By: Miss Adventures
“Fathers, be good to your daughters
Daughters will love like you do
Girls become lovers who turn into mothers
So mothers, be good to your daughters too”
John Mayer probably says it best. This is probably the best
lyrical life advice I have ever gotten.
This was my father. He died earlier this year. I hadn’t seen
him since I was 11 years old. And without going into the gritty, gory details
of why, I will say just this: My father was an asshole.
But, he was still my dad.
So? I loved him anyway.
I spent an entire lifetime wishing he would stop being “Disneyland
Dad”, that he would actually be my father. I spent a lifetime being disappointed
by him. I spent over twenty years without knowing a single thing about my
father, a single detail of where he was, what had become of him, what his
favorite restaurant was, his favorite movie or his favorite song was when he passed away.
Sometimes, I regret that.
For what it’s worth, my father did teach me a lot in the 11
years I was with him. He taught me the values of creativity, of being business
savvy, of technology, of being forward thinking. He taught me how to hunt, how
to fish, how to drive a boat, how to run a business, how to hunt arrowheads. He
taught me how to ride a four wheeler.
He also taught me how to be a totally sarcastic asshole, how
to shut people out, how to hide from the truth and how to avoid anything that
was even remotely emotionally uncomfortable.
He taught me fear. He taught me pain. He taught me heartache.
For those things, he was my best, and most formidable
instructor.
Always has been.
And I, I am (strangely), okay with that.
I took everything he taught me and ran with it.
One could say I grew up without a father figure. One would
be wrong.
My father figure, growing up, was this guy.
My grandfather.
And yes, he was a bigoted, racist asshole, and yes we fought
about that a lot, but this was a man who had my back. Eight ways from Sunday.
And, when it came to loving my grandmother, loving my mother and loving me, he
did a damn good job.
When I didn’t have a father figure, a role model, he stepped
up and became that for me, and so much more.
For everything he did do, the last memory I have of my
grandfather before he got sick was on my wedding day. But it’s a memory that
stuck with me like crazy glue.
I got married at 17. It was my wedding day on September 14,
1996. I had worked all day (because my boss was an asshole). I went to the
chapel in a dress I had borrowed from a co-worker, having only 15 minutes to
get dressed and ready for my “big day”.
I remember it was raining.
I remember thinking that was a bad omen.
It was a simple affair. Just close friends and family. I had
just put my bouquet of white roses and calla lilies in my hands, when my
grandfather came in the dressing room. I had just given myself the final once
over in the mirror. I was ready. Maybe. He came in to say one last thing to me
before I sealed the deal. You see, it was his job to escort me down the aisle
that day. I was nervous.
Was I doing the right thing?
Did I even know what I was doing?
I was nerve wracked and unsure of what I was doing. I needed
a dad to encourage me, to lift me up (I thought).
It was moments before I was supposed to walk down the aisle,
when the opposite of what I thought needed to happen….happened.
He strode in the room. He shut the door. He stood in front
of me, and said, in a way only he could, “I don’t want to do this. Don’t marry
this asshole. I don’t like him. He’s going to make you miserable. I don’t want
to walk you down the aisle. I don’t want to give you away. Don’t do this.”
When those words spilled out of his mouth, I remember
feeling like someone hit me in the gut.
I did everything I could to hold back tears that moment. It
was supposed to be a happy day. It was supposed to be my WEDDING DAY, the day I
had dreamed of all my life. It had morphed into anything but.
I clutched my bouquet so hard my knuckles turned a raging
shade of white, I stared at him. I was silent for about two minutes. I was
reeling.
Finally. I spoke.
Being the stubborn asshole my father had taught me how
to be so well, I retorted, “Then DON’T FUCKING DO IT!!! I’ll walk it by myself.
Just like I always do everything.”
In just about any other situation, we would have had a knockdown,
drag out fight, as we often did.
Not that day.
He knew he couldn’t stop me. He knew me probably better than
anyone else. He knew I wouldn’t listen. After all, I was just like his wife (my
dearly loved grandmother), who had quite a hand in raising me also, who had
also taught me the value of being stubborn and standing my ground and taking
shit off of no man (or woman). With tears welling in his eyes, he made a
decision to not argue with me…at all.
He held his arm out and said simply, “Okay,
let’s go.”
So we did.
We walked, slowly down the aisle. Lockstep. Together. To the
next step in my fate.
And we never spoke about that moment in the dressing room
again from that day, until the day he passed away.
He did what he said he would and gave me away.
Even though he didn’t want to.
He just couldn’t bear to disappoint me and not follow
through on his word, because that’s how he was. And that was the most valuable
lesson he ever taught me. That, no matter what, your word is your bond, even if
it kills you to keep it.
I will never forget that.
Ever.
As it turns out, he was right. I shouldn’t have married that
asshole. But, if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have my girls, especially my youngest one,
who brings joy to my life every single day.
So, for that, I am still grateful.
Asshole or not.
The process is the process.
What my grandfather didn’t know when he gave me away that
rainy September was that it was a small walk in the entirety of my journey. I
had to experience everything I did, all the heartache, all the sorrow, all the
pain I did over 17 bullshit years of marriage, in order to become the woman I
am today.
His words, however harsh, on my wedding day have made me
really examine every man I allow in my life since then.
What my father didn’t realize, going away when I was 11, before we never
spoke again, was that he was a huge influence on the woman I was to become in
business….even though he was an asshole.
What I have found, throughout my journey past that day
walking down the aisle of a small wedding chapel in Reno, is that there are men
who are assholes and there are men who are willing to step up and raise, love
and care for children that aren’t their own. Those men? Those men are superheroes
in my book. And those men deserve to be raised up on Father’s Day…and every
other day in-between.
Because those men realize one simple message that rings entirely
true. “Father’s, be good to your daughters.” Whoever your daughters might end
up being.
I am blessed to have men in my life who WANT to be role
models for my daughters and father figures, even if my daughters aren’t ready
to see that yet. That’s MY fault. I didn’t expose them to enough of that, soon
enough. But I am trying to make up for that now. “Mother’s be good to your daughter’s
too.”
On the flip side, I am blessed to have a step dad of my own
who loves and cares for me with a specific tenderness I’m not used to.
I’m just blessed.
And so are you, even if you haven’t received all of your
blessings yet. They will come one day, and you’ll see them when you are ready
for them. Don’t look for traditional blessings, based only on blood relations.
Look for blessings that rain down upon you from every person who walks into
your life, who are prepared to give them to you. They are out there.
In abundance.
I promise.
Fathers, be good to your daughters, even if they aren’t “biologically”
yours.
All my love to the men out there who go above and beyond and
all the mother’s who see this now…or later,
Miss Adventures
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