Dear Substack, meet my Dad
#4: It’s Father’s Day. Yesterday I asked how we see our dads. Today, let me introduce you to mine.
Dear Substack, let me introduce you to my dad.
A dinosaur of dinosaurs—in the good way. He knows the world pre-calculator, and when I was a kid he’d always tell me to check the calculator, because it might be wrong.
That dinosaur speaks four languages—and not “can I have a beer, por favor,” but the underlying grammar, etymology, phonetics, literature, and history of the countries where they’re spoken.
A true fanatic, with a passion for learning and discovery. For as long as I can remember, he was either teaching at school or hidden in his office—more of a lair, really, full of old books, notebooks, papers, and dust.
A mad scientist. An eccentric. Good-hearted underneath, with good intentions, though he might not show it unless you’ve spent years with him. He taught me chess. He taught me my first maths. He taught me English, French, German, Latin, and Polish. A teacher at heart—my first teacher. Without him, I would never be the person I am and I am forever gratefult to him.
He turned 72 this year, and last time I was in Poland, he insisted he could still do five pull-ups.
He’s also the man who taught me the headstand and the handstand when I was a kid. He loves walking, and would take me on long walks.
The same man once went toe to toe with a lifeguard—told him he couldn’t really swim. They decided to test it. The lifeguard nearly drowned, and my dad swam back, dragging him to shore.
The same man who, during communist times in Poland—when the militia was at the height of its power—dragged a militia officer out of his seat in the cinema. The seat was my dad’s, by the booking. The film was Jaws.
When I was about to start secondary school, my dad was adamant he had to speak to one person and one person only: the English teacher. He believed that if the English teacher was no good, I’d pick up bad habits and a bad accent—and that would be a real shame.
The same man played his own maths teacher at chess because he thought his end-of-year grade was too low. And you know what? He won.
My dad is many people in one. If I had to choose one, I’d say he’s a born teacher—and a gloriously mad language scientist who stops and talks to anyone, always finding some common thread.
What’s your relationship with your dad now?
I believe everyone has mixed feelings about their parents—and those feelings shift with the season of life we’re in. When we’re young, we often don’t think well of them, because they ban us from things, they’re strict, they impose their way of seeing the world, and we don’t see the good intentions behind it.
It’s worth remembering that our parents did things to the best of their knowledge and ability. They’re not ideal—they’re the same flawed human beings we are. They lived a different life, a different reality. Different jobs. A different world. It’s easy to sit and judge them now, from a distance. I only came to understand this with time.
I also believe parents change. The same dad who was strict 20 or 30 years ago might be a different person now. My dad is still stubborn as hell, but his approach to me today is nothing like it was when I was fifteen. I can’t say it’s right—it depends—but at 40, and a father myself, I see it more clearly.
When we’re kids, our parents look after us. Then, as they get older, something flips—they start to behave a little more like children themselves. I don’t know if you’ve had the same impression. It probably depends on how old they are, and how old you are.
And finally, the most painful one.
How often do you see your dad?
Most people don’t think about this day to day. I don’t either—I’m too occupied with the everydayness of my own life.
But right now is the moment to think about it. Because it’s Father’s Day.
How close you are to your parents when you’re a kid. How they’re there for you, any time you need them. And when we’re young, we don’t always appreciate that.
At what age do we realise how important they’ve been—looking after us, shaping us, making us who we are?
How much time do we actually have left with them? And how often do we really see them?
My dad is 72 and lives in Poland. I live in London. My son is here too, and I’m tied to his school schedule, full-time work, flight availability, and the rest of it.
If I stay stuck in my own everydayness, and ignore the fact that time flies, and see my dad only once a year—then I might see my dad eight more times, if he lives to eighty.
And that breaks my heart. Because when you see your parents in person rarely, you notice how fast time passes — you watch them grow weak and fragile, and that’s one of the most painful things to face as an adult.
Now, what can you do about it?
This idea—counting how many times you might see your dad before he’s gone—I got from Jesse Itzler. It’s a good reminder to live in the moment, and to take the time to appreciate every one we have with our dads.
The second thing: before you everjudge your dad harshly about anything, remember that your parents lived in different times. They weren’t ideal. They had their own problems, their own shit to deal with—like we do now. And even if they weren’t the best parents in the world, they were acting to the best of their knowledge, with good intentions.
Let’s use moments like Father’s Day to recall the best times we had with our dads. And if you don’t have many, try to see them as a learning experience—use your dad as the anti-example that helped you become a better father yourself.
And if you carry any pain in your heart caused by your dad—I’m truly sorry. I’d like to leave you with this.
Final word
There’s an old Buddhist teaching called the Sallatha Sutta — the Arrow. It goes like this. When something painful happens, we get struck by an arrow. That’s the first arrow, and we can’t always avoid it. Illness, distance, ageing, losing the people we love—that arrow lands on everyone.
But then most of us reach down, pick up a second arrow, and drive it into ourselves. The second arrow is everything we add on top: the dread, the replaying, the resentment, the suffering. And that one is optional.
The pain is real. The suffering we pile on it is a choice.
So feel the first arrow. Let it land. Let it hurt. But try not to fire the second one into yourself. Whether it’s the years you won’t get back with your dad, or the hurt he caused you that you still carry—the first arrow has already landed. You don’t have to keep shooting the second.
One last thing.
Dear Substack, say hi to my dad.
I changed the name of the publication—an idea that came from the thing my dad lectured me about my whole life. He always told me to “question and think”. About everything people tell me, and everything around me.
Happy Father’s Day to every dad that might read it.
Take it easy and do your thing,
Jack