Raising a Good Trouble-Maker

I was sometimes asked, as a political scientist, what kind of dinner conversations I had with my parents and whether we ever talked about politics. The truth is, we didn’t talk about politics at dinner—or at all—and, in fact, we rarely shared a family meal together.

I grew up in a household shaped by the rhythms of collective labor and strict hierarchy—values my father carried from his childhood on a rice farm, where everyone worked together from dawn to dusk and orders went unquestioned. When he later worked as an electrician in a paper mill, the setting shifted from rural fields to noisy factory floors, but the demands—early mornings, long hours, late nights—remained just as relentless. My parents tried to carve out fun with occasional day trips on a tight budget, but real holidays and vacations were still few and far between. Even now, I struggle to plan or enjoy a break because I never had a clear model for what that looks like.

Given my own difficult childhood, I hesitated to become a father. But fatherhood has been a second chance to live the childhood I missed—and it all happens through my daughter’s eyes. She truly is my sunshine: outgoing and radiant, already a budding artist who draws, sings, and dances; a devoted fan of unicorns, squirrels, and cats; and the proud author of her first comic book. I love her not just because she’s my daughter, but because her boundless energy and curiosity remind me every day what wonder feels like.

When my daughter arrived, I resolved to create something very different. I wanted her to know that trouble-making—when done with respect and purpose—is essential to change. I explain which rules deserve our respect and which deserve our questions. I encourage her to claim her rights and speak up whenever she sees unfairness, trusting that her perspective matters.

My emphasis on “good trouble” was inspired by the late Congressman John Lewis, who urged us to “get in good trouble, necessary trouble.” Lewis, son of an Alabama sharecropper, learned from Rosa Parks and the civil-rights movement that moral courage sometimes means breaking unjust rules. I want my daughter to understand that she has choices, to make them boldly, and to own the consequences.

To bring these lessons alive, I draw on my Harvard Kennedy School colleague Marshall Ganz’s Public Narrative framework—an approach that guides my research, my teaching, and even my parenting. At home—whether we’re at the dinner table, walking through the neighborhood, or riding bikes together—I’ll ask questions like:

• Story of Self: “What did you do at school today, and which moment made you feel proud or frustrated?”
• Story of Us: “Did you notice friends having similar moments—times they felt proud or frustrated—and what happened for them?”
• Story of Now: “Did you see anything that didn’t seem fair, or any act of kindness, and what could you and your friends do about it?”

She may not yet know words like “agency,” “collective action,” or “public narrative,” but I trust these conversations will become part of her inner compass. I have no idea what the future holds, but I want her to tell her own story, listen to others with empathy, and build a community grounded in shared purpose.

In our home, good trouble-making is a commitment to shared values and a shared future. It isn’t about chaos or disrespect—it’s about curiosity, courage, and community: asking hard questions, claiming the space to be heard, and working alongside others who share your concerns. That’s the kind of good trouble I hope she—and we—continue to make.