The Hidden Labor of a Good Patriarch: A Father's Legacy of Service

My Father's Car Wash Moment: A Life-Changing Epiphany

When I first read about my father's profound moment in Kansas in 1962, watching his professor scrub cars at a church wash, I didn't understand how such an ordinary scene would become the cornerstone of his life philosophy. The sight of a respected academic and mentor working with his own hands—cleaning vehicles to support his family—wasn't just a glimpse into labor, but a lesson in dignity that would echo through decades.

My father, Zafar Nomani, was a visiting teacher at Kansas State University, fresh from India on a fellowship. When he saw his professor among the car washers, he froze—not out of embarrassment or shame, but with awe. That moment crystallized what would become his lifelong principle: the dignity of labor.

"I saw the dignity of labor," my father would often tell us, decades later. "I get to work."

That phrase, simple in its articulation but profound in its implications, was never spoken aloud during his lifetime. He lived it, embodied it, and passed it on through example rather than instruction.

The Weight of Invisible Labor

For most of my life, I believed that independence meant pushing against authority—especially the authority of the man in my family who was also my father. It took his passing for me to recognize how profoundly he had shaped my ability to challenge the very patriarchy I thought I was escaping from.

His invisible labor wasn't about grand gestures or public recognition. It was the daily, uncelebrated work of ensuring we had food, shelter, education, and opportunities. He worked tirelessly, often in silence, with a quiet determination that never asked for thanks but always demanded service.

In our household, this manifested in countless small acts: the way he would drive me to interviews, even when parking was expensive; how he painted my baby's room blue with his own hands; how he listened without judgment when I voiced my anger at home. These were not just services—he performed them as a form of love, a commitment to our family's wellbeing that transcended the boundaries of traditional gender roles.

Living by 'I Get To'

My father's philosophy was never one of burden or obligation. It was rooted in gratitude and purpose. He didn't live his days complaining about what he had to do—he lived them celebrating what he got to do.

This attitude was forged in hardship, shaped by survival during the Bengal famine of 1943 and his early life under British colonial rule in India. Yet instead of bitterness, he found gratitude. "I get to eat," he often said when remembering that time of scarcity.

His approach influenced everything from how he viewed work to how he navigated family relationships. When I wanted to run track as a girl, he didn't question it; he simply supported me. During a freezing spring race in 1978, he took my frozen hands and breathed warmth into them—no words, just action.

"I get to care for my daughter," he said without hesitation.

This was the foundation of his legacy: not just as a father, but as someone who understood that true strength comes from service, not dominance.

Building Opportunities Through Labor

One of the most significant aspects of my father's labor was the way he used his own efforts to create opportunities for others. When I needed to attend a National Science Foundation camp in Oklahoma, he drove me—no questions asked, no complaints about the expense or inconvenience.

His dedication extended beyond that single trip. He supported my mother's dream of starting her own business by hand-drawing a window sign and stapling promotional flyers across campus. His love language was service, his mission clear: help others succeed.

When I decided to become a journalist, he didn't just support the idea—he helped make it happen. He drove me to my first interview in New York City, took the long way around to save money on parking, and never once complained about the cost or effort.

"I get to help my daughter build her life," he said, meaningfully.

These acts were not grand gestures; they were consistent expressions of his core belief that labor is not a burden but a privilege—a way of making life possible for others.

The Courage to Be Challenged

Despite the traditional expectations of his era, my father didn't demand obedience or respect from me simply because he was male. When I went to therapy as a young adult, he attended the session with me, listening quietly as I poured out years of accumulated grievances.

He never defended himself or dismissed my complaints. Instead, he did something that surprised even me: he acted on them. When I complained about not having a baby book, he created one for me filled with hand-drawn pictures—simple, personal, meaningful.

This wasn't just about being a good father; it was about understanding that love must be expressed through action, not just emotion. He taught me that true strength isn't about power or control, but about vulnerability and compassion.

Unconditional Love in Action

The depth of my father's love became even clearer when I found myself pregnant while reporting from Pakistan after 9/11. Facing a crime of unmarriage and pregnancy in that culture, I was terrified of how he would react.

Instead of judgment, he sent me an email with just three words: "I love you." No lecture, no shame—just a declaration that I had earned the right to be a mother. That message, I now understand, was not only a gift but also a promise: You get to be a mother.

He followed through on his promise by creating a space for me—a nursery filled with blue paint and love—and helping me navigate the challenges of single parenthood. His presence during those difficult times was never about control; it was about care.

Even in his final years, when I was struggling with heartbreak, he didn't offer empty platitudes. He went to Home Depot, bought rose bushes, and planted them for me. Then, he listened quietly as I cried. That's how he showed strength: through service, not speech.

Planting Flowers in Memory

As I reflect on my father's life, I realize that his most enduring lesson was not about achievement or status but about what he called the dignity of labor—the idea that work, no matter how humble, can be noble when it's done with love and intention.

The work he performed wasn't always visible. He didn't write books or give speeches. But his service shaped the person I became: someone who values truth, integrity, and deep human connection. When he passed, I finally understood that what had been invisible to me for so long was actually the most visible part of his life—his constant commitment to others.

On Labor Day, I stand beside his tools, feeling his presence in every tool in my garage. He didn't leave behind a legacy of money or recognition; he left behind a legacy of love expressed through labor. And now, as I live by the principles he taught me, I am learning to say: I get to.

A Legacy of Gratitude

In the end, my father's greatest gift was not just his sacrifices, but his way of making those sacrifices feel like blessings. He showed me that being a good person means serving others—not for credit or praise, but because it is what we do when we love someone.

His final years were spent in care, and he made sure the people around him—my mother, my son, his grandchildren—knew how much they meant to him. His last words, whispered through treatments, were a prayer of thanks, a reflection of a life lived with purpose.

I am now a journalist because of him, not in spite of him. Because he gave me the freedom to think critically and explore the world, he gave me a voice—and that is perhaps the most valuable inheritance anyone can leave behind.