You Don’t Know Dick: Just Humor Me.
My dad went by Dick.
I’m 58 years old, and I still feel a little weird typing that. Every introduction growing up went about the same way.
“This is my dad…”
Pause.
“Dick.”
Then I’d wait for the grin. Or the laugh.
He never cared. Not even a little. Looking back, that tells you almost everything you need to know about him. He was completely unbothered. By his name. By what other people thought. By hearing “no.” By trying something that might not work. I admired that about him. I also spent years wondering how on earth he did it.
I’m naming this newsletter after him anyway.
Sometimes he’d go by RNA (Richard Newell Aronoff). In biology, RNA is the messenger. It carries instructions forward and turns them into something real. That’s what I’m hoping to do here. Carry his wisdom forward. One story at a time. He died eight years ago, and I miss him every single day. I have a feeling he’d get a kick out of this newsletter.
So let’s start with one of my favorite lessons.
I was 33 years old, living in San Francisco on a hill so steep my neighbors literally rolled their eyes when I told them I wanted to buy a Jeep Wrangler. Not just any Wrangler. One that was Black, manual transmission and a soft top. One that promised the kind of freedom you only feel with the top down, sunshine on your skin, and the wind blowing through your hair.
Naturally, I called my dad. He was raised around cars. His parents owned a Ford dealership, and somewhere along the way he fell in love with everything about them. The hunt. The negotiation. The deal. For a period of time he’d call me every couple of months with the same announcement:
“Well… good ole Dad did it again. Got myself another Beemer.”
When I found the Jeep I wanted, it was listed for $14,000. I called him from the corner of the dealership, trying not to look obvious. I could hear the excitement in his voice. After getting all the details, he simply said, “Offer him 10K out the door.”
I whispered, “Dad… he’s going to laugh at me.” (He also had to explain what “out the door” meant while I stood in the corner pretending I wasn’t on the phone getting negotiating lessons from my father.)
For the next fifteen minutes we argued.
Me: embarrassed.
Him: completely unbothered.
Finally he sighed. I could feel the exasperation through the phone. After a minute of silence he said “Just humor me.” So I did. Not because I believed him. Because disappointing my dad somehow felt worse than the humiliation in front of a salesman.
I walked up, trying to sound much braver than I felt. “I’ll give you $10,000 out the door.”
He laughed. Exactly like I knew he would. For about three seconds I felt exactly as ridiculous as I’d imagined. I said: "Okay, here's my number if you change your mind" just like I was instructed, and I went home bummed out and convinced I'd blown it.
As soon as I left the dealership, I called my dad. “He laughed.”
Dad wasn’t fazed. “Just wait.”
One day passed. Nothing. Two days. Nothing. And then the phone rang. “We can do $10,000 out the door if you can come in today.”
I just stood there. Silent. Dumbfounded. And then I yelled, “YES!”
I immediately called my dad. “Once again,” I said, “you were right.” I could hear the smile through the phone. As far as he was concerned, it had never really been about the Jeep. I wish I could tell you I listened the next time. I didn’t. But that’s a story for another time.
Here’s what Dick knew.
My dad had another saying, put yourself in front of luck. We always believed that dad was lucky. And the funny thing is…he usually was. Not because life magically worked out in his favor. Because he put himself in front of opportunities other people talked themselves out of.
He asked. He negotiated. He introduced himself. He started conversations. He made the call. He took the chance.
The Jeep wasn’t about luck. It was about timing, patience and strategy. But none of those things mattered if I never made the ask. The only thing standing between me and that Jeep was about thirty seconds of discomfort.
I recently read Beyond Belief by Nir Eyal, and there's a line in it that stopped me cold. Something like: people who believe they are lucky actually are luckier - not because the universe likes them more, but because they see opportunities that other people let walk right past them.
What this has to do with leadership.
I coach leaders every week who are waiting to feel confident before they make the move, ask for the promotion, have the difficult conversation, pitch the idea, start the business, set the boundary.
We tend to think confidence comes first. In my experience it usually doesn’t. Confidence is often the reward for doing the thing with shaky knees.
Sometimes people laugh. Sometimes they say no. Sometimes nothing happens for two days. And sometimes…the phone rings.
What my dad was really teaching me wasn’t how to negotiate. He was teaching me that I could survive hearing no. And once you know that…you become a whole lot braver.
Thanks, Dad. I miss you.
What’s your “$10,000 out the door” moment?
What’s the conversation you’ve already convinced yourself won’t work? The ask you’ve rehearsed a hundred times but never made? The opportunity you’ve quietly crossed off your list before anyone else had the chance to?
This week… Ask anyway.
You don’t have to feel confident. You just have to be willing to hear the answer.
Humor me.
Working with me.
Most leaders don’t need another book. They don’t need another podcast. They need someone standing in the corner reminding them they’re capable of more than they think.
That’s what coaching has become for me. Sometimes I’m simply the voice saying,
“Just humor me.”
If you’re ready to stop waiting for confidence and start building it, I’d love to help.
You Don’t Know Dick is my way of carrying Richard Newell Aronoff’s wisdom forward, one story at a time.
Love you, Dad.
Written by Dick’s daughter.
