A Point of View: Daddy Issues

Editor’s Content Warning: This creative work includes themes of and references to misogyny, physical and sexual violence. 

“Take this bread. This is my body, broken for you. Take this wine. This is my blood poured out for you.”

Happy Father’s Day, dad. I see it fell on communion Sunday this year. I did not bring you a gift, but as a sacrifice, I brought myself. I brought myself, my good grades, my neat little braids. I would have brought more, but I couldn’t get mom to give me any money. Anyway, I didn’t have a ride, and she doesn’t have a car. You know how flawed she is. She can’t do anything right, just like you said. Remember you told me that you were leaving us as soon as I was 18 because she was not worthy of you. You deserve that dad, your freedom from the interruption my mom has caused you by marrying you and having children. I mean, did you even want three of us anyway? It’s ok dad, I understand. I won’t keep talking about mom because I know how just the thought of her gets you upset.

In my silence, in the absence of a gift, and as a response to my mother’s imperfections, I offer you me, the perfect daughter. I offer to you, the perfect daughter who will grow into the perfect woman so that your greatest wish will be realized. I will show you that the perfect woman does exist, that there is at least one. I will attain this perfection by following your vague instruction, mentally noting your insane, unreasonable expectations, and by learning how to self-correct when the faintest look of disdain crosses your forehead. I come to you, making myself small, hiding all my flaws, hoping to weight you with no burdens at all. It’s me Dad, your favorite. Open the door.

From the cigarette-stained laughs and the sound of televised basketball games, I can hear that you are close. I rationalize that you must be preoccupied by monstrous burdens laid upon you by every other feminine vessel you have ever encountered. Otherwise, you wouldn’t ignore me. I just wanted to update you, though. I did something that would make you proud. I burned the bridge to mom and the flag of the country she represents. I don’t remember how you say it, but it’s something like “United Souls of Abused Women.”  I think that’s how you pronounce it. The “Me Too” might be silent though.

It’s cool, you don’t have to open up. I will go next door and spend the night with my Daddy Doubles. You remember William Robert Kelly Huxtable, right? He offers me drinks every day, but I don’t take them. I have always been so full from your juice, that I never noticed my thirst. Now that I am outside, I need just a little bit of something to sip on. My sister said she drank some and it tasted like jello. I like jello. She said it made her feel funny and then she fell asleep. When she woke up her treasure had been stolen and she didn’t know where she was. I know she is lying about that part though, because you told me how women lie, and my sister, well, she is a woman. She is a fast one at that. I also remember you told me that she had no value, so there was never really any treasure to take. She was asking for it anyway, wearing those tight clothes and developing that voluptuous body, what did she expect? I remember what you told me dad, all women lie and they have no value. “Here is my body. Take it as my sacrifice to you, neighbor. I am really thirsty, and I miss my dad.”

Dad, I’m back. I thought I heard the door open. If that was you, just call me. I have stopped living my life for a conditional placement in yours. Uncle Baby Daddy and Cousin Toxic Masculinity have helped me study for my classes at the “University of Guess What Men Really Want.” My plans for the future include seeing myself through their eyes while always being conscious of my failure to meet that spark of expectation in yours. I will get my Master’s Degree in “The Further Destruction of Myself and Other Sistas” and write my thesis paper about it. I’ll keep my copy so you can read it.

Dad, in your absence, and in your silence, I have been raped, molested and beaten by the hands of men that could kill men. In your absence and in your silence, I have been undereducated and overlooked. In your absence and in your silence, I have been paid the wages of a peasant and worked the hours of a Negro, Hebrew, Jewish slave. In your absence and in your silence, I considered eternal rest as my only refuge. The comforting escape of The Reaper has not always seemed so grim. In your absence and in your silence, I made a recording of your words, and I played them on repeat as my daily mantra. I always used the best quality players because that always made that melody sound so nice. Those players sparkled, shined and dazzled. Their melodic intonations were impeccable. In the 90’s, I bought the Mr. Nice guy version first. He would rock me to sleep to the sounds of “Why It’s Ok to Date Your Other Women While We’re Still Together.” In the early 2000’s, I upgraded to the Mr. Well Paid version. His voice could melt butta and his lips felt like bitter, unconscious surrender when they sang the “You Can’t Make it Without Me” version of your love songs. There were others, too many to name. You remember what you told me though, you remember. 

In my silence, being ignorant of my gifts, and as a response to my mother’s imperfections, I began to break. The scalding hot heaviness of perfection made my thick, coffee colored legs buckle. I became a bag lady, and I hurt my back carrying all them bags like that.

As gratitude always has, it showed up just in time. Gratitude was so pretty. She had kinky hair like mine, her hips swayed in victory, and her voice fell on my ears like summer rain. I could not hear her at first, because I was still listening for your voice to come save me. In the silence, in the absence of deception, in the dark, I heard someone call me Sister. Che, Bev, Zhane, Brit, they knew my missteps and called me comrade anyway. I heard someone call me Mother. Mikela, Jordan, Maurice, Andrea, Kennedi, they had seen the blood of self-doubt spilling out of my veins. They called me their fierce protector anyway. Mary, Mother of Thunder, clashed so loudly it made me tone deaf to my distractors. She brought me to a group in the coldest winter ever. She made them call me Queen.

Sisters, thank you for your voice when so many men have had laryngitis. Brothers, be mindful of the music you write in the story lines of your life, for it will get played back to your daughter, in its original version, but this time with a little stank on it.

Thank you.