Million-Dollar Endorsement

Audio version now available.

While watching football over the holidays, my youngest son asked me why all of the sideline reporters are hot women, and all of the play-by-play commentators are variably attractive men. “Sexism,” I responded without hesitation. “It’s bothered me for years. These broadcasts are just money-generating engines, and I’m sure the networks have done focus groups. I think dudes are just uncomfortable being informed about football from chicks, except the cute ones who fawn over the winning quarterback.”

“Exactly,” my daughter said from behind the couch to which my fanny was semi-permanently adhered during bowl season. I didn’t even know she was in the room. Had I known, I might have used a different word. Females in their early-to-mid twenties have strong opinions, and they are pretty unified about reserving the word, “chicks,” for babies with feathers. Other than that, my message would not have been different had I known she was listening. Either way, it is hard for me to describe how it felt to have her agree with me.

At first, it was like the jolt of joy you get when you put on your jeans for the first time in the fall and find a five-dollar bill in the back pocket. But the more I have thought about it, the more her one-word reaction means to me. It has been a long time since she felt comfortable endorsing my opinion.

I got sober when she was a freshman in high school. Even before she was old enough to understand addiction, or even really know what alcohol was, she learned that her father was unsafe. I’m not referring to physical safety. She watched me compulsively check the door locks and stove burners at night. She chuckled with her mom and brothers about my obsessive behaviors to provide physical protection to our family.

I was dangerous in other ways.

She knew that laughter and silliness might be encouraged one minute, then considered intolerable the next. She knew that her requests or questions were sometimes addressed with love and thoughtfulness, and other times they were chastised as ridiculous or burdensome. She knew that the common areas of our home were to be carefully gauged for anxiety level, while her closed bedroom door offered protection from mood swings and interrogation.

Mostly, because of my inconsistency, she knew that she had no respect for my opinion.

When I was like fifteen minutes sober, I addressed each of my children individually. Since she was the oldest, my daughter was the first to be subjected to my proclamation. I explained that I suffered from a very common disease, and that I was pursuing the cure through sobriety. I explained brain chemistry and societal conditioning and marriage distress and the support I would need for my recovery. It was like lighting her on fire, then telling her I was an arsonist.

My message would have been better received had I told her chicks were too stupid to call football games.

My alcoholism hurt her. Badly and for her whole life. The very last thing she wanted was for me to present myself as an authority figure on the dysfunction that caused me to crush her childhood. She thought I was a hypocrite and an asshole. Had she felt safe enough around me, she would have told me so. Instead, she nodded her head and prayed for me to stop talking.

Sometime during the ensuing decade, my daughter started yelling at me about the ways I hurt her, both previously and presently. I was devastated. I called my therapist friend who assured me that her aggressiveness and anger was good news. It meant she was starting to feel safe enough around me to tell me how she really felt.

And I thought I had addiction and recovery all figured out. Silly me. It had not yet occurred to me to celebrate being yelled at.

My daughter is now a young adult during a housing-affordability crisis. She is a new teacher during an era in public education that lacks behavioral consequences for students and pins all the blame for poor test scores on teachers. She is coming of age in a time when democracy and capitalism are so distorted and dysfunctional that her generation is seeking even less tenable alternatives.

I’ve seen some shit. I’ve lived through some adult struggles, and avoided others. My job as a parent to a young adult is much less about parenting, and much more about serving as a valuable resource. I know to speak when spoken to, and how unwelcome my unsolicited advice can be. I am a library open 24/7 for VIPs with my last name on their library cards.

Like references on a job application, my opinion is available upon request. If she likes what she sees when considering my objective, my experience, and my education, she just might ask.

Hearing the endorsement of my opinion about football broadcast discrimination might not sound like much. It might seem easy for her to agree with me when I take a position in defense of women’s rights, what with her being a woman and all. But we’ve come from a place where the sound of my voice would stand up the hairs on the back of her neck.

So hearing her endorsement of my opinion about media sexism felt a lot like finding a million-dollar bill in my jeans pocket.

If you have left alcohol behind, and you are eager to be yelled at by the people your drinking impacted, please consider joining us in SHOUT Sobriety.

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