Favorite Daughter

Published in Carve Magazine, the Fall 2023 issue. Named in honor of Raymond Carver, the journal publishes fiction, poetry, and nonfiction that respects the power of language and craft and elicits genuine emotional truths.

1.   

One Christmas, it must have been mid-1970s, I envisioned a voguish caftan for my dad. I sleuthed out his size and sewed it of a supple tan fabric with black stripes. Enlisting a friend with dad’s approximate height and shape to try it on, he modeled its airy floor-length sway. It was très luxuriant, very at-home “beautiful people.”

I phoned Dad on Christmas afternoon.

“Oh, yes, it arrived yesterday,” he said. I pictured Palo Alto sunshine streaming in, illuminating his Christmas tree with real metal tinsel that he used to carefully hang on the tree, then carefully take off and stow for next year. “And it’s nice, but you know what I’d really like? I want a caftan in purple velour. Can you make me one like that?”

2.

I learned to fly before I could drive. Before I could get a job. Shave my legs or braid my own hair. Before I could write my own name.

I launched my flying-squirrel self into the giddy atmosphere. From this altitude I looked down, however briefly, on mundane earthly concerns. I tested the limits of my glidepath and tasted the physical inevitability of gravity before my father gathered me from the air, that first remembered connection with Dad.

With pure faith, there never was doubt that he’d catch me.

I’d barely drawn breath before I was wiggling and wheedling, “Again Daddy! Again!”

“Okay, just one more, then it’s bedtime,” he said, hoisting me overhead and sitting my jammied bottom atop the shelves, the highest point in the house. On his go-ahead, I flung myself into the embracing air. My dad seemed to love this game as much as I did.

“One more,” I hollered as he set me down. I hung onto his pocket, jumping up and down “Please Daddy, just one more!”

“That’s all for tonight,” he said, disentangling his khakis from my grasp and handing me off to my mother.

“Now you’re all wound up.” She smiled down at me, leading me down the hall. “Let’s go brush your teeth, giggle puss.”

My father turned away.

“Pleease Daddy!”

“Stop it now,” he ordered. And that was the end of that.

3.

“My hobby is art. I like my hobby because when I go someplace, I can draw a picture of something beautiful and then I take the picture home and keep it. Then in a couple of years I can take it out and look at it. I now say to myself, oh, I am surely pleased with myself for doing this work!”

SUSAN CUMMINGS

Fourth Grade

St. Albert the Great School

Since that first tiny essay was printed in the Palo Alto Times, I’ve learned not to assure myself that my pictures stand the test of time.

I’d love to achieve the kind of psychic abandon I drew with as a kid. By third grade I was drawing multi-part thematic sequences of Chagall-like mysticism.

“The Miracles of Jesus,” for one example. Typical of the series is “Jesus at a Marriage,” with the helpful explanation under the title, “Jesus was at a marriage.” They’re meticulously detailed: all the angels have red lips; all the floors have checkerboard tiles. People have ten stubby fingers and they’re wearing socks and mushroom-shaped shoes. Everything solid is solidly colored in. The teacher has corrected my mis-spellings in red ballpoint.

Everyone is smiling; the sun and the girl in the blue dress with a ponytail hanging out of her halo are both grinning. The bongo player with the red moustache is smiling. Jesus is beaming and shaking maracas, I think. The cake is hanging upside down from the ceiling; yellow birds and flowers flutter at the edges.

My world was indeed populated with smiling people. Dad with his hands on his hips, figures for myself, my mom, a couple of sisters, the horses that lived behind our back yard. These grinning masterpieces formed a steady stream of tributes for Father’s Day and Valentines and birthday cards.

Now Dad tells me I was the daughter who kept him supplied with pictures and cards and letters, offertory in every medium. Some still hang in his home office, like the “WORLD’S GREATEST FATHER” plaque I made with a hunk of wood, metallic gold paint and purple velvet ribbon for hanging.

My inbuilt reward system had been winding itself around my father’s regard. When I brought home A’s on a report card, we celebrated with ice cream. When I made him pictures and plaques, he beamed, “That’s a real gasser!”

Over time, when Dad played with us or got a kick out of my artwork, that was pleasure in its purest chemical form. The delight of making him laugh, the anticipation of his hand on my shoulder. Or he might be distracted or critical, reprimand me for not washing dishes in hot, hot water. But my ambition, my pictures and good-girl grades grew from the desire for approval, to stand out in his affection.

I became a junkie for the sunny-dad dopamine hit.

I knew Mom was constant without knowing; she was the nurse log I sank my roots into. My father could be a changeable wind, blowing hot and cold; I kept my face oriented to his direction as the warmth came and went.  

4.

Dad liked making new friends. One summer, feeling a little flush, the parents loaded us into the car and drove to Disneyland. We stayed with his aging Aunt Lucy in Anaheim, who I adored because she left M&Ms in small crystal bowls by the bed, candy being a way into my heart.

After waiting in a snaking line, all seven of us, to get timed tickets for Space Mountain, my father said, “Give me nine tickets.”

When we returned to the ride at our appointed time a few hours later, he walked up to two astonished strangers and handed them the extra tickets saying, “Here, now you can skip the wait.”

Who does that?

5.

“I want a caftan in purple velour” Dad was saying over the line. “Can you make me one like that?”

How could I possibly answer? A fleeting scuffle ensued in my gut. Should I swallow the insensitivity and make it for him, because he’s my dad? Or, hell no; ignore the request as self-absorbed, barren of self-awareness. Not to say manners.

My father gravitated to the egocentric, “if it feels good do it” ethos of the ‘70s. He answered the counterculture siren call, trekking every year to Sensory Awareness workshops in Mexico, an acolyte of the Human Potential Movement. Dad sought happiness and fulfillment through body awareness, “That kind of crap,” as he described it to me recently.

In the end, I neglected the purple caftan request on that '70’s Christmas afternoon, knowing I’d loathe myself if I made it.

That I even considered it is revealing: yes, I’ve known I was a daddy pleaser from a young age. But I have, in fact, only just now snuck up on the implications.

A puzzle piece drops into place. Drooped over my writing table, an oasis scattered with grocery-store orchids, I’m reading this, gobsmacked; that sound is my jaw hitting the keyboard.

“People-pleasing behaviors evolve as a way to maintain connection and closeness with parents who are inconsistently available to their children,” writes co-dependency therapist Ann Stoneson on her site, Labyrinth Healing. Pleaser habits grow out of the relationship dynamics with a narcissistic parent.

How did I reach my sixth decade without turning around to face this? Accepting my pleaser impulse without scrutiny allowed me to function in a way that seemed normal.

“Daughters of narcissists witnessed their charismatic father constantly search for external validation from society… while abandoning any attempts at authentic familial connections,” says Shahida Arabi; she wrote Becoming the Narcissist's Nightmare. That child finds herself tiptoeing on eggshells, shapeshifting to meet Dad’s autocratic standards, to gain his approval.

How often I’ve been waxing elegiac for my affectionate young dad, the changeable father whose attention I craved. One minute, teaching me in his workshop; the next, handing me off to Mom and closing the door. One day, handing out Hershey bars for each tree we kids could name; the next, moving on from his family.

That daughter heads into the world uncomfortable saying no, hating to seem “mean.” An avid approval-seeker. She has an overdeveloped sense of personal responsibility, like when her son is born and she soon tears into work, almost desperate to know she can support her family no matter what. And she wants to be nice; to be good. A diplomat.

There’s clearly no place in her for anger.

6.

“After this hand I’m gonna go eat,” Danny said as he dealt. “I could eat a bison!”

My college dorm common room looked like a bison came through: a curbside-rescue couch shoved to one side, a beer-stained rug. This was Infinity Pinochle, played twenty-four-seven in the space between the boys’ and girls’ ends of the dorm.

“Clubs,” said Danny. “Uh, twenty-six.”

My blonde boyfriend Robert lifted his cards off his chest and frowned.

“Three,” he mumbled. “I could eat a buffalo, but….” He lifted an eyebrow, threw a jokey glance at me. He thought it was funny, his nickname for me: Buffalo Butt. He knew it piqued me, made me self-conscious. Bison Buns. He assured me he adored my plummy bottom and this was his affectionate joke.

“Four,” his roommate Charlie added, “I could eat a pig.”

“Eight. How would you know it’s pig? It’s all mystery meat.”

Cards slapped like an intermittent piston tap and Danny scooped them up, laying down another.

Charlie surrendered a card. “I myself would rather eat in the dining hall than starve. I stick to the green bean casserole and avoid the slop.”

“Well, you go ahead.” Robert frowned at his hand. His usual dry humor was shading to peevish. “My mother taught me that slop is for the pigs out back.”

“Did your mother also teach you that the smartest pig in the world is named Ein Swine?” Charlie smiled, trying to lighten the vibe.

Danny tossed a card and grabbed the stack.

“Did your mother teach you to never share your bed with a pig, because they’ll hog all the covers?” Robert snapped, flipping down his last losing card.

That rude joke poked at me; maybe he hadn’t stopped to think why it wasn’t funny, but now he avoided my eye.

Charlie headed for the door, smiling. “What about you, Miss Susan. Would you rather eat slop with me and the other pigs?”

I was caught out—I didn’t want to side against my boyfriend but he was being a jackass.

“I’m going to finish my homework.” I avoided the question, stepping over backpacks and snow boots. I should have gotten mad and let Robert have it or zapped him with a snappy come-back.

“Do you know why men can’t get mad cow disease?” I wish I’d said. “Because men are pigs.”

But that didn’t happen.

Is there a constructive way to get mad? If so, I had no role model. When dad was angry, he got scary. For me, anger was frightening, ugly. Shrill, as is now said. Learning the assertiveness I needed—I had to figure that out after I grew up. Or, in order to grow up. Admonitions like “do unto others” and “turn the other cheek” only go so far, then you have to stick up for yourself.

When we turned teenaged, my big sister defied him and my father became enraged. I just ran from the house—fight was burned into her, but flight baked into me. So, it’s no surprise that my obedience training was poor preparation for real life. I put up with people putting me down.

It’s a disadvantage not to know how to get mad. 

7.     

I’m looking at a yellowing photo of myself on a beach, snorkel and mask perched on long straight hair, a black one-piece swim suit with purple flowers and a sort-of smile—that’s not my usual buoyant grin. I’m turned slightly away, front knee forward so my thighs don’t look pudgy. It was a flat overcast day at Hanauma Beach.

After I graduated college, Dad stepped in to reward the effort: a Hawaii vacation, just the two of us, a swank step up from the banana splits I used to get for good report cards. My father wanted to hang on to the little piece of family who would still hang out with him, who used to covet more time with him. But in the end, I felt like a traitor to my siblings, vacationing without them.

We stayed on Waikiki Beach and I read books by myself on the beach. It was a melancholy stand-in for a family holiday. He left me alone in the evening a couple of times while he checked out the Honolulu dating scene.

When we went out to eat or see the sights, I recoiled inside when he introduced me to strangers saying, “This is my favorite daughter!”

Finally, I had to elbow him, laughing but not laughing, “Oh, come on Dad, we’re all your favorite daughters, aren’t we?”

8.     

I knew I would learn something when a job interviewer said, “You’re going to talk with the CEO. Now here’s what you need to do.”

Sandy ran marketing for a tech company. An open, friendly smile. No-nonsense manners.

“Eric’s going to put you on the spot, ask you adversarial questions. How will you stand your ground? If he asks you why you want to work here, what will you say?”

“Internet security is the market space with phenomenal growth potential now, and I’m going to be in it,” I declared.

“That’s good,” she said. “What if he asks your age?”

“Well, he can’t ask that. I’ll just tell him so.” I sounded more confident than I felt but I was good at hiding that.

Sandy was my role model, my personal trainer on sticking my neck out. A woman who could lose her cool to good effect and push back at intimidating people, male people especially.

An intermittent feminist drumbeat kept me company. Together with my friends I read Ms. Magazine; I cheered the movie “9 To 5.” Watched the Equal Rights Amendment doomed to failure. Watched Geraldine Ferraro, the first female vice-presidential nominee, brush back the sexist hazing she endured. It was two steps forward, one giant anti-feminist step back in those days.

Sandy took time to coach me. “When you present this, start with the end result, then go back and build your case for how you’ll get there,” she might say, leaning across her desk. “And don’t let them sidetrack you—they can hold their questions.”

I practiced shutting down a bully when he (always a he) needed it. I could interrupt him and make him listen to my good ideas too. Basically, I faked it for what felt like Malcom Gladwell’s 10,000 hours of practice until, eventually, it wasn’t fake. Sandy helped me learn my worth.

Later, I was interviewing again with Eric, now a CEO in Silicon Valley. He pumped me for opinions of the VPs I’d just spoken to.

“That’s funny—Kelly just pumped me on what I learned when I used to work for you.”

He laughed, tossing his nerf ball in the air. “And what did you tell him?”

Chin down, eyes level. “Speak truth to power.”

9.

So I got better at confrontation, though avoidance, my involuntary reaction, can still bubble up facing alarming situations. But when I reject “flight” in the face of danger or dishonesty, I’m free to choose my response. I may be clumsy at conflict but I learned I can “fight” instead of flying away.

Now here I am. I know there’s a place for anger, though in truth, I think everyone feels hurt before outrage. I expressed pain instead because that was always safer—pain garnered sympathy but rage got me in trouble. Crying is feminine; fury isn’t.

Have you noticed the word “anger” is buried in “dangerous?” Maybe it’s not a coincidence.

Lurking below anger lies anguish, and people who are quick on the trigger have learned to hide their vulnerability. Outrage is the visible iceberg, the 10% above “see” level; below the surface lies a world of hurt.

Considering this perspective, I look again at my dad.

I knew he ended up on the same path as his own demanding father. As we turned into recalcitrant adolescents and questioned his authority, Dad’s discipline turned violent. But if he got harsh, his father had been brutal. From his sisters I learned how severely Grandpa beat my dad: took him behind the house, cut a switch and whipped him for his infractions. He hit Grandma in anger too, and all his kids. Once he cut down the tree my aunt had nurtured from seed as a horticulture student. Once he kicked a young daughter’s kitten, killing it.

But, hands hovering over this keyboard, clematis coiling my porch railing, something else occurs to me now: what’s the hurt to the hitter? I’ve held on to how being hit felt for me: intense, stinging, capillaries bursting under peachy skin. But what did it feel like for the person at the other end of that raised arm? Was it painful for him too? A big letdown? Or was it a reflex, an electrical impulse triggered by fury, out of control in a moment of distress? Did it leave a sorry taste in his mouth?

For much of my adult life I avoided Dad’s egosystem, his narcissistic orbit. I kept him at arm’s length, denying him room to make demands or rewrite the past. I ignored purple caftan requests. But, after 10,000 hours of assertiveness training, I could challenge his blinkered view of history.

My theory is that as we age, we become distilled versions of ourselves. Distractions evaporate, leaving concentrated character. My big sister told me Dad later apologized for his brutality, sincerely. It helped her. He even thanked her “for calling him on his shit.” When the heat cooled, his friction had burned off too. Now he’s condensed down to putting on a cheerful face, to the stories he likes to remember of growing up with his father and his doting mom. He has affection and gratitude for family that was overcome by anger for a while.

10.

I knocked on my dad’s front door.

“Hi Dad!” I stepped in and give him a hug.

“Susan-gadusen—how’s my favorite daughter?”

And before I could push back, he laughed. “I say that to all my daughters!” It’s true, he does. His tone was upbeat, as always when one of us visits. He led me through the kitchen to his shady back yard, with reefs of vibrant freesia, California poppies opening to the sunshine and potted succulents on every horizontal surface.

“How are you, Dad?” We sat where we could admire his garden.

“Good as ever,” he said. He recounted a recent craft fair—he made sheepskin slippers to sell, though I think the real reason he did it was to gab with lots of people at these events.

“I’m still playing tennis twice a week, as you know.” I just listened. “And, I have my family, and there isn’t anything better in life.”

“Ever since I was a little boy, I’ve loved being surrounded by family.” He nodded his head going into this familiar reverie. “And it always felt so, fulfilling I guess is the best word, because I loved being with my family.”

I want to articulate his tone of voice here, pitched up with feeling. This story he has told many times. He looked earnest, his eyebrows pinched up in the middle, appeal in his blue eyes.

He recalled a rosy childhood time, adding, “And I loved my dad; he was a great man!”

  “Was he though?” My skepticism shaded in. “Aunt Mary said he beat you as a kid.” What we now call child abuse my dad shrugged off.

  “Well, he was born a tough Irishman, you know.” Dad hesitated, sounding sheepish. “He was a little complicated.” My father’s forgetting so much that my siblings and I remember.

Did he ever see himself as we saw him? Browsing old photos, I shake my head in wonder. From the inside, what he might have seen as good parenting or practicality, looks from the outside an awful lot like cluelessness. Like when he made my big sister, an insecure preteen anyway, wear her orthodontic headgear—that head-locking truss pulling her front teeth into line—every day, even out in public, even to Easter. Or the later time when he wanted to take the family out to dinner, then circled the table as menus were distributed, tapping some on the shoulder, announcing who he was going to pay for and skipping me, my husband and our young son!

Can any of us see our parents’ contradictions objectively? Don’t other adult children watch their parents’ jaw-dropping insensitivity and think, no wonder I’m dented, in need of repair. (Can any of us say our kids won’t think the same thing?)

I moved the chat along. “I heard Karen and Liann brought lunch over on Monday—”

I visit my father for these conversations because I can be honest instead of skimming the surface, as I once did. For all that I saw his boneheaded conduct; all the times he was selfish or oblivious. For all the times he bailed me out. For when he schooled me, nurtured and cherished me. Bankrolled me. For all the hurt he inflicted. Though I see his yesterday conduct in today’s light, I now work to accept all of who he is. (I’d like my sons to humor me this way when I’m old, gently pointing out or, preferably, ignoring my own blind spots.)

I spent the first third of my life learning the ropes, learning to avoid them really. The second, in fits and starts, learning to bounce off some ropes.

In my current third I’m sparking self-expression, coloring outside the lines. Unlearning rules. I still want to be “good”—that’s baked in—but I’m giving myself more rope. As the writer Nick Hornby said, “I don't believe in Heaven... But I want to be the kind of person that qualifies for entry anyway.” 

I’m enjoying a little underachieving. I can flex a little angry attitude when needed. Choosing who you want to be, apart from everyone else, clarifies your voice. Though I’m still learning how to fly, I’m looking, but not lost, under the limitless sky.