I was very unlucky when it came to fathers. I had two of them. If only they had been the gay kind, I'd probably have been better adjusted and liked men more. I'd probably have chosen nurturing, gentle, kind men to get involved with. But no, like my fathers, the men I married and lived with were selfish, bullying men who drank too much and felt a sense of entitlement just by virtue of gender. Men of my father's generation did not help around the house. And so the men I mated with refused to do domestic chores. Men of my father's generation ruled the family, and women and children should know their places.
My sperm-donor father did not want me and never gave me the slightest attention unless I spilled my milk or spoke when not spoken to. He was harsh with all of us, but especially harsh with me and my mother. He never held me. There is not a single photo from the beginning of my life until the day my mother and I ran away that shows he and I together.
My adoptive father wanted me, he held me, and then he used me to satisfy his sexual needs from the time I was almost seven until I started menstruating, at which point I became a liability. That's when all affection stopped and he and my mother began to watch me like hawks waiting for the sexual monster they'd created to get pregnant and disgrace the family. So no, Father's Day means nothing to me but a reminder of the power father's have to shape their daughter's future relationships with men.
“The Lingering Stain Of Slavery”
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