My Father’s Daughter

I am my father’s daughter. I love a good drink and any excuse to laugh. I love being the life of the party as much as I love sequestering myself for days on end. I prefer existing under the radar, on the fringe, in the spaces of society that skirt scrupulous surveillance. I savor my sovereignty, my freedom, my right to do what I want, when I want. And, if threatened, I’ll defend my freedom like a lion protects its pride. If given the choice to follow suite or pave a new path, I’ll pull on my boots and machete my way through the wild unknown— because I’m my father’s daughter. And we’re an unruly breed. We don’t like rules. In fact, we like to test them. We like to push against them to see how far they flex, because oftentimes they’re just a facade. They’re not real. And when you reach out to put your finger on the point of their purpose, they dissolve into a pile of bullshit. Rules are rarely what they say they are. So, like a lie, they lack integrity and, despite the face of authority or fear-fueled power, can be easily pushed over. Rules are manmade. They’re conceptual. They’re make-belief. And some men (and women) have done a very good job of making us believe. But believing isn’t good enough for me. I need to know. I want to know with every cell in my body because that’s what makes me feel alive. And I came here to live life, not a notion. So, rather than rules, I abide by the laws of nature. Because, as it turns out, nature is what really governs our reality. Or, my reality at least. At the end of the day, nature is where I’ve placed my allegiance. When all the rules have been broken down to conceptual dust, nature will still be here, maintaining balance and keeping order. My father doesn’t live by the rules. And he doesn’t live by the laws of nature, either. But he never told me one way or the other and let me figure it out for myself. Because, as you can guess, he doesn’t like being told what to do. And I’m my father’s daughter.