Maria, 27
Submitted Dec 16, 2003
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Maria has met her father |
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Maria decided not to stay in contact with her father |
My parents divorced when I was four. I have no early memories of my dad because he was ‘gone’ long before my mom actually divorced him; he lived in a studio just above our apartment and he never went on holidays with us.
As a matter of fact, I have two early memories of him: I remember when my dad would not let me out of the dark room (he was a photographer, among other things), even though I was petrified of the dark and was wailing like crazy, because if he opened the door, light would come in, and his photos would be destroyed.
I also remember a certain party he had thrown for his friends up in his studio. He had ordered pizzas, and I, being a pizza freak since infancy, went up to ask for a slice. I remember being tiny and wandering among the guests, who were tall and had beards, looking for my dad, who also had a beard. And then I remember being kicked out. I was embarrassing him. This was not a party for kids. Of course I never got my pizza slice. I cried all the way down the stairs. My grandma saved me two slices for the day after. They were cold.
The divorce papers made it obligatory that I saw my father every Sunday. So no, my dad did not disappear one day to never come back. And yes, I did get to see him every week for the rest of my childhood. And I do have abundant memories from that time. I remember, for example, how my weekends seemed destroyed; they were only one day - the other day was ‘dad-day’.
Back then I thought of him as a baby-sitter with a beard. But come to think of it, baby-sitters usually register at least some emotion, and they are in tune with a childÂ’s needs.
My dad seemed to think that a seven-year-old girl with braids and fringes would appreciate PlatoÂ’s Republic (my dad was a philosopher, among other things). And boy was he mad because I did not appreciate it, let alone understand it.
Every Sunday, between 4 and 5 p.m. (Greek siesta time), my dad would take a nap. For that one hour he would sit me in front of a book with pictures of birds, and I would have to draw what I saw. When he would wake up, he would evaluate my drawings (my dad was an architect, among other things). I donÂ’t think he was ever content with my rendering of the birdÂ’s feathers, though.
As a variation, sometimes he would sit me in front of his PC. I would play a game called Larry. I had to be this character Larry, and my ultimate goal was, I think, to earn money. One of my minor goals, still, was to have sex with a prostitute. Before choosing the prostitute I fancied, however, I also had to choose from a variety of condoms. I was just ten years old then. Luckily, I was already very familiar with the male anatomy; what about that educational book of erections my dad had on display on the coffee table?
I also remember one of my birthdays. My mom had told me to ask my dad for money as a birthday present. Of course I was too embarrassed to do that. Why should I have to ask him? Anyway, he did give me, without me telling him, 5000 drs (the equivalent of 15 euro or 100 Kr), which is enough for pocket money, but not enough for the birthday present of oneÂ’s only child. I remember I was so embarrassed to return to my mom with this small amount that I stole an additional 5000 drs from my dadÂ’s wallet.
OK, I know this is a comic rendition of my Sundays with dad, but I am sure you can read between the lines. Of course as a kid I could not evaluate my dadÂ’s behaviour and actions. What kid can? Kids may sense the things happening to them, but they cannot really grasp their significance.
Until they stop being kids.
My childhood ended with a thud. That was the sound of my grandfather being hit by a motorcycle. He died instantly. And so did my relationship with my dad. Something had happened in me; in that dark place where one rarely wanders some strange deduction had taken place: My grandpa was my dad. My grandpa is dead. Therefore, my dad is dead. Then who is this man with the beard requesting my attendance every Sunday? Obviously a stranger.
If the deduction doesnÂ’t make sense to you, hereÂ’s how it works: My dad never acted as a parent. He never cared about me, he never showed me any love and was never there for me. On the contrary, my grand-dad (my momÂ’s dad) gave me everything my father never did - and it all hit me when he died. I guess in life you have to give in order to take. My dad never gave, so thatÂ’s why he never got. It was not about revenge. ItÂ’s how nature works.
I stopped talking to him in 1989 and have kept him out of my life ever since. However, I did bump into him once, many years ago. It was in a record store. I went up to greet him, and after pretending he did not recognize me at first, he gave me his phone number and urged me to call. When I got back home, however, I realized that I did not want him in my life. So I called him, and for one hour I poured out all the things that had piled up in me over the years. His reply was, “You left me when you had started becoming interesting.”
So maybe this is the story of the daughter that has left her father, instead of the other way round. Or maybe not. I am positive that my dad would have not bothered, if I had disappeared from his life as a kid and had suddenly shown up after years as an adult. Because, obviously, as an adult I would probably have appreciated Plato and his Republic, and I would definitely not have been an embarrassment at a party of bearded men. Unfortunately for my dad, things donÂ’t work like that in life.
A father-daughter relationship cannot suddenly emerge from nothing. The thing is, I had an entire childhood to acquaint myself with the feeling of not really having a father and an entire adolescence to get over my hatred for him. Nowadays, I donÂ’t hate him anymore. I just accept the fact that some people are not born to be parents. Him, on other hand, is still trying to come to terms with the fact that he has lost a daughter.
When you are 27 you donÂ’t need your parents in the same way you did as a kid, so nowadays I donÂ’t miss having a father. Besides, my momÂ’s presence and love have filled in the gap left by him. I do know, however, in retrospect, that the fact that I have not had a fatherÂ’s love and care as I was growing up has affected me in more than one way. But thatÂ’s another storyÂ…
As a matter of fact, I have two early memories of him: I remember when my dad would not let me out of the dark room (he was a photographer, among other things), even though I was petrified of the dark and was wailing like crazy, because if he opened the door, light would come in, and his photos would be destroyed.
I also remember a certain party he had thrown for his friends up in his studio. He had ordered pizzas, and I, being a pizza freak since infancy, went up to ask for a slice. I remember being tiny and wandering among the guests, who were tall and had beards, looking for my dad, who also had a beard. And then I remember being kicked out. I was embarrassing him. This was not a party for kids. Of course I never got my pizza slice. I cried all the way down the stairs. My grandma saved me two slices for the day after. They were cold.
The divorce papers made it obligatory that I saw my father every Sunday. So no, my dad did not disappear one day to never come back. And yes, I did get to see him every week for the rest of my childhood. And I do have abundant memories from that time. I remember, for example, how my weekends seemed destroyed; they were only one day - the other day was ‘dad-day’.
Back then I thought of him as a baby-sitter with a beard. But come to think of it, baby-sitters usually register at least some emotion, and they are in tune with a childÂ’s needs.
My dad seemed to think that a seven-year-old girl with braids and fringes would appreciate PlatoÂ’s Republic (my dad was a philosopher, among other things). And boy was he mad because I did not appreciate it, let alone understand it.
Every Sunday, between 4 and 5 p.m. (Greek siesta time), my dad would take a nap. For that one hour he would sit me in front of a book with pictures of birds, and I would have to draw what I saw. When he would wake up, he would evaluate my drawings (my dad was an architect, among other things). I donÂ’t think he was ever content with my rendering of the birdÂ’s feathers, though.
As a variation, sometimes he would sit me in front of his PC. I would play a game called Larry. I had to be this character Larry, and my ultimate goal was, I think, to earn money. One of my minor goals, still, was to have sex with a prostitute. Before choosing the prostitute I fancied, however, I also had to choose from a variety of condoms. I was just ten years old then. Luckily, I was already very familiar with the male anatomy; what about that educational book of erections my dad had on display on the coffee table?
I also remember one of my birthdays. My mom had told me to ask my dad for money as a birthday present. Of course I was too embarrassed to do that. Why should I have to ask him? Anyway, he did give me, without me telling him, 5000 drs (the equivalent of 15 euro or 100 Kr), which is enough for pocket money, but not enough for the birthday present of oneÂ’s only child. I remember I was so embarrassed to return to my mom with this small amount that I stole an additional 5000 drs from my dadÂ’s wallet.
OK, I know this is a comic rendition of my Sundays with dad, but I am sure you can read between the lines. Of course as a kid I could not evaluate my dadÂ’s behaviour and actions. What kid can? Kids may sense the things happening to them, but they cannot really grasp their significance.
Until they stop being kids.
My childhood ended with a thud. That was the sound of my grandfather being hit by a motorcycle. He died instantly. And so did my relationship with my dad. Something had happened in me; in that dark place where one rarely wanders some strange deduction had taken place: My grandpa was my dad. My grandpa is dead. Therefore, my dad is dead. Then who is this man with the beard requesting my attendance every Sunday? Obviously a stranger.
If the deduction doesnÂ’t make sense to you, hereÂ’s how it works: My dad never acted as a parent. He never cared about me, he never showed me any love and was never there for me. On the contrary, my grand-dad (my momÂ’s dad) gave me everything my father never did - and it all hit me when he died. I guess in life you have to give in order to take. My dad never gave, so thatÂ’s why he never got. It was not about revenge. ItÂ’s how nature works.
I stopped talking to him in 1989 and have kept him out of my life ever since. However, I did bump into him once, many years ago. It was in a record store. I went up to greet him, and after pretending he did not recognize me at first, he gave me his phone number and urged me to call. When I got back home, however, I realized that I did not want him in my life. So I called him, and for one hour I poured out all the things that had piled up in me over the years. His reply was, “You left me when you had started becoming interesting.”
So maybe this is the story of the daughter that has left her father, instead of the other way round. Or maybe not. I am positive that my dad would have not bothered, if I had disappeared from his life as a kid and had suddenly shown up after years as an adult. Because, obviously, as an adult I would probably have appreciated Plato and his Republic, and I would definitely not have been an embarrassment at a party of bearded men. Unfortunately for my dad, things donÂ’t work like that in life.
A father-daughter relationship cannot suddenly emerge from nothing. The thing is, I had an entire childhood to acquaint myself with the feeling of not really having a father and an entire adolescence to get over my hatred for him. Nowadays, I donÂ’t hate him anymore. I just accept the fact that some people are not born to be parents. Him, on other hand, is still trying to come to terms with the fact that he has lost a daughter.
When you are 27 you donÂ’t need your parents in the same way you did as a kid, so nowadays I donÂ’t miss having a father. Besides, my momÂ’s presence and love have filled in the gap left by him. I do know, however, in retrospect, that the fact that I have not had a fatherÂ’s love and care as I was growing up has affected me in more than one way. But thatÂ’s another storyÂ…
2 comments:
May 03, 2004, Lisa wrote:
Its funny because its hard not to think that people like your dad (and mine!!!) are totally out of emotions. How would it be possible to react this way otherwise? Dont get it. DOnt get my dad, either. aaaah!May 10, 2006, marilena wrote:
I am also Greek. I can totaly picture the eighties Bearded men party. And the whole photographer, architect, philosopher thing... Being embarassed by a little girl who he should feel extremely proud for having. Our stories are very similar you know... Take care and be well.