Back in 1995, when I published my first book on fatherhood, I wrote these words in my preface: “The last person I would like to acknowledge is my father, Domenick Marsiglio.  It is unlikely that this project would have seen the light of day if I had not adopted the disciplined and hardworking lifestyle he modeled for me.  It brings me much pleasure, then, to dedicate this volume on fatherhood to my own loving father. Thank you Dad!”

A career tribute

Now, seventeen years and numerous fatherhood publications later, I am in the unique position to extend a career-based tribute to my dad on what is an inauspicious Father’s Day for my family.  In March, my dad was diagnosed with terminal cancer.  Father’s Day 2012 is most likely the last time he will celebrate the holiday.  To complicate matters, his dementia will limit his ability to remember much if any of what I might say or do on this, or any day.  On the bright side, my mother will remember. 

My dad, a blue-collar guy to the core, never gave me a shred of academic advice.  But whatever career success I’ve achieved as a fatherhood scholar can in no small measure be attributed to the lessons I gleaned from him at an early age about the value of hard work and accountability.  Like many kids from traditional male breadwinner homes, my stay-at-home mom instilled my parents’ shared values.  Aside from receiving some one-on-one mentoring through sports, and observational learning, I came to know Dad’s values via Mom’s hands-on parenting.  Yet, as a boy, I sought his approval, not her’s.  

In my most recent book, Nurturing Dads, Kevin Roy and I champion a very different kind of father than my dad was to me.  The nurturing dad, as represented in the scholarly literature and pop culture, is attentive and responsive to a child’s assorted developmental needs.  He commits himself as much to developing an intimate bond with his child through regular hands-on care as he does to providing financially for him or her. 

Most of the nurturance I associate with Dad is rooted in what Mom did on his behalf.  On some level I realized her hugs, kisses, “I love you’s,” and caregiving channeled Dad’s silent sentiments.  Unfortunately, my dad and I were constrained by the boy code of masculinity that led me at a young age to replace his goodnight cuddling with firm handshakes.  Not until my late-20s did I challenge Dad to reintroduce hugging into our “hello” and “goodbye” rituals.   

So, in reality, my mom—like many other mothers—deserves heart-felt accolades this Fathers’ Day.  She did her best to encourage Dad to reach out to me so that I might know his love first-hand. 

What's in a name?

My transition into later-life fatherhood and middle age led me to embrace more fully the joys of being a nurturing dad.  A revelation about the intergenerational transmission of familial identity added a twist to my notion of ideal fathering.

When my immigrant grandparents married and had children during the 1910s and 20s, they altered the proper Italian pronunciation of Marsiglio by using a hard rather than a silent “g” to ease their family’s assimilation into the American mainstream.  My father, then I, adopted the compromised pronunciation with little thought.

But sometime during my youngest son’s (Phoenix) infancy, I pondered my longstanding affinity with Dad.  Surprisingly, I emerged with a newfound appreciation for the gendered legacy I feel about our shared sir name.  Reflecting back to my youth, I recalled seeing Dad’s stoic face brighten when others invoked the Italian enunciated Marsiglio (Mar-see-lee-oh).  Maybe it did mean something special to him; he never “corrected” them.

For me, the Italian pronunciation symbolically reflects the kind of authenticity I value and want to pass on to Phoenix.  Although Dad didn’t explicitly resist the Americanized pronunciation of his surname, the Italian rendition resonated with him and he was an honest, sincere man.  Thus, in his honor, and to show deference to the fathers on his side of my DNA tree, I chose a few years ago to be a generative dad by reclaiming for myself and sharing my real family name with Phoenix.  Dad’s name and spirit will live on.  I love you Dad!