If you were to take a look at my dad, you would probably jump to a few conclusions. The pony-tail hanging down to his lower back may lead you to assume that this old man was once the product of some free love, free drug hippie cult. The tattoos on his right hand may lead you to think he has been in and out of a few biker gangs. The dorky smile on his face and obnoxious laugh will make you think he is one of the nicest people you have ever had the opportunity to meet.
My dad seems like he could be all of these things. He’s a pretty unpredictable kind of guy. He never seems to get angry over much or actually even be bothered by things that would send other parents through the roof.
He raised me for years after my mom died a few weeks short of my second birthday. We were extremely close all throughout my elementary age years. We stayed up many a late night watching “Unsolved Mysteries” and some of the cheesiest horror movies in history. My dad was my best friend and I loved spending time with him.
But as the years passed by, my dad and I grew apart. We still loved each other more than anything. For a while it was just the two of us. Then “she” came along. Long story short, they moved in together. I grew distant. Sappy music begins now.
Fast forward a decade. The other night I was sitting in my kitchen waiting for a friend to come over. My dad strolls in and pulls up a chair. We make small talk for a few minutes before I spring the news on him: I am getting my second tattoo this weekend.
He is not shocked at all.
“Dad, it’s going to cover my left arm.”
Nothing.
“Dad, it is going to be a choir of cartoon monsters.”
Nothing.
“Dad, I am pregnant and moving to Mexico. And I am addicted to cocaine.”
Nothing.
OK, the last statement was not uttered. But had it been, I am fairly certain the response – or lack thereof – would have been on target.
It seems I have the kind of parent most kids dream of. Some kids await the day they can move out from under their parents’ roof just so they can pierce their ears, and here I am planning on permanently scarring my body for the sum of $300 and my dad doesn’t so much as blink.
Now, I am aware that I am truly blessed here. I’m an adult and my dad gives me the freedom I want and need.
But sometimes I think it would be comforting if just once he attempted to tell me no, or at least talk me out of some of these things.
I think he has realized I am an adult. I have grown up and he knows it. Therefore he stays out of my business as much as he can. As awesome as this is, it is kind of sad. I want my dad to assume the parental role. And as I reflect on my childhood and teen years, he never really was all that much of a “fatherly” type of guy. So, why am I shocked at this now?
I am moving out in a month and I think I am realizing that the father figure I never had is never really going to be, and I am a little saddened by this. You cannot miss something that you never really had, but it still hurts me to think that I will never have the chance to have it anyway.
Valerie Rojas, a sophomore journalism major, is arts editor of the Campus Times. She can be reached by e-mail at skalivornia@hotmail.com.
