By+Joanna+Novak

對于有女儿的父亲来说，女儿永远是自己的掌上明珠，是自己终其一生拼尽全力都要守护的公主。有的父亲对女儿极尽宠溺、呵护，真的将女儿当作公主对待;但也有一些父亲会用自己独特的方式去教导女儿，向女儿传授自己的生活智慧，将女儿培养成一个坚强、独立的人。

For the past few years， Ive had a tumultuous1） relationship with Facebook. A few days ago， I was reminded why.

I was at a campus fitness center， on a spinning bike， pedaling my way through a 45-minute routine. Despite the general flailing2） quality of my workout， I sweated， got breathless， and achieved a mental state of honed motivation. Maybe it was the inspirational poster taped to the otherwise-blank wall my bike faced： A mans long， brown forearm palms a ruddy basketball. Superimposed over the image are the words “Winners never quit and quitters never win.”

We have Vince Lombardi3） to thank for this kick-in-the-pants4） of a sentence—and as I slowed my pedaling， I felt like Id already won. So it wasnt QUITTING when I looked at my phone and checked Facebook—thats what I told myself. What was quitting was me abandoning the bike as I started to read the post of an acquaintance， a woman who had that day lost her dad.

“I didnt expect to have such a short time with him，” the woman admitted. News like this always wrecks me， but this womans loss hit me more personally： Her father and mine share the same first name. Id rather not mention that name. After all， one of the reasons Ive long been freaked out about Facebook is because I was raised—by my parents， but especially by my dad—to be a private person.

How does THAT work for a writer？ Not super well. And yet， surely Vince Lombardi has applicable wisdom： “The measure of who we are is what we do with what we have.” Ive been fortunate enough to develop the confidence to believe that what I have is my mind and my voice， and for that I need to thank my dad.

Hes alive and well， I should add， but hey—theres a fair chance he might not read this. Im pretty sure a part of him still wishes Id done something involving math. I have a solid suspicion that he only finds my writing when my mom shows it to him—and thats okay.

When I was a kid， I saw other dads. They were everywhere， wearing Hawaiian shirts and mustaches， carrying wallets and drinking beers. On television， they gave stumbling advice or flaunted5） their comic ineptitude at the flames of the charcoal grill. Sitcom dads got teased by wives and taunted6） by children until the moment of crisis， and fatherly advice was proffered like Bactine7） for a skinned knee. It hurts but its good.

The dads I met in real life wore shirts and mustaches， too， but they also wore red vests and headdresses8）. My dad was one of them. For ten years， he and I participated in a program called Indian Princesses. We went on campouts where we practiced archery， paddled aluminum canoes， and climbed rock towers with names like Mount Wood. We had nicknames， too， like “Singing Bird” and “Screaming Eagle.” That was me and my dad， the quietest members of the “Arapaho9） tribe.”

To tell you the truth， I envied the other girls with their jouncy10） dads. The other Arapaho dads were outgoing and funny. I envied girls with braggy dads who boasted of their daughters accuracy at the rifle range; girls with lenient11） dads， who let their daughters fork tunnels through mess hall mashed potatoes.

Im not sure when the envying wore off， but one year it did， like a puddle12） on hot asphalt13）， gone in an instant. Instead of wanting a dad who treated me like a princess， I became grateful for the way my father held me to a higher standard.

Thats what it felt like， anyhow， when it was just the two of us in a canoe， paddling down the Rock River. Rowing is hard， and its especially hard when youre a twelve-year-old girl who cant even do a push-up. Other canoes ferried groups of four： Two dads and two daughters so the Princesses wouldnt have to do the grunt work. In our vessel， it was just Screaming Eagle and me.

My friends waved as they passed us by. I could hear them singing. My hands were already blistering14）; they smarted15） when I repositioned them on the oars. But even though we were perpetually getting lodged16） in rocks， the prow17） of our canoe smacking18） into sand and silt19）， even though our journey down the river took twice the time of the other Arapahos and sometimes we heard nothing but the sound of our paddles slapping the water， an invisible fish leaping， my dad and I were steering that boat together， fueled by the cans of Diet Soda hed stashed20） in the pockets of his windbreaker.

Winners never quit and quitters never win： My dad taught me there are so many ways to win every day. Winning is a personal matrix， the little choices that add up to character. Of course winning is reaching the top of Mount Wood before anyone else， but winning is also dealing with wet dock shoes when your daughter cant get the hang of21） placing just the blade—and not the oars shaft—in the water. Winning is being together in the canoe.

Winning， my father taught me， is using one plate instead of two， is drinking the mornings cold coffee instead of buying a Starbucks in the middle of the afternoon. Winning isnt not procrastinating22）—winning is staying up all night when you have a project or a report due the next day， when you have a deadline， when you have the stamina23） to think a little harder. Winning， my dad taught me， is thinking， thinking not only in an intellectual context， but thinking about the person you want to be in this world.

There are all kinds of facts I could tell you about my father， but none of those would begin to explain why I feel closest to him in my family. He may know the least about me： I would be ashamed， for instance， if he knew how much money Id spent on clothes， purses， even books—after all， I learned as a teenager， CDs were a waste. “What are you going to do with those？” my dad would ask me when I filled an under-the-bed plastic storage container with music. I was incredulous then—and incredulous again， last year， when I returned to my parents house and dumped all those CDs at Goodwill24）.

He doesnt know my darkest secrets and， on the surface， we have so little in common. He likes ribs; I like tuna tartare. He likes “cocoa mocho frappuccinos”; I like espresso and water. He likes his half-acre of lawn; I like city blocks. And yet when we talk on the phone， we can spend an hour comparing our dogs， our weather， and our jobs， and I marvel that two people can feel so close.

What， then， is that space between the rivers bottom and the froth the canoe leaves in its wake on the surface？ If neither our secrets nor our affinities bind me and my father， what does？ Somehow， that mysterious something seems bigger， and though Im not a math person like my dad， Im certain the middle darkness of a river encompasses its greatest area.

Fathers Day is coming and I cant not think about how lucky I am to have the Dad I do. I want to honor our relationship—as quiet and indefinable as it might be—while hes around to hear it. Yes， Im thankful for his wisdom and quirks， grateful for everything hes taught me about the world. But Im also glad for everything he hasnt taught me. He hasnt taught me to be dependent on men; he hasnt taught me to see myself as an enemy or a princess—in fact， by seeing me as a person with a mind and a heart rather than as a woman， hes taught me to look past some of the most biological parts of myself.

Hes the sort of understated person who cant be summed up in a Lombardi-ism. Hes not a coach or a champ， a jock25） or geek. Hes the quiet， goofy， introspective， dog-loving man who taught me to guard myself and my privacy， to honor my thoughts—and the man who grants me the courage to give all that away.

過去几年中，我和脸书的关系时好时坏。几天前，我意识到了其中的原因。

我当时在一个校园健身中心里，骑在一辆动感单车上，正在进行一项时长45分钟的例行训练。虽然我骑车骑得手忙脚乱，却还是满身大汗，气喘吁吁，达到了一种斗志勃发的精神状态。或许这要多谢我对面的墙上不是空白一片，而是贴了张励志海报：一位男性用长长的棕色小臂揽着一只红棕色的篮球。图上写着“成功者从不半途而废，半途而废的人永远不会成功”。

这种当头棒喝型的警句要归功于文斯·隆巴迪。而当我逐渐放慢蹬车速度，我感觉自己已经算是成功了。所以当我掏出手机看脸书时，并不算是半途而废——我这么安慰自己。真正的半途而废要从我停下单车训练，开始阅读一位女性朋友的帖子开始。发帖那天，她的父亲离世了。

“没想到我和他共处的时间会这么短。”她承认道。这种事情总是让我觉得很难过，但是这位女性朋友痛失亲人的经历尤其让我感同身受：她的父亲和我的父亲同名。我在此就不提这个名字了。毕竟，长久以来，脸书让我觉得不安的原因之一就是，我从小就被教育——被我的父母，尤其是我的父親教育——要成为一个珍视隐私的人。……