When I was younger, I had a favorite stuffed animal. However, since I was young, I couldn’t pronounce my v’s properly. So my favorite stuffed animal was affectionately known as ‘My Beaber’. I carried my beaber everywhere with me. I loved the stuffed animal so much that I couldn’t part with it, no matter how many people tried to take it away from me. Cousins would always torment and tease me by playing keep away. But I knew the secret to getting my beaber back. All I had to do was cry, and the boys would quickly stop playing their games.
One night, I left my beaber outside in the yard. It was shortly after dinner that I realized that I left my beaber outside. Now, I should tell you that we used to live out in the country. Let me tell you when I say that it was dark outside, I mean pitch black. This was the kind of dark when one walks down a dark alley, and who knows what evil villains are lurking in the dark. However, this was the country, so those evil villains could range from scary monsters to zombies to ferocious animals with huge, pointy teeth! And to make matters worse? Dark storm clouds were rolling in. My beaber was going to get washed away in the rain!
But never fear! I knew what to do. All I had to do was cry, and I’m sure that my father would go outside; brave the dark and all the monsters that lurked in the shadows; beat the incoming storm and retrieve my beaber. After all, no one likes it when a girl cries. All the boys melt and do what I want when I don’t get my way.
Not my father. No, he had the audacity to tell me to go get it myself. Even with all my tears, my sobbing, and my pouting, my father refused to go get it for me. How could he do that to me? Didn’t he love me? And to think he had the nerve to ask me ‘If you love it that much, why did you leave it outside in the yard?’ Before I could even answer the question, he said ‘If you truly love your beaber, you would face your worst nightmares to have what you wanted most.’
Well, I would show him. I stomped right up to my room, slammed my door, and cried all night. Mom tried to comfort me. I could even hear them yelling downstairs. Mom knew the rule about what boys are supposed to do when girls cry. With each lightning strike and thunderous roar, my heart was breaking. My father didn’t care enough about me to go get my beaber. Didn’t he know he was supposed to do it? I loved my beaber. It’s not my fault I forgot about it in the yard. It’s always going to be there for me regardless of what I do.
Needless to say, when the morning came, I still didn’t have my beaber. Fine, I would just go get it myself and give my father the silent treatment. I’ve seen Mom do that many times. I’ve even heard her on the phone talking to other boys, making fun of my father though I didn’t understand everything she was saying. She could even make him sleep on the couch when she was truly mad at him. I couldn’t wait to have those powers. I was sure that Mom would teach me these powers when I got older.
When I went outside and looked for my beaber, I simply couldn’t find it. The storm must have washed it away. Again, I started crying. But now! Now, my father responded to my tears. He came over to where I was and asked me what was wrong. I refused to answer him. I simply crossed my arms and gave him a mean, pouty expression. With a furrowed brow and pursed lips, I just glared at him. I’ve seen mom give this look when she’s angry. Maybe it will work for me?
Not a chance in Hell. My father simply laughed and told me to go get the mail. I stood my ground. I was not going to let him make fun of me, like my cousins did. I was going to be just like Mom. She just had more practice at doing this. Though, I will admit when my father raised his voice and demanded that I go get the mail, I lost my resolve. The last thing I wanted was a whipping. Not that my father ever raised a hand to me, but the tone in his voice was intimidating enough.
So I walked down the gravel easement to the row of mailboxes. I would kick a stone or two along the way, pouting and mumbling some curse about how I wish my father would go away forever or how he needed to be left out in the dark with all those monsters. Let’s see how he would like it. That was my favorite stuffed animal, and he didn’t care.
When I got to the mailbox, the tears started flowing even more so than before. But these were not tears of sadness. These were tears of joy! Inside the mailbox, protected from the torrential rain that had come down the night before, there was my precious beaber. It wasn’t ruined. It wasn’t lost. It was safe and sound, and now back in my arms. I was NEVER going to let it go again. I promised beaber over and over that I truly loved him, and that I would never abandon him again.
I hated my father.
While I learned that the crying game was not going to work on my father, Mom refused to give up. The yelling never stopped. Doors slammed. Dishes broke. And the phone calls when my father was away increased. I could never truly hear what Mom was saying because she kept whispering on the phone. But I could hear her giggling. Plus, she always hung up when my father would come into the house.
One night, there actually was no yelling or screaming. There was no crying, no tears. Mom simply walked into her room, packed up a couple of suitcases and walked out of the house. There was some strange man in a red pickup truck waiting out in the drive way for Mom. She dropped her suitcases in the back of the truck, climbed into the cab and never looked back. I couldn’t believe it. Mom was leaving?!
Who was going to teach me the rules of the crying game? Who was going to show me those powers that she used on my father, so that he would sleep out on the couch? She was supposed to teach me everything. Sure, my father spent hours telling me that her leaving was not fault. That it was a problem between him and Mom. He said that they both loved me, but that they needed some time a part to straighten out their differences.
I was so mad at him for making Mom leave. I even spat back at him ‘If you truly love her, you would face your worst nightmares and go get her!’ Let me tell you something about my father. He was a big man, or at least in the eyes of a child. He was strong. Superman had nothing on him. When a child sees this giant of a man break down and cry for the first time, it changed everything. Mom made me see that he had a tender side. He was a wimp. I think that was the word she used on the phone to one of her boy friends.
Unfortunately, I was still developing these powers that Mom had. Despite the fact that my parents were getting divorced, I still had to stay with my father. I begged and pleaded to live with Mom. After all, my father was a wimp. Plus, I needed to learn what other powers girls had over boys. Out of spite, my father insisted that I stay with him. He made it so that I never saw Mom at the court house, during the divorce hearings, or even when I spoke to the judge. He made sure she was never there.
In fact, he went so far as to force me to have only one Christmas. All my other friends who went through a divorce said that they loved Christmas time. Instead of having one family Christmas, they would get to have two. Some of them would tell stories about how one parent would always feel guilty and smother them with gifts, while the other one would give a few presents but they were really expensive. How come I never got this? Why didn’t I have this power? See! This was all my father’s doing. If I would have lived with Mom, I’d know how to have two Christmases.
I hated my father.
When I started getting older and was going to high school, I hated doing homework. I hated going to class, especially biology. Do you know how disgusting it is to dissect a worm? What was even worse was when we had to cut open a pig! The stench was something fierce. It was like going into a boy’s locker room after football practice, but the odor was on steroids or something. Who cares about anatomy? Who cares about recessive genes and chromosomes? It’s not like you hear people talking about this stuff in real life.
Fortunately, I discovered that there were other people who hated their parents as much as I hated my father. I would get every chance I could to spend time away from the house, and away from my father. While I knew that my friends hated their parents, I was envious of them. I would go to these huge houses in housing additions. They had all the latest gadgets and computers and everything. My father never had anything like that. This was one more reason to hate my father. He didn’t buy me all the cool stuff. This was another power that I lost out on.
And it didn’t stop there. No. Going out on dates was the worst! I’d go out on a date with a really cute boy. He did things that made my heart race, whether it was speeding through town at nearly 100 mph, or break into places where we weren’t supposed to be. The danger and the excitement got my heart racing. I was caught between fear and that adrenaline rush, much like a roller coaster ride. So when the boy kissed me, it felt like my entire world was spinning. My head was swimming on cloud nine. This boy was taking me to heights I never thought possible.
Unfortunately, my father had a way of bringing me back to Earth in a hurry. When the boy dropped me off at home, my father was waiting for us. He had a couple of shot guns out that he was so conveniently cleaning at the time we pulled into the drive. He forced me to go up to my room, so that he could have a little chat with my boyfriend. Needless to say, I never went out with that boy again.
Ever since that night, boys refused to go out with me out of fear of my father. I knew that crying on the staircase would do me no good. If I stayed out all night, he would simply come looking for me. That was even more embarrassing than the gun cleaning incident. I could not believe that my father was doing this to me. He was ruining my life. Just because Mom left him for some hunk doesn’t mean that he could take it out on me.
But there comes a time in a child’s life when they start to view their parents differently.
While being grounded for yet another offense in defiance to my father’s house rules, I decided to clean up one of the walk-in closets. After all, it would be a place where I could put my clothes and my shoes. While I may not have had a lot of the latest toys, gadgets and electronic devices like all my friends, I did have all the clothing I could want. Wal-mart fashions may not have been quite as trendy as Aeropostale or Abercrombie and Fitch, but getting three tees for the price of one made sense to me. I worked hard for my money, and I wasn’t going to throw it all away on a blouse that would be out of style by the next year. Ok, so maybe my father’s teachings weren’t all bad.
This closet was in a desperate need of a cleaning. Time must have forgotten about this place because there were cobwebs everywhere. Ok, maybe not everywhere, but there was definitely one when you first walked into the closet. The one that you don’t see that gets into your hair and sticks to you no matter how many times you try to pull it off. Some of the clothes that were hanging up in this closet were definitely from a time warp. I couldn’t believe that people actually chose to wear some of these things on purpose!
While putting the old clothes into garbage bags, so that they could be given away to Good Will, I found my parents’ wedding album and some other keepsakes. Flipping through the album, despite the outdated fashions and the long forgotten hairstyles, my Mom looked absolutely gorgeous in her white wedding dress. You could see the love in her eyes that she had for my father. Plus, my father, who never wore a tie or a jacket for anything, looked very dashing in his rented tuxedo. Picture after picture brought back memories of when my parents were together, when they were in love.
But just like the faded photos and the dust covered album, that was so long ago. Still, it was different to see my father in a much happier state of mind. For the last several years, ever since Mom left, there was no sparkle in his eye, no spring in his step. The only time that I would get a glimpse of this reaction was when I won some kind of award from school, regardless of how stupid it may have been. Regardless of the function or the reason, my father was there to cheer me on. In my own mind, he was doing this to embarrass me to no end. But after looking at these photos, my mind began to wonder if I wasn’t seeing things as clearly as I should. Especially since not once did I ever see Mom at these events.
Putting aside the photo album, I stumbled across a collection of letters. Judging by the size of the Tupperware container, there was a ton of love letters. It’s amazing how sentimental these can be. It’s not like now where people post their status to Facebook, or tweet their feelings for someone, or even send a quick text of ‘I <3 U’. No, these letters were long and drawn out. They even had these funny things on the outside of them called stamps and post dates. I guess this is what my teachers were talking about when they were talking about the Pony Express.
It may have only been a month, but I can’t believe how much in love I am with you. I can see the sun shine in your hair, and your smile warms my heart. Your beautiful brown eyes have me under your spell. With but a word, I would reach up to the highest of heavens and pluck out a shining star just for you. There is nothing that I wouldn’t do for you. I would go to all ends of the Earth to retrieve your golden fleece. Your beauty is beyond compare, and the fact that you even entertain the thought of loving me in return is much like Aphrodite and Hephaestus. You are my Venus. You are my Juliet. I can see me living my entire life by your side.
That was only an excerpt from one of my father’s love letters. They were long and colorful. My father was such a romantic back then. What happened to that magic? What happened to that spark? Obviously, Mom loved these letters because she saved so many of them. Though, a quick perusal of the envelopes and handwriting written on them, I noticed that there was a change. Not just in the penmanship, but also with the tone of the letter.
I can’t wait to see yor naked body again. I loved the way you straddled my cock while you played with your huge tits. The way you shrek when I spank that ass. I defintly love your lips as they wrap around my big fat cock. And the way you moan when you cum. I love you.
Aside from the misspellings, these letters in the back of the container were much different. They were short. They focused on physical sex, rather than emotional love. They used vulgar language, rather than poetic expressions of love. And yet, the writer still used the word ‘I love you’. Why did Mom have these? This definitely was not written by my father. What was worse, these letters were dated after my parents’ wedding. What was going on? A bunch of these letters were romantic and sweet and could melt a girl’s heart. They focused on love and living a life together. The other letters were crude and nasty, and focused on physicality and living in the moment. The grammar and spelling errors were enough to make me sick.
However, my stomach churned when I stumbled across the last find in that walk-in closet. It was from a laboratory out in California. The contents of this letter would change my life forever. It changed everything except for one thing.
I hated my father.
How could he hide this secret from me? Although, if I really thought about it? It should not have come as a surprise. My father may have worn his hair high and tight, it was still dark and brown. Mom always loved the way her long brown hair cascaded down to her shoulders in dark curls. Even in the wedding photos, their brown eyes danced with love and happiness. Maybe my blonde hair and blue eyes were just recessive genes? That’s what they taught in Biology. How could my father be so mean and hide the truth from me?
The official looking letter stated that I was not my father’s daughter. How could he do that to me? Why did he hide my real father from me? He must have forced Mom to not say anything to me. I never knew that he wasn’t my real father. With all the things he did for me, I can’t believe he would lie! He made me call him ‘father’!
I needed answers, and I certainly could not trust the person who had been hiding it from me for all my life. No, I needed to find Mom and make her tell me what was going on. Maybe, then, she could explain how she could marry such an evil monster like my father?
Tracking her down required more effort than I thought. I tried Grandma and Grandpa, but they haven’t seen her since she left my father. All the aunts and uncles didn’t seem to know or care too much about her whereabouts. I was about ready to give up when I was reading the paper and came across the police blotter. There was a domestic disturbance out at one of the trailer parks, and it listed Mom’s name and some other guy. Finally, I would get my answers.
I’m not sure what I was expecting. Perhaps I was hoping the heavens would open up and all that was wrong in my life would be undone. That Mom’s home would be Utopia, and I could run away from the evil that lurked in my own home. Unfortunately, that was not the case. Instead, the front yard of this trailer park home was cluttered with litter and garbage. I wasn’t sure if the owner of the house was also running a junk yard or simply having a rummage sale for the last two years? The grass was either dead or overgrown. My father would have a stroke if he saw the way this yard looked. With as much time as he put in tending to his lawn, this place was an absolute disaster and a complete contrast from home.
Mom must have seen me pull up, because she was the first to greet me. At first, she didn’t recognize me. I know I didn’t recognize her. Her store bought blonde hair looked fake; and you could easily see the dark roots. While the tattoos were probably a good idea at the time she got them, but not so much now. She had let herself go since she left my father. When she finally realized I was her daughter, she hugged me and I could smell the nicotine on her clothes. It was enough for me to worry about getting cancer from second hand smoke.
The ‘tearful’ reunion didn’t last long, though. I immediately asked her who my father was. At first, she tried to lie say that my father was my real father. However, I held up the letter from that laboratory out in California. She frowned and eventually said that my real father was a ‘mistake’. That she loved my father, and that my biological father was just some guy she met at the diner where she worked. They had some fling that lasted about a year, but that he skipped town one night and was never seen again.
It was about this time that this balding, pot bellied beast of a man stepped out of the trailer as well. My biological father may have been a mistake, but I realized at that point in time that the summer clothes that I chose to wear that day was a huge mistake. This ugly looking pervert eyed me like I was a piece of meat. You could almost envision this twerp jacking off to porn and having the same look in his eyes as he did that very moment when he was looking at me. This was the guy that Mom left my father for? I threw up in my mouth, and then left. And just like Mom, I never looked back.
I hate my father.
I finally met a boy, who survived a shotgun cleaning talk and endured whatever else my father could throw at him in order to make sure that he respected me and loved me for who I was as a person, and not because of my looks. I finally met a boy who could make my heart race, not with actions of living in the moment but because of the time that we spend together. All those other boys who my father protected me from had gotten girls pregnant before they even graduated high school. Some of them tried to be good fathers, but most of them ran away from their responsibilities. This boy is different. He even earned my father’s approval to ask me to marry him.
But who will walk me down the aisle? Who will give me away at my own wedding? Who will be the last man to hold mine before I become Mrs. Banks-Williams? I can’t ask my biological father to do it because I don’t even know who he is. I’m certainly not going to ask my Mom’s boyfriend, or whatever he is, to do it because the mere thought of being that close to him makes me vomit. No, my father is supposed to hand me over to my fiancé.
My father raised me like his very own daughter. He loved me as if I was his own flesh and blood. He made me feel loved, and provided for me all the things a child could ever way. He forgave my slut of a mom because he loved her and truly believed that she was sorry, when she was nothing but a cheating whore. He taught me the difference between love and lust. He taught me that love should be unconditional, but that it should also be two ways. He taught me that you should want to do all that you can for the person that you love, but as long as there is the same kind of love in return.
My father also taught me the difference between living and having a life. Living in the moment lasts but a few seconds in time. It’s forgotten before you know it. Having a life, especially with someone you love, lasts a lifetime.
My father was a wimp and a cuckold, according to some of the people in the community, but he was more of a man than any of Mom’s lovers. Tell me of a man who has the strength to accept that his daughter is not his own flesh and blood, but raise her and love her like she’s his only angel? Well, that man is my father.
I hate my father because he died before I could tell him that I love him with all my heart, and I will forever be grateful to him for the things that he taught me. And if my fiancé can’t deal with the fact that I want to hyphenate my name so that everyone will know that I am my father’s daughter first and foremost, then he doesn’t know me and doesn’t deserve me.
Daddy, I love you so much!
*****
There was not a single dry eye when Melissa Banks stepped down off the podium and collapsed in a sobbing fit at the head of her father’s coffin in tears. Her fiancé, Aaron Wiliams, rushed to be by her side and console her in her time of loss. It was at that moment that he fully understood his bride to be, and no longer complained about her wish to hyphenate her name in remembrance of her father. Even the old biddies that gossiped about the numerous affairs that Liz Banks had with some of the men around town, and how Steve Banks did nothing, looked away in shame. The only word that was spoken was a soft ‘Amen’ from the pastor.
