Dad died a few weeks ago. He was not an obvious feminist ally at first glance; he started his 48 year military career back in the 1950s, not exactly the most progressive of times. He didn’t speak up much, and though he delighted in talking about politics from time to time, he was in his 80s before I knew his voting preferences.
He also didn’t talk about feminism or women’s rights, at least not directly. He did, however, delight in his all-female family, starting with my Mom. She was a rebel, having left her home in rural Alberta for Toronto, having her own career, and having and keeping a child (me) at a time when doing so outside of marriage was almost unheard of. They dated for a month, decided on a Tuesday to get married on a Saturday, and were deeply in love for 63 years.
My sister and I were raised to believe there was almost nothing we couldn’t do if that was what we wanted. Olympic swimming goals and my career as a concert pianist were derailed by lack of swim club and musical talent, but he happily paid for and drove me to all those swimming and piano lessons, even when money was very tight. Though he never finished high school himself, he encouraged and supported both of us to go to university (my sister did journalism, law, and ethics; I did music, political science, French and international development).
One of my favourite memories is the time he lamented that he hadn’t been a good role model because neither my sister nor I were married. No Dad, you were the best model. You showed us what being a great partner and father looked like, and we weren’t prepared to settle for anything less.
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