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