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[jjjkily]

My Father, who art in my heart

So, today was Father’s Day. Those of you who have me on social media might’ve seen the gifts and throwback pics I posted for my dad, whom I lovingly call “daddy joe”. If I’m being completely honest, I was never planning on doing anything super extravagant for my dad. Both my parents and I have always had somewhat of a rough relationship. After moving out for college, I barely called home, and even more rarely would I visit. (I even spent most of my Thanksgiving and Spring Break away from them in different cities.) My relationship with my father has hit very deep lows (in both argumentative strife and physical altercation) at times, and we’ve always had to put in effort towards having a better communication. Out of both my parents, I definitely have felt a deeper connection and understanding of my father, though my mother is the easier one to talk to (usually on more superficial matters). But today, today was a special day. I woke up today to the sounds of my parents yelling at me and each other in a hurry to get to church. After they left, I contemplated going back to sleep or actually getting out of bed and doing something. I decided to do something since last year I kinda rocked Mother’s Day and Father’s Day never really got its moment to shine due to an emergency trip to a homeopathic doctor in Houston for my dad’s arthitis. I thought of my dad’s favorite food and fairly cheap-priced desires. I went to Walmart, purchased ingredients and a couple cute gifts, and headed home to prep the meal. After the meal was done cooking and my parents still weren’t home, I got a little worried. My mind, of course, went to the worst possible scenario and I wondered if they had gotten into an accident. To calm myself, I looked through old photos and thought of older memories – good ones – that I had with my father. When I was younger, my father and I would spend every spring season gardening. We would plant flowers around the beloved big oak trees that shaded our house. It was something I would look forward to doing all year. As I got older, and my opinion of my father changed, I refused to work with him on this. Personally, looking back, I was unhappy with a lot of things in my life, and I took it out on people who were mostly undeserving of my wrath. I held my parents to a standard that was nearly inhumane- a standard of sheer perfection that was born when I truly idolized them as a child but was unreasonable to continue as I shaped my own perpsective. A couple years ago, my father decided to remove both of the huge oak trees that guarded the house. It upset me but it was a logical decision; the grass had turned yellow because of the obstruction of sunlight that the trees caused. Now, there are no flowers in our garden, and the good times I used to spend with my father has withered away as well. People often tell me that I am the spitting image of my father. Not only do I look like him, but I think like him too. Part of this contributed to the fact that we were so stubborn our arguments and fights. Part of this also contributed to the fact it was (and still is) hard for me to ask my dad for help. In my first year of college, I would go days without food or rationing to one meal a day because I couldn’t swallow my pride and ask my dad for money I needed. He was very stringent about money when I was a child, and I always felt inherently bad for asking for more of it. In March, I got my first speeding ticket, I couldn’t bring myself to tell my dad about so I spent an extra hundred dollars of my own money so it wouldn’t be his burden. In the end, my dad found out due to increased insurance rates, and we had a huge fight about it. Growing up, my dad would always talk about how his own father never helped him financially, so I inherited my father’s mindset towards his own father. My parents eventually did come home, and I gave my dad both of his presents while we ate lunch, a meal that I cooked. One of the presents were slippers that my dad wanted to be exchanged for a smaller size. I agreed to go back to Walmart in that moment and exchange it. I didn’t mind because I loved to drive and it was going to be a quick trip before my mom’s new work shift. On my way back from Walmart, I stopped prior to making a left turn but I forgot to check my right view. Seemingly out of nowhere, I hit a white Honda in the backseat of the passenger’s side. After a moment of complete shock, my mind raced. I’m gonna be completely honest: part of me wanted to just drive away in that moment as the damage on both cars was solely cosmetic, but I knew in my heart my dad taught me better than that. I signaled the other driver to pull into a nearby lot, which happened to be an emergency clinic. I relunctantly called my father and told him what happened. He immediately headed over. As a I waited for him, my heart flooded with guilt- all I had wanted to do was celebrate my dad for his sacrifices and I had ended only costing him more. I sat and dwelled on how my father would yell at me. I knew in my heart that the every insult I could imagine him saying would completely right. I felt worthless, yet as my father pulled up to the scene, something was different. He didn’t yell at me; we talked and he was pretty understanding, which left me confused and ultimately even more guilty. When we got home, my dad, of course, made me tell my mom what happened to her car. She was reasonably upset, and she started yelling at me the way I expected my father to. My dad, in that moment, came to my defense and respectably told my mom to back off. I, all the while, remained speechless. I went to my room and sulked, beating myself up. Soon after, my dad came in and tried to comfort me again, but I wouldn’t let myself be comforted. I spent the rest of the day trying to make it up, thinking of ways I could make and save money to pay for the damage, and hopefully, even, a new car. I couldn’t take thinking about it any longer and I almost went to bed. When I told my dad that I was about to go to sleep, he insisted on having family prayer early, which we usually do every night with my mom but because of her new work schedule should’ve been postponed till midnight, when she got home. When I grabbed the Bible from the shelf, I winced in pain and I noticed a bruise on my arm where the steering wheel had been. My dad saw the bruise, and finally raised his voice (mostly) out of concern. He insisted that I needed to pray more to help my physically and spiritually, which was odd to hear from him because 1) he is not the most religious man and 2) he hadn’t known that I skipped church that day. It hit close to home and it set me off – I broke down and I told him that I don’t think I should ever drive anymore because I was so terrible at it. Instead of his usual teasing and goading of insults, he told me that it wasn’t true. I apparently have shown him so many times that I can be a good driver, though today I definitely wasn’t the best. He gave me confidence and said I shouldn’t be scared going forward because my many mistakes. Instead of feeling guilty, I should learn from it. It was the first time in 19 years that I was glad to have asked my dad for help. I don’t know what I’m trying to accomplish in writing this. Maybe I’m pointing out a vicious cycle of parent-child behavior that we can actively change. Maybe I’m pushing for people to get to understand their parents before being upset that their parents don’t understand them. Not just by getting who your parents currently, but be asking about their life before you, or maybe even when they were you. Maybe I’m just a girl sitting in her room with swollen eyes and a puffy nose trying register what may have been a significant moment in her life. Maybe I’ve just been having a shitty day and typing it all out on a Word document is way cheaper than therapy. Either way, Happy Father’s Day.