I’m daddy’s little girl. I’m the only child and daddy’s pride and joy. Being an only child is a lot of pressure. You are the only chance your parents have. If you mess up, you’re not only messing up your life, but theirs too since you’re their only shot. There is a constant striving to be the best at what you do solely to make your parents proud of their one and only.
But being daddy’s girl is another matter entirely. The bond between father and daughter is special. The protective nature of a father, yet striving to give his child all the opportunities in the world. The innocence of a little girl looking up to the all knowing almost god-like father. He knows everything and does everything right, nothing can bring down the perception of her father.
My parents, my Yankee father particularly, raised me to be an independent free thinker. I was never forced to go to church or submit to a way of thinking. I was taught to stand up for myself, from sending back food at a restaurant to letting people know where they stand. Today, this same attitude of independence causes the mini-political arguments I have with my father.
I have scores of memories of both my parents at all times of my life. One of the most vivid is the whole family, Mum, Dad and Nic, in the kitchen, one family in one room happily waiting for dinner to be made. I must have been around six. Every day after my dad came home from work, I would jump up and sit on his lap and watch him read the paper. He would read the stories to me and start talking about the issues with Mum. I remember my face closer to the page than dad’s, so when each page was turned it would brush my face. Once we got to the comics, he would read each one out loud. I knew when he skipped one because I knew the order, since we read everyday. We would have to explain the comics to my humor-impaired mother.
This tradition is one that I still hold close to my heart. The time spent at the kitchen table reading the newspaper created a solid base on which to be able to discuss things as equals as well as father and daughter. I remember learning words like Palestine, oil embargo, and strike out. . I became used to words forming sentences and correct spelling. I also remember learning how to tell time on my daddy’s lap.
When I was younger I took everything Dad said as God’s truth. He can explain things in such a way there is no possible way for you to disagree. When my dad explains his stance on an issue there’s no better argument. Dad is a military man and a man of honor, who has strong almost personal views on current issues. Yes, he’s a Republican.
When I was 18, my dad told me when I registered to vote I should register as an Independent. This way when I voted in primaries I could vote strategically. Dad is smart. I wanted to register as an Independent just like my dad.
Being raised by my father it is impossible to be a liberal, yet I am somewhat in the middle of the road on many issues. To the surprise of many I usually lean on the right side. Except now things are different when I go home. Dad still looks at me as his only child, his little girl, he also looks at me as someone who has a valid opinion. Someone who is aware of the world she lives in and strives to change the way he, and other people think.
We often find ourselves in the living room watching the evening news or CNN. It’s hard to watch the news or read the paper with him now because of our different views. He usually see things from a conservative, apple-pie-eating stance. Whereas I often look at the other side of the story too. A journalistic habit I suppose.
Now since I have grown up into my 21 year old self, I am still a registered Independent who reads different newspapers everyday. Dad calls The Boston Globe a “liberal rag.” He jokes that I’ll end up working at FoxNews, “The only station that isn’t slanted.” jokes Dad knowing that the channel is visibly Republican. Dad taught me well. Now our arguments arise because of what he taught me to do. Read the paper and question what your taught. Also we’re both stubborn, and fiercely believe we are right.
I even get half-birthday cards from my dad. When I told him of my new job as Arts Editor at the newspaper, he sent me a card congratulating me on becoming the “Joyce Kulhawik of Maine.” She’s the premiere Arts reporter for Massachusetts, where we are from. The card hangs above my desk now. I like to look at it when I’m writing my articles.
I’m still daddy’s little girl. Except now I can actually counter his arguments and have my own opinions to discuss. Just as long as I can talk over The O’Reilly Factor.