In Daddy’s Shoes
Pen
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©1998 Pen
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ISBN: 9781310812828
For my beloved Clairee
I miss you more each day
Are you up there? Can you see me? Are you watching over me?
My first memory of him is fear.
I was about four years old. I was playing with some wooden log cabin building blocks. As many four year olds are prone to do, I tried flushing one of the logs down the toilet.
I do not remember how long my father spent with his hand in that porcelain bowl, grunting, groaning and sweating, to get that little piece of wood out of the small space it was wedged in. When he finally retrieved it, he flung it up the hallway, causing it to bounce off the block walls and skid across the kitchen floor.
That’s how I learned not to flush my toys down the toilet.
It is also how I learned to fear the brusque, burlish man who was my father.
Look at me, Daddy! Watch! See what I can do, Daddy? I can ride a bike! And I did it all by myself. What do you mean, ‘it’s no big deal.’ I’ve been trying to learn for months. What do you mean ‘so what?’
I was not the daughter my father wanted. I was not petite, nor attractive by society’s standards. . .standards to which my father subscribed. I was neither a cute, nor precocious child. I was a quiet little loner; a thoughtful, introspective little girl who learned a great deal from observation. I was constantly aware of my father’s disappointment in me as well as his misery of his own life.
I took to reading like a fish to water and became an exemplary student. If my father could not have a beautiful daughter, maybe he could be proud of an intelligent one.
Daddy! Daddy! Look! I caught my first fish! All by myself! But Daddy. What do you mean we have to throw it back? Can’t we take it home? Can’t we take a picture to show people?
When I was a teenager, I took a good, long look at my father. I saw how utterly alone and lonely he was. What I couldn’t see was the depth of his loneliness. I, too, was lonely: a stranger among strangers under the same roof. I tried, in vain, to get close to him. But he had surrounded himself with a fortress whose walls even the love of a daughter could not penetrate.
It seemed the only things he and I had in common were our love of music and movies and the TV Guide crossword puzzle. It became a weekly competition to see which of us could do the puzzle first. I finally relented and allowed him this simple pleasure because it was one of the few pleasures he had.
I gave up the attempt to get close to him when he began adopting other daughters. At social functions, he would place his arm around the waist of some petite young woman with clear skin and nary a brain cell in her head and insist upon introducing her as his “other daughter.” His face and voice reflected the pride he felt when he spoke her name, sending a clear message to me: no matter how smart, creative, imaginative or humorous I was, it was a physically beautiful daughter he longed for.
Daddy, look! Look how big your shoes are on me. Don’t they look funny? Your shoes are too big. Isn’t that funny, Daddy?
When my father died — November 13, 1988 — I stepped into the void created by his passing. It seemed the logical choice at the time. But it was a choice made based upon the notion that there was no other choice; that it was my duty and my responsibility to care for my aging mother. It was expected of me and I had always done what was expected of me.
I have walked in my father’s shoes lo these many years, even though I know I can never fill them. I have come to know and understand my father much better for having done so.
We had more in common, he and I, than just the TV Guide crossword puzzle. We were both romantics and dreamers. We were both creative and we both loved life.
My father dreamed of being a professional musician. But he sacrificed those dreams to meet the expectations society places upon a man with a family. When he sacrificed those dreams, his love for life died along with them.
But, Daddy, I’m a writer. I want to go to college. I know you can’t pay for it, but I don’t understand why I can’t go anyway. All right, Daddy. I’ll get a job. I’ll get a skill. I’ll take care of mama when you’re gone.
I have learned a great deal from my father’s absence. I learned that it was not he who was completely responsible for the dysfunctionality of our family. He made his contribution, yes, but the blame does not rest solely upon his shoulders.
But the most valuable lesson I have learned is one my father learned long before me.
I have sacrificed many things to be a good daughter: a college education, a career as a writer, a family of my own. I finally realized that the more sacrifices I make, the more sacrifices I am expected to make. Only recently have I realized that no sacrifice — regardless of its size, how often it is made or how long it is made — will ever be enough.
With this epiphany, I was faced with certain choices in a moment of uncertainty. I could choose to continue in my father’s footsteps: footsteps that led down a long, lonely and miserable path.
Or I could choose to follow my own path.
I see the depth of my father’s loneliness now. It is a chasm without beginning or end or bottom. This is the place my father chose to dwell from the day I first knew him. It is a place which fascinates me, yet I do not wish to explore it. It is a place into which I could easily fall with one wrong step.
Daddy, what do you see when you look down at me? Do you see the lost, frightened little girl hiding behind a woman’s facade? Do you wish you were here to guide me, Daddy? I do. I wish you were here to guide me. I wish you would tell me everything is going to be all right, reassure me that I am on the right path, that I am doing the right thing. I would feel so much better if you would just tell me, Daddy. Please tell me.
Even now, as I finally embark upon my journey to becoming the woman I want myself to be, as I try new ventures and contemplate new adventures, I wonder if my father is proud of me.
I’m breaking free, daddy. I know it’s taken a long time, but I am breaking free. Maybe not there, yet, but I am doing it. Aren’t you proud of me, daddy? Can’t you be happy for me for being my own person and striving for my own dreams? Or are you jealous because I have the courage to do what you could never do yourself?
Have you gotten to know me as well as I now know you, daddy?
When I look into the mirror, I see what my father saw and what society as a whole sees upon first glance: an unattractive, short, stout woman with bad skin which gets worse when stress or makeup are applied; a woman who can grow a beard to rival that of Billy Bob Thornton; a woman who hides her premature gray hair with Vidal Sassoon Merlot; a woman neither feminine nor masculine, swathed in androgyny for which she has no shame.
But when I look more closely, I see in these hazel eyes the beauty of the spirit with which I was born — the childlike wonder of the world around me, the eagerness to love and be loved, the knowledge of my own worthiness and my ability to make m
y own contribution in this life. It is a spirit often suppressed, as much by my own hands as by the hands of others. I see the inner beauty within my eyes, shining, awakening and patiently waiting to be appreciated. It is a touching and bittersweet irony that I should see it there.
Because, after all, I have my father’s eyes.
I look up into the vast expanse of night sky above me. I know you are there with only the light of the stars and moon to guide you. I know you can see me. I know you can hear.
Daddy, please take back your shoes.
I’m walking in my own shoes now.
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