Dreaming my little dreams, just like Dad

Dreamers are advised not to marry other dreamers. Everyone knows clouds don’t provide sturdy, stable homes. And without a cold splash of reality, someone could end up holding more lottery tickets than jobs.

Fair enough. But should dreamers raise other dreamers?

My mother, for one, didn’t think so. She probably didn’t realize it, but she tried to raise realists. When she called my dad a dreamer her head would shake, her eyes would roll.

Granted, she endured the consequences when his ideas ballooned, and deflated, right before her mortgage-paying eyes. But at least one of her kids not only noticed her disregard of this outlook on life, she adopted it.

My parents took me to lunch the day I graduated high school. The three of us sat in a nice restaurant discussing my plans for the future, my dad’s two favorite subjects.

The future, for dreamers, represents paramount possibility. And plans represent the flight of stairs that lead to it.

I can’t remember which path my dad prodded me toward this time. It likely involved an overnight success story he read about in one of his money or tech magazines. But this is certain: It had a pot of gold at the end of it.

My head shook, my eyes rolled: “Apa, you’re a dreamer.”

The words left my foolish 18-year-old mouth like a hard-slammed gavel. Apparently, I thought they passed out degrade-your-own-father diplomas at my high school graduation.

That moment still haunts me, especially considering the enlightenment the following 18 years brought.

Last year when my co-worker moved to L.A., quitting journalism in pursuit of a comedy-writing career, I felt overwhelming admiration for her. My Facebook friend recently quit his corporate job to travel the world for a year. I still marvel over it.

Everyone has a dream somewhere along the line. Dreamers just dare to keep having them well after society expects them to stop. There’s a reason the question “what do you want to be” always ends with “when you grow up.”

We equate dreaming with immaturity. But I’d be willing to bet my former co-worker’s U-Haul drive and my Facebook friend’s two-week notice didn’t come without first discovering serious personal growth.

To go after something beyond standard goals — 10 fingers and 10 toes, a corner office, the lifestyle that comes with the Champagne that comes with the car — requires bravery. Not just for what might be sacrificed to do it, but for all the naysayers who will inevitably be encountered along the way.

Like silly daughters who have the nerve to disrespect their hopeful fathers.

When I was a kid the expression “She is her father’s daughter” boggled me. What else would a daughter be to her father?

The more I come into my own, the more I feel like the embodiment of those words. Dreamers aren’t raised, they’re born. Despite my mom’s best intentions, I am my father’s daughter. I am a dreamer.

Dreams keep me interested in this thing called life. Envisioning a future in which a pinch doesn’t wake me up from them keeps me going.

My dad and I drove from Salt Lake City to Las Vegas a few months ago. We talked about the past and things we should have done differently, opportunities we only recognized in hindsight. I told him about a professional lesson I learned and lamented not realizing it sooner because in my mid-30s, the lesson just came too late.

If ever a shaking head and rolling eyes were justified, it was then.

“Mija,” my dad said with urgency in his voice. “I’m 69 years old and I’m still going after my dreams. It’s never too late.”

With that, we spent the rest of that six-hour drive talking about two things that had us lit up like the top of the Luxor: the future and our plans for it.

Contact Xazmin Garza at xgarza@reviewjournal.com or 702-383-0477. Follow her on Twitter @startswithanx.