This is an ode to my dad, David Traversi.
The concept came to me yesterday after I got off of a short phone call with him. I talk to my dad several times a week, usually starting the conversation with “Do you have 2 minutes?” which we both know will turn into 30 minutes to an hour of catching up. But yesterday, I called with the intention to be brief, because I was embarrassed at my fragility and sudden lack of independence in the situation at hand. Let me preface what’s next by saying, I try to handle my own shit for the most part. But sometimes it’s the little things that freak me the hell out. I had just squished a mid-sized spider that was crawling on my bed. I was disgusted; I was disturbed; I was suddenly weakened by what experts across the field call the heebie jeebies. I knew that there was nothing anyone could do to calm my nerves or eradicate spiders from within a half-mile radius of my apartment, especially from 3,000 miles away— but I called my dad anyway. I told him about it, ending with “What do I DO?!” This is, by definition, an impossible question. I’d already killed the spider. I wasn’t expecting an answer. But my dad always has one. Without hesitation, he says, “You know what might make you feel better? Find some white wine vinegar or peppermint oil. Spiders hate— I mean, they HATE strong smells. They will leave the area as soon as possible. Put some on a sponge or in a spray bottle, hit your windows and baseboards, and that should be pretty preventive. Also, I like to look at it like this. One spider means ten less smaller bugs, and that’s a huge plus.” Okay, let’s break this down. He genuinely approached my pathetic complaint with not only a solution, but a rational perspective that incorporated the circle of life??? And, he didn’t make my problem feel small— even though it was miniscule. In a paradoxical sense, this particular instance stood out to me because of how regular it is. Ever since I can remember, my dad just knows the answer to things. He’s a man of the sciences, which is helpful; he actually knows how most things work, and can explain it to you in such a clear and meaningful way that you genuinely think you can explain it to one of your friends. (You try. You trip up. You realize you don’t know what you’re talking about, but it made sense when he said it.) But in a much larger sense, he also understands my nuanced worries or obstacles and can always provide some clarity for me— and through all my lofty goals, he cheers me on and celebrates my work, staking his claim as my biggest fan. He reads everything I write, and wants my scripts on the screen just as much as I do. I can't tell you how many times he's quoted my own dialogue back to me, nor can I properly express how much that means to me. Many of you are probably aware that my dad is also a dad for the people. He is beloved by my friends from high school, all the way to those I’ve made in New York. Last week, I had coffee with my roommate from last year, and I shared some of his insights with her on a current situation in which she's pretty invested. She mulled them over, nodded, and said, “That totally makes sense. Tell Dave to come to me first next time so we can align our messaging.” I think it's pretty rare when the advice of one's dad makes it to the round-table with the girls— and it's even rarer when that token is accepted and heavily discussed. It's no surprise to me that he has an innate way of connecting to people and making them feel seen and heard; he taught eighth graders for thirty years, and has been a dad for twenty-eight. He is a trusted source of laughter, compassion, sarcasm, and support, and always knows how to bring the conversation to life with humor and understanding. I don’t know how hard it is to be a parent. I hear it’s outrageous. I believe it. But my dad is just a natural.
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October 2023
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