I write this on Father’s Day, my heart aching for my dad—my tata. Two years ago this week, just after my birthday, he told me he had been diagnosed with stage 4 pancreatic cancer. Less than three months later, he was gone.

He left me many lessons, but one stands out now more than ever: truth is not just a virtue—it’s a responsibility.

My father, Ciprian S. Borcea, was a mathematician who emigrated to the United States from Communist Romania. He had grown up in a country where facts were bent to serve power, where history was rewritten to suit the regime, and where dissent was punished. He made it his life’s work to think clearly, explore multiple perspectives, question deeply, and live with integrity.

That final summer, I sat beside him in green, quiet Vermont as the cancer took its toll. He was surrounded by a lifetime of books—more subjects and languages than many libraries can claim – Aristotle, Pascal, Goethe, Descartes, Eliot, Cioran, Franklin, religious texts, art, mathematics, astronomy, ancient languages. He wasn’t interested in small talk or nostalgia. He spoke through parables, philosophy, history, theorems, and music.

He taught me that truth must be earned. Words matter. Pauses matter. Complexity and nuance matter. One of my earliest vivid memories, from when I was 5-6 years old, is him showing me how to sit properly through a symphony concert —how to truly listen, not just to notes, but to meaning.

My father loved classical music. It brought him quiet joy, even at the end. One evening, twilight seeping into the room, he played a beautiful recording of Haydn’s Cello Concerto in C Major for me. I watched him from across the couch, still impeccably dressed despite the effort it cost him. He had just finished sharing about the expulsion of the Jesuits, and was leaning back, spent. As the cello’s melody rose, I stared at him in the dusk, tears sliding silently down my cheeks. I knew it was one of the last times I’d get to sit with his intellect, his fierce clarity, his seeking soul. I already missed him.

And lately, I miss him more than ever.

That summer, he warned me: we were entering dangerous times. A time when misinformation would saturate the air. When dissent would be mistaken for disloyalty. When tribalism would choke out nuance, and consensus would be enforced, not earned. He recognized propaganda, no matter how modern its disguise—and he feared its return. 

He warned me, too, of a world drifting toward the comfort of certainty and the seduction of oversimplified narratives.

And I see it now. The recent flood of disinformation around the Los Angeles protests hit hard. Social media and even AI bots churned out manipulated footage and misleading claims. The National Guard was deployed before facts were verified, before help was even requested. The falsehoods didn’t just distort reality—they shaped reactions, policies, and fear.

Just this weekend, we witnessed the assassination of a Minnesota lawmaker and her husband. Viral narratives about the shooter spread—not because they were true, but because different factions needed them to feel true to justify a political stance.

The world is loud with lies. And this is not political theater—it is the erosion of intellectual rigor.

Even well-intentioned people share before verifying, amplifying narratives that fit their worthiest impulses. But good intentions don’t outweigh the damage of unexamined stories.

My father saw it coming. He feared we were trading the discipline of thought for the comfort of certainty. He didn’t fear disagreement, he welcomed it, but he feared conformity. He believed the death of truth doesn’t begin with oppression, but with convenience. With shrugs. With outsourcing our thinking.

So, this Father’s Day, with my tata on my mind, I offer an invitation:

Resist the viral rush. Pause. Verify. Ask harder questions. Consider who benefits from the story you’re being told. Read beyond your bubble. Listen more deeply. Make decisions rooted in your values, not your fears. And don’t be afraid to walk alone—if it means walking in integrity.

My father was not perfect. But he was principled. And he gave me the most enduring gift a child can receive: a map to meaning—drawn not in certainty, but in rigor, humility, and a relentless devotion to truth.

I am my father’s daughter. And I will walk this road—no matter how steep, no matter how sharp the turns—with the compass he left behind.

About the Author:
Nora Borcea Pullen is a Fayetteville resident, wellness business owner, and community advocate. Born in Romania under a communist dictatorship, she emigrated to the U.S. and became a citizen dedicated to protecting the freedoms she once lived without. She speaks regularly on civic engagement, resilience, and wellness.