My Dad Was Old Enough To Be My Grandfather. It Shaped Me In Ways I Didn’t Expect.

The first time a kid in my kindergarten class asked, “Is that your grandfather?” when my dad dropped me off at school, embarrassment consumed me.

My dad didn’t look like the other dads; what little hair he had was silvering, and he had deep wrinkles that sank into his face.

I remember the stubborn certainty of being six years old and wanting to blend in.

“I don’t want you to walk me into school anymore,” I told my dad.

“Why not?” he asked.

I didn’t yet have the language for difference. I only understood sameness, who matched and who didn’t. I just wanted to fit in.

“Please? I’ll walk you to your classroom door quietly,” he asked,

But I was firm, saying: “No. Just wait h...