Students reflect on their experience with their dads as part of our rites of passage writing program – writing to critically think about our identity and how that affects our lives today.
Elizabeth C.
Father,
the man who pushed me to keep going.
Even while getting hurt along the way.
He told me some things are hard to work for.
Dad,
the man who I got my smile from.
My eyes, the color, my head shape.
He help create me.
Papa,
the man who always tried to make
me happy.
Even after little breakups he’ll
come into my room and tell me
“I’ll grab the shotgun if it makes
you feel better.”
Pa,
the man who will support me through everything.
“Follow your dreams” and the “I’ll
always be here.” Even though if
I leave him he’s always
right here.
Father,
the man that I look up to.
My sarcasm and geek jokes.
My weird humor.
My interest in video games.
Dad,
you helped me become who
I am today.
Lisa A.
The man I once idolized.
I was such a daddy’s girl.
Drank Pepsi with tones of ice just to be
like daddy.
Listen to 80’s metal to be like daddy.
Brown hair, light eyes
just like daddy.
The picture is faded, burned the moment.
I processed that daddy is why I can’t even
hug my mother.
Who tells a ten year old of an affair that is
quite frankly none of her business –
shattering her image of sex and annihilating
her views on marriage.
My eyes weren’t honey like daddy’s, they were
chocolate like mom’s,
but as the years go by I’ve recognized
yellow rings developing in my irises
and red rims around my eyes
just like daddy.
I’ve turned my heart to stone
just like daddy.
Trip over stuff that has nothing to do with me
just like daddy.
Doing whatever I want in attempt to
get over a broken heart, destroying other’s peace of mind
just like daddy.
Angel B.
Dad don’t even got time for me.
Dad only remembers my downs and not my ups.
He saw my mistakes ignoring the
good process on my grades.
It’s like me and dad have this gate
in-between us, ditching me for his
new family. It’s like I’m an old memory.
Like c’mon now I was your second
child I’m important too.
Now lets stop this. It ain’t funny
anymore. Your kid is hurting and I hope
you know it.
Every time I look into the mirror I see
you. This big ass forehead I inherited
from you, these poor facial expressions
can’t even give me a good impression
from you. Why every time I try to communicate
your face looks so straight?
Living in the same house, but it don’t feel
like it cause you not there when your
kid is crying. But I understand you
got a lot going on. That’s why I don’t talk
so I won’t put more weight on you.
Dad is not bad.
Dad is just busy.
Jesus B.
My dad knows me.
He always knows when I need something
but he’s not normal. He
doesn’t like to go out much
but that doesn’t matter.
The only thing that matter
is that he’s there for me.
I admire how he went through
rough times and still found
a way to keep our heads up.
He also fought his way
to the top. He didn’t want
us to live the way he did.
But there’s a new challenge
that when people say “Mexicans are rapist
and they bring trouble” they believe it,
but all you have to do
to prove them wrong
is for them to meet someone
like my dad.
