My Father's Daughter

He sat in his truck, staring at his phone. His call had gone unanswered. He shook his head in dismay and set the phone on his seat, put his truck in reverse, and drove off. He missed her, although he didn’t regret his actions which had ultimately led to their estrangement. He thought about her and loved her, even if she was headstrong and emotional in ways he simply could not comprehend. In some ways, he even felt wronged by her and her adamant silence these last few years. He shook his head once again as he thought of his daughter. From the outside he would appear to be annoyed, perhaps even offended, but inside he was hurt.

At least that’s what I imagine. I haven’t seen my father or spoken to him in years. There was that awkward accidental crossing of paths at my nephew’s birthday a year or so ago, but I would hardly count that as interaction in any meaningful way. When my phone rang and the word “Dad” popped up on the caller ID, I was tempted to answer. I almost had, as a matter of fact. But I wasn’t ready. Not yet.

I knew I would not be able to approach him until I could do so with love and compassion. Yet there she was, that little girl, begging for me to give voice to all her pain and suffering, to all the emotional abuse. The girl who had grown up and taken control of her own narrative yet still wanted Dad to know how much he had impacted her, and not in the positive ways one hopes a parent will. She often felt anxious, insufficient, broken. She wanted him to know that. Even more, she wanted him to know it was his fault. That little girl didn’t care if he was hurting or not because not once had he acknowledged her hurt.

I thought about her a lot as I stared at my phone. “Missed call - Dad” shone back at me under the time and the current temperature outside. I thought about my dad and my feelings. I didn’t hurt as much as I once had. In place of roiling anger, I now felt a cold kind of apathy: no anger or hatred, but no desire to rebuild the bridge that had been burned down between us. I thought about a compromise between the broken little girl who just wanted a normal loving father and the stubborn but loving (in his own way) father who pushed her away with toxic forms of love.

I knew what to do. I felt heavy resolve. I would text him, apologizing that I missed his call. I’d tell him that I am not quite ready to talk but when I do so, I would first need to explain to him (calmly and with love, mind you) why I had chosen to cut him out of my life. It was a good compromise between giving voice to the hurting child and acquiescing to the overbearing parent.

To this day, I haven’t sent that text. I doubt I ever will. I am healing, in my own way, and in my own time. But one thing I need to do before I can talk to him is feel secure in myself without having to tell him my side of the story. I have to be able to relate to him, one human being to another, without needing validation or hearing the words, “I’m sorry” or “I was wrong.” I have a hard time letting go of that sense of justice and until I can, what I have to say will likely hurt both of us.

I think less and less about the damaged little girl as I work to heal her and more and more about the broken man who raised her. What was it like to be him? What was his experience of the world? He scared me to tears as a kid with off the wall (from an adult perspective) conspiracy theories about how the Democrats are going to bring death and destruction to our nation.

“Clinton is going to bomb his own country and declare martial law to stay in power.” I was just a kid when I heard those words. The fear they inspired made me sick to my stomach. But the fear was not mine- not really. It was his. He imbued my life with a fear of minorities, gays, non-Christians, Democrats, even white trash (a term that applied as much to ourselves as anyone). I grew up with severe social anxieties born from a remark here or a conversation there and each little additional neuro pathway was nourished and strengthened every time he said something like “people will think” followed by some harsh social judgment.

“You shouldn’t get tattoos. You’ll never get a decent job. Employers will think you’re trashy and undependable.” I got a tattoo for my 18th birthday and several more since then and am still a successful professional.

When I told my dad breakfast cereal makes me feel nauseous so I feel sick almost every morning (and had my entire childhood), it was, “don’t tell anyone at school that or they’ll think you’re pregnant.” Turns out I am sensitive to sugar.

“Don’t tell people that or they’ll think you have AIDS,” when I commented that I feel like I get sick a lot. Allergies, not AIDS, were the bane of my teenage existence.

Or sometimes it was more subtle. Taking us four kids to a restaurant he would say “Keep quiet and keep your hands to yourselves! People will think we are a dysfunctional family.” Note from grown up me: the family with perfectly silent, well-behaved young children is far more concerning to me than one in which kids act like, well, kids.

Worst for me was how he behaved when I went through my religious journey which included a four-year walk down the path of a Muslim. I didn’t cut him off instantly, despite his paranoid and childish behavior that included accusations that I was a “terrorist sympathizer.” But that was the cement jersey barrier that broke the camel’s back so while I maintained contact for a while, it dwindled away and it was only a matter of time before not calling him as often became not calling him at all.

All the things he said to me as a child and young adult that scared and intimidated me and programmed me to shy away from the world ultimately pushed me away from him. But one thing I never lost sight of, even through my years of estrangement, is the sincerity and love with which he acted. Sure, from the outside it was a twisted, toxic, abusive form of love. He did threaten to pull my eyebrow ring out with pliers when I was eighteen. But it was love, nonetheless.

I picture him, the man with whom I am not yet ready to reconnect. He is sitting in his truck or at his office desk or maybe his couch at home and he is thinking of all the things he did as a father. He is thinking of how hard he has tried to provide for and show love to each one of us. He is questioning how, with all his good intentions, he can struggle to form close relationships with each of the four of us. And he is thinking of his one daughter in particular. The one who totally cut him off. He wonders how she could be so selfish to refuse to forgive him. He was justified after all. He did what he thought was right when she converted to Islam and her inability to forgive him was childish.

As I muse, I realize that any attempts to be graceful to myself paints him as a villain and any attempts to show him grace paint me as such. Truthfully, neither one of us is the bad guy. We are each the broken, struggling heroes of our own stories. He is the father whose own father taught him that love means going to work every day to provide for your family. He is the one who looks around his world and sees it falling apart. Perpetually. He sees minorities as enemies to his way of life, Democrats as agents of Satan (I wish that were hyperbole), and the balance between forces in this world as always being at their tipping point. His life must be terrifying.

He is the father who wants his children to be well received by others yet always imagines outsiders’ judgments to be equally harsh as his own and in his mind they are always scrutinizing. So he taught his kids how to behave- no, not behave- how to perform so that others will see them as respectable, valuable members of society. Valuable and respectable. Both social labels he often struggled with himself. He often referred to others as “white trash” but truthfully, that’s exactly what we were. The poor family that lived in a wealthy town while he toiled away as a general contractor building luxury homes he would never himself enjoy or remodeling their lakeside hotels so they could increase their business profits. He walked with an internal shame that he wanted to shield his children from. He didn’t just want us to be successful like him, a personal business owner. He wanted us to be better than him.

He is the father who loves his children but loves his own personal God enough to draw battle lines against them where his beliefs, morals, and values tell him he must. He is, in his own way, protecting himself, the rest of the family, and the individual child, even from themselves. He is steadfast, if paranoid and misled. He stands by his worldview and defends it, even at the cost of a relationship with a child, because without his worldview, he is nothing. It is his strength against the tumultuous uncertainty of reality. And above all things, he must protect his children against whatever onslaught of evil he fears is coming next, from the outside world, or from within their own hearts.

And I am the daughter who defies all his preconceived notions of the world. The one who rejects his bigotry and fear. The one who embraces her queerness and encourages her children to explore who they are. The one who challenges religion and never stops asking questions. The one who sees tattoos and piercings as personal forms of artistic expression rather than signs of depravity. The one who embraces the world rather than fearing it. I am the Democrat, the servant of Satan or so he believes. I am his antithesis.

As I sit here, typing about him, pouring hurt and brokenness into the pages, I imagine he is sitting in his home, probably watching Fox News or reading the Bible and worrying over trans women being allowed to use the women’s bathroom. He is probably as scared as I am annoyed and hurt. But of one thing I am sure: we are both thinking of each other. I am sure that like me, he is wondering how he can possibly connect with his wayward daughter. Perhaps she is his prodigal son and he is awaiting her return to his ways and his loving arms. I may not be ready to talk to him yet, but I know he is out there, loving me in his own kind of way, and for now, that has to be enough for both of us.

I see my husband sitting on the couch watching TV. My daughter runs across the room and plops down on top of him and gives him a big bear hug. They cuddle as they binge a Netflix show. Seeing him hug the kids used to make me uncomfortable. It was not what dads did, especially to their daughters. It made me feel weird. It took me a while to realize that is how dads are supposed to be with their daughters: loving, affectionate, and supportive. I realized I am seeing up close, for the first time, a healthy relationship between daughter and father. I realize I already have a wonderful father in my life, not for me, but for my daughter and I rejoice in the thought that, at least with my children, a cycle has been broken. They have the Daddy I always wanted. A tear comes to my eyes as I realize, that, really, is good enough for me.