Courtesy Justin Dickerson Justin Dickerson (SFS ’06) poses for a photograph with his parents during the Christmas season in one of Justin’s younger years as a child growing up in California.

At times like this, I can’t help but wonder what my mother would have to say.

She passed away before I finished high school, but by that time she had already made it clear that she had a plan for my college years. She would have said Georgetown was too far from our home in Pacific Palisades, Calif. To her, UCLA and USC would have been too far.

As she saw it, I would attend Pepperdine. I would live at home, of course, and drive back daily between classes for lunches consisting of my favorite creation of hers from my childhood: a feast of Cornish game hens. Given her ongoing battle with alcoholism that all but paralyzed her for the last years of her life, it never could have been like this, but the dream remained. Even though she could barely take care of herself, she wanted me close by, under her watchful eyes.

My dad took a decidedly different stance – or so I thought. I’ll never forget the intimate moment we shared at the airport the first time I seriously left home – for a freshman year trip to London with my high school. “I put some Imodium in your bag,” he said. “You never know how your system is going to respond to foreign food.” That was it. No tears. No “I love yous.” Just diarrhea pills.

I found out later that it was really difficult for my dad to send me off that day. He even went so far as to tell me about how he shared some of my mother’s seemingly unfounded concerns about my transatlantic voyage.

I would remember this as my father said goodbye at Healy Gates after freshman orientation. “See you at Thanksgiving,” he said, as if we were just separating until dinner. And, with that, he walked away with incredible ease. Again, no tears or “I love yous,” but thankfully, no diarrhea pills this time either.

I watched him head down O Street, never stopping to look back. I stood there for a few minutes, unsure of where I was supposed to go, what I was supposed to do.

My mother would have been a sobbing mess. I can only imagine the scene she would have created, and the puddle of mascara that would have formed there as she bawled.

Not my dad, though I’m positive he again would have shared similar separation anxieties with my mom.

Just as he did at the airport four years earlier, he bid me adieu and sent me onward to live, to learn and to grow unhindered, in spite of his own reservations.

By college I had learned to appreciate my folks’ different parenting styles, to glean the sometimes not so apparent advice and to recognize the love behind it.

What always amazed me was how throughout all the tough times, I never saw my dad break down. He did that for me. He’s Superman disguised as Clark Kent. My personal hero. My best friend.

I missed him. For all of freshman year, I would practically beg to come home each time I spoke to my dad. I hated the cold weather. I had no friends. New South was not up to building code standards for human habitation. Georgetown simply wasn’t fitting, I told him.

He missed me, too. I’m sure my pleas to return to southern California were, just as my decision to move back after graduation was, music to my father’s ears. Yet he never once suggested I do so.

In fact, he told me just the opposite. The best education from my time here came in one sentence from my dad: “Do one more year at Georgetown before you decide on transferring.”

I took my father’s advice and he was right. Sophomore year blossomed out of freshman year. I found my place on campus. I got involved with great organizations like The Hoya. I discovered I had lots of friends. I went on to love Georgetown more each year, and even to tolerate a little snowfall.

More importantly, I learned that past my father’s impenetrable poker face, like during his goodbyes, rests a wealth of advice if I listen carefully enough to notice.

As I approach this next stage of my life, it’s up to me once again to figure things out, this time standing alone at the entrance to the Santa Monica Pier instead of at the edge of now familiar Georgetown.

So in the meantime, I’m going to remember to make the most of whatever comes at me, knowing that my father is indirectly guiding me and that my mother is continuously watching over me, wherever I go. I’ll listen attentively to the goodbyes of my friends from Georgetown in the next few weeks and try to soak in their advice. And I’ll pack some diarrhea pills for the trip home. Just in case.

Justin Dickerson is a senior in the School of Foreign Service. He is a former senior Guide editor, senior Web editor, contributing editor, and member of The Hoya’s board of directors.