Two Honks

Journal

My dad has never seen me in a classroom. Not once. Every parent night since kindergarten, he was working.

And every morning, two honks. It means 'I love you, I'm proud of you, go.' It is extremely embarrassing.

March. I read him the email from Berkeley because English reading is hard for him. He didn't say anything. He just walked outside.

Found him in the truck twenty minutes later. He'd printed it at work and taped it to his sun visor.

August. Move-in day. He looked around my dorm for a full minute before he said anything.

He left without a long goodbye. Two honks from the parking lot. I made it to the elevator before I cried.

October. First midterm. I got a 41. Everyone here already seems to know everything.

My mom told him anyway. That Saturday he drove four hours, sat outside my dorm with a cooler of food, and said:

May. I presented my research at the first-gen symposium. He took the whole day off. First time he ever saw me in a classroom.

Summer. Now I drive him to work. Two honks.