My father is a quirky man in many respects. And because of these quirks, he fits perfectly into the universal stereotype of what most teenagers would consider a “dad.”

My father, of course, pulls aptly named “dad jokes” out of his back pocket at every opportunity, often at the dinner table, prompting groans and scattered laughter among my small family. 

When he would tuck me in in middle school, he would always give me a fist bump. And this was no normal fistbump; he loved to make animals out of them. When I reached out my fist, he would open his palm like he was giving a high-five and say gleefully, “Turkey!” He had a few other animals he rotated through, but that was by far his favorite. 

Of course, I was embarrassed by these things to some degree, but I found that I willingly participated in the fist bumps and fueled his dad-joke obsession by giving him dad-joke books for his birthday. When his craziness was just in front of me or my mother and sister, I felt free to laugh at his jokes and play along with his mispronunciations. However, when I took my dad shopping in public or was at a social event with him, jokes and little family traditions became sources of embarrassment. He was just too dad.

Maybe it was just hearing others’ stories of the zany things their dads did or said, told with a face red from embarrassment, that initially caused me to feel awkward. However it started, I can definitely say that around the beginning of freshman year, I stopped giving him our nightly fist bump, stopped giggling at his corny jokes, and stopped participating in what I considered childish and embarrassing interactions with my dad. 

I considered myself too old for his shenanigans and too mature. I was self-conscious. I didn’t want my peers to know that I enjoyed my dad’s jokes and spending time with him, sitting on the edge of my bed, coming up with obscure fist bumps. 

It’s funny though, while I thought myself to be so mature for cutting out these interactions with my dad, in hindsight, I really wasn’t as cool as I thought. Beyond the fact that I stopped doing things that I enjoyed because of perceived social pressure, I also began to slowly become aware that I was taking on some of my dad’s so-called uncool traits. The things I noticed first were not really personality traits, but a few activities and small mannerisms. 

I started to play solitaire and do daily crossword puzzles. I laughed these things off, sharing them with friends, and, funnily enough, got called a “dad” for them. Ironically, I thought this was hilarious, and after I downloaded Candy Crush, proclaimed to my friends that I had “completed my parental metamorphosis.” 

Over sophomore year, I started to embrace my dad persona, making it the basis of most of my self-deprecating jokes. 

I evolved from a dad into a grandpa in the eyes of my friends when I started using the words “golly” and “gosh darn” when I stubbed my toe on the concrete or heard a surprising story. 

After I came to terms with my Candy Crush obsession and old-fashioned word choices, I began to notice actual personality traits and characteristics that mirrored those of my dad. I would say I’ve always loved to make jokes and try to incorporate humor into almost all of my interactions. I prided myself on cleverness, but looking back at my jokes, especially with close friends, the resemblance to my father’s sense of humor is uncanny. 

Watching my father at Christmas dinner this year, I noticed the way he held himself in a room—the exaggerated expressions he makes when telling a story, which were eerily similar to the way I had explained my horrific math testing experience to my friends a few weeks prior. 

Armed with the knowledge that I was a total dad, not only in obsessions, but also in my mannerisms, I felt my embarrassment and mortification at some of my dad’s quirkiness lessen. 

I started to feel guilty for shutting him out for so long. I was a complete hypocrite, imitating his cringy mannerisms in public, but feeling ashamed whenever he was like that in public with me. He was just being himself, and that self, yes, is not “cool,” but then again, coolness is not something I ever really strived to fully embody. 

At the beginning of 2023, I resumed my dad and I’s nightly fist-bump ritual. When he sat down at the edge of my bed, I surprised him when I held my fist out, grinning, and when he fell for the bait, I brought my hands together at the base of my palms, and formed my hands into sort of a clawed, open-shape around his fist, one hand on either side. With my bent thumbs acting as fangs, I yelled “SPIDER” and immediately started laughing at the quizzical look on his face. 

Hardly missing a beat, he started laughing as well. I spent the next few minutes teaching him how to do the “spider” fistbump, and we laughed together at this extremely stupid and zany idea.

I have no reason to be embarrassed by my dad:  after all, I am so much worse.