Drops
Joe Masterman
Water raced across the car windows as we pushed through the summer rain. My head buzzing against the glass, I watched drops of liquid personality race to the edge of the windowpane.
Just over my shoulder, my father was reading his newest "assignment," the same sort of thing he's put me through since I could first speak.
His industry on my behalf is unceasing, often welcome, occasionally tedious and annoying. That day, I thought I was glad for it. Glad that he has kept such a consistent interest in my life, my well-being, my future. Glad that he genuinely does want to help.
He looked up, shifting the list to where I could see it. We discussed my answers. After reading the last one aloud, he paused. His eyes seemed strained, almost concerned.
"And I guess this one was a joke?"
His assignment was to write five things I wanted to gain from college. For the last one, I had written "chances to feel educated."
His question cut me and clotted my throat. I felt defensive, hurt. His frankness made me think there was some obvious fact about education I had missed. I felt foolish, as if my vision of college were just some ridiculous fantasy.
He waited for me to say yes. I didn't want to disagree with those earnest blue eyes, but I didn't agree with them, either. After a moment, a mangled sound escaped me, and my eyes found the window again.
The droplets of water were of different sizes, speeds, and paths. Sometimes their paths crossed, and they collided. Sometimes they simply drifted apart.
I love my father, but we have two very different minds. His is not wrong, but it looks for the next bullet point on the resume, the classes that yield an extra zero on the paycheck. He is focused and persevering, but he views knowledge - and, largely, the world - as a utility function.
I felt my father hold me in his gaze for a moment longer before shifting his eyes back to the road. "I mean, that's not really a defining goal. That's something that'll just come." He realized he had hurt me, but he wasn't sure how. After all, knowledge is only worth gaining if it is practical, and profitable.
As for me, I love the mind. I want to think, to learn, to understand. The themes of literature, connections of history, nuances of politics and law - these are what truly excite me. I find the feeling of growing, exploring, pursuing, and satiating my mind's appetite, both beautiful and empowering. I had been completely serious about what I had written.
I was torn between my appreciation for my father and my understanding of our differences. His words trickled through my head as I watched the water on the glass.
My father and I both want the same thing: the best for me. We just have quite different ideas of how that will come about. He and I, the drops on the window, we have our own paths. We converge. We diverge. We converge again.
There is something to what my father said. I will not be driven by mere economic gain, but I won't be cavalier about what I do, either. Though I don't completely agree with him, I can appreciate and embrace his discipline and sense of pain. It's not a race to the end. It's a journey. And no one path can get me all the way there by itself.
I looked at him until he looked back at me. Then, I took the list from his hand and asked, "So, what would you suggest for a goal?"
I won't change my views merely to appease my father, or anyone. But still, for him and for me, I'll see what he has to say.
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