh via the good offices of someone who lives locally and was driving down to JCDL anyway. I was (and still am) fully prepared to split the cost of a tank of gas, but I wasn’t asked to. It so happens that not long ago I was involved in getting the driver a new (and so far, better) job.
My involvement, mind you, consisted of a bit of serendipity (the job is repository-related and the employer got in touch with me first) and two or three emails. That was it. Honestly. Anybody would have done the same thing. I do understand, though, that from the other side that transaction looks a bit different—quite a bit more momentous—and so right or wrong, I wasn’t quite prepared to insist.
When we got to my house, we stuck around for a bit so that the driver could figure out directions to his hotel. That important task accomplished, he asked for a tour of the back yard, whose water-gardens and vined trellises and profusion of plantings represent thirty years of my parents’ labor. I hauled my stuff to my old bedroom, got whacked a couple times by psycho-puss, and went out back to see what was going on, in case my friend needed rescue from one of my dad’s hallmark political tirades.
Which he, um, did. I grew up with my dad. I know how he behaves. Some things don’t change. I was expecting another get-rich-quick scheme; I heard all about the latest one at Sunday lunch after the tutorial. I was expecting fulminations against his former place of work; I got ’em. I was expecting status-conscious praise; shortly before I left, Dad told me that he’d never imagined I’d be doing what I am, but he’s proud that I’m in the forefront of my profession.
I’m not. I’m not even in the forefront of my niche in the profession. How could I be, a year in? It’s not even a goal of mine. Kicking Elseviley Verlag’s butt to the curb, that’s a goal of mine (though if Springer keeps pulling stuff like this, I may have to apologize abjectly to Jan Velterop and find myself another bit of shorthand slang). Putting scholarly publishing and archiving on a sounder footing, that’s a goal of mine. More usable electronic texts, that’s a goal of mine. Fame, fortune, honorary degrees? Not so much.
And as for his imagination, he never once imagined me anything but a tenured university professor at a Research I. I daresay he’s trumping up my status to console himself for his deep disappointment in me. But if playing silly-buggers with my career helps him, I won’t argue it with him. I said “thank you” and shut up.
Funny thing is, couple days into the conference, my friend said to me, “Your dad—he’s a really cool guy!” Which put a new spin on things entirely. Maybe my dad isn’t the problem. Maybe his too-easily-embarrassed kid is the problem.
The day after the conference ended, another new friend emailed me to invite me to a party. Dad talked her into town over the phone when she got a little lost. So she and I went to the party, and we hit a comics shop and a coffee-dessert place afterwards, and I at least had a wonderful time. Dad didn’t say word one against it, though it was my last night in town. And she, too, complimented me on having a cool dad.
On the train trip home, I occupied two-thirds of my brain with Willinsky and Benkler and let the other third wander about considering how Dad and I are perhaps more alike than I like to let on, both for good and ill. And how he’s not such a bad guy. And how a little outside perspective is a good re-evaluation tool.
And things like that.