I Am My Father’s Daughter

Image Courtesy: Pinterest

I am my father’s daughter. From my ambition to my sarcasm, I can see him reflected in more than our shared physical features. I am, and will forever be, my father’s daughter. 

Not that I remember much from my days as a baby, or even as a toddler, but I believe everyone when they say that my dad was the only one able to calm me down just by being there. In some ways, it’s been like that ever since.

My favorite joke as of late has been calling myself a “deadbeat daughter.” Yeah, that’s probably true on some levels, but even if it were a blatant truth, I doubt he would ever agree. And he wholeheartedly laughs at all my other jokes, even the objectively unfunny ones. 

You’d think a guy with a Ph.D. in Physics would be totally stuck up, right? But, somehow, some way, it just never really got to his head.

(I assume being a genius took up too much space). 

So, I never had the stereotypical pressure of going into STEM or getting on par with his accolades, expectations, or any pressure to follow a dream that wasn’t my own. He made me realize the importance of my own choice and independence. 

I won’t lie— it was a bit frustrating for a confused, directionless, 18-year-old me who just wanted to be told what to do with my life. But I’m glad to have a father who taught me to have dreams of my own. 

I'm almost sure it’s a mixture of him being insanely humble and not mentioning his work much, and him simply being glad that I have options he didn’t. He’s never pushed me toward a decision that wasn’t my own. He’s always guided me through my own choices— congratulating me for my wins and comforting me at each misstep. 

As you’ve probably guessed, my dad’s pretty clearly my best friend. Most of the rest of my family, though, has never been too fond of me. And having grown up around a family that punishes me for the crime of being born to my parents (amongst other frivolous issues), I still find comfort in knowing there’s that much of him reflected in my words, my demeanor, and my personality. 

If “the sins of the father are visited upon the children,” I hope the opposite is true. I, who have known his kindness, can only wonder about the whole of the good karma I would be owed. 

I vividly remember being totally old enough and totally heavy enough that carrying me would be a bit crazy, especially with his back hurting. But, not a complaint made, he carried me through the dino-themed gift shop and back to the car, trinkets in tow, and a smile on his face.

"A picture of me that day, taken by my dad!" 

Image Courtesy: Krizia J. Figueroa

To this day, I find myself leaving stores with trinkets galore, except now my wallet is the one taking damage. But, as an avid, somewhat excessive, collector of trinkets and knick knacks, I wouldn’t have to give any thought before saying my most prized possession is the fox plushie he brought me from a business trip, who 4-year-old me, so lovingly, named Foxy, and clung to daily for years on end.

As I write this, at 22-years-old, Foxy’s sitting atop a pile of pillows engulfing my recliner, an adorable reminder of my father’s positive impact on my life. 

He’s the one who taught me how to put on my own socks and how to ride a bike. He taught me how to talk to people (I was a weird kid), and how to be a good person. He taught me patience. He taught me how to make super hit-or-miss jokes. 

Now that I'm an adult, I can even see the behind-the-scenes parenting. The parenting that made me into a person capable of freely deciding what’s next for me. He’s the one who taught me how to find dreams of my own— the one who helped me make them happen. No matter how silly, I know all my dreams are shared. I’ve never not had his support and goodwill, his trust that my dreams will eventually be my reality. 

And while disappointing him is probably my worst fear, it’s not something I think could ever happen. Somehow knowing that even a “failure” on my end will still be met only with kindness, is part of the reason I have found confidence in all that I do. 

As the one constant in my life, my dad is my grounding force, my best friend, my confidant, my gossip buddy, and the one I unflinchingly turn to for help. 

He’s the one who wishes me “Happy Mother’s Day”, even though I’m just a mother to a chihuahua. The person who calls on my birthday and, once I answer, will start to sing the entire “Happy Birthday” song no matter where he is, and it never fails to make me somehow happier than last year’s call, and the one before that. 

I’m a bit tone-deaf, so my rendition of Happy Birthday will never live up to his operatic performances, but I’ll sing anyway, this year, and every year to come. No matter where I am or who’s around, he’s getting sung to by the most tone deaf, self-proclaimed deadbeat daughter, in the world, and he’ll be just as happy as he was when I sang it to him as a kid. 

I guess that’s just another way I can see my father reflected in what I do. And I’m glad it gives me the chance to show him the love and kindness he’s shown me my whole life. 

I am glad to be my father’s daughter. I am glad to be a reflection of him- from my nose, to my ambitions, to my sometimes poorly timed sarcasm. I hope that when he reads this he recognizes that I want to show him the same care he’s shown me my whole life; the only reason I can do that is because I am my father’s daughter. 

The parts of myself I take most pride in can all be credited to him in some way. I am, and will forever be, my father’s daughter. 

HAPPY BIRTHDAY DAD!!!!

I LOVE YOU SO MUCH!!!

Strike Out,

Orlando

Written By: Krizia J. Figueroa

Edited By: Olivia Wagner & Makayla Gray