A General’s Daughter

When people find out that my Father is a retired General, they readily assume that my sisters and I grew up living a life of power and privilege, surrounded by bodyguards, in full military style. They ask me what it’s like being a General's daughter, begging for stories about life on a military base. They’re always slightly disappointed when I tell them that I don’t have any to share.

It brings to mind a conversation I once had with my Dad back when I was an obnoxious teenager who was of the opinion that the world owed her a favor. I accused him of being cruel and unjust because he didn’t give us the things my classmates had, or take us on trips to exotic destinations. I barraged him with questions about why we never lived on a base or were chauffer-driven by one of his young cadets.

I half expected him to joke that he wanted to keep his growing daughters as far away as possible from his junior cadets. Instead, he simply said he wouldn’t be able to stomach feeding us with the ill-gotten wealth needed to fund such a lifestyle. He pointed out that I was not less fortunate just because I did not have the clothes my other friends had, and ended by saying that someday, I would be able to get everything that I wanted and more, all on my own. Annoyed by the delayed gratification pep talk, my smart-assed mouth answered that I would be able to stomach whatever he fed me, as long as it looked and tasted good. (I was a Drama Queen, even then – just one devoid of morals.) I went on to grumble about my measly allowance and how unfair it was that the other daughters were not even allowed to commute, and were always chauffer-driven while I had to take the jeep to and from school.

When I joined the corporate world and began to acquire things that were previously beyond my reach, I recalled that conversation with less angst and more clarity. I began to understand what my Father meant and more importantly, what he was trying to teach me. I realized that as part of the Armed Forces Medical Corp, his was mainly a support function, which meant that a life of luxury would have to be acquired through less than respectable means.

Now, when Kiddo asks me to buy her a new expensive toy that her other friends have, I find myself echoing my Father, trying to explain to her the concept of delayed gratification and the importance of having to “earn” big acquisitions. When she sighs and puts on a crestfallen face, I gently tell her that I won’t be able to give her all the things that her other playmates have, and that isn’t necessarily a bad thing.

As anybody with kids will tell you, when you deny your child of something in the name of moderation and teaching the value of hard work, it is actually more difficult for the parent. I think of it as the cost of doing ‘parenthood’. As a solo parent who is also the solo breadwinner and the formula for all expenses is: everything times 2 (or 3, if you count Yaya #5), divided by 1, I sometimes wonder if I could give Kiddo more if her Dad and I were still together.

Even with his help, I still have to do a budgeting act, careful not to materially overcompensate for the absence of a complete family, while making sure that she doesn’t go underground (i.e. through her grandparents or her Dad) to get what she wants. It’s juggling fairness and reward, precariously managing the temptation of taking the easy way out and just giving in.

I imagine this is how my Father felt when we had that conversation many years ago.

I’ll be the first to tell you that ours is not a father-daughter relationship that fuzzy commercials are made of, but if there is one thing that my Father impressed on me, it was the principle of integrity and the value of an honest day’s work. The resentful teenager grew up to realize that deprivation is power if you use it to drive your ambition; that the deepest satisfaction lies in looking back from where you are and knowing what you had to go through to get there.

As I’m writing this, I’m already bracing myself for the times to come when Kiddo will whine and bitch about not getting what she wants, while I stand resolute about not readily giving it to her. The reality of life is, she – like everyone else -- will not always get what she wants the minute she wants it. And you know what? I don’t need to apologize or feel guilty about that as long as I am able to give her everything she needs – which is far more difficult.

Passing on my Father’s legacy to Kiddo is my civilian duty, the accomplishment of which will be the equivalent of being awarded a medal of the highest honor. If I am able to do that, then I would have earned the right to stand tall and proud as I tell her that this is what it's like, this is what it means, to be a General’s daughter.