Dear Dr. Perfect,

My dad is super smart, but not especially open-minded. Ever since I was young, he has dismissed all my life-choices as resulting from what he calls the mass mindset. He quotes Brave New World and 1984 to me. He only respects my ideas if they align with his values, which is what his free thinking amounts to: my freedom to think what he has already thought.

I try to consider things from his point of view, but that consideration is not reciprocal. When I was growing up, I didn’t feel this much conflict between us, but now the conflict is painful.

What can I do?

A Desperate Daughter

—————————

Dear Desperate,

Try to let him be proud of the two books he’s read or remembers reading.

My father thrilled upon finishing Tolstoy’s War and Peace and endlessly quoted the book during suppertime. I considered his unsolicited non sequiturs and dated Russian references odd.

Then, after he allegedly read Moby Dick in its entirety, we never heard the end of it. Life as we knew it was one big parable of conquering the elusive, indifferent forces of nature.

Admittedly, I did the same with David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest. I wanted credit for reading that monstrosity and would quote it wherever I went, such as the penguin enclosure at the zoo.

Adults like to pontificate and share whatever sparse lessons learned. Hold on. Does your dad freelance? I’m looking for someone to cover me during my trip to Cancún this summer. 

I remember the day my father taught me how to drive. I purchased a 1976 Pontiac Sunbird from a shady used car lot in New Jersey. We barely got the car five miles from home before the engine stalled and I relentlessly downshifted in a panic. He guided me the best he could by telling me I’d disgrace the family if I didn’t properly ease off the clutch. 

“I hate this car,” I told him. 

“Son, you shouldn’t hate anything,” he responded. “That’s exactly what brought down Captain Ahab.”

“Poor Queequeg,” I said. 

Before we knew it, I had brought us home as the engine smoked and the two front tires exploded. What the car lacked in serviceability it made up for in character.

The following year, I drove Betsy Marshall to the prom. Like that song, Last Kiss, the one Pearl Jam covered, it was a night to remember. No one died. I ran out of gas, and we spent the evening at Shoney’s Buffet instead. She was none too thrilled and stormed out of the restaurant, tripping over one of her heels. Then I called her a taxi. 

So make sure to gas up your car. That should ease the tension with your father.

Dr. Perfect has slung advice across the globe for the last two decades due to his dedication to the uplift of the human condition.