Yearnings of a Hidden Daughter

Growing up I never felt scared when I was with my dad. I’m still a little bit afraid of the dark now, definitely afraid of heights, and don’t do crowded spaces well. But as a little kid, when dad held my hand or stood by me, no matter how high up we were, or how dark a place was ... I knew I was safe. I don’t know how to explain it, it was a certainty … if my dad was with me, I was protected and I knew this.

I just wish he saw me as his little princess.

I’m sure a lot of girls have that relationship with their dad when they're younger. They are dad’s little princess and as well as getting away with anything, dad will always be there to look out for you and protect you, perhaps even sometimes a little overprotective. I wanted nothing more than to be my dad’s princess … but I didn’t get that with my dad.

It's not his fault, it’s not my fault, I was AMAB (Assigned Male At Birth) So dad didn’t think he had a little princess. He just thought he had a second son …

But I wanted so badly, more than anything, to have those dad & daughter moments with my dad; Making him join tea parties where I made him talk to my dolls, a dad and daughter day where I dragged him through the shops for clothes and jewellery. It’s not to say I didn’t get some special moments with my dad; I remember one time in particular he took me to a fancy Italian restaurant that did wood-fired pizza, it was the first time I had a proper authentic margherita. Also the first time I tried (and loved) chinotto (unique tastes for things is something I shared with dad) and it very well may have been the first time I tried gelato! I don't remember the where or the exact when, but I remember it being a really special dinner with just dad and me ... and a memory I hold dear.

But it wasn’t quite how it should have been … there was always something in the way of our relationship. It was never 'dad and his little girl' like it should have been ...

More than anything I wanted to tell my mum and dad what I felt inside, how I felt like a girl and wanted to dress like the other girls, play with the toys girls got, apparently no one wondered why I was always next door playing with the girl next door and her Barbies? How do you explain to your baby-boomer dad in the early 90s in Australia that you are actually a girl, that you hate having to change in the boy’s change room at school, that you feel fake in everything you do, like it’s a performance? I didn’t have the words, I didn’t know there was a term for people like me. I didn’t know it was possible to not have to be a boy.

I never said anything, of course I didn't ... I was scared, scared of their possible reaction and what might happen. Would I be a disappointment? Nothing more than a broken son to be ashamed of? So scared and frightened of telling anyone what was inside, because of what I heard the world say, in the playground at school if you were ‘different’ you were a target so I couldn’t say anything there, never forget kids can be cruel beyond their years.

At church I heard so much negative things said about the ‘wicked and sinful’ people out in the world, all the while sitting there thinking, ‘I think that’s me … so I must be wicked and sinful.’

For years I hid, thinking it best to not say anything ... then my entire world fell apart … my dad was diagnosed with cancer. But before that our family went through more loss … In the space of two years we lost my Uncle, my Pop, and then in July of my final year at school we lost my dad.

I was heartbroken and lost … I didn’t know what to do going forward, how to face the world without him, and worst of all ... It was now too late; I had never told dad who I was, so I missed out on my dad ever getting to meet the real me, the authentic me … my dad never got to meet his daughter, Savannah ...

My Dad never …

• Saw me graduate high school
• Took me for a first drink at 18 (which as he presumed a son, I think he looked forward to - maybe if we had, that’s when I would have told him … maybe)
• Gave me ‘the talk’ (of birds & bees)
• Watched me go off to my first day of work
• Saw me graduate University (dressed as a pirate - I think he would have enjoyed that)
• See my brother get married
• Met my niece and nephew
• Reached his and mum’s 30th wedding anniversary
• Met any of my closest and dearest friends
• Watched me become a published author
• And so many more things over the past decades …

In some ways, I’m not even sure if dad ever saw me truly happy …

My Dad will never …

• Listen to me fawn and swoon over a crush
• See the smile on my face on my first date (still yet to happen)
• Watch me fall in love for the first time (happened but to no avail)
• Get to walk me down the aisle (presuming marriage)
• Met any kids I may have
• See me living an authentic, true, and joyful life …

Honestly, when I think about it, I think dad dying when I was right at the cusp of adulthood and suddenly required to ‘grow up’ was a big part of why I repressed myself so strongly for so long. Who knows what might have happened if the bastard, cancer never took my dad from me.

I never got to do the things dad’s and daughter’s do. Of course I have happy memories of dad ... although not many specific ones remain now. When I think of him now, I think more of those missed moments; the ones that we never got, the ones that will never come, and how much I wish he was here to talk to. Dad never got to know me ... the real me, the girl I am … hell, dad never even got to know me as an adult!

Our relationship ended before I turned 18, and I was too good at hiding that part of myself, at least I believe I was. Whether dad ever suspected or knew anything, I’ll never know, mum claims she never suspected a thing … Personally, I like to think that my dad knew there was something about me, something … different. Is that why he never really pushed sports or any particular ‘boy’ hobbies on me? Why he encouraged my interests in the most intense way, even the less ‘masculine’ interests I had like writing and acting, yes these aren’t ‘masc’ or ‘femme’ but remember this was the 90s in the western suburbs of Sydney - if you were a boy the least ‘manly’ sport you could play was soccer and if you weren’t into football and cars you were ‘gay’ (90s kids were so clever) My dad encouraged the things I was interested in, possibly to a fault; I think he wanted me and my brother to have whatever we wanted and needed because his own childhood was so complex. (yeah … we’ll say complex and leave that there for now)

Thinking about dad and whether or not he knew about me reminds me of a particular moment; it stands out as a moment that may … may have been an indication he suspected something (dad was a smart cookie, he was a detective after all!) but also serves to show the odd things he did for odd reasons sometimes.

It was one of those moments that was so special to me at the time, and now that I look back on it I can barely think of it without tearing up. It was the time dad ended up buying me, as a pre-teen I believe, a Polly Pocket. I was so excited to get it as I really really wanted one, because I was afraid of saying so because I wasn’t sure how it would be taken. So I asked for a Mighty Max toy instead, this was essentially the ‘boy’ version. Similar playsets that looked like monsters and stuff - 90s were wild.

Now my dad had some weird hang ups about ‘evil’ looking toys or objects in the house.

For example:

We had both the Castle Grayskull & Snake Mountain play sets from Masters of the Universe; because of course that’s what two ‘brothers’ get as toys. But the thing is, dad looked at them and decided they looked ‘evil’ - somehow we managed to save Grayskull, possibly as it was the ‘Good Guys’ base. But Snake Mountain? Set fire to and melted it in the backyard (sorry environment!)

Another time I was given a small gargoyle paperweight by a relative for Christmas … and dad made me throw it out once we got home from the family gathering because he didn’t want it in the house.

So he wouldn’t let me have the Mighty Max as it looked ‘evil’ but the ‘compromise’ was getting a Polly Pocket, the exact one I wanted (it was a light pink heart) Now I’ll never know if it was dad’s ‘evil’ toy hang up or … just maybe he knew what toy I actually wanted. I’ve always had a small hope that maybe my dad knew I really wanted the Polly Pocket and played up the ‘evil toy’; thing so he could get me the toy he knew I wanted … Now I’ll never know for sure, but I like to hope that maybe dad did do that for me.

Growing up and pretending to be a boy, neck deep in a depressive repression. As I got older and grew a beard (a textbook denial beard) I was always told that I looked like dad. Which I’m sure you’ll understand was problematic for me and a cause of great stress at times. But I like to think based on all I know of dad, that if he was here when I finally came out, he first would have been sad, but only that it took me so long, and hid it from him. But would have been one of my greatest supporters. He likely would have immediately (well after some time of adjustment, fair enough) rushed to take me shopping and insisting I have the clothes and things I needed to make me feel comfortable in myself. I cry thinking of his face beaming with pride at my first time wearing a dress out confidently, or the warning he would give to anyone brave enough to try and date ‘his little girl’ …

There’s a lot more to my dad than I could ever write.

My dad was the strongest and kindest man I have ever known, his generosity verged on reckless at times. When I hear stories from people about what he has done for others (much of which I never knew when he was alive, as he didn’t tell people) I am so proud of my dad. I miss him every day, I miss the dad and daughter moments we never got when I was young. I mourn the ones that would have come that will never be, but most of all I miss my dad. I miss the feeling of safety I had when he, my protector, was around.

The first to protect this princess, his princess …

... Even if he never knew that’s who he protected.