Following in Their Footsteps: The “My Dad’s” Club

Every airport has them.

No matter what airline, what city, or what decade, there was always a handful of new ramp station attendants who didn’t arrive with just a pair of steel-toed boots and a lunch bucket. They also arrived with a famous last name.

“Oh…you’re Joe’s son.”

“You’re Mary’s daughter.”

“I remember your dad loading DC-8s before you were even born.”

Within a week, the nicknames would begin.

“There goes another My Dad.”

Some veterans said it affectionately. Others…not so much.

The truth was, having a parent who worked on the ramp came with both advantages and disadvantages.

The Advantages

For starters, these rookies already spoke the language.

They knew what a belt loader was before driver’s training.

They knew never to stand behind a running jet engine.

They knew why everyone respected the old-timers who could marshal an aircraft in a snowstorm while drinking coffee with one hand.

Many had grown up hearing dinner-table stories about blizzards, baggage jams, impossible turnarounds, and midnight overtime.

When they finally walked onto the ramp, it already felt like home.

The veterans often watched over them—not because of favouritism, but because they’d promised their parents years earlier.

“If I ever see your kid out here, I’ll keep an eye on them.”

That promise meant something.

The Disadvantages

Then came the pressure.

Every mistake was noticed.

“If your dad saw that chock placement, he’d make you do it again!”

“You call yourself Bill’s son?”

The comparisons never stopped.

Some coworkers assumed they got hired because of family connections.

Others believed they received the easier assignments.

Meanwhile, the “My Dad’s” often had to work twice as hard just to prove they belonged.

Many refused help.

Many volunteered for the worst jobs.

Many wanted people to forget whose son or daughter they were and simply remember their own name.

Did They Get Special Treatment?

Sometimes.

Sometimes not.

Maybe they got a little extra coaching.

Maybe a supervisor knew the family.

Maybe an experienced lead quietly kept an eye on them during their first winter.

But when it came to loading a full flight in freezing rain at two in the morning, the airplane didn’t care who your father was.

The bags still weighed the same.

The snow still blew sideways.

The clock still counted down to departure.

On the ramp, everyone eventually earned their reputation.

The Real Legacy

Years passed.

The rookies became veterans.

They trained new hires.

Then one day another young employee showed up with the same family name.

Someone would smile and ask,

“Any relation to Dave?”

“That’s my dad.”

The crew would laugh.

“Well…looks like we’ve got another one of the My Dad’s!“

And the cycle would begin again.

Because airports aren’t just places where airplanes come and go.

For many families, they’re places where traditions are handed down from one generation to the next—along with a pair of work gloves, a reflective vest, and enough stories to fill a lifetime.

The greatest advantage wasn’t getting special treatment.

It was inheriting a profession built on hard work, pride, and friendships that often lasted longer than a career itself.