For All the Daughters Who are Their Father's Sons
In honor of Father's Day, I'm sharing the following essay with Latina Lista readers. It was written several years ago after my father died and published in local newspapers. I soon discovered that there were mas hijas (more daughters) like me.
A lot has been written about the father-son bond. Documentaries have been produced, books have been written, academic papers have been published, and talk shows even have devoted full hours to discussing the topic.
Yet hardly anyone discusses the father-daughter relationship - at least in a positive light. The only time you hear about the father-daughter bond, it seems, is when it has been violated.
Maybe that is why those of us who have had good relationships with our dads have come to regard them as very special attachments.
Being my father's daughter, and the oldest of two girls, meant juggling my mother's demand for lady-like manners with my dad's desire to share his keen appreciation of sports.
Instead of being called "Daddy's Girl," I was lovingly referred to as "Moose." And while my friends spent Saturdays sprawled in front of a blaring television, enjoying music dance shows, I adjusted the volume on play-by-plays crackling from the radio while Dad switched from muted TV channel to muted TV channel, watching snippets of all the televised games.
Being my father's daughter, I learned how hellish the Korean War was. I heard how a 19-year-old left his studies at the University of Michigan and his dreams of playing one more time in the Rose Bowl as a Wolverine to enlist in the Air Force and fight in a battle that has become known as the "Forgotten War."
While my friends enjoyed lazy sun-soaking afternoons, I trekked up blistering metal ladders to get a three-minute peek into the cockpits of parked jets at the annual air shows at the local Air Force base.
Summer evenings were reserved for my dad's makeshift detachment, composed of my sister and me, marching around the neighborhood block, following my dad's lead and keeping step with boot camp tunes.
Being my father's daughter, I learned that the sun wasn't always your friend. It was a hard lesson to abide by when we lived in Florida.
Fair-skinned, Dad would erupt with fever blisters if he challenged the noonday heat. So, before dawn, we all piled into the family car and cruised the deserted bridges until we came to our private, palm-tree-framed stretch of beach. With blankets, towels, shovels, snorkels and goggles in tow, we shuffled through the cool sand until we found the perfect spot not too far from the surf.
Once we laid out the blanket, we donned our snorkels and goggles and screamed as we dived into the icy water- just us, the fish and the seagulls.
Being by father's daughter, I learned that big men do cry over the silliest of things. When I was little, the theme music from the TV show Lassie could make me unleash a flood of tears. The picture of that collie, with her paw hanging in midair, struck a sensitive chord in me - and my dad. We would point and laugh at each other as tears streamed down our faces.
Being my father's daughter, I developed an appreciation of fresh Krispy Kreme doughnuts. Weekends were special when Dad drove us across town just to get a fresh batch of those glazed delicacies.
When the first outlet of the popular doughnut chain opened last year 25 miles from us, I was excited. Neither my husband nor my kids could understand why I would be so thrilled to have yet one more temptation to break my diet, but Dad did.
Being my father's daughter, I learned never to stop believing. Dad was an entrepreneur who put gusto and faith into every one of his endeavors, even when they didn't pan out.
But he never stopped believing.
His last project was putting all of his faith into a stock that hadn't risen more than 3 points from when he bought it more than a year ago. He kept vigil on the company as diligently as my mom, sister and I did at his bedside when he passed away in April.
The week after Dad died, the stock began climbing steadily. It continues to gain.
I believe it will go even higher.
I am my father's daughter.
A lot has been written about the father-son bond. Documentaries have been produced, books have been written, academic papers have been published, and talk shows even have devoted full hours to discussing the topic.
Yet hardly anyone discusses the father-daughter relationship - at least in a positive light. The only time you hear about the father-daughter bond, it seems, is when it has been violated.
Maybe that is why those of us who have had good relationships with our dads have come to regard them as very special attachments.
Being my father's daughter, and the oldest of two girls, meant juggling my mother's demand for lady-like manners with my dad's desire to share his keen appreciation of sports.
Instead of being called "Daddy's Girl," I was lovingly referred to as "Moose." And while my friends spent Saturdays sprawled in front of a blaring television, enjoying music dance shows, I adjusted the volume on play-by-plays crackling from the radio while Dad switched from muted TV channel to muted TV channel, watching snippets of all the televised games.
Being my father's daughter, I learned how hellish the Korean War was. I heard how a 19-year-old left his studies at the University of Michigan and his dreams of playing one more time in the Rose Bowl as a Wolverine to enlist in the Air Force and fight in a battle that has become known as the "Forgotten War."
While my friends enjoyed lazy sun-soaking afternoons, I trekked up blistering metal ladders to get a three-minute peek into the cockpits of parked jets at the annual air shows at the local Air Force base.
Summer evenings were reserved for my dad's makeshift detachment, composed of my sister and me, marching around the neighborhood block, following my dad's lead and keeping step with boot camp tunes.
Being my father's daughter, I learned that the sun wasn't always your friend. It was a hard lesson to abide by when we lived in Florida.
Fair-skinned, Dad would erupt with fever blisters if he challenged the noonday heat. So, before dawn, we all piled into the family car and cruised the deserted bridges until we came to our private, palm-tree-framed stretch of beach. With blankets, towels, shovels, snorkels and goggles in tow, we shuffled through the cool sand until we found the perfect spot not too far from the surf.
Once we laid out the blanket, we donned our snorkels and goggles and screamed as we dived into the icy water- just us, the fish and the seagulls.
Being by father's daughter, I learned that big men do cry over the silliest of things. When I was little, the theme music from the TV show Lassie could make me unleash a flood of tears. The picture of that collie, with her paw hanging in midair, struck a sensitive chord in me - and my dad. We would point and laugh at each other as tears streamed down our faces.
Being my father's daughter, I developed an appreciation of fresh Krispy Kreme doughnuts. Weekends were special when Dad drove us across town just to get a fresh batch of those glazed delicacies.
When the first outlet of the popular doughnut chain opened last year 25 miles from us, I was excited. Neither my husband nor my kids could understand why I would be so thrilled to have yet one more temptation to break my diet, but Dad did.
Being my father's daughter, I learned never to stop believing. Dad was an entrepreneur who put gusto and faith into every one of his endeavors, even when they didn't pan out.
But he never stopped believing.
His last project was putting all of his faith into a stock that hadn't risen more than 3 points from when he bought it more than a year ago. He kept vigil on the company as diligently as my mom, sister and I did at his bedside when he passed away in April.
The week after Dad died, the stock began climbing steadily. It continues to gain.
I believe it will go even higher.
I am my father's daughter.
posted by krosebowlopportunities at 1:51 PM
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