Late afternoons during July in Southern California are like days in paradise. The sun is bright, the sky is clear, the temperature is warm, and the daylight is slow to disappear. These conditions make for perfect days filled with endless activities.
On one such day nearly eleven years ago, my dad and I were setting off for the park. It was one of his rare days off, and he wanted to take me to the park to see how much I had advanced at skating since the last time he'd seen me skate.
When we left the house, I had my roller skates on, and shot past him on the driveway, moving as fast as I could towards his car that was parked along the curb. Instead of stopping at the car, however, I darted straight out into the road – without looking both ways. There were no cars anywhere, thankfully, but there was the immediate shout of a very angry father.
Needless to say, my dad was pissed. At first, my ten year old mind didn’t comprehend why he was so angry with me. I was just skating. I didn’t talk back to him. I wasn’t rude to anybody. I didn't take anything I wasn’t supposed to. I did nothing that affected anyone else, so why was he mad?
After five minutes of my dad yelling at me, we finally got in the car and headed to the park. After a ten minute drive, we were at our destination, and it was then that my dad explained to me more coherently why he was so angry. It was a simple, common-sense explanation: I didn’t look both ways, and if there had been a car, I could’ve died. It’s a simple concept to any of us now, and I’m sure most parents would have similar reactions if their child had done that.
Yet at that moment, upon receiving that explanation, I realized how much my dad truly loved me. The visceral and raw emotion that my dad displayed out of fear for my safety spoke volumes to me. For him to become so animated, so angry at the mere possibility of me being hurt because of a dumb action I do – this displayed a clear and strong love he felt towards me.
This introduced me to a different kind of love. Up to that point in my young life, love was just loosely associated with smiles, happiness and fun times. I was nowhere close to grasping how intricate and complex love can be, but my dad was giving me an inkling of that love.
It was a love that didn't mean you did whatever it took to make sure they're always smiling and happy; a love that didn't mean just saying or doing the right things to keep them feeling good; a love that didn't only have one type of response.
It's a love that cares enough about a person to be angry with them when they're being an idiot. It's a love that is bursting at the seams out of concern for someone else – so much that you can't help but yell at them. It's a love that doesn't care about feelings, but cares about the individual, and that is a love I can only hope to properly share with those I care about.