My Father Taught Me About Being a Girl

I loved and feared my father in equal measure. As a young adult I thought that meant that I was a bad daughter. Over the past twenty years or so I've come to understand that I was reacting to the many sides of my father.

Some of those sides I did well to fear.

Lessons from my father

• 'Girls aren't good at sports.' Well, maybe a girl-sport like ice skating; that is a sport where they could be good. But me? No. I was never going to be a girl that did well at sports. I was not 'built like an athlete', so sports were not for me. Neither was dancing or riding a bike, as I was deemed too clumsy for such efforts.
• 'Girls aren't good at math or science.' Well, maybe a girl could know about girl-science; girls could know about plants, maybe. But girls, especially a girl like me, girls don't reach for the stars.
• 'Children are to be seen and not heard.' Oh yes, yes; I got that memo. Speak when you are spoken to, don't interrupt the grown up, and aren't-you-supposed-to-be-watching-the-little-ones-why-don't-you-take-them-outside?
• 'Things you want to do always come last'. A close correlation to this lesson is 'Don't whine if that time never comes'. I was born, I think, with a list of chores and already fallen behind my expected output of contribution.
• 'Girls tend to the house, cleaning, cooking, and children as a rule.' Men merely 'help out' and 'babysit' when it's absolutely necessary. This means women are able to go somewhere alone only when the men agree to act us unpaid caretakers to the children they helped create, and when all of the chores for the day were completed.
• 'What the man says or directs to be done is not to be questioned or spoken of outside of the family.' Father as dictatorial autocrat was an absolute in my life, a secret closely guarded and hidden behind yearly Olan Mills portraits.
• 'A woman lives at home until she marries.' A good girl goes from her parent's home to that of her husband. That, of course, is just what I did.
• 'Spare the rod and spoil the child' lived and breathed in our home. And, funny thing was: the 'rod' could really be anything: a wooden spoon, leather slipper, belt, or good old-fashioned tree branch that we needed to cut and bring in ourselves.

Lessons Well-Learned Had an Impact

Marrying at nineteen was done because of true love. At least, that is what I would have told you on my wedding day. And did I love my husband? Yes. Did I understand that people change, and that I would need to love him, and he me, as we both grew out of our teen years and into actual adults? Honey; I never gave it a moment's thought.

I had pledged as long as we both shall live, and that was it for me. A promise, a vow, and the rest of my life.

My husband had the same 'man=head of household=in charge' view of life as my father did. That was comforting to me, as I had no trouble falling into step beside him: his 'career' was higher in importance than my 'job'. His 'decisions' held more weight than my 'opinions'. His off-work time was 'time off' and mine was 'housework'.

I reacted to all of this, too, in a way familiar to me: when the words and emotions were too strong and threatened to boil out of my mouth I firmly and determinedly pushed them down with food. I gained weight (and wish I was as thin now as I thought I was fat then) as I controlled the only thing I felt I could; my body.

Later, I would learn that even that was something I couldn't control, but that is another story.

When, ten years into the marriage my husband calmly explained that he didn't love me anymore and was planning to leave within the year, my father counseled to give him space, that he would change his mind. He would think of our daughters and decide to stay. He didn't say, in hindsight, that he didn't mean it, that he would stay for ME. And it never occurred to me that these words were missing from his counsel.) Fix myself up, lose weight, be pleasant, set a good example, keep the home impeccable, children charming: if I'd do that correctly then things would be just fine.

Long story short: things were not fine. Things changed. My daughters grew. I was on my own.

Lessons Questioned

I was ashamed after my divorce. (Even now, writing this; it was my divorce, not our divorce. I agreed that he could file, but I did not want to break my promise to him. What?! Even 24 years after I made that promise, after everything- I was still being the good girl.) My father didn't state that he was disappointed in me but I felt it. I had failed at being my very most basic function. I had failed at 'wife' and now needed to understand how 'woman' worked.

But those lessons. Those scripts that run through my mind on a damning loop, I still listened and tried to live up to them; transferring their application somewhat to the circumstances regarding my ex-husband. I didn't talk about him, or his actions, or his decisions, during the long 14 years after that first calm declaration until the divorce was final. And I don't like thinking about them now. I just kept going.

I kept going until an early morning call from my aunt, my father's sister, told me that he had shot himself. Committed suicide. Dead at 72 years old.

And I, alone for several hours, cried and mourned the end of all truth as I knew it, endlessly pacing in circles in my apartment. The woman in me watched and tried to comfort the child that now faced the truth that she would never know if her father was proud of her, would never get to show him that girls can be smart, that they can succeed on their own, that they had worth.

Moving Forward

Strangely, I found that the abrupt dissolution of my lessons and illusions- the realization that the man I'd both loved and feared could have done something so senseless- broke down the wall I had found both confining and comforting.

The result of learning that there are no easy and simple answers, no immutable truths, freed me to view the rest of my life as something I could live in the best way I determined for myself. I learned that I have a voice and I can choose to use it. I still don't like math but I can find my way around Excel, make charts, do analysis, and Google what I don't know.

I can follow both my heart and my head, evaluating the information around me and question it if it doesn't ring true. I can vote as I like, express my faith as I believe, and marry the person that makes me happy. I can ask for help, take medication for depression, and know that I am not a defective failure. I can grow. I can change.

I spent what is likely half of my life trying to live up to the expectations of the men to which I gave my governance of self. Now? Now I am seeking the approval of my most realistic observer: Me.

And; Daddy? I like her. I think you would, too. But if not? Well, that doesn't change anything, anymore. Because what you taught me by your last act of giving up, is that it's OK for me to stop trying the impossible, too. The difference is that I am in it for as long as this run will take me. I still love you, and no longer fear you; I'm not giving up on life, just on trying to please you.

~

I've written of my father, our relationship. his suicide before, and finding my voice:

~

I appreciate you reading my non-AI-generated thoughts! While you’re here, please choose one or more of the ways below to interact with me and the other writers on Vocal.

FIVE ways to interact with writers on Vocal:

1. Leave a comment and share your thoughts. What lessons have you learned? Are they still with you?

2. Click on the little heart to let me know that this clicked with you.

3. Click on the subscribe button and get a FREE notification when my next post goes live.

4. Feel free to share a link to anything I write on your social media.

5. A one-time tip or even a monthly pledge to support my writing is always appreciated if you are so moved!