I am convinced that my father was born with a newspaper in one tiny hand and a neck tie instead of an umbilical cord. I mean this in the most complimentary way possible; the man has a work ethic that can make any zealous overachiever feel lazy. As a kid, I hardly appreciated or even noticed how tirelessly he worked to support my family and me.
Continue reading → From Barbie to Borrowing: Hanging Out with Dad
This is the tale of two daughters — each born of rocker passion and into money. In the same week, one daughter accused her dead father of having sex with her for a decade while the other found her own footing and became a star in her own standing.
Joshua demanded a son; got a girl; fell in love.
by Noemi Szadeczky-Kardoss
Dad!
For the first time in my life, I don’t know which way to go.
When I was little, it was easy. I just had to follow the arrows, and they lead me to you. You drew them on the sidewalks with white chalk so that I would find my way from the playground to your workplace. Do you remember? You used to let me play as long as I wanted, but you never stayed with me. The work couldn’t wait, you used to say. But before you left, you always made sure the arrows were still visible on the sidewalks. If the rain had washed them away, you drew them again.
by Malaika Booker-Wright
I have half of this man’s genes. His blood runs through my veins. I have his nose. I have his lips. I have his hair. I have his “worry lines.” Yet, I only have a handful of memories involving him.
Continue reading → A Daughter's Love is a Terrible Thing to Waste
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