I was born while my dad was on his second tour of duty in Vietnam. When the Red Cross got the news of my birth to him more than 7,300 miles from home, he threw an epic party. He was in An Lộc, in what was then called Bình Long Province, and some helicopter pilots he had befriended flew in cases of champagne to celebrate.
“There was much celebrating,” my dad says. “Our perimeter defense might have been degraded that night.”
A few weeks after my birth, another officer from MACV Advisory Team 47, my dad’s team, wrote my mother a congratulatory note. Of course, he mentioned that party. “We have already celebrated with [the] father, in what must have been The Social Event of a highly social season,” wrote Maj. Preston Plews. He continues:
There was something phenomenal about the joy we shared on that occasion. Partly, no doubt, because the beginning of a new life is indeed an auspicious moment; certainly, because Major Jim Neale is one of those rare people who consistently brightens the lives of those around him. His buoyant goodwill is always contagious, and when he received the good news, we all felt within ourselves the pride and elation which he glowed.
Fifty-one years later, my father still glows with pride and elation. But not just because of me. He is the father of four, the father-in-law of four, and the grandfather of 11. My dad is a man of great faith who loved serving his country as a U.S. Army officer, but his family is his everything.
He is what I call a “front-row father.” I stole the phrase from a Twitter thread that the author and bookseller Emma Straub wrote about her father Pete when he died in September 2022. This is the bit that stuck with me:
When I wrote my first novel, he left me a voicemail that said 'Emma, you are going to sell this book for $200k.' I sold it to no one, for zero dollars, but it didn't matter. It took me ten years to sell a novel but when I did, he was in the first fucking row, every time.
My dad was a front-row father even when he was 7,300 miles away. I have the first letter he ever wrote me, telling me how great I was after briefly meeting eight-week-old me. Years later when he was with the U.N. peacekeeping forces in Lebanon, we couldn’t talk on the phone, so he’d record messages to us on cassette tape. We, unfortunately, would reply by recording over his messages with the latest updates from home. I would tell him how many books I had read. My brother Tom would give a play-by-play of his last soccer game. I remember my brother Jim once saying, “I got a role in the school play, ‘My Brother Sam Is Dead.’ Unfortunately, I’m Sam.” Then my dad would respond on top of our messages, reacting with great pride to every silly little thing we had shared.
My father delights in his children’s (and his children’s children’s) wins — big and small. But they never come as surprises to him. For Dad, our success is a foregone conclusion from the moment we announce our intentions. He is famous for “promoting” us when he describes our jobs to friends and family, inflating our titles and impact. The minute you get a new job, he starts asking for your new business card so he can add to his “files.” And he asks you to describe your new role in an email so he can forward it to his siblings (Sorry, Ann, John, Tom and Lucy.).
Like a lot of moms, my sister-in-law and I used to spend hours comparing developmental milestones when our children were small. This person’s baby was already walking. Another woman’s toddler was speaking in full sentences. When he overheard these conversations, my father — appalled by any comparison that painted his grandkids in a less-than-flattering light — would always respond, “That kid? That kid has no personality.”
It became our inside joke. Husbands who do more around the house than ours have no personality. The kids who get into the schools that reject our children have no personality. The woman who got the job we desperately wanted has no personality. It’s not true, of course, but that kind of unconditional love is intoxicating.
And there is never a question that we are loved. My dad does not swallow his feelings. He says “I love you” often — sometimes more than once in the same conversation. He said it to our spouses early on — probably before they were ready to hear it. When you do something particularly wonderful, he tells you that you are a great American. This is his highest compliment. And when he is surrounded by family and friends for any occasion, you’re sure to hear him declare “Life is good” several times in the span of a few hours.
I’ve heard other people my age say that they can’t ever remember seeing their dad cry, or that they only saw their father cry a handful of times. My dad cries all the time — usually out of joy. He cried when I called him today to ask a few questions about Vietnam for this essay. He cried when we talked about Maj. Plews’ letter to my mom. He cried when I sent him a draft of this essay to proofread. He feels things big and when those feelings threaten to overflow, he lets them out, sometimes as tears, sometimes as a beautiful toast with a raised glass.
When I was born my father had already been in the army for 10 years. He’d stay for another 20. He was a highly decorated Airborne Ranger, but to me, he will always just be Dad, my front-row father.
It is a gift and a privilege to be loved so fiercely. And I’m so incredibly grateful.
Wishing front-row father energy for you and your people this weekend,