My Father

As a child you never think that you would outlive your parents but it I could not change the cards I was dealt with. The world I thought I knew came crashing down around me because I lost the one person that meant everything to me. I was a daddy’s girl from the time I was born until now and

As a child, I was quiet and withdrawn. I taught myself to read when I was three, and spent most of my time reading instead of playing with other children. I understood very early that I was different from others at school. I didn’t have to pay for lunch, something I found (and to be honest, still find) completely mortifying. My father was almost never home, always trucking all over the country in an effort to keep our family afloat. When other kids talked about their dads in school, I often found myself feeling jealous. I, too, wanted a dad who could teach me how to ride a bike or throw a ball. I also understood that it was impossible for me to have that, because my father worked around the clock to keep my family from going hungry. I realized that in order to achieve the things that I wanted to, i would have to take the initiative and do it myself. I borrowed my sister’s bike (although it was much too tall for me to use comfortably), and I practiced riding it until i knew i was better at it than any other 7 year

Like many little girls, I grew up worshiping my dad. A small shy girl, hiding behind him, using him as my protection from the world, by his side every possible chance. I wanted to be whoever he wanted to be, wanted to do everything he wanted me to do. I did everything to make my dad proud of me, for years, trying to do my best in everything…all for him, yet somehow, it was never enough. The summer going into my sophomore year, when my dad was, as he usually was, drunk, told me that he was ashamed to have me as a daughter. This was the ultimate turning point that marked my transition from childhood into adulthood.

The other day I spotted the corner of an album tucked carefully under my mother’s wedding dress in the attic. In the album I saw a photograph of Father proudly smiling in his soldier’s uniform. There were photos of Father and I tightly hugging each other, grinning at one another, and Father playfully flinging me into the air. They were all frozen, nostalgic moments in time. Tears brimmed my eyes as I recalled memories of my Father. The strong yet kind, agile face with twinkling brown eyes and bushy eyebrows was no more.

My first memory was sitting in my dads old, gray pickup staring at the stars as he drove the highways back home. Tired from a day of stressful travel, when in previous hours I was on a leash led by my mom in the airport. My dad has always created a sanctuary everywhere he went, which was a vital skill growing up with a homeless father. My parents began their long unpleasant divorce when I was two, whereas my dad was gifted a restraining order entering the house. I didn’t see him for months until he was granted permission to pick me up from preschool with a bottle of chocolate milk in his warm hands. Their divorce created a hole in everyone’s lives that each of us tried to fill separately. Mom was never home, working three jobs, going to school full time, and filling that hole with cigarettes, beer, and boyfriends. My sister filled it with endless sleepovers and friends, while I had three friends that I never saw outside of school.

It really hit home. Having to grow up the only girl who always got compared to my brothers, made it hard for me. I found myself fighting for my mom’s love and affection. To this day, I feel she will never love and cherish me as

Most people live in houses with a strong family. Most people live in a house with a rotary dial. Most people ride down the streets in their colorful vintage cars. But me, Jenn Johnson, I live on a large old red farm with my mother, chicken and cows, that I like to call my fellow friends. I wake up in the morning, feed the chicken and cows, and yodel my favorite lullabies, such as “Baby Mine” by Bette Midler. I love many things, but there is nothing I cherish more than my mother. My mother and I keep each other stable with food, and clothes, since my father, Keith, passed away from an illness. I will always remember the gleam in his eyes, his strong scent of cigarettes, and of course his sense of humor. He would do funny dances, dress up

As I sat in my desk, my thoughts wandered as I listened to my teacher, Mrs. Flunkerflock, talk about the importance of our founding fathers. I thought, not about what my teacher was saying but the class itself. I thought how I actually hated history, but I was good at it, I was good at any subject really. I always tried to do my absolute best. To obtain any information that I possible could so that my parents could be proud of me, especially my dad. I always feared that my dad would never be proud of me like the way that his father was proud of him. I am filled with pressure since I’m technically not his son. I have always thought that he regretted me because I’m not his. That he should have made my mother abort me or give me up for adoption.

As a young girl, I never quite understood the importance my dad’s job had on me until I became much older. Throughout my childhood I was often mistreated out of the sight of my parents. From brutal words to simple exclusion, I never really fit in at my church. I was constantly separated from all of the children because I was the Pastor’s

By the time I was five I was changing pampers. I basically grew up being in charge of the household, which I didn’t mind because I knew how hard my father worked. My father never got a chance to go to college because he had to work to support us, by watching him struggle I knew how important school was. I was an A honor roll student and Gifted Talented, and when I got to high school I was in AP classes. When I turned fifteen my life changed, my father met someone that wasn’t such a good person. He ended up throwing me out because his girlfriend

Throughout my life, I’ve gone through everything that could possibly put me in emotional distress. I’ve been down a broken road with my father, the man I love so much I’ll make every excuse for whenever he disappoints me. I’ve encountered life where it’s not so enjoyable due to unacceptance and never ending judgment by my biggest critic, my mother, the woman whom I should feel most secure with. However despite the emotional mounds of pain these matters carry, I was able to lift the suffocating weight long enough to realize everything that burdened me, made me strong enough to have the will power to be independent and make life changing decisions on my own. At three years old, I met my biological father in a local supermarket’s parking lot; I remember vividly, the exact moment when this stranger held me in his broad, strong arms. I recall screaming at an immense volume not even laying eyes on him. All I had been focused on was finding my mother, the woman who played both parental roles in my life. This clearly justified the great state of confusion I was in in his presence since I wasn’t at all aware I even had a father. As I grew older, the visits to my father’s house became the norm and having begun developed a “best friend” type of relationship with him, I found myself crying more and more when I had to go back to my mom’s settlement. I never wanted to leave; my life became filled with happiness, filled with a father’s love I had never felt

I was just a toddler, when life was waiting for me in the near future. I was a daddy’s girl, and spent every second I could with my father. We were inseparable, as I was attached to either his blue jeans or Car Hart jacket. We did everything together. As for with my mother, I was too young to see through the struggle and unhappiness of her kind, beautiful eyes. It didn’t make any sense to me.

I got up to get a drink of water, and a sliver of light from the basement caught my eye. Carefully, quietly, I crept down the stairs, careful that my yellow and brown horsey pajamas didn’t make that slip, slip sound they usually do on the wooden stairs. I peeked around the corner to see my dad at his big oak desk, the old wood stove purring quietly in the corner, casting a warm orange glow around him. I felt my heart swell up a bit. He was figuring; punching the keys on the calculator, shuffling the papers, and pausing to think...and sigh. Punch, shuffle, think, sigh. Punch, shuffle, think, sigh. He absent mindedly reached out and stirred his light brown, watered down whiskey, Old Crowe, swirling the melting ice and liquid around like leaves on a mellow autumn day, the tiny slivers of ice making a musical, tinkling sound. He took a deep breath, closed the books, organized his work space, clicked off the light, and turned toward the fire. I crept down the last step, and scampered over to him. He startled a bit, but then, silently, he took my hand and made room for

For most of my childhood, life was great. It was just me, my older brother, and my parents. But at the age of five, my little brother came into this world, and at that point, I felt like my mom’s priorities had changed. I felt like she had forgotten me and my older brother existed, and until this day, I still feel the same way. So i've always had a better bond with my dad. Growing up i’ve always been independent and always wanted to be by myself rather than with other kids my age. That's how I was raised, considering that I am the only girl out of my siblings and out of a majority of my cousins. Through elementary and middle school, I was always in gifted and academic programs, so I guess you could say I was pretty smart.

My life has had its ups and downs and, for that, I am utterly grateful; for it has made me a stronger and better person. As a child, I had a simple but fruitful childhood. I was born before one in the afternoon, and I am told that I was welcomed with much love on February 13, 1992, in National City, California. I was named after my father’s youngest brother to commemorate his honor. I would be the last child my parents would ever have. My father had been married twice and fathered a total of five boys. Growing up, I would say, that we as a family, had our ups and downs just like any other family; however, our ups and downs, in the end, ultimately, always brought us closer and closer –we learned to lean on each other, to support one another, to preserve each other. This, I believe, helped me for what was to come. In my early years, my mother fell into an illness that she would never overcome. It vastly impacted my life in the most dramatic way possible. After her passing, it was like a great icon in my life was now gone… an icon that would never return. The months that followed were the hardest in my life. But with the help of my loving father and brothers I would prevail; I would eventually fill this hole in my heart and raise to an enhanced me. The void left from my mother’s passing helped bring the family even closer; it was like a cliché: for the most intense of hopes come from the saddest tragedies.