Frank, my father, whom I never called dad because of the barrier I wanted to place between us, was a motorcycle mechanic.

I hated the fact my father wasn’t a doctor or a lawyer like my friends’ parents.

While they were always dressed up, Frank wore a leather vest covered in oil stains. I felt embarrassment every time he came to pick me up from school with his Harley.

On the day of my graduation, he showed up in his only pair of decent jeans and a button-up shirt that uncovered his faded tattoos on his forearms.

That day, I refused to let him hug me. As he approached, I took a step back and offered him a handshake instead. At the time, it felt like something I needed to do not knowing that the moment will haunt me forever.

Some weeks later, I got a call that changed everything. Frank was driving through a mountain pass when a logging truck had crossed the center line. His bike went under the wheels and he died on the scene.

For his funeral, I travelled to our small town. Honesty, I though it would only be me and maybe a couple of his drinking buddies. But the sight in front of the church stunned me.

A group of hundreds of bikers from across six states were there to say their last goodbye.

They all wore a small orange ribbon on their leather vests.

A woman whom I had never seen before approached me and said, “Your father’s favorite color.”

Once inside the church, people started sharing stories about my father whom they all called “Brother Frank.”

They spoke how he organized charities for sick children and how he always drove through snowstorms to deliver medicine to elderly shut-ins.

This wasn’t the father I thought I knew.

A crying man opened up about the time Frank found him in a ditch and forced him to get help. That day, he was over six years sober, all thanks to the man who I was embarrassed of.

Once the service was over, a lawyer approached me.

“Your dad wanted you to have this,” he said as he handed me  a worn leather satchel.

That satchel contained papers tied with his old bandana, a box, and a letter addressed to me.

In the letter, Frank wrote that he knew I was embarrassed of his job, but reminded me that what matters most is how many people someone helps not the number of letters written on their business card.

He left me his Harley and told me to give it to someone who may need it if I didn’t want it.

My dad reminded me not to be ashamed of who I am and where I come from. He ended the letter writing how much he loved me.

Tears rolled down my eyes for the first time since his funeral.

Withing the pile of papers, there were receipts of donations. One of them said that Frank had donated $180,000 over the course of fifteen years.

The following morning, I visited his shop. Samantha, the woman he worked with was waiting for me. “He told me you’d come,” she said and handed me a cup of freshly made coffee.

“Listen” she said as he handed me a folder. “Your dad started this scholarship last year. He named it Orange Ribbon Grant after his bandana. He wanted you to choose the first student.”

My father, whom I once hated, was a great man. He had a heart of gold that I never knew of. That day, I learned that Frank was larger than life.

With Samantha’s help, I learned how to ride that old Harley I once hated.

With the money my dad left to me, I decided to spend them on teaching kids how to repair bikes so that they could work at the shop. I didn’t want that place to close down.

Later, I learned that my dad was once offered a high paying job as a mechanic, but he refused the offer. The reason why was that my mother, who died when I was just eight, had leukemia, and he couldn’t work full time because he knew she needed him.

My father whom I once hated never lacked ambition. But he believed his family was way more important than building a career. And for that, I am always grateful to him.

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Bored Daddy

Love and Peace