My Father Was a Rockstar — And an Asshole
A story of addiction, abuse, and everything in between
My best friend sat on my unicorn canopy bed and listened as my dad loudly strummed his guitar. The amp made the walls of our tiny home vibrate until my head throbbed. Quiet time was a rare luxury at my house.
“Wow. Your dad is so cool! Can I go say hi to him?” my friend yelled over the bass-heavy amp.
I shrugged. “Whatever. He’s upstairs.”
We trudged up the creaky steps, careful not to cut ourselves on the splintered wood. I was scared my dad would get angry about my friend’s interruption, but I didn’t care enough to stop her from approaching him. At least I’d get a brief break from my mildew-scented bedroom while they talked.
My fears were unfounded. It turned out my father was flattered by the interruption, though he often cursed and yelled if my siblings and I bothered him during practice. He cleared a spot for my friend and patiently showed her a few simple chords.
My friend was impressed. Her dad was an electrician, and her mom was a homemaker. She had never met a parent who was in a band. In her world, dads were fix-it-type guys who did construction or managed warehouses — hard workers who honored traditional gender roles. They didn’t play guitar…
