Today I called dad to ask for support. It was more than apparent I just wanted to hear his voice. Usually when I want comfort I turn to mom; dad is who I go to for tough love. But his tough love is nice because he asks all the right questions. He thinks about what he says, about how I may take his words, about my fragility, susceptibility, endurance, courage. He also morphs into a softie whenever he speaks to me. Often I feel as though I'm being babied, but not to a condescending degree; he actually pulls off babying with a degree of respect. It's when he speaks to Brian he's less soft, and I feel bad because I feel as though I'm hogging all the delicate, sweet words. It's also weird because I have a feeling Brian's the one dad really babies.
He's also curious. But his curiosity is different from mom's curiosity. Mom asks specific questions. Who is that friend? Where did she grow up? What are his parents like? How did she reply when you said this? Dad's questions are more like, what do your friends think? How is school? Does this activity make you happy? What kind of adult do you want to be?
Dad forgets nothing. Mom's more forgetful, and I have to remind her to keep her eye on the big picture. Dad considers risk and advises me to consider them too. Mom looks at hope and admires the idealist in me.
Until I was five, I told everybody I was a daddy's girl. Like to neighbors and distant family friends and mom and Brian. In winter of 1996, dad brought back a giant stuffed animal on his way back from work and gave it to me as a gift. I still have it, like I have all his other gifts, because he and I both never throw anything away. I grew out of it but I didn't grow apart from it. Does that make sense?
Then after 1996 I went through a childhood phase where I didn't really want to talk to dad anymore. It was nothing severe I think, and dad probably knew it was a phase too, because he was so patient throughout. I'd go to mom with troubles and grow up with her, and whenever I started to like a boy in school I would tell her all about it but not dad. Now I wonder if he wanted in on the details too, if he wanted to know all about what I saw. I never asked you, but maybe I should ask now. Do you?
Last spring, I introduced him to my former roommate over dinner. He spoke to her in broken English. I predicted we would discuss culture or politics or history, until he told her he only knew 5% of who I really was.
His daughter,
Guichanaso.
