He squeezed me as tight as he possibly could, bear-hugging me for dear life, as we stood on the curb outside Departures at MacArthur Airport. It’s always tough saying goodbye to him. This time felt tougher. Though I’ve grown used to flying back and forth every few months from South Florida, where I currently reside with my wife, to New York, where he and my mom raised me and my brother, I’ve found visits with my father becoming more precious with each passing trip.

“Thank you for taking me with you,” he said, still holding on. 

“Thanks for being part of it,” I responded. “Everyone loved meeting you.” 

Over the past two years, I’ve found myself returning to the tri-state area for new reasons other than seeing Dad. The two books I’ve written, Colorful Palate, a memoir, and All Mixed Up, a Middle Grade novel, have been taking me all over the country with invitations to give talks and presentations at high schools, middle schools, universities and libraries. Since both stories are based on my upbringing, opportunities to speak in New York and surrounding states have brought me back more frequently. Though touring can sometimes be a lonely experience, I’m fortunate to have my 74-year-old father as my roadtrip companion whenever I’m driving around the northeast.

If you’ve ever met my dad, Roop, you’ll know the enormity of his personality is unforgettable. His warmth and charisma, the high volume of his jubilant voice, the endless selection of corny “dad jokes” told in his thick Indian accent followed by instant laughter, and an ever-present gleam across his face that puts everyone who encounters him in a better mood. He’s a character, to say the least. Eccentric, offbeat and endearing. If the man had a creative bone in his body, he’d be the perfect candidate for a crazy artist. But he’s an industrial engineer, beloved by his blue collar peers. And though he hasn’t read every page of my books, it hasn’t stopped him from loving every minute of his son’s success as an author. Plus, he already knows the stories – he lived them with me. 

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With each appearance, no matter the venue or audience, he has his icebreaker at the ready.

“Hi, my name is Roop. Spelled backwards is “poor!”

It’s a line he’s been using for over 30 years. He started off telling it with his business associates, the most likely to laugh at any financial-related humor. But over time, he says it to literally every person he meets: teachers, librarians, students, front desk clerks at hotels, cleaning staff, waiters, bartenders, Uber drivers, supermarket cashiers and so on. Most chuckle, if only to satisfy him. I usually roll my eyes like a typical child of an embarrassing parent, though part of me also adores his absurdity. 

During my events, he loves when the spotlight turns to shine on him. When old photos of my family appear during my PowerPoint presentation, in which black-and-white images of him as a young man back in Mumbai are projected on a pull-down screen, they turn to where Dad is sitting and stare as if they’re witnessing a legend in their presence. For young admirers, his presence brings my personal stories to life.

During a recent event at Princeton Middle School in New Jersey, when I announced to an auditorium of 250 students that my dad was here with me, all heads turned to the back of the theater and applauded him as he waved to them. Afterwards, they ran up to him with tiny scraps of paper asking for his autograph. Some even requested that he sign his name alongside mine in copies of my book. He was more than happy to oblige. 

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“Wow, now I know what it feels like to be a celebrity,” he said to me in the car afterward. 

I smirked, pleased that I could give him that feeling. 

Last week, I was back in town to speak at Library Journal & School Library Journal’s Youth Leadership Summit, held this year at Plainview-Old Bethpage Public Library, just a few towns over from where I’d grown up, in the same house where Dad currently lives. It was the first time I’d ever been invited to speak on Long Island, where the stories in my books largely take place. I wasn’t surprised it took this long; they don’t shy away from some of the ugliness and prejudices my family and I faced during our four decades in the region. But when I received the invite to appear alongside author Adam Gidwitz, I couldn’t say no.

Dad accompanied me, of course, along with a handful of local friends. 

As Adam and I took our seats on the auditorium’s stage, I wondered what I’d say to a theater of librarians, mostly serving Long Island. After all, these weren’t the folks who’d made me feel awkward for most of my formative years. In fact, libraries were safe havens when I was young, where I could escape the ignorance of the world. 

As I scanned the rows of faces, I saw my dad sitting toward the center and quickly felt at ease. The moderator, Jonah Dragan, asked me the first question. I paused and took a detour.

“Before we talk about that, I just want to give a shout-out to my dad who’s here today. He came to this country as an immigrant in 1976 and, next year, will be celebrating 50 years in the United States.” 

Before I could finish my sentence, the audience erupted in cheers. Dad sat up tall, waving both hands around to his neighbors, that big gleam across his face.

“And when I’m signing books later, make sure to get his signature, too. It’s a collector’s item.” I added.

After the talk, while I signed copies for the long line of librarians, they each thanked me for speaking earnestly about the complexities of Long Island. Their validation meant a lot. Halfway through, Roop was encouraged by the crowd to join me at the table. After I signed, I passed each copy to him and he added “Roop – Dad” next to my inscription. 

At the end of the event, Adam and I swapped signed books for each other. On the title page to Max in the Land of Lies, he wrote, “Never give up on the truth!” His words hit home at that moment as I looked over my father and thought about all of the sacrifices he made just for me to speak freely and openly in a room full of strangers.

Two days later, when he finally let go of me, I started my walk toward the airport entrance doors. But first, I turned back to see my dad as he leaned on his car, watching me leave. 

“I’m so proud of you!” he called out.

“I’m proud of you!” I yelled back.

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Colorful Palate and All Mixed Up by Raj Tawney are available now, wherever books are sold.