My father ironed his own dress shirts and slacks for work on Sunday evenings in his pajamas. Collar first. Arms creased from the shoulder to cuff. Back to front he'd swivel the hot iron - shhhhh - top to bottom and back up. He was like a calligrapher with the steamer across the back of each shirt. I have no idea why I watched him iron. To be near him. To pay attention to a man who almost never asks for attention; only obedience. Post-gender role awareness, I used to kind of brag that he ironed his own clothes. It was not much to brag about compared to father's who had resisted the draft or raised their children without a wife. I was aware. Anyway, mom popped any idea about my father as progressive. "Your father doesn't like the way I iron," she said. I guess, I liked the way he ironed. In college, I ironed my button-down shirts just like he did. I used to tell my third wave feminist boyfriend, this is how my father ironed his shirts.
Today is my father's birthday.
Happy Birthday, Dad!
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