Two Years Ago vs. Two Years Later

Dear Dad,

Two years ago today you departed from us, and I was broken and shattered…

I can remember mom’s voice waking me – her screaming sorrows that jolted me up and said you were gone.  I can remember feeling my heavy footsteps as I went to your bedside – anticipating the sight I would see.  I can remember seeing your pale discolored face, and feeling your firm cold skin, and collapsing underneath my own screaming tears and sorrow.  Dad? DAD?!?!  NOOOOOOO!!!!  Waiting for those two hours for your body to be picked up were the longest two hours of my life.  I kept looking up from my knelt position hoping and bargaining that this was all a dream; just the worst nightmare ever.  The kind of nightmare you have as a child of your mom or dad dying; and after waking up, you run and hug that parent.  But this wasn't a dream, and I couldn't wake up from the nightmare.   I remember when they took your body at 6am that morning.  I sat on the other end of the living room from where the two men handled your body from your deathbed to the stretcher; I watched them lay that white cloth over your body; and I remember the form and shape of your body as I watched you, and as you lay under that cloth.  I remember as they loaded you in before driving to the mortuary losing it again.  Tears!  As I arched my head to the heavens I remember the most beautiful of sunrises, and in a moment I felt your presence trying to comfort me.

Two years ago today, I remember making those phone calls and receiving those phone calls.  I remember saying the same thing over and over, and over; a dagger stabbing me over and over and over - a pain that was strangely comforting.  I can remember being in the mortuary with mom and everyone hours later – everything was a muffled blur.  Barbara...Barbara...BARBARA!  Oh what? Sorry.  I was just a robot on autopilot.  I remember being invited to see your body again in the room they laid you in.  Standing as close as I possibly could to you; stroking your face; studying your expression; and not wanting to leave your side.  I couldn’t leave you Dad!  Don’t make me leave you dad!  Dad, please don’t leave me!!!  Please - is all I could scream in my mind. 

Two years ago today I remember the very thought of you brought me to tears.  The night before as nurses told us it was nearing the end; listening to you heave and cough.  Being powerless to stop it – it haunted me.  Two years ago the very thought of you as you lost your ability to stand, sit, walk and even talk – DAD say something – ripped my insides!  Why couldn’t I save you – was the question I kept repeating in my mind.  I failed you – was the statement I told myself.  Even fond moments that replayed in my head was a cruel tease – a reminder, an ominous reminder that I would never be okay.   

Two years ago I never thought I would be okay – truly.  I never thought I would be able to be happy again – honestly.  How could I – was the question.  You suffered so greatly, and you died; you’re dead;  it would be an insult to you and your life, your memory  and the person you were if I were to ever be happy again. 

And now two years later I can think of you fondly, and it not feel like torture.  Two years later I can talk about the dad you were to family and strangers you never met and feel stable about it.  Two years later I can relive the day you left and the sting has lost its bite.   Two years later and I can go to sleep at night without the fear that came with it.  Two years later I can listen to songs that remind me of you without the rain of tears pouring down my face.  Two years later and I know you are still with me.  Two years later the clouds have broken and the sun has shown its light and warmth on me again.  Two years later I can honestly say – I am happy again – truly.  And I know you are happy with me as you continue to guide me and comfort me. 

Dad, you know that I love you, and I know that you love me. I know you’ll come around every now and then, as you like to do, know that I treasure those moments like precious stones.  With every step I’ve taken forward since your death I’ve thought of you – I hope you know that.  I hope you can be proud of me and the woman I am and continuing to become. 

Love,

Barbara

Not Just a Pretty Face

“A Dad is a daughter’s first love.”  ~Unknown

“Mom, did dad ever call you beautiful?”

“Yes, yes he did.  He told you the same thing too.”

“No.” (As I slam my hand on the table) “NO HE DIDN’T, HE NEVER DID!”...(pause)… “He told me in moments he was proud of me, and that he loved me, but in terms of complementing how I looked, the most I’d get was, ‘you look nice.’”  This was a dinner table conversation I had with my mother just a couple of weeks ago. 

It isn’t any great mystery that the relationship a daughter has with her father will profoundly affect her throughout her childhood and lifetime.  People joke tongue and cheek about girls who have “daddy issues.”  But the reality is there is a deep and lasting residue a father’s influence (or lack thereof) leaves in the deep recesses of a woman’s heart.  It’s a residue that can and will dictate her confidence; her self-worth; her sense of femininity and sensuality; and her love life.  This reality has been no different for me and the relationship I had with my father.

For reasons I didn’t fully understand growing up, my father wasn’t emotionally available to me, nor was he all that affectionate in word or deed.  This disconnect manifested itself in an array of ways.  Despite the lack of fatherly affection I ached for, he did do plenty to show he loved me.  He walked me to the school bus stop every morning during grade school, and drove me to zero period during middle school and high school.  He told me he loved me. He imparted the importance of good study skills growing up.  He talked to me about financial planning.  He told me in some moments how proud he was of me.  I do know that he indeed loved and loves me – truly I know. Yet when it came down to emotions, my dad, well, was emotionally constipated.  I ached for him to call me his precious princess (more or less) – he didn’t.  I longed for him to tell me how I should expect boys and men to treat me – it didn’t happen.  I wished he showed more interest in my school girl crushes and dating life – you guessed it, he didn’t.  But out of all the fatherly affection I craved, most of all I ached for him to tell me how beautiful I was.  It…did…not…happen.  Ever!

Growing up with an emotionally unavailable dad (and for other reasons – for a different blog) it caused me to be incredibly shy and not outspoken.  Those of you who know me now, might say, “No way,” to which I’d say, “WAY!”  Ask any of my family members, ask anyone who went to grade school all the way to high school with me – they can attest to my wall flower former self.  It caused me to be extremely cautious and sensitive; to a fault really.  Imagine, if you will a chubby girl who wore oversized clothes paired with a baggy hoody, and a pony tail – on the daily.  Yup, that was me!  Don’t talk to me about dating in high school – I was totally ill equipped.  To be honest, I didn’t even know how to explore and embrace my femininity, much less my sensuality.  It felt awkward and unnatural to me.  Truth be told, I was almost ashamed to do so – like I wasn’t worthy enough to explore that side of myself.  Sounds depressing I know – it gets better, I promise.

Maybe being a fish out of water in Rome for a semester helped push me out of my comfort zone; perhaps living in the hilly streets of San Francisco for three years aided in this process; or perchance my two years living across the country in Philadelphia helped push me out of my wallflower former self.  Or just maybe all of the above helped.  Well, it wasn’t until mid-way through college I really began to explore myself, my femininity, and so on.  Matter of fact, I can recall actually confronting my father on the day I graduated from college, regarding his emotional absence, and how it affected me growing up.  We sat in my living room that overlooked the Sunset District in San Francisco and the Pacific Ocean, following my commencement.  He expressed his limitations in this realm from a traumatizing childhood of his own, and his vow to not inflict the pain on me (and my siblings) that he suffered from his own parents. His means to his end was to disconnect emotionally.  Touching: yes.  Insightful: indeed.  Clarity: certainly.  Yet, even though I now understood why he withheld emotional affection from me, it did not make my desire for the very thing any less. 

Before my father passed away, and even now, I have come to a point of serenity that he never called me beautiful – even till his dying day.  It’s been an internal battle that I’ve had to address, and resolve with, and to be able to say to myself, and believe myself, when I say to myself, that I am in fact beautiful – and not just because I hear those words from others, but because I truly know it.  This great ache and scar I’ve had has been a stumbling block I’ve addressed in both direction and therapy.  It has lead me outside of myself; it has led me to value myself; it has led me to be confident; and it has led me to feel comfortable and dare I say confidant in my beauty – my distinct beauty – it has led me to feel, not only comfortable in my own skin, but even the real need to explore my own individual femininity and sensuality.  And while the distance away from family for five years gave me time and space to grow into my own, and direction and therapy has given me tools to address and overcome these “daddy issues,” it still proves to be a profound scar in those deep recesses of my heart; something that gets easier yes, but always present. 

Case in point, that conversation I had with my mother just a short two weeks ago.  Feeling sufficiently emotionally zonked after this long and drawn out conversation I crashed as soon as I got home that night.  And that very night, I dreamt of my dad…

I don’t remember a whole lot from the dream, but what I do remember was being at the school, working, and for some reason I knew my father was picking me up.  If memory serves me right (which is always sketchy recalling memories from a dream) I even spoke to my dad on the phone in the dream.  But what stuck out to me the most was when I saw my father in the dream.  I was in the parking lot of the school, he was walking towards me – with the biggest smile on his face – and I ran to him!  Upon contact, I jumped into his paternal arms, legs wrapped around his waist, arms around his shoulders, and my head nestled in the small of his neck.  And he held me and embraced me for a good long while, again in the middle of the parking lot of my work, and for the first time, I felt beautiful in the eyes of my father! And the interesting thing is, he never actually said it in the dream, but somehow, I felt it was his way of conveying it to me.  He always was a man of few words; and more actions. In the dream he showed me that I was beautiful.

Some might say, it was just on my mind, and so I dreamt of him.  Well, let me say, there have been PLENTY of times my father has been on my mind before I drift off to dreamland, but the amount of times it’s manifested itself in a dream, I can still count on one hand – with extra fingers to spare.  Call me superstitious, but I truly believe my father came to convey something to me that night, something – perhaps – he finally understands my need of, and something – perhaps – he’s not limited by any longer.  He’s truly free from earthly and human conditions and limitations – just a thought. 

The morning following this prophetic dream my thoughts were in a whirl!  It got me thinking about all the other parts of my womanhood and my femininity, and how consequently my father views me, but just as importantly, how I view myself.  In the words of an iconic female country singer Shania Twain, “she’s not just a pretty face; she’s got everything it takes.”  I got me to thinking…

I’m a sister, a daughter and granddaughter; I’m a friend, a mentor and teacher; I’m a world traveler, college graduate; and incoming graduate student; I’m a two time marathon runner, a crazed fitness fanatic, but also a closet fat kid who still loves carbs, cheese and chocolate; I’m a writer (obviously), a photographer, a beader who loves to make jewelry and an artist at heart; I’m a compassionate lover, a fierce listener, and am humorously sarcastic; I can be a shy and clumsy first kisser, but a passionate and sensual second, third and fourth kisser (no details disclosed, sorry not sorry); and at times when provoked I can be a bitch (only when warranted of course); I am a God believer, a Jesus lover, and a practicing Catholic; I love me some great discussions on politics and social issues; I love most kinds of music, and when the time is right I love to dance the night away; I am beautiful, yes, but I am not just a pretty face, I am so much more – I have everything it takes!  Perhaps, and just maybe that is something my father has and did convey to me; that I’m not just a pretty face; to him, I mean so much more.  How indispensable!

When I think – really think and recall – moments with my father, I do know he loved me very deeply.  At times it came out in restrictive ways.  Like when my siblings and I were at the beach with extended family, and he’d bellow for my sister and me to come closer to shore – mind you we were barely knee deep in water.  Or during a trip to the Grand Canyon, and as curious kids do, my siblings and I were leaning over the railing to get a good look at this tremendous hole in the ground, my father was there to burst our bubble and pull us close to safety.  In retrospect: protective and loving; at the moment: a buzz kill.  There were times as well that my father was playful, and I do look on those moments fondly, and think had his childhood been different, might those playful and caring moments been more than just few and far between; likely so I’m sure.  Most of all, I do greatly cherish the last year of his life.  It was in that year, my father and I were able to have the most heart to heart conversations.  It was in that year he and I had the best father/daughter relationship – but now as adults.  It was in that year we took trips together with the rest of the family.  It was in that year he shared more with me of his life; his proud moments, and his demons.  It was in that year he expressed his desire for me to marry and have a family of my own; and his great pain for knowing he wouldn’t be able to be there to give me away on my wedding day.  But over it all, and above it all I treasure how much he expressed how proud he was of me – for going to and finishing college (and being the first of his children to do so), for the amount of traveling I’ve done (and how that made him think I took after him and all his traveling).  In the last months of his life, there was a simple and profound sense of pride he expressed for the adult (the woman) I had grown into – brains, wit, (and now post prophetic dream later) beauty!  You see, he had always expressed how proud he was of me, and now, finally, (post prophetic dream later) I felt beautiful in my father’s eyes.  Combined, this feeling, this gift, my dad gave me (even if it was a bit delayed) is freeing, liberating, and has so much power.  At long last, that missing puzzle piece in my relationship with my father was finally filled, and the ache - gone!  Simply put – and at the risk of sounding cliché – the point of completion my dad and I reached was and is beautiful.  

“A daughter needs a dad to be the standard against which she will judge all men”

~Unknown

At An Appointed Time

“Hi, I’m here for the 3 o’clock group interview.”

“What’s your last name?”

“Quigley”

“Yup, we got your name here.  Just go ahead and have a seat and once everyone else arrives someone will take you all back for the interview.”

Two weeks ago, after much anticipation and one false start, I took part in a group interview for a dual program: Master’s degree in Education and a California Teacher’s credential.  The whole day - heck the whole week - all I could think about was the interview. The confirmation email I received about my spot in the interview I read at least five times.  The two educational articles I was asked to read prior to the interview I annotated and re read about the same number of times.  I had rummaged through my closet and laid out three different options of what I should wear to such an important interview.  Truly I had crossed my T’s and dotted my I’s. 

I left work that afternoon looking business professional ready.  We’re talking ironed beige slacks, with a white button down collared shirt, paired with a black cardigan over, topped off with some classy jewelry, and some grey and white fake alligator close toe heeled pumps! I looked the part! Driving from work in Santa Ana, onto the dreaded 405 freeway, just past LAX, to shortly arrive at the beautiful campus of Loyola Marymount University was surprisingly smooth. Traffic was surprising clear; seemed like a good omen for sure!  At the very least it kept me in a good hopeful mood.  As I parked, put in my free parking code in the meter, and made my way up the elevator I began to take deep breaths as I reached the ground level. 

Ding!  On my floor. 

Being the first candidate to arrive I sat in the waiting area of the Office of Primary and Secondary Education.  At this point I couldn’t help but pull out my annotated articles from my teacher tote, skimming through the main points and reading through my notes. I was beginning to feel like a student again right before an exam.  As other candidates tricked in one by one, there was a noticeable tension in the air.  We all knew why: we were all about to be drilled and compared to one another.  Breaking the silence, I reached out my hand for a shake and a name exchange to the others sitting in my vicinity.  Clearly that helped to ease everyone. 

“Alright, we’re ready for you all.”

As we trailed behind each other through the office corridors and into a board style meeting room that overlooked the campus our first task was to find our name tags that indicated where we were to sit.  Card stock, folded in half so they stood upright, with our names perfectly centered and beautifully printed name tags - very classy LMU, very classy indeed.  As we situated ourselves and sized everyone else up at the table, the Director and Assistant director of the Office of Education at LMU addressed us.  The interview continued with friendly introductions, and continued on with the interrogations!

“Why did you choose to apply to LMU?”  

We all had a chance to answer, and answers ranged from, “it is where I’m at now for undergrad school, and it's such a beautiful campus”  to the quality and reputation LMU has. As eyes moved to me, I took a deep breath before saying: "I'm attracted to the focus in urban and inner city education and the Jesuit tradition of social justice and service to the poor here at LMU."    

“What do you think is the biggest challenge in urban education?”

..........

In the fall of 2009, in the hilly streets of San Francisco, I sat as a collage intern next to a 5^th grade girl who was struggling to stay awake as her teacher taught a lesson on grammar.  “Tracy (alias name), wake up.” Said child rubs her eyes and stretches her eye lids open.  “Tracy, why are you so sleepy?”  “I was waiting for my mom to come home last night.”  “Where was she Tracy?” “I don’t know, probably at her boyfriend’s house.” “Did she ever come home last night?” “No.” “Was anyone else home with you last night?” “No.” “So you never actually went to sleep last night did you Tracy?” “No, Ms. Quigley, I didn’t.”

In the spring of 2011, in the battered streets of West Philadelphia, I wrestled with an eighth grade boy by the name of Charles (again, an alias) who didn’t do an ounce of work in my class.  Even getting him to do simple classwork was a test of my patience; don’t get me started on his homework.  One day it reached a breaking point. “I don’t feel like fucking doing it Ms. Quigley!”  Charles is puffed chest and inches from my face, in the middle of class.  After a forced and abrasive reaction to his actions, and a couple hours sitting with him after school, I was able to speak to his mother.  Her unaffected and blasé response to her son’s actions shocked me!

In the spring of 2014, in the colorful streets of Santa Ana, I found myself sitting in a conference between a parent, his 2^nd grade teacher and myself: “So, Justin (another alias) really isn’t focused during class, has problems doing his own work and even finishing his work without being constantly monitored.”  The mother in Spanish to English translation made excuses for her son based on a burn accident that happened to him as an infant.  As his teacher and I expressed sympathy for the accident we struggled through translation to impart the importance of not enabling his behavior because of something that happened years ago.

..........

“Parents and families!”  I stated boldly and without hesitation.  “As a teacher, you can motivate all you can, and guide students consistently and constantly on good work and study habits, and the value in those habits, but if a student goes home to parents or a home environment where parents are permissive, passive (or worse), absent, then guaranteed those parents aren’t enforcing what the teacher is trying to achieve.  Teachers face a constant uphill battle as students are getting two very different messages from two very influential adults in their lives: their teachers who spend 7 or more hours a day with them, and their parents who they go home to.”  

The next section of the interview functioned a bit like a fish bowl experiment. 

“So, the two articles we sent you ladies, we’re sure you’ve read over fervently and took lots of notes.  At this time we’re going to invite you six to have an open discussion on the articles for 30 minutes.  You can talk about both articles or just one; no order of points you have to follow; anyone can talk at any time; and we’ll let you know when there’s 5 minutes left before we call time.”

No pressure whatsoever!

“So who knows what about Common Core State Standards?” I say boldly to open the discussion, and to break the tension, again.  Our conversation revolved around the very controversial Common Core State Standards (one article topic) and the achievement gap between white middle class students and minority students (the topic of the second article).

..........

In August of 2011, I found myself – without any formal professional development training - staring blankly and hopelessly at a lesson plan template that looked foreign to me, not even comprehending where I should start. 

In the spring of 2013, I sat across the table from a former elementary school teacher, now friend and mentor.  “To have a seasoned teacher who’s been in education for 20 years spend hours on lesson planning like she’s a rookie begs a certain question of training and support.”

..........

As I'm making eye contact with all candidates at the table I say, “I’m not saying Common Core, in of itself is a bad idea, what I am saying is the implementation of it from 2011 till now has been less than forgiving.”

The discussion from Common Core and the demand for students to articulate their math answers in written form led to the question of English language learners, and students who have problems composing sentences period, to the achievement gap.  I make a comment, “while Common Core is placing more rigor on students, is the achievement gap widening for those who even struggle to articulate themselves in writing?” A perfect seg-way to address the achievement gap of students between affluent neighborhoods to students from inner cities schools.  

..........

“By the time I get home from work, I just don’t have the time or energy to read to my son Ms. Quigley.”

Talking to a parent who’s changed their child’s school three times in a year about the importance of school consistency in their children’s academic success…

“Maybe consider taking away T.V. and video game privileges’ because if I’m honest, four hours in front of a screen is a bit excessive.”  

..........

“Parents in these urban settings are working two or more jobs, and just don’t have the energy to invest time in their kids.  They send them to school, and have a mentality that education is JUST the role of the teacher.  How do you educate parents on how to be just that – a parent!  The fact of the matter is so many parents need parenting classes.”

Flash backs of a hostile work environment, low teacher moral and an unusually high teacher turnover rate at a former school…

“You know, as demanding as teaching is, if the moral isn’t there at a school – especially in intercity schools – you can guarantee a high teacher turnover rate.  It starts with a supportive and caring administration and flows through the teachers and staff.  As much as teachers can and will stick it out for the kids – particularly in urban settings – if there is stress walking into the school halls and the admin office, then it’s only a matter of time till a well-intentioned teacher leaves the school; and naturally so.”

At the table with the other five young ladies, I as well as two others definitely steered the conversation, while the other three timidly spoke up just a couple of times.  These were just a couple of discussion contributions I made to this 30 minuet fish bowl experiment as the director and assistant director diligently scribbled notes on their paper pads. 

“Time!”

As we wrapped up the interview with last minuet questions to the director and assistant director I couldn’t help but feel truly confident about my performance.  And then I thought about all the flashbacks I had during the course of the interview; all the classroom moments I had with students from different intercity schools – literally from coast to coast – and how those moments whether I responded well or not, combined with the bonds and console I’ve made and received from seasoned teachers and a former teacher of my own undoubtedly prepared me for this moment, at this time.  The interesting thing is I’ve put off applying, and going back to grad school and put off getting my credential for at least 3 years now.  Granted 2 of those years I was in the trenches of grieving alongside my family before and after my father’s death from cancer.  Much of the time I couldn’t see past my own nose, much less gather myself to tackle a daunting grad school application.  But I digress.  At any rate, as I thought about my performance, and thought of my flashbacks that lead to me and prepared me for this moment in time, I thought: that went perfectly!  It’s cliché, and perhaps a bit cheesy, but my grad school application process and interview happened in God’s time.  I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be – right now!