When I entered the room as a child, my grandfather would call me by my full name.
“David. Joseph. Flynn. The first.” He’d leave a long emphasizing pause between each word.
That last bit, “the first,” was subtle but important. It’s not on my birth certificate, but it might be on my tombstone. My grandfather was imprinting an idea on me. I was the one and only.
It’s easy to forget little details like that. I went through school amongst a collection of Davids, Daves, and even a Davie or two. We’d go by last names and nicknames. Over time, you forget about being “the first.”
You make your way to Zumiez for a Stussy hoodie. Next is Abercrombie for a flannel and some matching cargo pants. Blend in and forget about being “the first.”
I’m sure I rolled my eyes when he said it. “The first what?”
But now, looking back, I can see what he was doing. I appreciate him seeing what I couldn’t. Calling someone by their real name—whole hog, with “the first” either said or understood—is a gift.
If they see that uniqueness in you, why can’t you see it in yourself?
Maybe that’s the role of parents and grandparents and coaches too. Seeing the genuine article, even when it’s only half-stitched.
God knows, at that age, it’s hard for a kid to do on their own.
Happy Birthday JD!!
He would have been 104 years old today.
JD, as well as my other grandfather, G-Bob, left me with a number of generous gifts, and I’ll try to capture more of them here on the blog. For another post with JD, you can read Compounding Interests, part three, or How You Say It. For a post featuring G-Bob you can take a look at Luck Is the Best Superpower. Enjoy!
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