There's a picture of me and my dad from a trip to the zoo, I was probably about three of four. My dad is wearing a newsboy style hat and has a full beard; my hair was white blonde. We both had shining blue eyes and big, big smiles. I am sure, at some point as a young girl, I was called a "daddy's girl." I'm sure that I idolized my dad, the way most kids idolize their parents. I'm sure I felt that he could do no wrong.
I am the oldest of three; my parents had only been married just over a year and were still in their early twenties when I was born. I was a surprise (not a mistake, of which I once accused my mother. Her response, when I asked the difference, was a sincere "A surprise is something you didn't know you wanted until you had it). My siblings are significantly younger than me-- my sister is almost seven years younger, and my brother another seven after her. I remember when my parents struggled; I remember living in an apartment complex, being the minority, eating beans and cornbread for dinner and drinking Kool-Aid because it was cheap (incidentally, I also remember eating potted meat sandwiches. Gross, yes? But I totally craved those when I was pregnant. I guess you can take the girl out of the poor, but you can't take the poor out of the girl... or something). The truth is that we were poor, but at that time, I didn't know anything different.
When I was in high school, I had a lot of responsibility. I worked and covered a lot of my own expenses. My parents did buy me a car, so that I could get to work and to soccer practice on my own, or run errands to help out. My dad sold his cherry-red Toyota truck-- his pride and joy-- so that he could buy me a car and a used truck for himself. It was such a selfless act, the kind of thing we expect from parents but don't always appreciate when we're 16. Now that I think about it, I hope I said thank you. Within the next two years, my father's anxiety and depression became much more severe. Dad was out of work for awhile, several months at least. I can't recall if there was an injury really, or if he was laid off, but I do remember a year or two where my mother was the sole provider for our household of five. I remember my dad being home all day and not picking up, doing laundry or dishes. I remember my dad spending hours in his bedroom and essentially disappearing from the life of the family. There was one argument that has never faded. It took place just before my 18th birthday and I must have been feeling brave or stubborn or angry. I was getting ready for school and I heard my mom crying. They had been arguing that morning, and while they could hide it from my siblings, I was old enough to know and I had had enough. I was done with my father not supporting us, not being a father. I was angry and truthfully, I was disappointed in him. After that, I just put distance between us. I always loved him, but I didn't feel like a daddy's girl any longer. The blinders were off and my dad was just a man who was struggling.
I left for college that August. I remember unpacking, checking in and noticing that my father's right arm was sunburned from the drive down. His right arm, which was hanging out the window of the passenger's side. His right arm, because he didn't drive. He let my mom drive, which was a turning point. My dad was the kind of man who always drove when my parents were together. It was never said explicitly, it was just what they had always done and on this trip, for the first time in my memory, my dad gave up control.
In retrospect, it's easy to see that my dad truly was suffering from depression. It is a serious disease and while I felt angry and disappointed, I can only imagine how he was feeling. I have learned so much about depression, the signs and symptoms, the treatment, the healing. Unfortunately, I kept that space between us over the years because as much as I want to be sympathetic, I still had a hard time relating to my dad. I am very different from him, and really from the rest of my immediate family. Even though I have had a lot of success in my life, I've still felt like I'm a disappointment to my parents. Recently, though, things have been changing between me and my dad. I think we're both changing. A few weeks ago, when asking him about what he wanted for Father's Day, he told me that he was done hunting for sport. My dad has been a deer hunter for as long as I can remember; though I don't enjoy hunting myself, I do enjoy the venison steaks that my dad has shared over the years. But he said that last year, he shot a buck that he couldn't track. He shared that he felt a sense of guilt that this animal had died without reason and though that doesn't happen often, it was enough to convince him that he was done. I thought it was incredibly inspiring that not only my dad changed something about himself at age 54, but that he could share it with me. Even more recently, my dad really surprised me. Our political beliefs are polar opposites and have always been a point of tension between us. Last week, I took my son to hear President Obama speak in our town. My mom knew that we were attending and suggested that I not tell my father; I agreed. It wasn't so much that I was hiding it from him, but rather just not offering the information. While we were downtown, in the middle of a huge crowd, my father called. I answered, because quite frankly, he doesn't call all that often. "Hey, baby," he said. He asked if I was downtown, and I told him we were. He simply said to me, "Well, I figured you would be. I hope you guys enjoy it. Take some good pictures; I'd like to see them." A man of few words, but what powerful words they were. In that statement, my dad said so much more. He told me that it was okay for us to have different beliefs, that he loved me no matter what.
We've come a long way, me and my dad. From the childlike belief that our parents can do no wrong to an adult understanding that our parents are just people, flawed and imperfect and still inspirations. And in case I haven't said it enough, Dad, thank you. For teaching me that it's never too late to grow and change, to connect, to show my own kids that I'm just a person, too. I love you so.
My college graduation, May 2012
