I have a fondness for playing catch and a fascination with maps. Both of these I trace back to my dad. He taught me how to throw a ball in our front yard after oiling and breaking in the mitt we’d picked out. His work in the forests as a surveyor and engineer piqued my interest in drafting tables and topographic lines, and I associate the smell of wet leather boots and chainsaw oil with my heritage. My dad’s connection to the land, not just the trees but the remote forest roads and lush hillsides, is a cherished inheritance.

My father also taught me to drive, to cast a fishing line, to snap a football. Any time I wash a car, I remember his lesson to work from top to bottom, soap and rinse water pulled by gravity. He’s shown how to give to others, building a church or delivering food. But more important are so many of the things Dad has never had to instruct, but has modeled for me to this day.

My father listens first and speaks thoughtfully and slowly. He is even-keeled and dependable. He admits if he’s wrong; he apologizes even if he isn’t. There are instances in my life that I can trace a nugget of humility, a need for patience or a simple moment to pause back to his example.

Dad models love and devotion to family. When my mom woke from her heart surgery a few years ago, the most tender moment I’d ever witnessed was him telling her that she’d done great, his soft voice close to her ear as he kissed her on the forehead. This love is most intense for Mom, but it extends to all of us.

When my transgender son came out to my parents with his newly understood truth, he was nervous. The church my dad helped build advocated love of all, but plenty of these spaces shelter people who might not always enact this. My parents, however, immediately welcomed their grandson as he is. They cheer him on.

Besides my dad, I learn the most about being a man from my son. He’s had to be intentional about it, being transgender and literally having to stake that claim of masculinity with the medical and legal processes of our society. He has scars, visible and otherwise. Being a man is both who he is and something he has to work for in order to be accepted in ways that I take for granted.

His journey is his own, yet it also influences others not limited to a parade of Pride celebrating, rainbow-draped allies. As he’s studying history and legal studies, I’ve started to recognize his advocacy is not only for himself and the queer community, but for all of us. We are all an “other” in some manner. “LDS” and “LGBTQ” have each faced persecution in their histories. My Irish immigrant ancestors were ostracized in the same way immigrants of today are dehumanized. It’s easy to forget that we are each an outlier in some way. My son speaks out for all of us.

Early on as parents, we kept Band-Aids on hand and woke up at 2:30 a.m. when kids were sick. I spent much of my fatherhood holding a hand as we walked from school. Now, the father of my grown son, I walk right behind, sometimes in a march but always with love. I listen, just as my own father demonstrates to me. We work to heal wounds Band-Aids can’t.

I learn from the men in my circle that my role as a father isn’t so much about anatomy as it is about being intentional. My dad has never been about perfection, but about betterment and understanding. My son is a model for knowing a true self and developing that whole person. These are my role models, those in my life who share some of my genes, my middle name and, most importantly, the example of what it means to be a man, a father and a son.

Adam Johnston is a professor of physics and director of the Center for Science and Mathematics Education at Weber State University, where he helps prepare future teachers and supports educators throughout Utah.

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