Tender Daddy and Tender Love, Or, I Want A Daddy Who Has a 10-Step Skincare Routine

by Graham Feyl for DADDY: A Reader, a companion book for DADDY a solo exhibition of Jenn Sova

As I began typing this essay, I noted that the term daddy immediately brought hypermasculine muscle men to my imagination. D A D D I E S (Zaddy?) flooded my mind (or did I invite them into my bed with me?). Their chiseled bodies, enormous bulges and tight clothing. And yet, I am sitting in bed with: a cup of peppermint tea on my nightstand (next to a book about disco), some light jazz is playing, I am wearing a tank top that goes down to my knees with Whitney Houston’s face on it, and I have an under-eye mask that I am hoping will clear up the wretched dark circles that have appeared under my eyes. God, I am so far from this idea of daddy. Do I even want to be a daddy? 

Daddy—and to not take up the space of some rigamarole-etymology because that feels like a dad move—was first recorded in the 16th century. I can imagine, as infants that are grappling with something so abstract as language, that having words that end in a gentle “-y” is easier for us. But, as we all know (now), Daddy has this sexual framework around it. Historians have noted that sex workers in the 16th and 17th centuries began to call clients “daddy.” Did this boost their egos? Did this create an immediate sense of powerplay? The first, and only time, someone called me daddy during sex I felt my body cringe. ICK! How am I a daddy? Daddy is for older people, and I am (was?) so young! Plus, I am always in control and making decisions during the day. Let me have a sense of no control in the sheets. Let me be an anti-daddy in this moment.

I was apprehensive beginning this process of thinking about “Daddy” (or is it lowercase “d”?). Being trained as an art historian studying queer and transgender art practices, and as a queer person, I began to question the clichés that I conjured. Of course, I can think of the idea of Daddy as a: 1) familial term of complication. I feel that I have figured out my own father’s problem during my own therapy sessions. 2) a sexual term. Duh. ZADDY! 3) queer family. But this last part stuck with me. Queer family. Queer Mom(my). Queer Dad(dy)(or maybe they are plural?). The question that I asked at the beginning of this piece, “do i even want to be a daddy?,” speculates on having a physical child. It relates to the “Oh, we have been trying for a while! I have always wanted to be a (insert term of whichever parental role you like).” Dear lord. Having a child?! At this time? 

But what I realized, and am realizing, is that this essay in a response to ~Daddy~ was not me working through the issues that I discuss in therapy about my father. I was not trying to formulate some grand response and historical narrative of daddy. I had actually been sensing, and acknowledging, the extreme acts of love and care that have centered around this project and in my everyday life. The Daddy issues that tend to come up—neglect, absence, hurt, confusion—are all extremely valid. I want to hold space for you. But I, for some reason, have been feeling a counter-response to this idea of daddy. I think, honing in on the sexual use of daddy—Daddy is the leather dominatrix with her sleek back hair or that barista near my place with the plethora of rings on their fingers.—has been a way of me finding a space of reclamation for daddy. Daddy is that queer family. Daddy is, in the people I surround myself by, the acts of love that we find for each other. As queer folks naviagting a world that is being ravaged by, and not limited to: global warming, wars, famine, disease, poverty, cut to social programs, conservative governements, liberal governments that are just conservatives saying the right words, we are seeming to always find spaces for love. For softness. Of course, acts of radicality, protest, rage are invited. As queers, that has been ingrained in us. We have learned these skills. Fuck. We are such amazing beings. But these acts were not shared by our parents, but by our queer families. Those stories. Those actions. Those memories. All of them are shared and held close, just as we hold ourselves close to each other. 

How I have been feeling about the idea of Daddy this entire time has been how gorgeous my queer family, lovers, and friends are. How they have embodied the acts of a Daddy that are depicted on TV or in books. Kindness, love, tenderness and joy are what they show and what they offer. 

Daddy has been my partner, sitting next to me on the couch as we both have sheetmasks on, and I or he are recounting our days. We are also doing an extensive skincare routine, so we have TIME to dish the details. Daddy has been a group of friends getting ready to go out together and making each other feel like the center of the universe. Because, as queer people, we are. Daddy has been planning this exhibition, and sitting with Jenn and Laurel in an Airbnb allowing words of love and gossip to fill the space. Daddy is the text exchange with a friend where we say “i love you” and hold space. Or even share a meme. Daddy is the joyous laughter that fills my garden as we share a meal in the setting sun. Daddy is dancing beneath disco balls and swirling lights as we move around each other. Daddy is the gentle “I will text you when I get home,” as you gather your things after a night at a friend’s. Daddy is the sense of queer family. 

Daddy, this loaded term, has come to mean, for me, acts of extreme love and care. Of queer love and queer care. The queer daddy who centers care and kindness. 

Queer folks—I’m speaking to you here—we find our families. We are our families. We stumble upon folks who change us for the better. They center love and allow extreme joy to guide our dynamics. 

                                                                            I love you, Daddies <3