In All the Colors Came Out<\/em>, Kate Fagan writes about her close yet sometimes complicated relationship with her dad, Chris Fagan \u201977, who died of ALS in December 2019. Kate\u2019s mom, Kathleen (Crowley) \u201978 Fagan, refers to the book as \u201cKate\u2019s love letter to her dad\u201d in the introduction. \u201cLucky us \u2026 our daughters hit the jackpot,\u201d Kathleen writes of Chris as a father. \u201cChris\u2019 drive, his devotion, and above all, his attention to his daughters\u2019 dreams made our girls who they are.\u201d The following excerpt is from a chapter titled \u201cFort Moultrie.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n There\u2019s a narrow street in Charleston \u2014 Huger Street \u2014 that cuts across upper downtown; my wife, Kathryn, and I happen to frequently find ourselves there. One of our favorite restaurants is on this street, and it\u2019s also around the corner from Hampton Park, where we walk our dogs a few mornings a week.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Kathryn doesn\u2019t know this, but the street is haunted. Each time we drive down it, a scene plays out, and sometimes so vividly I have to remind myself it\u2019s happening only in my head. (Or is it? Maybe there\u2019s also an energetic imprint on the street.) The scene is excruciatingly simple. I\u2019m in the car with my dad. He\u2019s driving. It\u2019s the night before my wedding \u2014 Oct. 3, 2018 \u2014 and we\u2019re driving slowly on Huger looking for street parking. We find a spot, but we need to parallel park, so my dad pulls the car past the opening, lines it up, shifts the car into reverse, and begins to crank the wheel.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I\u2019m looking over my shoulder at his progress when the car suddenly stops. He looks at me, his eyebrows arched, his eyes big. \u201cI need you to do it,\u201d he says. \u201cI \u2014 I can\u2019t, this wheel.\u201d His left arm, long rendered useless, dangles from his shoulder; his right arm, the one on which we\u2019ve pinned our hopes, keeps slipping from the top of the wheel. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI got this,\u201d I say, popping out of the car and darting around, believing the faster I park, the less time my dad has to analyze what just happened. And this is the moment. I see as a drone would, from above: the silver car idled on Huger, both our doors open, me scrambling around the hood, my dad dazed, struggling to pull himself from the driver\u2019s seat. I quickly park the car, pretending that the wheel is sticky, grimacing for effect. \u201cMan, that\u2019s a really tough steering wheel,\u201d I say as I get out of the parked car. It\u2019s one of those lies we build to get our hearts from one moment to the next, like grabbing someone\u2019s arm and dragging them from a gruesome sight.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Each time we drive down Huger, no matter the time of day, this scene plays. And sometimes as we pass the exact place on the street, I turn my head to keep my eyes there, just to stay in the moment a little longer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It\u2019s no mystery why this has happened. Just hours before he and I drove down Huger, my dad and I had talked \u2014 finally talked \u2014 about all the failures and miscommunications in our relationship over the years. It was the kind of conversation I promised myself we\u2019d one day have but worried we wouldn\u2019t. Nearly a decade had passed between me knowing I had things to say and actually saying them. And for two of those years, my dad had an ALS diagnosis hovering over him, and still I couldn\u2019t figure out how to carve out time just for the two of us.<\/p>\n\n\n\n But earlier that day, I\u2019d asked if we could go for a ride, just us. As I knew would happen, my dad\u2019s eyes darted to mine, and he said, \u201cUh oh, am I in trouble?\u201d Now that he was sick, he balked at interactions presented as \u201cspecial.\u201d He thought they meant the other person believed he was dying, and if the other person believed he was dying \u2014 well, that was incorrect messaging for the powers that be, the big man upstairs. This kind of reverence for spoken ideas isn\u2019t unusual. Many of us believe we can speak things into existence. We think that if we say our hopes aloud, the universe might just conspire to help us. And so, conversely, we worry that if we name our gravest fear, the thing we desperately hope isn\u2019t true . . . well, what will the universe do with that<\/em> energy? (Nothing good, my dad imagined.)<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cLet\u2019s just spend some time together. I know a cool place,\u201d I said, and, giving me another wary look, he accepted. <\/p>\n\n\n\n We drove to Sullivan\u2019s Island and parked the car facing the cannons of Fort Moultrie and, just beyond, the expanse of the Atlantic Ocean. The row of war machinery rests between two forts that feel as if they\u2019re part of the lush hillside, and along the winding path detailed signs explain the strategic importance of each variation in the landscape. From this perch, with nothing in view but relics of long-ago battles and swaying palm trees, modern life can feel like an abstract concept.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Even in October the temperature was touching 90 degrees, and my dad had his window down. For a few minutes, we said nothing. I shifted in my seat, took in a deep breath. My mind was filled with a jumble of ums<\/em>, ands<\/em>, I justs<\/em>, I wanted tos <\/em>\u2014 these false starts, this wheel spinning. Sitting there, finally in the moment I had wanted to create, I was still unable to imagine myself saying the things I needed to say.<\/p>\n\n\n\n For 30 years, our language had been low fives and the New York Knicks and practical advice and sneakers. My dad\u2019s love had been expressed verbally through his signature text \u201caml\u201d \u2014 all my love \u2014 but mostly through service: he mailed me cards with cash for a dinner out, he drove my car from New York to Colorado, he carried my gym bag around my summer basketball tournaments, he showed up for everything that was important to me. For all this, my gratitude was expressed simply: Thanks, Dad; you\u2019re the best. We paved over the mistakes and miscommunications and kept chugging along. But what we never did was get in there, wade into the mix of awesome and awful, and see each other clearly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Sitting next to him, I realized that if I waited for a poetic way to begin the conversation, it would never start. I just needed to dive in and thrash about until I found my footing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cUm, I just . . . wanted to get some time together to, to talk, because I feel like there are all these things I want to say that I\u2019ve never said before \u2014 I don\u2019t think I\u2019ve said, anyway.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n His eyes turned soft and tender, and he opened his body to me. He could hear the tone of my voice, how it was running along the edge, threatening to fall into the pool of tears below.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI don\u2019t know, I just don\u2019t think you realize how important you are to me and how grateful I am . . . that . . . you\u2019re my dad. I mean, all the time we spent together. How many dads do that? You took me everywhere with you, and you showed me everything you loved, and now I love those things, too.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m not sure I deserve that much credit,\u201d he said, putting his right hand on my shoulder. \u201cIt wasn\u2019t a sacrifice to spend time with you. I really liked you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI just always think about all the hours you put in rebounding for me, a little girl, like I was the most important thing in the world. I can\u2019t have you thinking I don\u2019t remember that, that I don\u2019t see that and think about it all the time. That we had such a great childhood and you treated me equally and gave me all these opportunities. I mean, I didn\u2019t even realize people thought female athletes and women\u2019s sports were inferior until, like, five years ago.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He laughed. \u201cIt was so much fun for me, those years, getting to watch you and seeing you fall in love with the game. I had as much fun as you did. Maybe I should be thanking you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m sorry I went to Colorado without thinking about how it would make you feel. I just didn\u2019t, I didn\u2019t even think of how it would change everything, and how hard it would be for you to not be a part of that chapter of my life \u2014\u201d and here my voice lost its balance. \u201cI don\u2019t think I ever said I\u2019m sorry.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAnd you never needed to say you were sorry. Going to Colorado was a great decision for you \u2014 haven\u2019t I said that, in retrospect?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I nodded, fat tears falling down my cheeks. Seeing them, he said, \u201cKatie, oh, honey,\u201d and touched my hair, and I thought how stubborn I\u2019d been, missing him so much for so long and yet doing nothing about it. I wished I\u2019d said something before the diagnosis, before the clock had started ticking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAnd I just \u2014 I\u2019m sorry about how I came out as gay, that I didn\u2019t tell you directly, and I\u2019m sorry about that email I wrote when I was mad at you. I\u2019m sorry \u2014 I\u2019m sorry I let myself put that anger down in words and sent it to you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI made mistakes, too, and I still think about them. I should have come play in that tournament with you in Los Angeles \u2014 I regret that to this day. But none of those regrets, or none of our mistakes, changes how much I love you or how proud I am that you\u2019re my daughter. I mean, Katie, you\u2019ve given us so much. I get to be the guy who walks into a room and people want to know if I\u2019m your dad.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cBut then you have to tell them you are,\u201d I said, trying to make him laugh.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI am so incredibly proud of who you\u2019ve become,\u201d he said. \u201cAnd I know it\u2019s important to say these things, to talk them out, but you must also know that there\u2019s nothing you could say or do that would change the way I feel about you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n And so, hours later, as we were driving down Huger, there was still this kinetic energy between us, this palpable warmth and softness that we\u2019d both missed so much. More than just love, it was a kind of breaking open.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It\u2019s this energy, this feeling, that is now trapped in amber alongside the scene \u2014 a bird\u2019s-eye view of the car, doors open \u2014 on that downtown street. And if it\u2019s possible to feel a kinship with streets, I do with Huger, because a small part of my dad lives there.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Kate Fagan is an Emmy Award\u2013winning journalist and <\/em>New York Times best-selling author. She currently works for Meadowlark Media and writes for <\/em>Sports Illustrated.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n After college, Chris and Kathleen lived in Europe, where he played professional basketball in Amsterdam, Holland; Ajaccio, Corsica; and Fougeres, France.<\/strong><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" In “All the Colors Came Out,” Kate Fagan writes about her close yet sometimes complicated relationship with her dad, Chris Fagan \u201977, who died of ALS.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1222,"featured_media":7024,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_hide_featured_image":false,"_jetpack_featured_image_duplicate_dismissed":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[30,23],"tags":[354,400],"coauthors":[728],"class_list":["post-7178","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","category-essays","category-voices","tag-alumni","tag-relationships"],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/palXSH-1RM","amp_enabled":true,"jetpack_featured_media_url":"https:\/\/news.colgate.edu\/magazine\/wp-content\/uploads\/sites\/6\/2021\/05\/Colgate-Sketch-blocks-cropped3-copy.jpg","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/news.colgate.edu\/magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7178","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/news.colgate.edu\/magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/news.colgate.edu\/magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/news.colgate.edu\/magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1222"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/news.colgate.edu\/magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=7178"}],"version-history":[{"count":6,"href":"https:\/\/news.colgate.edu\/magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7178\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":7228,"href":"https:\/\/news.colgate.edu\/magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7178\/revisions\/7228"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/news.colgate.edu\/magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/7024"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/news.colgate.edu\/magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=7178"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/news.colgate.edu\/magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=7178"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/news.colgate.edu\/magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=7178"},{"taxonomy":"author","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/news.colgate.edu\/magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/coauthors?post=7178"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\n\n\n\n
\n\n\n\n