I am my fathers daughter

7th January 2021

I am my fathers daughter.

One. I can see the image in my head. My fathers gently hand holding me whilst i blow out the one candle on an enormous cake for my first birthday. Not too far down the track, I remember my family being at the beach. There was a section between the rocks where it looked like it was impossible to cross. The tide was high and the small canal filled and crashed with water. Eager to get to the other side, my father picked me and my brother up, propped onto both sides of his waist and just...walked through. I remember looking down at the water and back up to my father, what a hero.

Fifteen. That’s how old I was when I first began to understand my father’s behaviour. Old enough to understand the consequences of his actions, but too young to understand the reason behind his actions.
Eighteen. My father beat me black and blue over me quitting from a toxic workplace. Accused of "giving up" but failing to understand the bullying and distraction that employment was for me at the time. I remember the first blow, my mind sort of went back and forth in consciousness. Then the second, and the third. My hands grew tired from trying to block each hit. After what felt like eternity, he went and sat down in his chair, started yelling things in Samoan like "i only do these things out of love". Hazed and feeling numb I managed to pick myself up and head to my room. I put on my sport shoes and broke the fly screen for my window. I jumped out and ran as far into the bushes as I could physically go. I sat on a rock which I had been to many times before, and repeated "it’s out of love, its out of love, its out of..."

Twenty one. 21 years it can take a person to understand ones actions. I am old enough to understand the pain he numbs with alcohol and young enough to desperately search for a road to connect with him. Through all my teen years I used to despise my father because of what he had put my family through. The way he would react to things. Making every conversation a lecture. I would watch him sip bottle after bottle and tell myself that I will never be like this man. I would create a purposeful life myself and wont drown my sorrows in alcohol. Through my bedroom window, I watched him chain smoke again and again and again. Each cloud of smoke just fuelled my anger.

Once again, through my brother and I's birth in New Zealand, my father worked at terrible jobs that often discriminated people like us. Pacific Islander. Fresh from Samoa and could not utter a single word of English, and yet, he made it happen. People like my father who were judged and subtly bullied but still faithful to a job because it put bread on the table. At this time, they are only in their mid 20’s with 4 bratty children in their hands, but not a single complaint. All they knew was to hustle for a greater life that was not even guaranteed.
Take it from me. Embrace your fathers lectures and storytelling. Embrace the hiding. Embrace the drunken words. I am only 21 and I have learnt more from my father than what the world has taught me. He has loved me when I have failed to love him. He has always been proud of, even when I would look at him in disgust. He has cared for me when I have been sick. He has warned me about heart break. He has driven hours to just change my tyre. Wakes up early in the morning to check oil and water in my car before long drives. There is no more embarrassment. No more disgust. No more disappointments. You are enough.

Thirteen. I sat in my bedroom holding my two younger brothers, trying to drown out the noise of my father yelling at my mum. Violent eruptions of crying and screaming pierced our ears, and I watched my younger siblings cry because of the confusion and chaos. 

You see, at age, one, five, fifteen, nineteen and so forth, I was so busy judging the life that my father was leading to even notice or begin to understand what sacrifices he has had to make for us. At the time I did not understand the truth behind his actions and his words. My father. Barely a teen when his circumstances back home forced him to drop out of primary school and start working. Any and every job that paid, my father’s dedication was there. Growing up with an abusive and alcoholic father himself, it’s not too surprising that he would inherit some of his father’s traits. Creating a family of his own, getting married at 18 years old, and with time, making the ultimate decision to shift his family to a whole other country. New Zealand. Leaving behind his family, everything he knew. Everyone he knew. Where his mother tongue was? With not so much as a thank you from his 2 children at the time. 

In the year 2000 my family moved from New Zealand to Australia to follow the word of mouth from other Pacific Islanders; “for a better life”. Raised in the lower-class town of Claymore. Before all the complicated visa laws were introduced, my father managed to create a pathway for my family to shift to Australia. So we did just that. Just like de ja vu, leaving everything and everyone he knew. Moved to the scenic and elegant area of Claymore. They gave us another sibling shortly after. My father once again, found any job that pays well. Every night he would come home and head straight to sleep. I used to hate the fact that he was always too tired to be with his kids. Always too tired to get up in the morning for mum and I's daily shopping trips. My younger self couldn’t understand why he didn’t make time for us.

Through all of this, my father never asked for recognition or praise. Through all the flaws that I can list in my father, he took a life of chain smoking as a child in a household of an abusive alcoholic father and submissive mother, and created a life that our people back home would beg for. Years have passed since I was a bratty teen, and when I look at my father, I can feel myself become overwhelms with emotion. So much regret. So much hatred in myself. This man who only wants the best for his family. Alcohol, to numb the pain, the feelings of a repetitive life. The feeling of raising unappreciative children. Cigarettes to take his mind of having to do it all again week after week after week. My father did not have to do what he has done, a lot of fathers leave their family’s high and dry when the going gets tough. Not my father.

I die inside when my mum leaves to Samoa. I know that my mum is only doing her duties for her family who are still there and her village. But I also see my father struggle. Not being able to connect with anyone the same way he did with my mum. I see him wonder around the house sometimes, aimlessly. As if he awaits for my mum to turn the corner. To ask about his day. To have small banter that only they can enjoy. To sit outside and just watch him fix the cars.

The good lord has tested my father more times than we would like to recall. I used to be so embarrassed of my dad. For the jobs that he worked. For the blue-collar clothing that he wore. For his blood shot eyes after a week of 12-14-hour shifts. His broken English. His dark complexion but as the years pass, this embarrassment will only ever haunt me. Now more than ever, I am most proud to say, I am my father’s daughter. My temper. My smile. My laugh. My love for the darts. My story telling. My nose. 

Dad, I am forever grateful for the sacrifices you made daily for us. I love you.