Read The Books Your Father Read

My father graduated in 1962 from The Citadel, a proud southern college located in Charleston, SC. One of his favorite authors was Pat Conroy, also a Citadel graduate.

Conroy’s hardbound books were always visible in my childhood home. It was an older house with long, built-in bookshelves. His Citadel sword was mounted just above the rim of the top shelf. We were forbidden to play with it, but secretly did. From an early age, we knew how to successfully wipe smudged fingerprints and angle the sword to his discretion.

In my father’s younger day he was an Army Officer, an Airborne ranger and Vietnam veteran. I didn’t know or care then about what my father did as a child or soldier.

Like most children, we tend to take our parents’ accomplishments, dreams and responsibilities for granted. My father was a man that rarely showed affection, never talked about feelings and often pointed fingers and vocalized his disappointment with elderly female drivers. But he was a good man, a loyal man. Although he lacked the paternal sense, he was very proud of his children. He often spoke of Conroy’s books, always encouraging me to read them. But my immaturity and selfishness out weighed his words.

After a short fight with cancer, he died at 65. Prior to his death, I temporarily left my husband, children and New England home to care for him. For nearly three weeks, I rarely left his side.

My mother and I stayed at his home in Seattle during his time in the hospital. The Lords of Discipline, a Conroy novel, was on my father’s nightstand. It was obvious to me he was re-reading the book. In my last-minute packing style, I failed to bring any reading material. After a long day at the hospital, I cracked open his copy and began to read.

The first line in The Lords of Discipline is “I wear the ring.” Suddenly, things began to make sense. My father too wore the ring. His ring remained in my mother’s jewelry box during his tours in Vietnam. Years after his return, I remember staring at his shiny gold ring while he filled my kiddy pool, purchased at the local PX.

The more I read, the more I learned and understood. I was realizing the importance, the honor of the establishment and the significance of his ring. For those who wear the ring, it symbolizes the corps of cadets – integrity and character.

The ring is earned, not given. To receive it, a cadet must be proficient in all areas: academics, military duty and discipline. It was no longer a meaningless, shiny mass of gold.

The Lords of Discipline is loosely based on Conroy’s experiences at The Citadel. The main character, Will McLean, is a senior on the cadets’ honor court. The first black cadet is admitted and Will is secretly ordered to watch and protect him. The year is 1966.

With racial tensions in the south, Conroy wasn’t afraid to expose the raw truth of inequality and segregation. My father was there before the civil rights movement, before the first black cadet, before female cadets. Born and raised in Albany, NY, he often joked that being a Yankee at The Citadel was grounds for endless hazing.

As the days turned into weeks, each morning I would mindlessly get dressed, have coffee, stuff the book in my bag and drive to the hospital. It became a challenging and mindless routine. I would sit in the uncomfortable chair in his hospital room, reading The Lords of Discipline. Dad would look at me and smile. As if he were saying “It’s about damn time!” 

Three days before he died, I removed his ring. His hands were no longer strong, only gaunt and pale. He asked me to hold on to it. We were both kidding ourselves thinking it will be waiting for him at home. I slipped it off and placed it in my pocket. The weight of the gold was obvious, heavier than a handful of coins.

After his death, I was eager to read all of Conroy’s books. Many things came to light at the end of each novel. I guess, at times, you think people are different. In actuality, we’re all the same. We all desire acceptance, love, satisfaction and happiness. We are all on a quest to find, chase and tackle our passions. I realize now that my father was no different.

I will always have the ring. No longer in a pocket, it now slumbers in my jewelry box. What forever brings comfort are his ring and my hardbound Conroy books. In honor of him and all fathers, Happy Father’s Day!