Father's Day and Trump's Parade
The start of summer means three things: schools closing (to the relief of reluctant students who now stagger into the shining world like convicts granted early reprieve), a rising envy among their parents (who wish businesses worked the same way and no longer dare to hope for a similar release from obligation), and Father’s Day — a time to celebrate the men who shaped us.
Father’s Day is a peculiar holiday. It lacks the formal dignity of Mother’s Day and instead hums along with a kind of good-natured jocularity, the same laissez-faire spirit many of our fathers themselves embody. Perhaps other holidays could learn a thing or two from Father’s Day — although that would require us to take advice seriously from our dads, something most of us stopped doing right around puberty.
The President’s Big Parade
The much-vaunted Donald Trump birthday and military parade — ostensibly held in honor of America’s armed forces but, by complete coincidence (we're sure), scheduled on the beleaguered President’s birthday — took place this week, as did the largest protest against him since, naturally, the last one. In the months leading up to the event, critics warned it would resemble something out of a dictatorship, a strutting display of power and ego.
But when the parade finally arrived, what struck many wasn’t menace, but melancholy. Not on behalf of the President — a man so impervious to public sympathy that even if a beloved family dog expired in his arms on live television, the nation would likely suspect a ploy — but because the whole thing felt so... tired. The tanks squeaked past half-empty bandstands; the soldiers looked politely bewildered; the spectacle landed somewhere between a budget action movie and a Fourth of July parade in a mid-sized Nebraska town. What was meant to project dominance instead offered an accidental portrait of a weary nation, dragging its symbols forward in a show of strength staged mostly for itself. It would have been tragic, if it weren’t also so deeply silly. In the end, the whole production resembled nothing so much as a group of toy soldiers and wind-up tanks, nudged forward by a fussy, impatient child — except the toys were real, the child is 79, and the batteries were taxpayer-funded.
Father’s Day at the Movies
As we often do during the hotter months, we took refuge from the heat at the local movie theater — on the morning of Father’s Day, naturally. Sunday mornings at the cinema are typically quiet, but we were surprised to find ours humming with activity by ten o’clock.
One of the regular employees — a delightful young woman in her early twenties who always greets us warmly — stood just beyond the concession line like a general directing troops. She spurred lagging groups forward, closed gaps, and pointed patrons toward open registers with calm efficiency. We nodded politely when her eyes met ours; she returned the gesture with a small shrug and a weary glance toward the front doors.
The smell of popcorn was more intense than usual — all the machines were running, a sight normally reserved for Friday night openings or blockbuster debuts. Behind the counter, teenagers in corporate uniforms scrambled between kettles, scooping and refilling, waiting anxiously for beeps and pops. One especially tall employee with shaggy hair — a boy who might’ve been better deployed reaching high grocery shelves — stood planted at the soda fountain. He filled cups methodically, occasionally producing a drink no one had asked for and sliding it aside in anticipation. The manager, P., gently asked him to stop. But as the line of unclaimed sodas disappeared one by one, P.’s attention moved on.
In the queue, fathers did what the best fathers do: cracked gentle jokes, appraised the snack options — “Eighteen bucks for the collector tin? That’s like two dollars of metal, tops” — and quietly observed other families doing the same. Despite the hustle, the mood was upbeat. The line moved swiftly under our concession general’s firm direction, and no one seemed particularly fazed by the soft chaos.
It struck us as oddly fitting that a movie theater would be so busy on Father’s Day. On Mother’s Day, attention centers on the guest of honor and conversation often feels required. But with fathers, we’ve all seemingly agreed that sitting together in a dark, quiet, air-conditioned room where no one needs to speak — that’s gift enough. So we put our hands in our pockets, sized up the popcorn tins, and looked forward to the show.
Different Types of Fathers
Overheard near a convenience store freezer filled with bags of ice: “She didn’t wish me a happy Father’s Day, which I get — I’m not a father. But I’m definitely a daddy, you know.”