Let me tell you about my father

When I was a little girl I liked to go to the bank with my father. While he was busy making mysterious adult transactions I neither understood nor cared about, I would cling to the lip of the teller's desk and study the alien landscape of nameplates and lollipops--you know, the little Dum Dum pops that have probably presided over teller's desks since time began. (My father always went for the Cream Soda. I myself was a Butterscotch girl.) The little silver chain that tethered the pens to their posts fascinated me. I used to twirl them on the desk and watch them move like snakes. Yes, it's safe to say I loved going to the bank with my dad.

One afternoon my dad and I were waiting in a particularly tense and busy line; you know the type I mean. People were hot and impatient wanting to get their shit done and go home. Not the kind of setting for life-defining inspiration, but that's where it happened I guess. There was a man at the counter in front of us and he was angry. He was very angry and he was taking it out on the teller. I don't remember exactly what he was saying, childhood has skewed that memory, but I have a distinct impression of the grim tension swirling around the forest of adult bodies above me. This was not a pleasant scene and no one was doing anything to change it.

But let me tell you about my father. He shook his head and stepped forward and walked right up to the very angry man, who could have had a gun or a knife or a really accurate uppercut. My father walked up to him and said something like "Hey man, she's just doing her job so back off and cool down a little, alright?" Nothing too sensational. The man got flustered and stormed off, no knives or punches or fanfare. Do you know what the people in line did?

They clapped. Every one of them clapped.

I can't describe what that did to me or why I still tear up every time I think about it. I don't know why it moves me so, this little memory of a man standing up for something, even if the something was only the dignity of a young woman being heckled. I was so proud of him, and proud to be his daughter. I told him he was a hero. He just laughed.

But then, that's my father for you.