As the war in Iraq drags on for another year, I take a look back at my own happy childhood and lament the many moments stolen from other girls as they struggle through life without a dad. I am also writing this in response to the many critics of Sen. Obama who felt his speech on black fatherhood was untimely, too critical, and worse, created to pander to mainstream family values. People who see the speech as pander in the black community are often the ones who need to take its words to heart and understand that they keep hearing it over and over again from Bill Cosby and others because it is the truth, and we need to hear it.
I think they are intermingled, the missing father in the black community and the missing father from the ravages of war. Both are gone, but the former is gone for often their own selfish pursuits. The latter is an unfortunate side effect of war that I think will be felt terribly for another generation of young people.
I can't believe it has been almost fifteen years. Fifteen years ago, I had a routine where I would stand at the door at precisely four-thirty to wait for my father to come home. I would crouch behind the couch with my ashy knees kissing the floor, waiting for a man in US Air Force fatigues to walk through the door. My mother never enjoyed the same adoration, she was quite amused to see my father's face when I would scream on the top of my lungs when he opened the door. As soon as I saw a black boot stick out from the opening, I would scream "Daddy" and run into him like an undersized line backer. He would scoop me up into his arms and laugh, kissing my forehead and calling me one of the many nicknames he had for me, princess. His hugs are legendary. He would grip me so hard, I would laugh and try to wiggle out of it before he got the notion that I would let him tickle me without a fight. If I think hard enough, I can still smell the sweat and dust mingled in with his Cool Water cologne. I can see his bright smile enhanced by his dark brown skin and scruffy black beard. It was our moment,when he would come home each day to spoil me with attention, fatherly advice, and the occasional gift. He would pepper me with questions about school, my new classmates and if I had cleaned my room or not. Did I behave for my mother? Why was my hair a mess and where did I put my brother's comic books? If had the right answers, my father would throw me up in the air a second time. If my response was insufficient or negative, he would give me a stern look of disappointment, and I would feel so ashamed of my actions.
I thought it would never end, the two of us fit together like gin and juice, coke and rum, and mac n cheese. Nothing could get between the two of us when we kicked our father-daughter fun sessions into high gear. We had our own secret language, games, and sports we liked to play. Nothing could stop us from marching towards our fairy tale ending. Except President Clinton and Operation Desert Storm.
I don't remember much of my childhood. I don't know whether it is because I didn't pay close attention, or the memories are just stuck in the back of my mind. I do remember my father leaving for Saudi Arabia and my mother's new role of temporary daddy until he got back. She tried her hardest to laugh with me, attend my tea parties, and even take me out to ride the bike they bought for Christmas. She and I both knew at the time that it just wasn't the same. She didn't give up playing pretend dad, causing me agitation at no end. In my childish mind, I knew that she was pulling the wool over my eyes about daddy's disappearance. I knew the man on the other line wasn't good enough and I knew I wanted my favorite guest back at my afternoon tea parties. She added salt to the wound by working long hours away from home, and always being too tired to play with me. Other moms didn't do that, why did she?
I also knew about the late night phone calls, the angry tirades centered around "whoisshe" and the aftermath of tears she didn't think I knew about. You can imagine my confusion on the day he got back why mom wasn't hiding behind the couch with me. Daddy was coming home, it should have been a cause of celebration. Instead, she went about her daily routine as if he had never existed. Cleaning the house, cooking lunch for me and my brother when he got home, and she even left to pick up the dry cleaning. As a child, I thought ill of her inexplicable silence. It was daddy after all, and I was eager to restart our games of hide and go seek, and sitting on his lap while he watched the nightly news.
I waited for hours that night for him to come home. My fort was set up on the opposite end of the couch with a Barbie blanket and an oversized pink pillow waiting for him to come home. The circus didn't' begin until almost nine o'clock at night, when I heard the keys scratching against the lock and a loud sneeze splatting against the door frame. With a bolt, I ran to the door and grabbed onto the first boot that slipped into the door frame.
DADDY!
Except. This wasn't daddy. There was something wrong, even if dad didn't say anything. I guess I never sensed it as a child that something had changed about my father, but in my eight year old eyes, my dad was back home. I was to young to notice my father flinch in alarm at the sound of my voice. I never noticed how irritable and introverted he became around myself and my mother. I was too young to notice the pain he felt in his right shoulder when he scooped me up and kissed me. I was too young to notice he couldn't stand long without a back brace and how hard he tried to pick me up when he came home at night from work.
I was also too young to notice the envelope in his hand from the VA. The letter said his disabilities did not qualify for compensation from the Veteran's Administration. I was too young to sense the despair he felt when he realized he could not afford physical therapy for his injuries and the fear that I somehow would find out about them. I didn't find out until last year when I went through some of his discharge papers in the garage. He was my superman and dad made sure that he remained that way in my mind. At the age of 23 he still remains my superman.
There were so many things I couldn't have understood when I was at that age. My father had finally come home for good and received an honorable discharge from the US Air Force. He was happy to retire, but the obstacles he faced in civillian life were enormous. He had no specialized job skills, he had joined the Air Force after his father refused to pay for his college education. He had no resume, he had spent his time in the Air Force working in the base supply, stocking and tracking inventory for outgoing troops. I was delighted as a child to have him home so often, I couldn't understand that my father was working as a repo man, a temp worker, a meals on wheels driver, and his current position as a warehouse man.
And as a good father, he kept his secret struggle away from my world. He kept his secret so he could revel and delight in mine about my smelly classmates, surprises for mom, and how I couldn't stand my older brother. He kept the pain away from his princess so we could continue our tea parties and backyard adventures in peace.
Fathers. From my perspective, they are an essential component of a strong feminine identity. They tell us how smart we are, how beautiful we look, and how to be treated like a lady. We have all heard one time or another about how having a father in a home can dramatically change the future of a child. Therefore, I want us all to remember that when we hug and kiss our fathers, there are those out there who will not be able to. I think about these girls all the time. Many of them will do just fine, the move on from childhood to a successful adult life. It's those few who never find the happy ending that I think of today.
It's just those increasing few who find it hard to make it without dad. Dad would have told them that they are the most beautiful girls in the world, and that no man could ever love them as much as he does. Dad would have held them at night when they found monsters under the bed. Dad would have held them at night when they found monsters in the outside world. He would have told them that the popular guy at school was a loser and that it was all his fault if he couldn't see how beautiful his daughter was. He would have told them that their grades weren't good enough unless it was their best effort. He would be at her soccer games, ballet recitals, and debate team performances, encouraging her to press on despite the steep odds against victory. He would pat her on the back and tell her "good job" or "maybe next time princess".
He would give her a stern look and tell her pull down her skirt or listen to her mother because she is right. Dad would teach her how to drive, to change a tire, and even the oil if he knew how to. Dad would have been her teacher, her biggest cheerleader, and her official secret keeper. Dad would have told her that she shouldn't come home late at night at her age. He may even experience jealousy at the sight of the new man who has taken his daughter away at night, but if he is the right man, his own heart will surge with pride. Eventually, Dad may even take his daughter's hand, and walk her down the aisle to give away his princess to the same nightly visitor. On his way down,dad would also whisper to his daughter that she can home any time at night if her nocturnal prince charming was a monster in disguise. If the fist fights got too intense or if the bruises from her husband's fists hastened to shorten her life. He would take her into his arms, and as in many years before prince charming, protect his princess from all the monsters in her life.