One of the greatest challenges that progressives face today is how to respectfully discuss issues with those who disagree with us. It’s often difficult to find common ground, especially when we’re taught as children not to talk about politics and religion.  My father has been one the greatest teachers in my life in guiding me to be temperate and respectful in this effort.  That is extremely difficult for me right now, however, because of the rage I feel against the current neoconservative agenda in this country.  I write this today to honor my father’s upcoming 60th birthday and those who may not totally agree with me on everything.

     One of the earliest photos of my father and I shows him smiling at me as a two month old.  I’m screaming at the top of my lungs with my left fist raised in the American Sign Language sign for “I Love You.”  I know my rebellious spirit was responsible for his gray hair.  I know many of his spikes in blood pressure were a result of my efforts to speak out against many right wing administrations.  Why? Because my father built his success on his association with the conservative Republicans and their network of “good ‘ole boys.”  They taught him how to work the system to further his and their agendas.  He partly owes his current financial security and professional evolution to this association.  But mostly, he earned his position in life with utter determination, hard work and a willingness to take risks that most people would never think of.

     Among other things, my father taught me how to play chess. He also taught me how to rake a shag carpet so I wouldn’t leave tracks before the guests arrived for the dinner party.  Most importantly, my father taught me the meaning of hard work and taking initiative.  Little did he know he was teaching me how to be an effective activist.  Oh, the irony of this.

     My first encounter with his displeasure with my activism occurred a day after James Watt visited Fairbanks back in the early 80’s.  My fellow activists in Fairbanks and I had gathered in front of the Traveler’s Inn Gold Room entrance with chainsaws, bent on disrupting his speech with the howls of destruction.  Dressed in a denim skirt and my long hair in a bun, I sported a sign that read, “Out Damn Watt!”  An Anchorage Daily News reporter captured my image and followed up with a short interview. I promptly became front page news in Anchorage.  It just so happened that my father, who was living in Anchorage at the time, was responsible for operating that hotel, and was a well-known Republican.  Needless to say, he was not happy.  He called me the next day to report my celebrity status and asked, “Why Katy?”  I replied, “Watt is insane and he will do anything to exploit our resources.”  He sighed a heavy breath and hung up.  Three months later, Watt resigned amidst pressure from bipartisan forces.  I never told my father, “I told you so.”  I didn’t need to.

     Today I struggle with how to engage in meaningful conversations with my father about the issues that I am passionate about.  Most of the time, I am tempted to vent my indignation and quote sources I know he has not read.  Before the illegal invasion, I would bombard him with alternative media articles, naively hoping I might touch some chord in his heart to convert him and enlist him, to persuade his powerful friends to speak out against this insanity.  I know he is intelligent.  I know he cares about people and the fate of this nation.  What I don’t understand is how powerful the chains of loyalty are when it comes to his financial and political security.

     Two days after the illegal invasion of Iraq, I turned 40.  My father and his wife hosted a surprise party for me.  I remember saying I was so grateful to be celebrating with a friends, eating potluck rather than dining in some fancy restaurant because of the bombing in Iraq.  One of the guests, a friend of my father’s who supported the invasion, sat silent, knowing his son was on the road to Baghdad.  He witnessed me opening a baseball cap from my stepmother (who purchased it without my father knowing) with Velcro letters spelling, “Fuck Bush.”  My father turned bright red when I put it on for the duration of the dinner.

     My father witnessed me being honored as one of the AKCLU Liberty Activists of 2003 for my efforts to organize against the PATRIOTIC Act.  It was the first time he had ever set foot at an ACLU function.  I remember him seeing many associates who knew him and were surprised to see him sitting there.  He didn’t stay long, just long enough to hear my speech encouraging others to speak out. 

     At Easter dinner last year, my father said, “Honey, I looked for you on the picket line.”  I replied, “What picket line?”  He reported he was on the bus of distinguished guests to meet with Dick Cheney at the Native Heritage Center to raise funds for Lisa Murkowski.  I reported that I wasn’t on the picket line, I was on the Muldoon bridge hanging a 10’x6’ American flag upside down.  He replied, “Oh no.” I whined, “I told all of my friends you would never pay $2,000 to see Dick!”  I further demanded that I deserved the picture taken of him and Cheney.  He questioned, “What are you going to do with it?”  I smiled and promised I wouldn’t deface it.  He delivered the picture to me later that summer.  I can’t bear to hang it up.  By the way, Dick has no fashion sense. Compared to my father, Dick looked like a color blind used car salesman.  Thank goodness my father was dressed in a beautiful navy blue suit (tailored in China of course), and wasn’t sporting that ridiculous American flag lapel pin.

     My most recent occasion for my father’s dismay occurred January 20^th when Alaskans For Peace & Justice were staging a mock inauguration at the corner of Denali and Benson.  He tried calling me while I was being interviewed by Channel 2 News. When I returned his call an hour later, he asked what I had been doing.  I replied, “Oh I was being interviewed by Channel 2, protesting against the lavish inauguration events while dressed as Dick Cheney in a Halliburton work suit.”  Again, he said, “Oh no.”  I said, “Don’t worry Dad, they didn’t take my real name, I was interviewed as Dick.”  Incidentally, a man ran up to me and asked me if I really worked for Halliburton.  Since I was in disguise as Dick, I replied, “As a matter of fact I do work for Halliburton.”  He exclaimed he was going to call Halliburton the next morning and report that one of their employees was there protesting. Ah, the gullibility of the masses (exactly what these neocon bastards count on).

     I know that my efforts are slowly paying off with Dad.  In a Commonwealth North breakfast meeting this spring, after qualifying his party affiliation, he declared his support for a universal health care system.  You should have heard the exclamations of surprise. I realized then that we can teach our parents well, however, we cannot expect to change their loyalties overnight.

     In a conversation with Bill Hall yesterday, I was reminded that, as progressives, it is our duty to facilitate attempts to reach out to those who don’t agree with us, and engage in meaningful dialogue that focuses on common ground.  Bill is regularly seen at the local Socrates Café functions at Barnes and Noble monthly.  He is currently working on trying to set up events utilizing the “Lets Talk America” model for discussing contentious issues that tend to divide us.  Experienced with the inner workings of the state legislature, he knows the party politics game.  He also knows it is time to rise above all of that.  As much as my Italian/Irish heritage wants to rage, I know we have to make time to talk. 

     That’s when I reach out to my father and test the waters.  To this day, he shakes his head at me and says, “Katy, trying to hold government officials accountable will drive you crazy.  I find ways to work around them.”  I’m smiling, thinking, “Little does he know how much of an anarchist his daughter really is”.  As tears of appreciation stream down my face, I realize how much like my father I really am. And when this dangerous administration is ultimately held accountable for murder, I won’t have to say, “I told you so.”  My father will meet my gaze and truly understand that I taught him well.

Katy Parrish is a freelance writer and media activist who can be reached at takebackthemedia@hotmail.com.