Growing up from a self-proclaimed cute chubby toddler to a dangly pimple sprouting awkward teenager (not self-proclaimed in the least!), I didn’t understand my dad and he in return made very little effort to get to know me. Cancer cells, post-mortems and the latest blockbuster actions movies were his passion. Mom was his favorite person in the world. He simply didn’t need anyone else. He was one of the few lucky people who had found his soul mate and if he had one reason in believing in God, it was the day that my mom decided to marry him. He was complete then. Maybe that’s why his children were relatively low on the set of his priorities (or that’s what I like to say to him to emotionally blackmail him!).
In my know-it-all, tiny opinionated head of my adolescent years, I held firmly to the belief that everyone must reflect a picture perfect movie image. Dad was not spared either. He didn’t pick me up when he came back from work or let me sit on his lap and ask me about my day or even asked if he could help me in my homework. He was as far away from a so-called Hollywood dad as any dad could be. I remember he pinched my cheeks one day as I stared at him adoringly and I kept the memory with me, secretly guarding it from my siblings, hoarding on to the little acts of affection he would throw at us from time to time, year to year (Yes, I’m very much a self-proclaimed drama queen too!). Despite his silences, his indifferences, his lack of emotions, there was an unwritten, unexpressed understanding that dad would lie, cheat, steal, kill someone if need be for any one of us. He would spend his life savings on us (as my master’s degree hauntingly reminds me every other day). But he never told me that he loved me to my face.That’s why it surprised me when Dad came running in excitedly one day, his glasses clutched in one hand, a newspaper clipping in another. I don’t even remember the title of the article he wanted to show me but if I ask him, he will cite the day, the author, the newspaper and everything that happened that day. That’s my dad with his picture perfect memory, except of course when it came to remembering my birthday. Even when he did, he was sometimes too lazy, sometimes too busy and mostly too arrogant to wish me. Mom would make excuses on his behalf. I instead chose to deny the silence on the other side of the phone. He’s just not mushy, I would say to myself. Millions of other dads don’t wish their daughters. No reason to make a big deal out of it. Secretly I knew that even if I cried or yelled back, desperately trying to get his attention, I would not get it. I would be the annoying kid who smashes things, bangs doors, falls to the floor in a tantrum and dad would just simply look away. But he would never forget it and refer again and again to ‘the-time-that-I-misbehaved…’.
Ok, who am I kidding?…he would give me a wad of cash in a nicely sealed white envelope, weeks in advance, forget my b’day ( I will still stick to this fact!) and I would go spend the money buying silly romantic novels, tons of clothes that I wouldn’t wear after gaining/losing a few pounds or something else that I wouldn’t need, depending which phase I was going through every year. Later, I would try to get more money out him for ‘forgetting’ my b’day! Yes, read and learn! Now here he was, showing me an article on how women chose their future spouses that reminded them of their fathers. I looked up from the clipping to see him standing proudly, beaming down at me, waiting for me to exclaim my joy at this possibility and make dramatic promises of finding a dad junior for myself. But I stayed quiet, mostly because I didn’t understand what he was implying…yes, yes it takes me time to realize truly emotional time-freezing moments, ask any of my friends/family.. It was only years later that I realized that my dad was asking for my approval at the way he was, the same qualities that he hoped I would want my future husband to have. I had no clue on what to say so I did what I was best at. I feigned disinterest in the whole matter and then pretended to be embarrassed at the prospect of my dad talking to me about a husband, which I identified at that time to mean a mating act between a man and a woman. So I looked away, faking my modesty and dad walked away, grumbling about raising ungrateful children.
I know that he never forgot my response, the memory sinking deep in and etching itself stubbornly on his mind. Other memories were overshadowed by this single, toxic and somewhat silly incident that weighed heavily on our relationship. The memory stayed close to me too (Ok, again who am i kidding...im sure he had more important things on his mind...the bills, our education, why the dog doesnt bark at the robbers at night...me...i think too much!). Of course I know that I can’t remind my dad of the day when I let him down by not giving him the approval he needed as a dad and as someone similar to him who I would want to share my life with. Now, as I look back at the last few years, I realize that I have been mostly attracted to men who are complete opposites of my dad and deeply cared about men who are very similar to my dad and who I refuse to accept and give a chance.
This reminds me a lot about this theory that this crazy friend made up; yes, I’m not giving her any credit and I think copyrights are a bunch of crap made for insecure people who think no one will remember them when they die (Yes, I’m referencing my dissertation and hence the frustration! And yeah, I’m proud to watch pirated movies!) Well the theory goes like this: there are two kinds of men out there 1) the assholes and 2) the repulsive. We love the assholes but they KNOW how ass-holy they are (translation: hot sexy guys!) and the repulsive love us but we couldn’t be bothered by their puppy-dog love! (and the fact that u don’t really believe in the beauty and the beast theory: translation its only in fairy tales that hot women wouldn’t mind beasts in their beds in the morning!). And so the circle goes on and on and on…
Anyway, of all the assholes and repulsive, I think I doubt I will love any man more than my father (This sounded much better in my head, but what the hell, I’ll let it stay here!). He makes me laugh, makes me cry, he is the star of the family, loved and respected by everyone, almost revered at times by his juniors. I adore him most for his strength and his humor which has always been infamous – he could make everyone around him laugh so hard that they would cry and he would pretend that he was just making a simple common statement. He had aced the art of good humor. But he never came close to acing as a dad. He gave me everything I wanted, sometimes after arguments that would last for months as both parties stubbornly stood firm to the ground until mom, my dad’s biggest weakness, would plead for one of us to back down. Dad would always lose out then and I would shamelessly bask in my new found power to use my secret weapon against him. Eventually, I became my dad’s favorite and I like to think it’s because he began to consider me as a worthy opponent. I had inherited his stubbornness, his arrogance and his charm. Over the years, I became my father in so many ways. I became the person I could not understand, the person who could take me to the greatest heights in the world and then bring me crashing down to the lowest points of my being.
If my dad came to me again today and showed me the same article, I would have a reply ready this time. I would tell him that I would never in a million years want my future husband to be like him. Instead, I would want someone like my mom, his soul mate. She gives him the love that he craves, the love that he demands. Only someone like my mom can understand what his love is made of and how much there is inside of him, waiting to burst out and explore what its capable of. In time I know that I will understand my dad’s love as I try to understand myself some day. I am proud to just know him, proud of the fact that he’s my dad and proud of inheriting all that he stands for. I am his daughter, his love.
