Watching The Simpsons was sometimes all my dad and I had in common. Now, it's how I remember him

Cut to the Feeling is a monthly column by Anne T. Donahue about the art and pop culture that sparks joy, grief, nostalgia, and everything in between.

One of the most frequent exchanges I had with my dad went like this:

Him: "It's just like in The Simpsons — "

Me: "No! Not everything is about The Simpsons!"

But I was wrong: everything is about The Simpsons.

I grew up in the 1990s alongside Bart and Lisa, Milhouse and Ralph, Jimbo and Nelson. I was four when The Simpsons premiered in 1989, but old enough that by its fourth and fifth seasons, I'd watch it nightly with my mom and dad, absorbing everything I possibly could about this cartoon TV show that seemed so grown-up.

By the time I was in fourth grade, The Simpsons was everywhere: Bart was shilling Butterfinger bars, catchphrases ran rampant on the t-shirts of boys I had crushes on, and Bart Simpson's Guide to Life remained my most-requested (and most-denied) book of my elementary school years. Slowly, The Simpsons became the cause and solution to all of my problems; watching it gave me something to talk about and laugh at with my friends at school, and it was also the first thing to be taken away if I talked back or seemed too under the influence of El Barto.

Not that my dad would ever enforce a total ban. Since we had only one TV and lived in a tiny bungalow, I could hardly escape my dad's answer to the enticing call of Homer J., especially if my mom was working late. "Don't tell your mother," my dad would warn as I nonchalantly approached the couch, watching carefully for a hint that I'd be told, in a carbon copy of Homer's dialect, "Go to bed."

Our dynamic was a perfect mirror of Lisa and her own dad: I was precocious, smart, and often annoying, and my dad, while a good man with a soft heart, often unintentionally shit the bed. ("Just because I don't care doesn't mean I don't understand!" was one of his favourite lines, likely because through Homer's own words he could say what he really meant. I use it now frequently, too.)

As I grew into a nightmare teenager, my dad and I drifted apart. He enforced rules I had no intention of honoring, and my belief that I was a grown-ass adult at the tender age of 15 was exactly as irritating to him as it would be irritating to me now. And yet, we still had The Simpsons.

Yes, I'd long outgrown our evening dates of reruns, but the quotes helped maintain our bond. Without any context, we'd communicate almost solely in quotes when we couldn't find a common ground to discuss anything else without arguing. Sometimes, we limited our exchanges to, "Do that thing you do!" ("What thing?"), "It's still good! It's still good!" (our dynamic), or the dreaded Janeane Garofalo-delivered, "I got my period today" (said by me to his impression of Marge's "Good lord!")

My dad never really explained to me why he liked The Simpsons so much. I know he appreciated Homer's good intentions and Marge's patience (likely because he and my mom had the same vibe), but I think what he loved most was the way the show was a vessel for bigger conversations under the guise of humour. He loved the episode in which Homer learned through chili-induced hallucinations that Marge was his soulmate. He became a John Waters fan after Waters' iconic cameo in 1997's "Homer's Phobia." And even during the pandemic, he likened the two of us to Lisa and Homer in "Bart on the Road" (1996) as we found more and more in common thanks to our evening walks and my brief-but-passionate love affair with puzzles. ("Langdon Alder: he's very quiet and enjoys puzzles!")

One night on a walk, I apologized to my dad. I'd gotten annoyed that something I was trying to communicate was lost to a Simpsons reference, and in the quiet aftermath of my usual, "Not everything is about The Simpsons," I found myself remembering "Make Room For Lisa," the 1999 episode in which Homer and Lisa's time in a sensory deprivation tank leaves them appreciating each other much more.

I told him I often think about the moment Lisa realizes her dad's just trying his best; she sees himself in his body and doesn't understand why she's always so angry with him. I acknowledged that I knew how much he was always trying, and how I appreciated that he stuck by me even when I was insufferable to asking too much. (He probably replied with, "Sticking together is what good waffles do!")

I haven't been able to watch a full episode of The Simpsons since he died. Neither me nor my mom are ready yet. But our own conversations have evolved into continuous references that make sense only in the context of our family. In the same way the show gave my dad a means to dissect the tough stuff, it's become the shorthand for my mom and I when we need to acknowledge how much we miss him without losing ourselves to the grief.

Groceries brought home are greeted with, "Did you get any meat?" Any malady or inconvenience is accompanied with, "Unkie Moe, my teef hurt!" (Now shortened only to "Unkie Moe!") Neither of us can listen to "Baby Come Back" without pretending to be Homer, crying on the other end of a hotline's hold music in the wake of a missing Maggie. And it feels like my dad is with us every time.

In my room, there's an embroidered piece of Homer J. sitting on the roof of his car in the desert, looking up at the starry night after saying goodbye to his mom. I have never been able to get through that episode without crying, especially as the gentle music comes up and we're left to sit in Homer's grief and loneliness. I posted that picture the day after I lost my dad because it was a scene that resonated with him, too.

"Aren't you sad?!" I'd demand as we watched, hiding my tears.

"No," he told me. "I think it's very peaceful."

I couldn't believe it. I wanted to understand, but even as I've come to know how it feels to lose a parent, it's still hard to find that peace. Then again, I know just how my dad would respond: "The lesson here is, 'never try.'"