Daughterhood
A short collection of thoughts about daughterhood.
After-Dinner Drinks
Never a shot of brandy or a glass of sherry; those were far too refined for my father’s taste. He preferred a rum and coke, pooled into a tall glass filled to the brim with ice. A glass of wine occasionally, but that was more my mother’s vice — the drink being enough to drift her quietly to sleep beside him, her head resting on his shoulder. He would nudge her quietly and take her to bed, return to the TV to nurse his after-dinner drink until it was empty, and then join her later on.
Bedsheets
There is no method to the chaos in my room. More often than not, it is a physical depiction of the inner workings of my depressive state. A mountain of clothes here, a stack of papers there. The more messy my chaos becomes, the more unmotivated I am to manage it. But I can always count on my mother’s sigh of exasperation at my door, her concerned call of my name, to give me that little nudge. “Maybe tackle your couch full of clothes,” it says. “How about changing those bedsheets?”
Casey Kasem
Like my father’s best friend, he frequented our house every Saturday morning like clockwork through our old and barely-working stereo. Saturdays are for cleaning, huevos rancheros, and the golden boy’s voice reverberating through our home. He had to tell us the greatest hits for the week - my father thought my siblings and I needed the education. Casey Kasem meant the good ol’ days for my dad, but for me, it meant comfort. I always knew he’d be around to gift me that little bit of encouragement: “Keep your feet on the ground, and keep reaching for the stars!”
David Sedaris
His masterpiece “Calypso” was devoured by both me and my father on a beach in Mexico on a family vacation. We argued over who got to read it again when we had both finished as if we were arguing over David himself. Who would get to spend time with him next? Who would he like more? A comedic memoir filled with memories of his family that occasionally dipped into devastating family trauma, “Calypso” gave us space to laugh and cry, and it was that experience that launched me into months of breaking down and inhaling the rest of his collection. He inspired me to write, and I wonder if I’ll thank him someday, but probably not. Maybe I don’t need to as long as Calypso sits on my shelf.
Floor Plan
I never fully appreciated it until I had my first boyfriend. Our house was laid out like a maze with a hallway that ran throughout. Each room had its own section, and unless you were looking from the dining room into the living room, you weren’t privy to the goings-on in other areas. Though our house was bustling with people usually, there was always some sense of privacy, and you could always hear when people were making their way to your sanctuary. As a newly christened college student in the middle of her blossoming relationship, my house certainly allowed for more privacy than his, whose room opened up into the living room. Making out we could sort of get away with, (of course, not exempt from having to quickly separate like opposing magnets upon a visitor) but the floor plan certainly prevented sex of any kind, which I’m sure pleased my protective father, if he had the stomach to even fathom the possibility.
Green
When I came home from college, my father was ready to save the Earth. In our small California home that meant composting, hanging our laundry on the line, and tightening up our recycling vigilance. At first, his commitment had no reasonable return except for this feeling that he was making a difference, but after not using our dryer for a month, the DWP bill was enough to turn him into a regimented general. Suddenly, the dryer was no longer an option, and the occasional banana peel in our trash can meant treachery. “Green'' was no longer just an ideal to strive for. In our home, “Green” became law.
Hydrate
My mother, a woman of infinite wisdom, has this one nugget of truth that she extends to all no matter the circumstances. Much like the father in “My Big Fat Greek Wedding” who treats all ailments with Windex, my mother’s cure-all is water itself and lots of it. Your head hurts? You’re dehydrated of course. You’re tired? You probably haven’t had enough water. Pooping too much? Not enough water. Pooping too little? Still, not enough water. You’re heartbroken? Replenish your tears with a glass of water. And despite her constant reminder, I still feel perpetually dehydrated in adulthood, wanting for water and wisdom, consistently unsure how I could be aching for both when her mantra is ringing in my ears.
Jerry Maguire
Maybe because I am the most like him of his three children, my father and I bond easily. His academic dedication was passed to me along with his raging anxiety, a constant haunt. If my sister wanted to climb a tree, you could find me right next to my father at the base of it, watching her closely and biting our tongues to cut through our intrusive fear. Jerry Maguire can’t have been the beginning of it all, but it’s burned into my memory as the beginning of my love for 90’s rom coms, given to me by the man who gave me most everything else.
