It’s springtime, 2008, and I find myself in San Francisco with my daughter, Ella, who is almost 14. We’re at a pop culture conference, navigating a time in her life when she’s starting to mature in ways that are both exciting and overwhelming. Since my wife and I have decided against giving her a cell phone, I let her borrow mine for the trip. It’s both a treat and a bit of a test, showcasing her impressive skills in texting while seamlessly walking through the bustling streets.
My hope was that this trip would distract her from the constant pull of her friends. As I present my paper about comic book golems, I secretly wish for a moment of reconnection. To my surprise, she seems to be genuinely engaged, not once glancing at her phone during my 18-minute talk.
Post-presentation, we grab a coffee and ride the trolley to City Lights Bookstore, where I share stories about the Beats and their influence. I treat her to a new copy of Howl, and we then head to a nearby bar and grill. I let her have a couple of sips of my beer—just enough for us to share a laugh and feel lighthearted. She encourages me to order another round, and I think, why not? After all, it’s a memorable evening.
Later, we wander into the Virgin Megastore, where I’m on the hunt for a Bloc Party record I heard about. As we dig through the bins, I catch her texting again. What’s she saying? Is it about me? Our time together? “You should buy that record,” she suggests, putting her phone away. I comply, hoping it might bridge a connection between us—maybe we’ll listen to it together at home.
The following night, I score us tickets to the Fillmore West—a legendary venue I’ve dreamed of visiting since the ’70s. The Black Crowes are performing, and it feels surreal to be here with my daughter. As we step inside, I chat with a bouncer about the history of the place, hoping she feels a little of the magic I do. She trails behind me, phone tucked away again. I can’t help but wonder if she’d prefer to be here with a friend instead.
Once the show starts, we encounter a slightly chaotic guy next to us who lights up a joint right as the lights dim. My daughter turns to me and says, “You can smoke if you want. It’s all good.” The offer leaves me speechless. I manage to respond, “I’m good as is,” but I can’t help but wonder how she perceives me. Would smoking make me seem cool, or just desperate to fit in?
After a long set, we decide to leave during intermission, both of us feeling the exhaustion of being East Coasters in a different time zone. I find myself pondering why she thought I might want to smoke. Was it a wild guess, or did she sense something deeper? Reflecting on my journey as a dad, I wonder if I ever wanted to be the type of father who would share that experience with his kids.
Fast forward to 2014, where I’m at another concert with Ella, this time watching The Black Keys. The familiar scent wafts through the air, and we exchange amused glances—it’s like a little tradition we share now. She stands the whole time while I enjoy the comfort of my seat, grateful for the chance to experience this beautiful music with her. As the show ends, she jumps into her car to meet up with her friends, leaving me rooted in the moment, content in our roles.
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In summary, going to a concert with your teenage daughter can be a rewarding experience that fosters connection and understanding. It’s a journey filled with moments of joy, reflection, and a touch of nostalgia, reminding us that while they grow up, our role remains as important as ever.