Daddy’s Girls

~for JLB


As a child, few events in my life were as highly anticipated as those rare weekends that I got to sleep over at my father’s. Long before the weekend arrived, from the moment he called my mother in the middle of the week to arrange details to pick me up, I would bubble anxious with anticipation. On those days, our conversations always ended with my request for some assurance of his arrival.

“Okay baby girl, I’ve got to get back to work. I’ll see you on Friday.”
“Promise?” I’d ask.
“Of course, I’ll be there to get you. Daddy wouldn’t forget about his baby girl. See you later, Joe Rockhead. Love you.”
“Love you too, Daddy.”

And love him I did. I was an unrepentant “Daddy’s girl,” loving my father with an unparalleled intensity. No matter the circumstance, he could do no wrong. He was my heart. The coveted space that he occupied was forged out of two things – the first, the devout attention and care he showered on me when in his presence; the second – his absence.

On those special Fridays, the moment I got in from school I’d run upstairs, get my overnight bag and place it, along with my book-bag, next to the front door. Then I’d sit in the big chair in front of the RCA floor model TV in the living room watching after-school cartoons until it was time to go. I checked the clock on the VCR every five minutes or so. When there was an hour left, I’d put my jacket on the big yellow chair near the front door. Fifteen minutes before he was supposed to arrive, I’d get so antsy that I’d go outside to wait for him. I'd go from leaning on the black iron railing of the porch to checking the clock on the microwave and back to the railing. Barbara, my grandmother, would yell at me to stop leaning on the railing. I’d move, only to return a moment later, growing more restless and fearful.

Wandering from porch to kitchen to living room and back again, I’d pause only long enough to dial my father’s number. Although each unanswered ring filled me with anxiety, I’d stay on the line until his answering machine picked up, still hoping. I imagined reasons, millions of them, for why he hadn’t arrived. The car had broken down. His boss made him stay late at work. He’d forgotten what time he said he’d be there or that he said tonight and not tomorrow. Another phone call – no answer.

On the porch steps, bony knees hugged to my chest, I would concentrate on the black ants crawling over the swirls in the cement, trying not to cry. As the sky changed from a light blue to amber tinged with violet, eventually I’d begin to shiver, but would not go inside; he’d be there soon. I went in again, to make another call - unanswered. “Come eat,” Barb said. I refused. My daddy would be there soon and he would get me something to eat.

On the way out of the house I’d grab my jacket. Arms and knees all tucked into it, I squeezed my eyes shut, as I willed the sound of crunching gravel in the driveway. I alternated between wishing that he’d make it before the streetlights came on and wondering what his excuse would be this time. The bright ambers and violets were replaced by deep blue; still no sound from the driveway. The only sound, a steady hum, followed by a buzz, like bees in my ear. Then a shicka … shicka as the streetlights began to flicker on up and down Bisson Hill, and I stopped fighting my battle with my tears.

*

Most of my female friends who grew up with unmarried or divorced parents have their own waiting-for-daddy stories – and although they’re now adult, like me, many remember those moments vividly. Sometimes, as we’ve tried to sort through the current state of our relationships, one or another has told me stories of how she waited on porch steps, in front of school, at youth centers or church, curled up in front of their own front doors and sometimes outside, alone, in front of her father’s home.

On occasion, I’ve sat with some of my closest girlfriends laughing as we trade our best, or perhaps worst, why-he-didn’t-come-this-time stories. Thinking back on their stories and my own, I can’t help but wonder why we offer them up with such… pride. Telling our tales with such bravado, we sound almost like soldiers comparing medals of honor - or battle scars. Perhaps, we are.

*

When he did come, our time together felt almost magical, especially when he picked me up directly from school. I’d go to school bragging to all my friends that I was “Goin’ over my Daddy’s house” and that I was “Goin’ to have so much fun.” He’d drive up to the front of the school in his long, black car that I called a Cadillac but was really an Oldsmobile. Everyone would be jealous, especially the girls. I could see envy in their eyes as he got out of the car to give me a hug and whirl me around before we drove off for one of our special weekends. On those days, I didn’t mind my father not living with us so much. It gave me a chance to be extra special in my friends’ eyes. I knew, even then, just how rare those weekends were; they were special occasions that some of my friends never received.

Dad and I had a routine when I came over for the weekend. We’d start by visiting one of his friends, usually Larry Smalls, because he lived right around the corner from school. The two of them never censored themselves around me. They’d sit back, smoke a joint, drink a beer and talk freely about whatever was on their minds – from work to women. I’d sit there quietly, folded up in a corner of the couch reading one of my books or looking at Smalls’ magazines. There wasn’t much for me to do, but I didn’t whine or complain. That might make him want to bring me home and that risk I was not willing to take. So I remained obedient and quiet, content just to be there in my father’s presence.

We didn’t stay too long, and when we left there was sometimes a dollar or two from Smalls, five or ten when I had my report card with me; straight A’s were definitely valuable. He’d always warn me, “ Don’t get you nobody like yo’ black daddy. Get you somebody better. You don’t need no dog like him.”

I, fiery in my defense of my father, shook my head, exclaiming, “Nun unh … my daddy ain’t no dog.” Besides, then I didn’t want better; I wanted him.

When we got to his apartment, he’d give me the keys so that I could unlock the front door. Then he’d count to three, and we’d race up the stairs to see who could reach the inside door first – he’d always let me win. While he got the food and videotapes ready, I’d put on my nightclothes. Then we’d lay old newspapers on the floor in front of the TV - my dad has always expected everything to be the epitome of clean - and pop in a movie. If I stayed awake through the movie, when it finished we would go into the bedroom and kneel on the side of bed to say prayers before he’d tuck me in for the night. “Now I lay me down to sleep …” More often than not, however, I fell asleep before the movie was halfway finished. He’d pick me up and put me in bed. I’d wake just long enough to feel his soft butterfly kiss on my forehead. In those moments I fell asleep warm and safe. I didn’t doubt that I was special, that I was loved.


On Saturday mornings, I’d watch cartoons while he cooked breakfast. He’d make my favorites: grits, bacon and his perfect scrambled cheese eggs – not too runny, not too dry – and made only in a black cast iron skillet. After breakfast, we’d get dressed, clean up and pay bills. I’d vacuum the living room and bedroom while he cleaned the kitchen and bathroom. I filled out the date and amount for the checks and he signed his signature. He’d fill out the envelopes and then I’d seal them and put on the stamp. My father had a way of turning even the simplest of task into a shared endeavor for him and his baby.

Those evenings, however, were for visiting his girlfriends; perhaps I’d say his women now. In a night we might see one, two, and sometimes even three of them: stop by Linda’s to get a plate of lasagna, watch a movie at Francine’s, or perhaps Dad would get a package from Mary’s. Sometimes, they’d comment on my outfit or how much I’d grown or ask me about school, if I was still getting straight A’s – my daddy loved to brag.

Gisselle, Cheryl, Mikki, Joyce – some, I remember still. Most, though, I met only for those brief moments, as I sat perched on their porch step or at their kitchen table waiting to leave. On the best nights, those visits were quick. His excuse for leaving was always “I gotta spend some time with my baby girl.” His words and wink in my direction never failed to put a smile on my face.
Occasionally, some gesture – a purse of the lips, a barely perceptible drop in her shoulder, a brief glance away from his gaze - something might unmask displeasure as one would pull him back into her room to “talk” for minute. But I don’t ever remember outright objection. Each one seemed as grateful as I for the brief moments they spent with him. I suppose it was from them that I learned that the best way to keep him coming back was to take whatever was given in silent gratitude. Never risk his displeasure.

*

Where I’m from, folks always talk about the essential role that fathers play in raising sons. In the black community – programs are created and conferences held to extol the exceedingly important role that fathers have in the lives of little black boys. They teach their boys to be men, how to be strong and responsible, and sometimes, how not to be.

The role those same fathers play in raising their daughters, however, is often overlooked, as if fathers’ influence on girls if somehow less essential. Yet, we know all too well how often girls end up with men who are reflections of their father. Drawn to men with the same characteristics, strengths and flaws as her father, each hopes, somehow, to get from the new men the love she failed to get from him. Yet, it seldom stops there; the wounds she must heal go much deeper. It’s not just about who such women end up with, it’s really about how effectively, truthfully, they are able to view and value themselves. For them, a father’s absence, or inconsistent presence, can be just as debilitating.

From the moment girls are born, we are taught to believe that men’s opinions will always hold weight and importance. What they think will be both valued and valid, especially about women. Thus recognizing the importance of their opinions, we learn to view ourselves through their eyes. If they find us valuable, then we are. If they treat us like goddesses and queens, then that’s what we must be. Likewise, if they treat us as if we are insignificant and expendable, it must be because we are. If we are given love only inconsistently, it, undoubtedly, must be what we deserve. We see ourselves through their powerful eyes, and whose eyes could be more important than a father, the man we first loved? If our fathers, the men who are supposed to love us without fail or condition do not, if we are consistently given reasons to doubt their love, how can we ever believe that we will be loved by anyone?

*

Sundays always came too soon. I’d get ready for church, moving like molasses as I gathered my things. The plan was for him to drop me off at Sunday school where my mother would be waiting. I always begged to stay: I didn’t have to go to church; I would be good and quiet and stay out of his way. I’d do anything to make my time with him last longer, if only for an hour or two. There was seldom an argument that would convince him to let me stay. On the way to church, I’d cry. He’d reach over to wipe my tears with his thumb, trying to convince me that he’d pick me up again soon. I wasn’t comforted; I never knew when I would see him again. All too soon, we were at the church, and I was waving good-bye as he drove away.

As vivid as those memories of our times together are, they are almost dream-like, almost empty. Yet, the days when he didn’t come, I can still see the color of the sky, hear the buzz of the street light just before my grandmother made me come in from the porch outside. I can still smell the wet cotton odor of teardrops on my pillowcase as I cried myself to sleep wondering why he hadn’t come … again.

Somewhere along the way, my approach in dealing with him became to ask for little and to expect even less. That was my formula for avoiding disappointment. Above all else, I never complained or asked for explanations. Eventually, I stopped asking altogether. My only expectation was that he wouldn’t come through - the place in my heart once filled with unconditional love was replaced with spiteful resentment, and in time, simply indifference.

I fear that at some point all women with absent and sporadically present fathers arrive at this place. I wonder if they’ve tried to persuade themselves, as I have, that somehow they’re okay; I’m not convinced. I’ve seen us settle for inconsistent love and care, even while secretly harboring hopes that someone will prove to us that we, too, are worthy. I’ve watched too many of us go into relationships, romantic or otherwise, with guarded hearts and tainted hope. For moments, we even begin to believe what we’ve told ourselves, that love isn’t necessary, as if diminishing its necessity will diminish our desire for it. Yet, despite the years that have passed, that little girl in us is still on the porch, willing away the hum of the flickering streetlights, waiting. ~JJB: 2001-2010