It’s the spring of 2008. My daughter, Emma, and I are on the West Coast, attending a pop culture conference in San Francisco. She’s almost 14, on the brink of leaving middle school behind, a time when kids start to grow up in ways that are often hard to grasp, even for them.
I decide to let her use my cell phone during our trip. Little did my wife and I know that by denying Emma her own phone, we’d become the barrier to her teenage independence. She slips my phone into her skinny jeans pocket, and I’m amazed at how she can text and walk simultaneously without colliding with anyone or anything.
My wife and I hoped this getaway would help divert her attention from her tight-knit circle of friends. During the trip, I felt as if we were reconnecting. Emma listened intently as I presented my paper on comic book golems, and for the entire 18 minutes, her thumbs remained still—at least, I thought.
After my talk, we grabbed some coffee and hopped on a trolley to City Lights Bookstore. I shared tales of the Beats and Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s influence while explaining the significance of Howl. I bought her a new copy, which she seemed excited about. Later, we stopped at a bar and grill near Fisherman’s Wharf, where I allowed her to take a few sips of my beer. We both enjoyed a light buzz, laughing and chatting about mutual acquaintances and new faces.
Emma encouraged me to order another round, and I did, thinking that more of a good thing would only enhance our experience. We strolled into the Virgin Megastore searching for a Bloc Party record I had heard about during the conference. When Emma suggested that I buy it, I eagerly complied, hoping she might think I was cool or at least that we could enjoy it together at home.
The following evening, our last in the city, I scored tickets to the Fillmore West, a legendary venue I’d dreamed of visiting since the 1970s. The Black Crowes were set to perform, and it felt amusing that we had traveled across the country to see a band from our own area.
Upon entering the Fillmore, I spoke with one of the bouncers, sharing my excitement about visiting this musical shrine. He pointed out places where Janis Joplin and Jerry Garcia had once stood. I yearned for Emma to appreciate this history, even as she quietly followed me, her phone tucked away in her pocket. I wondered if she would have preferred to attend with a friend instead of her dad.
As we settled into our spot, I noticed a man beside us lighting up a joint just as the lights dimmed. The memory of turning down a toke at a Jackson Browne concert in the ’70s flashed through my mind. Back then, I’d chosen not to partake out of respect for a friend who had his own struggles with what was acceptable.
Emma turned to me and said, “You can smoke if you want to. It’s all right.” Her words caught me off guard. I managed a calm response, “That’s okay. I’m fine as I am.” I wondered how she would perceive me if I did indulge. Would she think I was cool, or just an old guy trying to be relevant?
After the intermission, we both felt the fatigue of our East Coast bodies and decided to leave. As we caught a cab back to our hotel, I pondered why Emma even thought I might want to smoke. Was it a wild guess or an intuitive sense? I reflected on whether I’d ever envisioned myself as the kind of dad who would share such experiences with his kids. Had it been the moment I first held her or perhaps the countless times I read her bedtime stories that shifted my perspective?
Fast forward to winter 2014, where I found myself at another concert, this time with my daughter, Lily. The Black Keys were playing, and the unmistakable scent of smoke wafted through the air. Lily and I exchanged smiles, a moment of understanding passing between us as she stood for the entire concert. Meanwhile, I settled back to enjoy the music, grateful that she wasn’t embarrassed to be out on a Saturday night with her dad.
After the show, I drove us home, and Lily headed out to meet her friends. She was straddling two worlds, while I lounged comfortably in mine—each of us perfectly situated in our own stages of life.
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In summary, attending concerts with your teenage daughter can be a wonderful bonding experience filled with laughter, connection, and shared memories. While the dynamics of parent-teen relationships evolve, these moments provide a platform for growth and understanding.