I wrote this letter to my father 40 years ago. It’s interesting that I never talked about being gay. Truth is: I didn’t come out to myself until 1990, three years later! He was in deep decline by then and died before I was comfortable enough to tell him. Coward! It doesn’t matter; I’m pretty sure he knew anyway. I wasn’t like the other boys in the neighborhood and became an embarrassment for him from the time I was 5.
May 10, 1987
Dear Dad,
I realized something the other day that I just thought I ought to share with you. It’s funny how things turn out; you never know where your lessons are going to come from. And you almost never get to thank your most important teachers. Consider this letter to be a ‘thank you.’
What I realized was that the best things that I am are things I learned from you. 
Honestly, when people compliment me or express their appreciation for me – they’re usually noticing some part of my personality that came directly from you. Not that you sat me down and gave me the benefit of your wisdom. That – as we both know – never works. Rather, you taught me by example. I learned by watching you. (You didn’t even know I was looking, did you?)
Specifically, you taught me a deep belief in the goodness of almost all people – a near ‘Pollyanna’ attitude toward life. Sometimes I’m accused of being naive. More often, though, people praise my refreshing point of view. Thank you for giving that to me.
Your faith in people extended to all races, religions, colors and sexes. I am absolutely amazed (and very grateful) that I was raised in a home where Blacks, Jews, Chinese and Chicanos were not despised. You haven’t got a prejudiced bone in your body. 
And as a result, I am far more open minded than most folks I know. Thank you.
Women were always treated as people first. I find myself frequently offended by the attitudes of most men – whether expressed publicly or privately – towards women. They seem filled with condescension or hostility. The battle of the sexes was never waged in our house. Women were treated with respect – not because they were weaker or purer or on a pedestal – but because they were people, and all people were respected. As a result, I have an appreciation for women that most of my friends only pretend. And as a result, women appreciate me. Thanks again.
Somehow, you managed to teach me that all people are special, that everyone is an artist in their own way. 
As a result, I tend not to label people as ‘stupid,’ or ‘poor,’ or ‘lazy’ – and then use the label as a reason not to connect with them. I remember you hiring a day laborer who knew a little about masonry to help you build a fireplace for our soon to be enclosed patio. He went by ‘Popcorn,’ and once told you, ‘If you could be Black for just one Saturday night, you’d never want to be White again.’ Here’s the thing, though: you worked side by side with Popcorn as equals until the job was finished, and the two of you never shut up. It was constant conversation about nearly everything. Today I am just as comfortable talking to a mechanic or a waitress or a barber as I am with a Ivy League grad, and every time I do, I thank you.
I guess what it all boils down to is that you taught me how to be a real man. Not one who gets his identity from carrying a gun into the woods to kill something, or from driving the biggest truck, or from putting down other people. One who gets his pleasure not from the emotional and physical abuse of women, not from the domination of others. One who doesn’t have to get drunk or be loud or curse in seven languages to have fun. You taught me that being a man means having a genuine appreciation for all people, including myself, and to respect life. What a rare and beautiful lesson!
I love you.
Thank You Very Much –
Ps. This is just between you and me—but I’m also very grateful to Mom for keeping us speaking to each other long enough for us to get to the appreciation point!
I’ve been cleaning out my storage unit and came across a copy of this letter in a box of memories. (hmmmp! Memories are getting to be quite a theme for me. Am I getting old, or what?) I sent it to my dad five years before he died.
Here’s the odd part: though every word of the letter is true, I really didn’t like the guy very much; and I don’t think he cared much for me. Ours was not a violent war. We were kept in check by my mother. But it bubbled beneath the surface and colored most of our interactions. We were the Koreas: North and South staring at each other across a demilitarized zone, ready for a fight but avoiding it for fear of the wrath of a greater force.
Still, the things he didn’t actively try to teach me are the things I learned. The lessons were not things he pontificated about, they were just what he did. I learned by watching.
I am so glad I was able to write that letter to my dad while he was still alive. I’m sure it calmed a lot of the turmoil he lived with for years. Mostly, I’m just glad he was my dad.