We live in a small, fairly southern town in central Florida. And my father, a Japanese-American, doesn't exactly blend in with the country-club families, the orange groves and, of course, the guns.
When I was growing up, most of my friends' fathers owned firearms of some sort — they killed animals for food or sport, frequented their hunting camps and even allowed their children to shoot at the squirrels that were running on the pool screens. And every once in a while, a friend would come to school and brag that his dad had killed a deer or that his father had given him a new rifle as a gift.
My dad's different. He doesn't know how to fire a gun, he would never kill an animal and he drives a Toyota Camry. He reads three or four newspapers every day, listens to classical music in the car and never misses an episode of the McLaughlin Group.
While some dads were spending their weekends hunched below shrubs and waiting for a wild turkey to pass by, we would spend most of our free time at home. He used to leave newspaper clippings about my favorite basketball and baseball teams on the coffee table in the living room. He knew I would see them as I streamlined my way to the couch, searching for the television remote in the mornings. The articles were usually about sports. Occasionally, he would show me a story about national news, but he learned that I was much more interested in reading about the Atlanta Braves or the Los Angeles Lakers.
I used to think my family was the only one without guns in the house. I even thought my father was the only one who didn't know how to shoot one. I was always fascinated with the guns, the power they had, the power that my father didn't understand. I used to fire off questions about the guns to my friends' fathers: How do you shoot it? What does it do? Who killed that deer on the wall?
For a time, I thought that knowing about guns was masculine. While my dad wore grey pants and an oxford shirt and corrected my grammar, other fathers loaded their guns and drove their kids to the hunting ground for the day.
We spent our time together in a different way. He always used to sit with me in front of the television, telling me stories about the NBA players we were watching. Every once in a while, he would ask me what the difference in the score was. When I got it right, he would smile and tell me more about the power forward for the Utah Jazz nicknamed the "Mailman." When I got it wrong, he would smile and tell me more about the small forward for the Philadelphia 76ers nicknamed "Dr. J." And the next day the newspaper story about the game would be lying on the coffee table.
When I went away to boarding school in Massachusetts, he would send me newspaper clippings that he knew I had missed. At least once per week, a packet of articles would arrive by express mail to my box. I read the articles and then called home to talk with him about the news.
These days, I read the newspaper all the time. Whenever I see an article that my dad might like, I try to remember to let him know about it. I'm in New Jersey, so I can't clip the story and show it to him in the morning. But I usually try and call him to mention the article.
He'll definitely read this. He might even cry. It's one of the more masculine things that he does. He will never teach me to fire a gun, and he'll never take me hunting. It's a good thing, too, because I don't want him to. Instead, he'll tell me about the presidential election or how the Braves might blow another year in the playoffs.
I wish I could go back to elementary school and brag to my friends about the things my father does. He taught me just how strong words on a page can be. And, to me, that's more powerful than any gun.
Michael Koike is a 'Prince' Executive Editor from Winter Haven, Fla.
'A Glimpse Within' is a weekly column in which we ask members of the Princeton community to share personal experiences. The 'Prince' welcomes submissions of about 650 words to The Newsroom.
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