My Dad is Not Superman

For three consecutive years (from third grade to fifth grade), I won a Father's Day essay contest that was hosted by my school district. At 25 years old now I don't really remember the specifics of what I wrote in any of those essays, but if I had to guess, I probably made my dad sound like some superhero in a comic book. Because for much of my life, that was how I saw him. 

Like a lot of girls, when I was a kid, I thought my dad walked on water. Some of my favorite memories from my childhood include going to baseball games with my dad and listening to him read me Bible stories. And in my mind, he could do no wrong. 

My dad has always been a workaholic. Even now that he's in his sixties, he works a great amount but significantly less than he did when I was a kid. When I was a child, my dad worked seven days a week on average, always taking overtime and never turning down a chance to put extra food on the table. That means that he wasn't around much, but strangely, I don't really remember his absence. When I think back on my memories of him, I only remember the moments when he was around and never the times when he wasn't. 

Growing up, my sentiments toward my mother weren't quite as fond. So I retreated into the arms of a fantasy version of my dad. 

In my childhood mind, all of my parents' arguments were the result of my mother overreacting and unfairly attacking my dad and all of our financial problems were the result of my mom's overspending despite how hard my father worked. 

For most of my adult life, I've lived outside of my parents' home, whether on campus or in my own apartment and when I did live at home for a brief stint between my freshman and sophomore year of college, I had a full time job that kept me busy and away most of the time, making it easy for the fantasy version of my father I had created to still stand firm in my imagination.

It wasn't until I went back home during the summer of 2020 and took a job that required me to work from home, when I started to notice how skewed my perspective of my father was. It was during this time that I watched how my mother often had to be the one to put her foot down in situations regarding my niece and nephews who lived with them, while my dad was often on the sidelines quiet. It was then that I also realized how my mother had to take on the responsibility of budgeting most of their finances because my dad would sometimes come home after spending an unreasonable amount of money on something that definitely was not worth that much. It was then that I realized that my dad - as kind and hardworking and family-oriented as he was -  had his fair share of flaws and where he was flawed, that's where my mom stepped in.

Initially, this realization was the impetus for a lot of resentment towards my dad. It was as if my worldview was collapsing before me. What else could I have possibly missed?

It led to some arguments between us two as well.

"Why does Mom always have to be the bad guy?" I remember asking him one night. "Why can't you say something? You're the man!"

It was then that I realized I was doing the same thing to my dad that I had done to my mom for years; I was making him the villain in my comic book life instead of the hero that he had always been to me, simply because he wasn't living up to the fantasy in my mind.

My dad didn't respond immediately and I knew it was because I had hurt him. But when he did, his words stuck with me.

"I'm not perfect, Chanté," he said. "And I hope one day you can accept that."

And now, a few years later, I have accepted it.

My dad still isn't perfect, but he is still the man who took off work to come to my very first basketball game in the eighth grade. He's still the man who would wake up early every Friday morning after he got paid to fill my gas tank up when I got my first car. He's still the man who calls me every time he hears some news about a music artist or actor I like. Only now, he's human. He's more real.

Now my love for my dad isn't dependent on some impossible version of him I've created in my mind. I love my dad because of -  and in spite of -  who he is. 

And that kind of love is much more sustainable.

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Thanks for reading!

-Chanté