Thanksgiving is the singular day in our year dedicated to the general expression of gratitude. It is the day to communicate appreciation to those we love. With that in mind, I feel compelled to begin this column with an apology. I’d like to apologize to my father, who is now undoubtedly reading this for the first time on the NJ Globe website somewhere around 3:00 a.m. in his pajamas, for temporarily usurping his throne as the columnist behind the O’Toole Chronicles. While I do feel terrible about all this, I’m sure you’ll find it within yourself to forgive me.
As my father has long preached, the world of New Jersey law and politics is peculiar. It is tough to describe it to those not familiar with the arena. With the most densely-packed populace in the country, it doesn’t make sense to outsiders when we remark that our world is a small one. Unlike most, I have been steeped in this sphere since birth. My father (the famed columnist) frequently recounts how he would bring me to political events at just two-years old. Of course, in those days, he did not bring me along to build my network. The reality is that I provided him with an unimpeachable excuse to leave the venue at his leisure. Dirty diaper, needs a nap, etc.
Since growing the capacity to actually volunteer my attendance at these events, the reality of our world’s compressed nature has become more apparent to me. When introducing myself to others, I am frequently met with something along the lines of, “Wow! Hi! You know I really love your dad!” Truthfully, I have always found this situation difficult to navigate. I know nothing about this person. This person knows nothing about me. But we both know this other guy who is alright I guess (and a famed columnist). I usually resort to an attempt at a quippy reply, like “No way me too!” or “He taught me how to ride a bike!” But the truth is, I have always found it embarrassing. I felt that an individual’s pre-existing familiarity with my father somehow tainted my ability to control my first impression. That it deprived me of the ability to even have a first impression.
Even though I’ve come to forgive my father for using my toddler-self as a campaign prop (in reality, he just figured out that the family dog actually gets more votes), I maintained discomfort with the mention of my progenitor until one particular interaction shifted my lens. Just after graduating law school (go pirates!), I was at an event when I was suddenly approached by a woman. She quickly glanced at my name tag as if to confirm my identity and said, “I know we haven’t met before, but I wanted to let you know that your father is a very special person.” Following standard operating procedure, I replied, “He taught me how to ride a bike!” Instead of the usual, and perhaps forced chuckle, she looked at me stone-faced and said, “No, your father helped my son into a group home. He has autism and I’m really not sure what we would’ve done without your dads help. So please let him know I said thank you.”
I mean, holy curveball.
I share this story with no intent to further bolster my father’s ego (famed columnist); but rather, to mark the precise inflection point where it dawned on me that the inheritance of a known last name doesn’t just bestow a lifetime of semi-awkward starts to small talk conversations. It creates a duty to uphold the positive values and morals that have become associated with it. Lucky for me, they are also values that I find particularly important: loyalty, compassion, and grit to name a few. Wanting to separate myself from these virtues is idiotic and counterproductive. Yes, it is still undoubtedly a burden—but I have the honor of bearing it. So I might as well go out there and let it rip.
To that end, I think it is important to take time this holiday season to express the gratitude that is rightfully owed to our predecessors, and to commit to living out the values and truths they instilled in us. Happy Thanksgiving.
P.S. Chairman, don’t let all of this go to your head. You’re still terrible at golf.
