Why this proud dad’s heart feels like it’s been kilt
A little more than eight years ago I published a collection of newspaper columns humbly titled “The Best of Chris Johnson, Volume I.” At the front was a dedication to my then 10-year-old son: “To Saylor. Never stop dreaming.” Period.
I’ll be damned if that ain’t the one time he decided to listen to me.
Like a lot of bright 18-year-olds, he graduated high school (with honors, unlike his dad) this year and is headed off to college. Like many college-bound kids, he wanted to get out of town. Like some college-bound kids, he also wanted to get out of the state. He settled on the University of Stirling, way out of state. Out of the States, in fact.
In Scotland. Stirling, Scotland, United Kingdom. Four thousand freaking miles away. On the wrong side of the Atlantic. A school with only slightly better chances of winning the SEC Football Championship than Vanderbilt.
He visited the university last summer and fell in love with it. He got accepted back in November and jumped through 27 hoops to actually make his dream a reality. It’s not my dream or someone else’s — it’s all his.
He flies out this Sunday. If you need me for the next few weeks, I’ll be lying on the floor of a dark closet with a bottle of tequila while singing all my favorite Scottish songs like “Donald Where’s Your Troosers?” and “The Bonnie Banks o’ Loch Lomond.” All together now …
Sure, I told the kid to never stop dreaming, but you’re not supposed to act on dreams. Then dreams become plans, and plans require too much work. Plans don’t capture the imagination. That’s why Dr. King didn’t give an “I Have a Plan” speech and Tom Petty never sang he was “Runnin’ Down a Plan.”
I’ve been a big pile of mush when it comes to talking about my son from day one when he suffered unexplained seizures in the hospital. He was born late and a little too big. (The doctor later admitted that she had been pressured by health insurance companies to keep her c-section rates lower, starting my love affair with the health insurance industry.) He started his life by spending a week in hospital, and it was two months before it was clear he would be OK. Thankfully, he has turned out way better than OK.
The highly unlikely worst-case scenario is that he fails and comes back to the States with his tail between his legs. I certainly don’t want that. On the other hand, with his determination and passion for learning, he’s far more likely to not only succeed in school but also to fall in love with Europe and never want to come home. I don’t like the thought of that, either, but taking a look around America right now and comparing it to life in Scotland and most developed countries, I wouldn’t blame him for staying overseas.
I’m tempted to dedicate my next book to Saylor again: “To Saylor, quit that crazy dreaming and come home.” But it’s too late. He’s already listened to me once. I doubt he’ll do it again. Stirling should help him develop more wisdom than that.
He thinks I’m a great dad, while I think his success is in spite of my shortcomings. My only parenting skill was to love the boy and encourage him to follow his dreams and make the world a better place. I guess I could have done a lot worse as a parent. I’m not sure how many well-intentioned young dreamers Scotland needs, but America could use a few more.
So, go ahead, Saylor. Enjoy Scotland. Get educated. Immerse yourself in a new world. Build lifelong friendships. Make the world a better place. You crazy dreamer. Just don’t forget where you came from. We’ll work on that while you’re gone.
The last time my heart hurt this bad, I had to cut out cheeseburgers and fried chicken and get a stent to restore blood flow into my heart. Now, my heart’s hurting again, but I don’t know whether it’s because it’s broken or because it’s bursting with pride that my son has the guts to pursue his dreams. Probably a little of both.
And maybe a couple of cheeseburgers I wasn’t supposed to have.
This story was originally published August 27, 2018 at 10:40 AM.