I’m not known as the public-facing member of my family, and I promise not to make this a habit, but at this moment I felt I would take a chance, step out of my comfort zone, and write a letter to my Dad. It is particularly appropriate today, when families are celebrating the fathers in families who have been critically important parts of their universe. We can all agree that fathers, for the most part, don’t receive the credit that they deserve, and while mothers get all the credit (mine is my role model) and the most amazing influence in my life, I think it is important and timely to send some love and appreciation to fathers. This note is to my Dad, and here goes nothing.
There are some individuals who fill a room.
My father fills a life and then some.
While I was little, I thought every father knew everyone’s name. I thought that every father stops to speak to strangers and ask how they were doing. I thought that every father remembered every person who crossed his path—the widow who needed help with a bill, high school students trying to get into state’s colleges and universities, a young teenager who needed free legal advice, the family facing impossible challenges with a damning medical diagnosis, a friend who needed advice as they navigated a divorce or a tricky family situation, a unemployed resident who needed help getting a job. I can’t tell you the last time (or ever) we went to the local diner, supermarket, or shop and someone didn’t pull my Dad aside to ask for assistance. My father would also take the time to listen, take notes, and follow up with some help. Let me be clear: my Dad’s compassion has never been performative, and it was never for show. Many thousands don’t even know or understand the full extent of what he has done for them, and that is exactly how my Dad prefers it. I have sadly learned that while public service and politics can afford many opportunities to help, the darker side of politics is not so nice and has reared its head too many times. But this has never deterred my Dad from moving on and helping with the next cause.
It wasn’t until I grew up that I realized my Dad was different.
The public knows him as Senator Kevin O’Toole. Readers of this site know him as the author of the O’Toole Chronicles. Friends and colleagues know him as the individual who surprises them and pays for their dinners at neighborhood restaurants. Others know him as the person who sends food and baked goods to the hospital so nurses and staff can take a minute to themselves while they care for a loved one. But those of us who really know him, really know him for something else.
We know that his strength has never been politics; it has always been his compassion and connectivity to people. My Dad is an introvert, yet he puts on the front to be all things to those in need. My Dad sees people, not titles. Those who know him know full well he hates when anyone uses a title when speaking to him.
My Dad gets a charge from doing things for others, and he certainly doesn’t live his life so others can do things for him. While my Dad is undoubtedly one of the most generous people I know, it is impossible to get a present for or do something nice for him. Yes, this is annoying. When asked what he wants for Father’s Day, his canned response is nothing and when pressed, he grudgingly suggests that a tie or black socks would be just super. Let me move on.
The older I get, the more I realize this simple quality of his love for humanity may be the greatest form of generosity.
I have seen it in so many places, and I couldn’t even begin to write them all down. Let me take a walk down memory lane.
One second, I’m a little kid on my Dad’s shoulders, walking in a town parade; next, I am being walked down the aisle by my Dad as I am about to join my partner in marriage.
We have taken many steps together in between, but in those steps, in those moments, I realized something profound.
My Dad had been in the public eye well before I was born, and he always made sure to use his positions to help others and advance the public good. Looking back. I realized that my Dad was a bridge builder. He spent his entire life building bridges and connecting people with opportunities, with each other, and with hope. This holds true for our family, our friends, our colleagues, our neighbors, and, yes, perfect strangers.
My Dad was always busy with causes larger than himself. Raising money for charities and/or coaching those in need.
Harkening back to my wedding day, in that moment, he was walking me across one more bridge –from daughter to wife, from one life to another.
While crossing that bridge, it struck me that my Dad has left me with the greatest example of how a human being should be, how a Dad should be.
The love my Dad has for his family, among his friends, throughout New Jersey, and beyond cannot be measured.
Reflecting on a childhood moment, I remember my Dad reading me many books by Dr. Seuss (and Goodnight Moon), and I later found an appropriate quote from Dr. Seuss, “To the world you may be one person, but to one person you may be the world.”
For countless people, my father has been exactly that.
Whether it is a phone call.
A voice of encouragement.
A reassuring test message.
A word of guidance.
A humorous note to make someone smile.
Father’s Day invites us to celebrate fathers.
This year I find myself celebrating something bigger.
Character. Kindness. Decency. My Dad’s love of people.
My Dad has taught me many things. He taught me that compassion is a strength. He taught me that loyalty matters. My Dad taught me that we have a responsibility to help others, and we do so with a willing spirit and an open heart.
If I have learned anything from watching those in public service, it is that the world needs more connectors, more bridge builders, more listeners, more believers, more doers.
In sum, the world needs more Dads like mine.
Happy Father’s Day, Dad.
Thank you for walking beside me throughout every chapter of my life and for showing me what it means to be good.
Ryan Marie Jackson is rumored to be the favorite child of New Jersey Globe columnist Kevin J. O’Toole.