I have lived a mere (almost) 19 years so far in my life. Those years have been ravaged with the ups and downs and inbetweens of being a kid, being a teenager and for the last few months, learning to be an adult. It should be said that my mother is absolutely amazing and shares many of the same attributes as my father, but sometimes it is all about being daddy’s little girl.
My dad is the person who let me sing into his microphone stand in the hall at two years of age, who played the guitar and taught me the words to “Don’t Look Back In Anger” and advised me to buy CDs over cassette tapes, seeing as I loved singing along with the leaflet words so much. These days, he is the one who lets me use all his hi-tech equipment without complaint, buys me business cards, and lets me sing my little heart out on stage without a second thought.
My dad is the person who shows us pictures from the 70s and 80s (courtesy of an old Dairy Milk Box,) introduced me to Duran Duran and Eurythmics by playing recorded radio shows in the car on the way to Spanish Point and Kilkee, regaled us with stories of interrailing and turnpike-jumping and recounted the wonders of the Acme Clothing Company.
My dad has only yelled at me like 4 times in my entire life (and in retrospect I totally deserved it.) He taught me the importanced of correctly folded towels and a well ironed shirt. I learned to respect a good work ethic and a broad (seemingly limitless) knowledge, and I strive to develop these things to even half the extent of him.
Because of him, I have never felt bad about dressing differently, wanting a tattoo or staying home from Mass. Because of him, I felt no qualms about starting a blog. Whether it was seeing dressed like Freddie Mercury or his encouragement that I could sing “The Sun Has Got His Hat On” in a pub as a child, I have never felt fear or shame or embarrassment on stage.
When I was away, my Dad would bring himself and my mom the almost two hour trip down to my house when I called up in tears. He fully supported me the day he drove me home for good. Weeks later, when I just wanted to die, he hugged me and watched old movies about Jerome Kern until I felt ok.
My mom once told me that, when I was first born, my dad would just stare at me for hours, as if my existence were something completely amazing. But then, he’s that kind of person who makes you think that maybe existence can be amazing.