Daddy's Girl

I am a daddy's girl. Growing up, if my dad was interested in something (baseball) or seemed to know a lot about a subject (history and politics), I needed to be a part of it. For Father's Day this year, my dad asked for his kids to write a memory. In lieu of a blog about how great my dad is, I think this memory written in letter form will suffice. It is, after all, one of my absolute favorite memories from my childhood.



Dear Dad--

I have wanted to live in a musical my whole life. From the minute I saw Annie put on by the Clayton Valley Third Ward at five or six-years-old, I was sure that things were better when put to song. I belted out an off-key version of “The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow” so often that one FHE, a smaller version of the Hutchins clan (just Dad, Mom, Juliann, and myself) went to Tower Records to buy a tape of Annie. I, of course, had no idea that’s why we were getting in the car instead of watching The Cosby Show, but I can still feel the perma-grin feeling when you walked me to the musical section of the store and handed me that tape. I remember carrying around a tape player for months afterward just so that Annie and Daddy Warbucks could come with me and serenade whatever task I was doing. I was probably just coloring a picture or reorganizing my stuffed animals on my bed, but while I put the pink bunny next to my Hello Kitty, I was singing “It’s a Hard Knock Life.”

Really though, my love of musicals became an obsession when I first became acquainted with a little girl named Cosette and with a tragic, lovelorn Eponine. When Mom came back from her bookclub trip to LA to see Les Miserables, I took her tape and began to try and learn the words of a story set to music that would eventually change my life. I don’t know how long I belted out “On My Own” before you came home from work one night and showed me two tickets – one for you and one for me to the Curran Theatre in San Francisco to see Les Miserables.

Time for a seven-year-old does not pass at the same rate as an adult, but after an interminable time, you and I got on BART one Saturday and rode to the city. I was wearing my mint-green dress with black polka dots. I had on white socks with lace and black slip-ons with bows. Mom made me bring my white sweater (which I, of course, needed, but didn’t want to take), and I had my little black purse slung over my shoulder. In my purse, I probably only had chapstick, but I had to be fancy that day since you were in a suit, and we were going on a daddy-daughter date!

I don’t remember where we ate, though I know I spilled hot chocolate on my sweater. You let me buy Juicy Fruit gum from a corner market. I ate all 17 pieces by the time we got home from the play. I do remember though, walking into the theater. I remember the red carpet and the bright lights. It was so grand to my little eyes. Only Annie got to go to theaters like this. We sat in the front row of the Loge section. I was so short that I had to lean over the railing the whole time, but to this day, that is my favorite place to sit in a theater.

I am sure I did not understand anything about that play though I do remember the electricity in the air as those amazing voices pierced the air. I thought for sure that Fantine would get better. I thought that Marius should have picked Eponine. I thought the gunshots were real, and thankfully did not understand what lovely ladies really were. I remember us talking about the story during intermission and on our way back to the BART station. I hated Javier and could not appreciate any aspect of his struggle. As you held my little hand in yours, you probably laughed at my shock and vehemence over a story that was so different from usual discussion of my Dr. Seuss and Shel Silverstein books.

The fog never burned off in the city that day, and so I remember curling up next to you on the train as we rode home from that Saturday matinee. I fell asleep, exhausted from the excitement of my first real play humming melodies that would help inspire my love for the piano as well as my overall love for music. When I walked off the train, dazed but thrilled to show Mom my program, I thought I had just had the best day of my life.

I still listen to Les Mis at least once a week as I get ready for work. I still love Marius, but I now understand his choice of Cosette. I love the Bishop for his compassion, and Fantine for sacrificing everything for the love of a child. I don’t hate Javier anymore. I try to live by Jean Val Jean’s example, who like you, gives his life to the person [people] he loves most.

The final line in Les Miserables before the cast breaks into “Do You Hear the People Sing” is “to love another person is to see the face of God.” When I saw Les Miserables for the first time, I did not appreciate that concept nor did I fully appreciate what an impact you would on my life. But through your unconditional love, I see the power and comfort in God’s love for us. I appreciate that glimpse of heaven and your example, more than you know. And on less serious note, thank you for making my life as close to a musical as humanly possible. Love you forever!

Happy Father’s Day—