Editor's Column by Tess Chierici Through my dad's antics he has taught me to be myself and not care what other people think.

Back to Table of Contents | Back to Main Index Previous Editor's Columns | Send mail to The Voice Father's antics inspire daughter to be herself I'm a daddy's girl. He calls me Tessa, my Tessa, and I call him Pops, my pops. We even have a special hug. The quirky things about my dad are what I love the most. When I was a preteen, my dad volunteered as a rodeo clown. He promoted the retail store he managed, Corral West Ranchwear, during the summer months by wearing a rainbow wig and sitting on an orange barrel endorsed with the store's logo. To my 11-year-old mind the danger of my dad's hobby didn't set in until I was in high school, and I saw a rodeo clown's barrel get kicked over like a bowling pin and then smashed. My dad did that for free? For fun? What was he thinking? The rodeos were always a thrill for my brother and me. The smell of manure and sweat hung in the air as we perched on the edge of our seats and anxiously watched men ride bucking broncos. Bull riding always pulled us out of our seats, nearly causing soggy nachos to fly everywhere. In the thick of the action was my dad. Whether he was in the audience as a woman clown handing out balloons or on the dirt doing the hula in front of a horned bulldozer, he captured the crowd's interest. People loved him. He was hilarious. I thought everyone should have a dad like mine. When I was in high school, my family shopped together. One time when we were in Fred Meyer, my dad disappeared down the bath and shower aisle. He reappeared with a plunger stuck on his bald head as he danced a jig and waved to the surveillance cameras. My brother joined the fun by sticking a plunger to his stomach and jigging as well. As I reached for my own plunger, my mom who was completely mortified, told me she would disown me if I followed suit. The temptation of embarrassing my mom was more than I could handle, and I gave into the dance of the plunger. Last summer when we were shopping in Wal-Mart, I decided to look at shampoo. When I returned, my dad grabbed my hand and as a joke screamed, "Young lady, where have you been? You are never leaving my sight again!" He dragged me down several aisles. The situation was completely ridiculous: a father treating his 20-year-old as if she were 3. The confused shopper probably thought an overprotective father had flipped his lid. Again, my embarrassed mother pretended she didn't know us. For several months a commercial on television for the Olive Garden said, "When you're here, you're family." During that advertising campaign, whenever my family ate at the Olive Garden my dad commented to the waiter: "I thought when we were here, we were family. I don't know about you, but my family never charged me for a meal." Whenever people come to our home, my dad shows them what I call the "Steeler Shrine," an entertainment room dedicated to my dad's favorite football team, the Pittsburgh Steelers. Every wall is painted bright yellow with a loud border of football helmets and Steeler logos. A long Steeler body pillow runs the length of the futon. Next to the futon sits a Steeler folding chair. The room is completely Steeler themed from the computer's screen saver to the pictures of Tony Bradshaw on the walls to figurines and footballs on the shelves. My parents constantly find new things for the room. My dad hopes to install black carpet next. Through my dad's antics he has taught me be myself and not care what other people think. I know my dad wouldn't have as many adventures as he does if he worried about his image. The older I get, the more I realize how wonderful my dad and the rest of my family are, and how much I love them. Back to Table of Contents | Back to Main Index Previous Editor's Columns | Top Of Page Send mail to The Voice| Journalism department website © 2002 The Voice. No part of this publication may be reproduced in written or electronic form without prior written consent from the journalism adviser of Multnomah Bible College. All rights reserved.