M y T a l l , D a r k ,
H a n d s o m e H e r o
by Alana Hixon
It was last spring at my varsity cheerleading banquet when I heard the most meaningful words. An abrupt hush fell over the eloquent banquet hall as the well-respected speaker reached the podium. Everyone leaned in closer, anxiously awaiting the speaker’s announcement. His dry tongue seemed to make his swallow a bit more difficult. Finally, he let out his words of wisdom, “A father holds a special place in his daughter’s heart, because he is the first man she will ever love.” The words cut through us like a knife straight into our welcoming hearts, but this was a pain of resurrection. Salty tears stung our eyes, and goose bumps arose from each arm of the guests. It was then I realized how much respect I had, and still have, for my father.
My father grew up causing problems, from dragging a key across a victim’s new sparkling Mercedes
to experimenting with cocaine, and drinking excessively. He was a long and greasy-haired troublemaker. My grandfather, an alcoholic, had passed away when my dad was barely a teenager. Perhaps this is why my father grew up so rebellious and turned into an alcoholic himself.
My early childhood memories of my dad are full of happiness, due to my naivetѐ. Later in life I’d grow to understand his true nature. I’d walk downstairs after my traditional Sunday afternoon nap and the smell of alcohol on his clothes would burn my button nose. Confused, I would run back into my bedroom and join my two older sisters in the bed we used to share. I do not think I would have become the woman I am today had I not been forced to sleep in a queen-sized bed with two other people for seven years. The closeness that my sisters and I share is a direct effect of my father’s bad decisions.
On the eve of the year 2000, my father made a life changing resolution—he quit drinking. Maybe it was because he was approaching the age at which his father passed away, earlier than anyone should. Maybe it was because he foresaw an increasingly problematic future not only for himself, but for the four girls he cared about most. I do not question his choice. All I know is that it was for the best. Alcoholism is more than a struggle; it is a fatal disease. My father’s refusal to become overpowered is admirable in my eyes. Ever since he mustered up the strength to become sober, he has become the most loving father a teenage girl could want. His decisions affected everyone in our family. I owe my health to him because I’ve never consumed a sip of alcohol in my life. It would be a hard slap in his face to do that, and I am constantly seeking his approval in everything I do. My aim is to honor him.
With a new outlook on life, he cleaned up his act,
graduated from college, and became a successful businessman and
realtor. His actions expressed his lifelong love for my mom, my sisters and me. His callous-covered hands are daily reminders of how much he cares for us. I regret being that pimply-face preteen brat who was embarrassed to be seen with her parents at the mall. Soon after my father’s commitment, that all changed. I went from inhaling the pungent odor of alcohol when I hugged him to taking in the sweet scent of Lucky You cologne. He has proven that I can talk to him about anything, and his arms are always wide open.
His most famous line yet is, “Boys are jerks. I know. I was one.” Unfortunately, no matter how many times he would warn my sisters and me, we would end up crying with our heads buried deep into one of his broad shoulders.
He sympathizes with me and will always take my side. He would walk over broken glass for me if I asked him to, and yet he still is not hesitant to put me in my place. For example, my bedroom isn’t the cleanest in the world! My dad likes to refer to it as a “fire hazard” and say, “The piles of clothes are higher than I was when I was a toddler.” I know he is exaggerating, yet I still want to please him. So I clean my disaster of a bedroom to make him and me happy. He does not come in my room unless it is clean, so I figure that ten minutes a day is a small price to pay for his company and everything he has done for me my entire life.
At night when I go to bed, I tell my dad that I love him. He never says it back. He says that he should not have to tell me that he loves me, that I should already know. He lies at the bottom of my bed as I slowly drift off to sleep. I scratch his soft hair with my fingers and smile. My tall, dark and handsome hero needs me just as much as I need him. Right as the sugarplums prepare for their dance, I remind myself of one important factor. That “Doctor Dad” will always be there to squeeze a jagged splinter out of my tiny palm, and to squeeze all the troubles out of my life. From scraped knees to broken hearts, he is the one I know I can always rely on. The first man I ever loved is there for me every day, and for that, I am grateful.