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Ellen Belcher is the Dayton Daily News opinion pages editor. She writes about state government, education, the environment, higher education and all things Dayton.
Martin Gottlieb is an editorial writer and columnist for the Dayton Daily News opinion pages. He focuses on the political process itself and does such national issues as war, the economy, taxes and Social Security, as well as a hodge-podge of local and state issues.Home > Blogs > A Matter of Opinion > Archives > 2009 > June > 21 > Entry
Scott Elliott: A Father’s Day message: Don’t wait to mend fences
A work trip to Ohio for my father should have been a sign something was up. Europe, Asia, South America — that would have made sense. But here to Ohio?
Dad was a world traveler. After he died on the last day of March, the tributes began rolling in from every corner of the globe. Japan, Brazil, the Czech Republic, Israel, India, Ireland, China, to name a few. My mother has stacks of letters and e-mails from dozens of countries.
At a memorial service this month at the University of California, Riverside, where he taught American literature the last 20 years, 17 speakers told 200 in attendance even more tales. Listening, I searched for my own story, my unforgettable moment, the big thing he did for me. I found it a decade or so ago, during that unexpected Ohio trip, driving back to Dayton from a gig he engineered at Ohio Wesleyan University.
All my life, Dad was busy trying to change the world. That’s what he thought he was hired to do as part of a wave of new and different faculty members at Princeton University in 1971, when I was three. Princeton then was very much for the white, Anglo-Saxon, Protestant and wealthy guys. Dad used to like to say he was an “affirmative action” hire. There weren’t too many others like him — a Catholic truck driver’s son from inner-city Baltimore.
He became something of a star in his field, pushing Princeton to become more open to diversity and trying to raise the profile of women, minority and contemporary writers through his scholarship.
When the Berlin Wall fell, Dad saw a golden opportunity to spread American studies to places where it had been ignored or forbidden. Through the American Studies Association, he helped establish and nurture the study of American literature and culture across Eastern Europe and then in other parts of the world.
Like many successful people, Dad was renowned for his incredible work ethic. I’ll let you in on a little secret. What that really means is high achievers have to spend a tremendous amount of time working and have to take on a lot of stressful responsibilities. As a father myself now, with children and a mortgage, I understand this in a way I simply couldn’t at 17. The heavy focus of Dad’s attention on his work added to the inevitable coming-of-age, father-oldest son tension, and made for some very difficult years.
Still, by the time we got in that car for the ride back to Dayton, we were cordial. Ohio Wesleyan is a distinguished, old-school campus in a small, leafy burg. It reminded me of home.
Pulling out of town, we reminisced about Princeton until the conversation lulled. At the pause, he began, “There’s something I need to say. You know, I know things weren’t always great between us back then, and I just wanted you to know I am really sorry for that. I hope you can forgive me.”
After another pause, I managed to spit out that I had forgiven him long ago, but that the tough times were a two-way street, so I needed him to forgive me, too.
Only later it all came together for me. That trip wasn’t about Ohio Wesleyan. He was there for that car ride home. The whole purpose of the visit was so he could say those words to me.
It was slow and gradual, but over time that brief conversation had an impact. Awkward handshakes eventually became warm hugs. Conversations became more personal. After a while, parting even sometimes concluded with “I love you.” Those words, in fact, were the last we spoke to each other two days before he died from a heart attack.
I have to say now that I wish we’d had more time. I wish he’d gone at 96 or 86 instead of 66. I wish I could pick up the phone right now, punch the numbers, and he’d be there. But I’m grateful the last decade wasn’t clouded by old grudges and that we were able to get to “I love you.”
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