Common Application

Putting the wooden post in the dirt was like planting a seed. I want to say everything changed in my relationship with my dad after that—and that we lived happily ever after, but nothing truly grows that quickly.

In the midst of the pandemic, I filled my summer days with random projects—dirt under my fingernails and paint stains on my jeans. When I came up with the idea to make a miniature library for my neighborhood, the project was going to be mine and mine alone. I had already created blueprints and registered for a placard from the “Free Little Library” national organization. I carried my love of books and an armful of wood and screws to the site of my project, where my pedestal stood firmly in the sky. As bright as the sky may have seemed that day, it didn’t stay sunny forever; I realized I lacked a few critical skills necessary for the construction of my library. With no other choice than to ask for help, I proposed my idea to my dad.

Over the past year, my dad and I had been trying to work on our relationship. Or rather, I was trying, and he seemed to be just along for the ride. While the project I proposed was not our relationship, we took on that challenge simultaneously. He angered me more than anything. I despised the way he talked to people; I could tell how much or how little he respected someone based solely on the tone of his voice. While I dreamed of being someone who would make him beam with pride and respect, I was often on the receiving end of Nick’s condescending tone and unkind words.

I relished calling my dad by his first name. I liked how it made him feel uncomfortable, the same way his unkind words made me feel small. He ordered me not to call him Nick because it was “disrespectful,” but I believe the true reason was his insecurity—this was a reminder that I didn’t think he deserved to be called Dad.

Despite our communication difficulties and frequent disagreements, Nick was excited to work on this project with me. He knew it would be quality time with the daughter with whom he struggled to relate. Disregarding my plans and proposals, Nick and I dove in. This time I felt as though I was the one who was just along for the ride.

Regardless of Nick’s talent for general construction, many mistakes were made along the way—by both of us. I found it hard to trust his decades of building experience. I didn’t want to do it his way, but I knew I needed his help. He didn’t like some of my ideas and I didn’t like some of his. We both wanted to feel heard but couldn’t find a way to want to hear each other.

Finally, despite saying to each other many times, “I can’t do today, I’m busy,” or “How could anybody ever work with you?”, we had our library. I felt proud and wiser than I had been before. I knew Nick would probably never treat me like the men who held his respect, but one day he might treat me as a respectable daughter. Shortly after the library’s grand opening, my parents split up. I went from spending every claustrophobic pandemic hour with my dad, to every other weekend with him. I found that the less time I spent with him, the more valuable our time became. We rarely reached the point where we couldn’t stand each other before I had to make my way back to Mom’s house. I found myself looking forward to weekends at Dad’s. In the hours we spent learning how to combine our skills to create something beautiful for our community, we learned how to create something beautiful for us.