Submission to The Sun Magazine
If broken into component parts, I’m an obvious blend of my parents. My mother is a hardworking, financially responsible, and brutally honest woman. As straight forward as black coffee, Mom reminded me often that she thought my father was worthless - he lived with his mother, couldn’t hold a job, and as a result was negligent in paying child support. She always said that God only brought she and my father together to conceive me, her gift.
The rare weekends I got to spend with my dad gave me a unique insight to what made us tick. He drank what seemed like gallons of coffee and smoked 4 packs of cigarettes during his daily routine of reading and working with his computers. We hung out in his basement office/computer lab and his jittery pursuit of knowledge kept me entertained with any kind of intellectual stimulation I desired. He was a genius who fueled his brilliance with java. What my mother perceived as uselessness, I adored. I was fascinated by him, a Daddy’s Girl closeted by my mother’s opinions.
Mostly we read the newspaper at his enormous coffee-stained desk or played at his computer, making silly pictures or talking to his techie friends using a primitive version of instant messaging. Once we made miniature volcanoes out of baking soda and vinegar, but more often we puttered around chatting.
My dad talked to me as though I were an adult. He’d often make sweetened iced coffee for me, letting me vent frustrations of life at home with my mom and my dismay at being a tall, skinny nerd at school. He never dismissed how I felt, sagely encouraging discourse on what I needed to talk out. Wistfully gazing over the rim of his coffee cup, he wisely made me consider Mom in a different light by fondly reminiscing about all he’d come to admire her for. He introduced me to my idol, Wonder Woman. Through the Amazonian princess, he suggested the optimistic template for what a lanky bookworm had potential to become. The awkward haze of puberty made it hard to imagine, much less believe my dad’s theory that I would become a strong, confident woman whose intelligence and wit could draw as much attention as her beauty.
I haven’t talked to my dad in 9 years. During that time, I’ve been pleasantly surprised to find myself growing into a persuasive version of the real-life Wonder Woman Dad had envisioned. More than anything, I want to sit down with him and talk more about what life has in store over coffee and cigarettes.
I appreciate this.
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