On and off since the day of my forging, way back in the 1980s, I have had pits occurring in my mind. Like one would push the tip of their finger into wet sand and leave behind a dimple, such occurred in the delicate folds of my brain each time my father held me beneath his thumb.
Over the years, through the tides of life, information pooled in each.
This one is a glimpse of a man, red-faced, and it smells like beer.
So is this one.
And this.
And that, and those over there. Also, those in the back.
I even have some coming in to be installed tomorrow, they’re going up on that pretty ridge over there.
New shipments every week.
If I get close, the ripples tell the story, and I remember: this one taught me to be ashamed.
This one: to be silent.
To lie.
To hide.
So, this has been occurring for quite some time, but 8 months ago I could suddenly see it. 8 months ago I could finally see the enormity of it. I realised how much it pervaded; how deep it went; how badly I had been betrayed by someone who was meant to protect.
And that’s not even the worst part.
8 months ago, at the ripe old age of being born in the 1900s, I realised that I deserved better and none of it was my fault.
Decades of things I had internalised, maggots I pulled from memories to drown in the shitty dimples that pervaded, worked themselves out like botflys.
And now I am left with all these lapping waves.
Ah, poetic digression. Back on-track:
This realisation, that it wasn’t me, might seem like a great thing — in the bigger picture, it of course is — but it sucks.
Should it suck for me?
Well, after devoting hours a day of background consciousness (involuntarily, might I add) to this question, I finally decided on the answer:
42 (jk, you’ll understand if you’re old or really cool, but not both)
The answer to ‘Should it be me?’ is: ‘Nah’.
It should be my dad.
And since I’m an 80s baby and we all know Millennials love drama (this is in no way true I made it up right now), what better way to be dramatic than some silly, salacious blog post no one will read? hashtag i’m just a girl.
Of course, I am going to be called ’emotional’ or told to ‘get go of the past’, but I have heard them before and am no longer phased. These crimes are not mine and I refuse to hold the shame and guilt of them.
They belong to my dad.
My dad, the man who married and took advantage of a mentally-ill, physically-disabled woman. Even though she was desperate for support, he gave her none but made four children with her and left all of the childrearing in her lap.
My dad, the man who, when cops were called because he was beating my mom, grabbed our dog and hid in the garage (not really that wild, I just wanted to point-out he was a coward)
My dad, the man who, when I would ask from the backseat — past where my little brothers were asleep — if he could slow down, would say. “You think you fucking know more about driving than me!” as he took another swig of beer.
My dad, the man who beat his children — his babies — with his fists. Who insisted his children did not need glasses, or regular medical care, or supervision, or safety. The man who seemed to enjoy our fear as he whipped off his belt.
The man who drove his children to random abandoned homes in cornfields and left his oldest child (me) in charge of the younger three, all aged 9>, while he disappeared to do ???
My dad, who called his daughter ‘a slut like her mom’ when his daughter (that’s me!) asked permission for a piercing at age 16.
My dad, the man who told his daughter, survivor of childhood sexual assault, that CSAM (Child Sexual Abuse Material) was ‘not a big deal if it was teenagers’. The conversation would come about when his son was arrested for receipt, transport, and distribution of CSAM of children of prepubescent age. (Andrew Branigan, defendant in the Southern District of Iowa — sentencing is November 2025)
My dad, the man whose favorite joke used to be:
“Hey, you know that cartoon, The Jetsons? How it is set in the future? . . . ever see a black guy on the show? Man, the future is gonna be great.”
Forty years is a long time to hide sins of the father.
I’m over it.
Love, a Fatherless Daughter ❤
This collection of blog posts will include poetry, retellings, introspection, and train-of-thought additions until I decide I have got it all out and can breathe. I recently published a poetry book that coincides, ‘My Father, the Mountain’ — you can find more information and follow the blog at www.faunalewiswrites.com
Fauna Lewis Writes 