I remember the last whipping I received. I was 16 years old and had gotten caught skipping school with my then boyfriend. I intercepted truancy phone calls from the school, did all my missed assignments and stayed on top of my grades trying to outsmart my dad. Somehow, he still found out.
He didn’t whip me immediately. This whipping was one he marinated on for a while. It was like he knew this whipping was the last one he'd give me and wanted it to be encompassing for all my screw-ups over the next few months.
I was on pins and needles anticipating my punishment, but after weeks passed I grew a false sense of comfort. My relaxed state resulted in my forgetting to do the dishes and the punishment that was awaited me was residual from my hooky-playing two months prior.
I would have never imagined that same person who whipped me when I thought I was WAY too grown to be whipped, would be throwing back Fireball shots with me on Bourbon St. 10 years later.
I could see the light in his eyes as the brass band sounds surrounded up. He was genuinely happy.
I had graduated with my Master's degree in Journalism just a few hours prior and I could tell I made him proud.
He was just a few years younger than I am now when I first moved in with him. The woman in Florida he had gotten pregnant when he was 19 — although four years his senior — was not mature enough to raise another child. So at 24, my dad moved me in. It was as if we were growing up together. He was a young sailor from rural Louisiana and I was a child who would spend years acting out trying to fill the void my mother left in her abandonment.
It seemed like when it was convenient she would come into my life and turn his world upside down. I would latch on to her hoping I was good enough, but like a child with a doll she often grew tired of me, tossing me back on the 11-hour journey back to New Orleans and back to my father.
He eventually grew tired of the back and forth and took custody legally. I was his doll and not to be toyed with. Unlike my mother, he was proud to be a parent.
As I grew into a teenager, our relationship was tested. My void-filling actions turned into fights, sneaking around with boys and skipping school. My discipline always began in physical form and ended with a lengthy lecture. He would start the importance of education topic and end with safe-sex, having babies and STDs. Two topics he always seemed to make correlate.
When I graduated high school he went all out. He wore an all-white suit he called “The Ice-Cream Man” and bragged about how many scholarships I received and schools I had gotten into. My journey was already looking different from his.
When he graduated high school he went straight into the military, pushing his decision to go to college back until he was 28. What he doesn’t know is that it was then that he propelled my collegiate journey. I remember his all-nighters, books on the kitchen table and missing my 5th grade winter clarinet concert to watch him graduate. From then on, college for me was not an option — it was a requirement.
Two degrees later, I’m watching him smile. We are back home in the city that birthed our relationship, dancing and sipping Hurricanes. You can see the joy he has for me and my accomplishments and for himself for a job well-done.
He always tells me, “I don’t know if I always made the best decisions when raising you, but I always did the best I could.” I always smile because his “best” raised a bright, creative, determined young woman.
I am a lucky girl. Not only because my dad is my best friend, but because he is a father who always wanted the best for me. He never wanted me to make some of the mistakes he did and preached the value of education. He fostered my entrepreneurial spirit and taught me not to take no for an answer. He always encouraged me to do and I did.
So as we drink to my accomplishments, the next round is on me. Cheers to you Dad. Cheers to you.
Brought to you by Fences, in theaters nationwide Dec. 25.
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