If you know me, or my blog, I often write about being fatherless, and its cause and effect on the past 60+ years of my life.
The annual Father-Daughter Dance at St. Ambrose School in Bridgeport Connecticut during the early 60’s, was the blockbuster event of the year.
For me, it was the tragic reality that as the only one in my class without a father, I couldn’t go.
The nuns, of course, knew of my fatherlessness, and were vicious about it; whispering gossip to each other about me and my unusual family unit.
As a divorcée, my mother was excommunicated by the Catholic Church. As such, she was deemed a sinner by St. Ambrose and as her child so was I.
The nuns accused me of sinning, while the parents of my friends labeled my home broken.
So from grades 1-8, I enviably sat that dance out.
But oh how my imagination ran wild.
I conjured up in my young inventive head how magical the night would be.
Me the belle of the Father-Daughter ball, sparkling in a Cinderella gown, and my father the most handsome man in the room, dressed to kill in a fancy tuxedo.
All eyes would be on us as we made our grand entrance into the transformed cafeteria and danced and twirled the unforgettable night away.
Everyone in attendance would ooh and aah at the bedazzled and priceless diamond necklace my father had surprised me with.
And no chintzy corsage for me. My wrist was adorned with a matching dazzling diamond bracelet.
I envisioned posing for the Father–Daughter photo, a swarm of paparazzi bulbs popping all around the two of us.
Year after lousy year I was harshly reminded of the sin, the broken home, the fatherless void.