LESSON #8: Being supportive requires interactive participation

The family attends Jason's first professional game.

At 65, my father cannot get enough of talent competitions shows. ‘The Voice’, ‘X-Factor’, ‘Australia’s Got Talent’, ‘American Idol’… name it, and chances are he’s already asked my brother Shawn to season-pass the series for him. On any given night of the week, the hallways of my parents’ home are filled with the desperate sounds of young wanna-be pop stars. As soon as the show starts, my father is immediate transfixed… he enters an unbreakable trance, his eyes lit with wonder. I have no doubt that, if the house erupted in flames, he’d wait until the commercial break to evacuate the building.

It’s impossible to imagine a bigger fan than my father. Where others may laugh along at the appropriate moments, cry on cue after an emotional rendition of ‘My Heart Will go On’, or sit on the edge of their seats during the climatic moments of an elimination… my father will literally give a standing ovation for a well-enthused vocal performance. Right there in the living room.

“Dad… you don’t have to stand and clap. She can’t see you.”

“Nah… nah…” he’d say, batting away the emotions “what she just did… she deserves this. That was amazing.”

“But this isn’t live. It was taped 14 hours ago in LA.” I’d rebut, as I would inevitably stand and clap with him.

You see, for my father, being supportive has always been an interactive exercise.

LESSON #7: Try not to Run and Panic

When I was a kid living in Montreal, what you wore at Halloween was serious business. In fact, just a slight orange or yellow tinge on a single leaf would spark the start of my annual costume obsession. I’d spend weeks imagining my perfect get-up, days talking about it at school, and hours trying to talk my parents into buying exactly what I wanted. 

The Scream Mask Shawn bought in the 90's

My mother often opted to hand-sew our outfits, which I hated. All I wanted was the same store-bought ensembles my friends had, but in my mother’s eyes, mass production just wasn’t good enough for her children. She also had the same opinion when it came to candy – look! Home-made peanut butter cups! Freshly baked chocolate chip cookies! – which is where we drew a firm line. Our friends deserved real candy… the store bought kind made with 4 different types of sucrose and 6 different kinds of additives.

The only hand made item I proudly endorsed was my trick-or-treat bag. Unlike other kids, I learned very early on that a novelty pumpkin basket or plastic Halloween bag wasn’t going to suffice. If I had any hope in taking this trick-or-treat business seriously, I would need a double-woven cloth bag. Like a pillowcase. 

“Don’t! What are you doing? Lift, Tara, lift!” my dad would scream, as I’d drag my candy-laden pillowcase along the sidewalk. 

LESSON #6: Blending in and Belonging isn't the Same Thing

My family immigrated to Australia in late 1987 from Canada, with little knowledge about our soon-to-be surrounds. Without the Internet, social media, Skype and cheap airfares, the world seemed like a much bigger place in the 80’s. Though I had a fairly good idea of what existed beyond the great white maple syrup drenched lands of Canada, my geography was a little shaky. So when my mother told us we were moving to Australia, I immediately began to fantasise about strolling the streets of Vienna, listening to Mozart and eating an ungodly amount of Danishes. A European princess.

“No – Not Austria… Australia. Like in Crocodile Dundee.”

My mother’s correction cut through me like a knife. But THAT GUY didn’t know how to use an escalator. What kind of godforsaken country doesn’t have an escalator? I watched Crocodile Dundee over and over again, trying to make sense of the insanity. Time and time again, all I could deduce from the movie was that Australia had a lot of open space, was filled with crocodiles, populated by leathery old men and seriously lacked the presence of a decent shopping center. It was clear to me that my parents had lost their minds.

LESSON #5: I Have a 1980's TV Dad

I don’t need a Buzzfeed test to tell me that my father is a 1980’s TV dad.

The loving, caring, supportive yet goofy and fun father figure of every single 1980’s sitcom was what I thought all fathers were like. In my mind, those sugary scripted comedies might as well have been documentaries... that's how realistic that kind of father was to me.   

It took me a while to understand that my father was the exception, and not the norm. My friends often fantasized about being taken into the folds of the Huxtable household or adopted into the Seaver family, even for one day… just so they can experience a father like theirs. It was a yearning I never comprehended.... because, truth be told, I always thought my father could run paternal rings around Steven Keaton. In his sleep. No contest.