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November 27, 2021

Mandy Nolan’s Soapbox: What I got my Dad for Fathers Day

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Mandy Nolan’s Soapbox: What I got my Dad for Fathers Day

As a kid, I had dad envy. I think I still have it. I hear stories about gentle compassionate fathers who taught girls how to ride a bike or change a tyre and I feel a small lump rise in my throat. I never had that. That part of my childhood is a dusty shelf.

My dad was a violent alcoholic who was killed in a car crash when he was 30. I was six. That is the story I tell when people ask. I have told it so many times I am unmoved by it.

Fathers Day is always triggering for me. The ashtray I pushed out at school with my fat little fingers was left uncollected on the pottery table prompting Sister Zita to ask, ‘Do you want me to give this to Father?’ Father was the Catholic priest. Not my father.

I don’t have many good memories of my dad. Trauma develops much sharper images – they don’t call it the ‘dark room’ for nothing. The happy memories of my dad are like shiny stones that I keep in my pocket. I pull them out and count them, wondering if I’ll ever find another. The first stone has me on his shoulders. I can see the world from here. I am two. I feel invincible.

The second stone I am practising a performance for a kindergarten graduation. At the end he says ‘Bow’ and so I bark like a dog. He and my mother laugh. She’s usually crying. He’s usually yelling. This small moment of harmony is particularly shiny. I love this stone. I realise right then how much I love making people laugh.

The third stone I remember is having eaten beetroot on a summer day. He hasn’t been drinking for months. I think the strange feeling I have that I don’t easily identify is joy.

The fourth stone is a pony. My father has tied it to the fence on Christmas Day. He is buying my love and I’m totally okay with that.

The fifth stone I am wearing an orange tank top. He has an identical one. My mother sends me to work with him painting houses. I feel really important. I find out years later that my mother sent me along so he wouldn’t go to the pub after work.

The last stone it’s January 1974 – the year of the big Queensland floods. He turns up at my school to pick me up before the rivers are impassable. My dad has come to rescue me. Just two months later he’s dead. No-one came to rescue him. He was washed away by his unaddressed familial dysfunction. Another lost angry dead boy.

Last year when I went home an old man approached me at a show and said ‘Mandy? You’re Noko’s daughter.’ He handed me a small black-and-white photo. I could feel my eyes prickling. It’s so foreign for me to be addressed as my father’s daughter. Noko is what his mates called him. I had forgotten that. His friends loved him. The old men of my hometown mourn their fallen young – they still talk of Noko with great fondness. They tell stories of him and laugh. A local travelling boxer called Bullet tells me how Noko would get drunk and try to fight him in the grass. Male bonding at a travelling sideshow.

They are stories I have never heard. They know him as funny and compassionate and wild. ‘He was so funny your dad,’ says one man. Another man told me how my father collected injured animals and broken people. It wasn’t unusual to wake up to find a one-eyed man sleeping on our couch. To the old men he is not a violent alcoholic. He is Noko, a young lad who died too soon.

I look at the photo. This is my father before me. He’s about 19. I see a handsome young man who looks a lot like my son who is that age now. The way he holds his body is so much like Charlie that I am transfixed. I feel this unfamiliar surge of love. I look at him and feel overwhelming sadness. For a second I can see who he was before it all went to hell. Before he went to hell.

My father stands with his friend Darryl and his little brother Neil. Neil has given me the photo. The back of the photo reads, ‘the day the boys left to join army in Sydney. Darryl got in. Noko didn’t.’ I didn’t know he tried to join the army.

What I see in this photo of him is hope. He was going to get out of the little town that authored his demise. I wonder what would have happened had he left. Most people fear death in war, but for him, death was more imminent if he stayed.

I exist because he stayed. I came at quite a cost. I look at this photo and feel I have gained an insight into my father. I feel a daughterly kindness for the boy he was before he became the violent alcoholic man.

It’s hard to love difficult and complex men. Damaged men. Especially when they belong to who you are. It’s even harder to love that part of myself. I held the tiny photo. I traced his body with my little finger. This stranger. This stranger from whom I inherited humour and compassion and a pretty large dose of wildness.

In that moment when an old man handed me a photo I saw something I hadn’t seen before and I forgave him. It was profound. And that simple. That was what I gave my father for Fathers Day.

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  1. Oh Mandy ?. It’s amazing how many different people we humans can be in our lives, even in a short one. So hard to reconcile when it’s a parent. So confusing to feel love for someone so flawed. Nice to know you found a little peace.
    So much in such a short price of writing!
    Thank you xo

  2. Ah, goosebumps, Mandy! Your story gave me goosebumps!
    My story is not as dramatic as yours but it has taken decades for me to come round to learning more about my dad’s early life to gain the understanding that led to the love & respect I lost when a teenager when my parents separated under dramatic circumstances.
    For many years after that I felt so angry at the loss of a father figure & to cope, I pretended he had died, long before he did.
    At least in his later years I managed to connect once more so that when he did pass away I fainted with shock! Go figure!
    Now that I am learning about his naval war service in WW2 – patrolling the North Sea between Norway & Scotland at risk of bombs, mines & torpedoes – I can understand in retrospect the mental health issues he experienced in later life.
    It helps to learn these things to complete the picture of a father that seemed distant and at fault but I now know he loved us.

  3. Mandy that is a fine piece of writing about a dark subject. Don’t know about goosebumps I just had tears.
    A sign of maturity and reflection with a different perspective by being open to a a random meeting.

  4. We reckon that’s what you gave yourself for Father’s Day. Where did he get the handle “Noko”…..might be another column there. Not too many laughs but a damn nice piece. Did he ever write anything down?

  5. Hi Mandy
    thank you so much for being who you are in this amazing community. Your vulnerability in your writing just knocked my socks off. I became aware of the healing through your words that touched me deeply and I feel many others. So big thank you for all the lives you touch by being you.


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