father's day

opt-out empathy

There’s something you should know about me. I’m not a holiday person. Shame and scoff all you want, I am no longer affected. I’ve spent most of my adult life acting like I was so people wouldn’t think I was a joyless sociopath but no longer will I hold back my disdain.

Halloween - Absolutely not. Constant “theme” parties in college ruined any desire to dress in costume again. Ever.

Thanksgiving - Please don’t get me started on what we’re “celebrating.”

Christmas - The unrecyclable waste! My environmental guilt suffocates any sense of celebration.

4th of July - I’m only half American so they couldn’t get me with the propaganda.

Disclaimer: I am not a monster. I like the idea of holidays. I envy holiday people! In theory, it seems great: a bunch of excuses to bring a big family together to love each other IRL. If that was my reality I too would want a holiday every weekend. But I grew up with a single mom who actively avoided family gatherings while my dad & brothers were on a different continent. So yeah, there’s a healthy dose of childhood trauma sprinkled into this anti-holiday disposition.

Now that I’ve set the stage that I can’t get on board for the big ones, you can probably guess how I feel about the littler guys…like Father’s Day.

As a kid, I desperately wanted the American dad experience they fed me in media. Get him new golf clubs for Father’s Day! Buy him a six-pack of beer! Leave him alone so he can watch sports!

But, I didn’t have an American dad. I had a Dutch, PhD in psychology, self-described intellectual dad. I doubt he ever played golf. He preferred wine, and if he did drink beer, it had to be Belgian. The only sport he recognized was cycling. He thought the American dad was fascinating, studied the specimen with each visit as if it were a rare species of bird that was, until now, determined to be extinct. He wore a teeny tiny bright blue Speedo to the suburban Illinois public pool and thought all the dads wearing oversized swim trunks were the strange ones.

Every behavior around American culture ranged from fascination to hilarity to idiotic. “These Americans” he would say with a laugh. Which, usually translated to, “fucking idiots.” Naturally I internalized a lot of this, and as I got older, I too would scoff at the silly traditions and practices, telling myself I didn’t fall into my dad’s designation of brainwashed conformists. But before that, my little wannabe full-American self persevered, and I sent a Father’s Day card oversees to dear daddio.

Around high school the shift began. Holidays became the enemy. Well, not the holidays themselves, but the corporatization around them. I judged when others couldn’t see how they were blindly falling into the trap of capitalism and groupthink. I adapted the sentiment of denouncing Father’s Day as another Hallmark holiday with a signature eye roll. Eventually this soapbox shifted to detachment to self awareness. I grew out of the angst and the need to advertise my aversion. Or so I thought.

This year, year two of having a dad dead on Father’s Day, the angst came roaring back. I found a new enemy: Brands sending pseudo empathetic opt-out emails.

Another thing to know about me is that a lot of the work I do is exactly the type of work that could hypothetically lead to these cringeworthy uniform cosplays of care. I see through brand bullshit because I am a part of brand bullshit. I know too much. And as a result, the opt-out emails, and their attempt to not trigger consumers, triggered the fuck out of me. And not in a “my dad is dead” way. In a “brands being embarrassing” way.

It’s not the attempt at sensitivity that gets me heated. It’s the overinflated sense of importance and complete lack of awareness around their understanding of grief.

Do you really think your little promotional email is the thing that’s going to bring me to my knees, skincare brand?

Do you really think the hardest part about having a dead dad is getting sales incentives around Father’s Day, beverage brand?

Do you really think you claiming that you “get it” is going to magically erase the perpetual feeling of loneliness after the ultimate abandonment by a source of love that feels required to breathe, supplement brand?

Ah, I love a good lesson on how to stfu and stay in your lane. I promise your copy and paste declarations of support will not make people feel seen. It could make them tag your email as spam just to be petty, though. Or it could inspire them to dedicate an entire newsletter to your hollow attempt at relatability. But the most likely outcome? The people you’re trying to “support” won’t even see. They won’t open the email. They won’t read the 2-3 sentences stripped of any actual personality that check your SHOW WE CARE box. It’s already been auto-sorted to their Promotions tab along with 400 other ‘What Dad Really Wants This Year!” emails.

Based on the lack of originality, it’s safe for me to assume that most of these emails were sent by people who don’t actually ‘get it.’ A common ailment plaguing ‘brand world.’ And when that’s the case, the best approach is to stfu.

If I’m wrong, and there is someone on the brand team is dead dad-qualified, I would tell them to bffr. Send a list of potential triggers that first time grievers get to look forward to this Father’s Day! Very fun! Very unique! It could go something like this…

Father’s Day is coming up! For everyone will alive dads, buy them one of these things we sell. If this is your first Father’s Day with a dead dad then buckle up! We have a treat for you! We’re are *thrilled* to announce the launch of our exclusive, curated list of all the triggers you have to look forward to this Father’s Day that will definitely feel worse than an email trying to sell you something you inarguably do not need:

• The sad eyes and occasional stutter when someone starts to talk about their Father’s Day plans when they remember your dad is dead.

• The flurry of Instagram posts about “the best dad ever” to remind you your dad is dead and deprive you of a day of dissociative scrolling.

• Your best friend of significant other infantilizing you in an attempt to distract you from said Instagram flurry with an elaborate day doing “whatever you want kiddo.” Tell them a new Gucci bag would help you in this “particularly sensitive time.”

• And, if you’re lucky enough to work in brand marketing you just might get the extra treat of being required to make Father’s Day content to sell [insert product].

We’re Live this Sunday!

Since Father’s Day probably sucks for anyone reading this, I’m hosting a live grief group this Sunday at 12pm ET. If you want a place to vent about opt-out emails or Instagram dedications, I’ve got you. You can register here.