3 — Wednesday, February 9, 2022 // The Statement
Fathers, daughters 
and daddies

Necto, TikTok, And the importance of queer spaces

Fathers, daughters 
and daddies

Necto, TikTok, And the importance of queer spaces

When thinking about father-daughter rela-

tionships, unfortunately, there is no “dad” without 
a “daddy.”

Since entering our collective vocabulary, 

terms like “daddy issues,” “fatherless behavior” 
and “father complex” have dominated the ways 
we discuss the complex relationships between 
women and their dads. All the difficulty, nuance 
and complications that exist in these relationships 
flattened into a singular, sexually tainted dimen-
sion: daddy. 

This linguistic minimization means that any 

mention of the term triggers its associations with 
daddy kinks, if not outright discussions of sex. 
In a way, daddy has gone mainstream. The pod-
cast “Call Her Daddy” has received criticism and 
acclaim for its unfiltered discussion of sex. The 
“Daddy Gang,” aka the fans of the show, number 
in the millions and eagerly await host Alex Coo-
per’s vulgar commentary each week. 

But what are “daddy issues?” The top entry in 

Urban Dictionary defines it as “when a girl has a 
messed up relationship with her dad. usually the 
fathers fault. either he left or is acting like a total 
bitch.”

The page goes on to define an array of causes: 

child abuse, neglect, absent or emotionally 

unavailable fathers. It’s purposefully imprecise, 
encapsulating a range of traumas and experienc-
es only loosely tied together through the common 
thread of fathers. “Daddy issues” is convenient; 
any traumatic experience or unresolved feeling 
can fall under the catch-all term. At best it’s an 
unwillingness to precisely name and identify our 
experiences; at worst it’s a misogynistic assump-
tion that these women have had the same experi-
ence — or at least similar enough ones — and can 
be lumped together. 

Daddy issues seem to mean something differ-

ent to everyone. When I was introduced to the 
term, a friend told me that it didn’t apply to me 
because my dad was still alive. I simultaneously 
was relieved and annoyed upon hearing this. No 
girl wants to be labelled as having daddy issues; I 
certainly didn’t identify myself that way. But it felt 
like it was the only language there was to describe 
imperfect paternal relationships.

The relief was only temporary. That was just my 

friend’s subjective interpretation of daddy issues; 
later, others would tell me that emotional unavail-
ability did, in fact, qualify. The precise meaning of 
the term never became clear to me. Anytime my 
friends and I tried to psychoanalyze our relation-
ships with our fathers, we came to conflicting 

con-

clu-

sions, 
each of us 
pointing 
toward a 
different 
aspect 
of daddy 
issues to justify our observation. 

Throughout my adult life, I’ve struggled to 

define and understand my relationship with my 
father on my own terms. No matter how hard I 
try to make sense of my feelings and experiences, 
every conversation eventually turns to the same, 
empty idea: “You know, lots of girls have daddy 
issues.” But it couldn’t be that simple. 

***

Growing up, I heard variations of the same 

refrain over and over again: “I thought your mom 
was raising you alone?” “I’ve never seen your dad 
before.” “Your parents are still together?”

I never quite know how to talk about my dad. 

My dad is 62 years old. He has a collection of vin-
tage snowmobiles and pretends to dislike our cats. 
I inherited my nose and my addiction to diet soda 
from him, but unlike me, he prefers Coke to Pepsi. 

Still, all that feels too fac-
tual. 

The truth is that my dad was 

physically present during my child-
hood but for the most part, he was emotion-
ally unavailable. Our relationship existed on a 
superficial plane of awkward family dinners 
a few times a year, attending parents’ night at 
school and changing the oil in my car.

 It was nice, I guess. These interactions 

reminded me that he cared. But there was 
never any emotional closeness that came 
with it, and I grew resentful of his disinter-
est in me. 

BY HALEY JOHNSON, STATEMENT COLUMNIST

ILLUSTRATION BY MELIA KENNY
PAGE LAYOUT BY SARAH CHUNG

Read more at 
MichiganDaily.com

BY DRAKE GEORGE, STATEMENT CORRESPONDENT

ILLUSTRATION BY MELIA KENNY // PAGE LAYOUT BY SARAH CHUNG

I went to my first fraternity formal in February 

of my freshman year, and I sat in Chatime, sipping 
my roasted milk black tea with pearls while wait-
ing to head over. I was petrified.

When I was in grade school in rural Texas, I 

didn’t have many parties or social events that were 
clearly designated as LGBTQ+ friendly spaces. But 
on this night during my first year in Ann Arbor, I 
could tell that things were different. There was a 

guy waiting for me at the ADPhi fraternity and he 
had assured me that no one there would give me 
shit if I came with him — even if we were together, 
even if we were gay. The thought of being with a 
guy at a public event was electrifying: It felt taboo 
and daring, especially in front of frat guys, people 
who I didn’t immediately associate with queer 
acceptance. 

To my surprise, I ended up having a wonder-

ful 
night, 

dancing and 
talking 
to 

people 
and 

playing vari-
ous 
games. 

Most of the 
girls 
were 

very cordial 
and kind to 
me, even if 
many of the 
guys 
were 

not. 
I 
felt 

myself being 
stared down 
from 
every 

corner of the 

room, as if I were a spy infiltrating somewhere 
that I shouldn’t and they were onto me. Regard-
less, the guy that I was with made me feel weight-
less, ending the night by leading me up to the 
balcony of the frat house where bubbly beverages 
and candles were prepared. We danced to “I’ll Be 
Seeing You” by Billie Holiday before he whispered 
to me: 

“Happy Valentine’s Day.”
After that, I was curious to know where there 

were other places where I could openly dance 
with other guys without frat guys staring me 
down. It’s something I still wonder. 

I recently typed “gay bar” into Ann Arbor 

Google Maps to see what would come up and 
was surprised by the result. The closest loca-
tion was a place called “Boylesque Drag,” which 
is approximately 7.7 miles away from my house 
in Kerrytown. The rest of these LGBTQ+ spaces 
were peppered throughout Ypsilanti and mostly 
concentrated in Detroit. I was shocked: It seemed 
strange that such a large university setting only 
offered Friday nights at Necto for queer nightlife 
environments.

I then Googled to see if there were any venues 

that had recently closed. The only establishment 
that I could find was “Aut Bar,” which closed 

about two years ago at the start of the pandemic 
after being open for 25 years. Unfortunately, the 
decrease in LGBTQ+ establishments is not unique 
to the Ann Arbor area — surprisingly enough, the 
trend of gay bars closing manifested itself long 
before the pandemic.

Across the United States, gay bar listings have 

declined 36.6% between the years of 2007 and 
2019, according to a study by Oberlin College’s 
Gregor Mattson. 

The study reads that, “The number of listings 

for bars serving people of color declined by 59.3 
percent, cruisy men’s bar listings declined by 47.5 
percent and bars for women declined by 51.6 per-
cent.” 

Of course, the pandemic has waged its impact 

against mainstays like The Stud in San Francisco 
and Therapy in New York, to name a couple. The 
economic hardships from 2020 to now have left 
all sorts of nightlife establishments (queer or not) 
boarded up and empty. But there might be more 
subliminal reasons for the decline in gay bars 
across the United States. 

Read more at 
MichiganDaily.com

