My name is Emma Fraser and I attended FAHS from 2013 through to 2017. This year I begin a new adventure at Massey University in Palmerston North studying a Bachelor of Communications. This piece was written as an assessment for Level 3 English.
My dad has been my hero for as long as I can remember. The big, tough policeman who used to save the world and braid my hair all in the same day. The man who loves adventure motorbikes and created a story for the song ‘flick the little fire engine’ and memorised it because it was his children’s favourite story. The man who stops criminals but has always made it back in time to pick me up from school or take me to sports practice. Fearless, brave and the softest person I know.
My mum taught me to be the person I am today. She taught me to be kind but never be pushed around. She taught me to stand up for myself and to always speak my mind. None of this was intentional, but as I grew up I have watched her. I watch as she runs around tirelessly making sure everyone around her is happy. I watch as she stands up to people that try and push her around. And I watch as she dances around the living room to her favourite but terrible songs trying to convince me that it ‘counts as exercise’. I watch when she thinks I’m not watching, and what I see is the person I want to become.
A parent’s love is natural. It is not an uncommon thing for a parent to read their child a bedtime story or trick their children into eating the vegetables they hate because they know in the long run it will be good for them. It is not uncommon for a mother to cry as her daughter receives an award at a ballet recital. It is not uncommon for a father to let his daughters dress him up in makeup and headbands because he knows it will make his girls laugh. That is called the love of a parent, simple but true. What is uncommon is something that I am fortunate enough to experience. It’s something more than the love of a parent. More than pride and belief. More than just doing what any parent would do for their child. It’s not fair that I must use the word uncommon or that I receive blank stares from many of my peers when I describe the relationship I have with my parents.
Not everyone has the relationship I have with my parents, not everyone feels the love and joy and admiration that I do. And I hate it. I hate when I hear stories from my friends about how they dislike their parents and it’s heartbreaking to know that not everyone knows what it feels like to have such relentless and unconditional love. Something more than just parental attachment.
A few years ago, I struggled with my acne. Normal, common, teenage acne. It was the thing I hated most about myself. My dad would make jokes in order to show me that it wasn’t a big deal, that it was something that I could laugh about. He taught me that things I can’t change should never influence my life as greatly as I always let them. Although, at the time I did not see this. And instead cried when he called me ‘pizza face’ and refused to speak to him for some time.
When I was about 11 I got my appendix taken out. I was in the hospital for three days in agony. My mum stayed with me every single night. She endured the below average hospital food and my never-ending complaining about everything and anything. To some people, this may not be a surprise. But there was a young girl not much older than me who shared the room, she had arrived a day or two before me and in the entire time I was there, I remember seeing her family visit only once. Once. My mother was there the entire time.
When I turn up to work hungover and hungry, it’s my mother who drops everything to bring me the exact sandwich I am craving to make me feel better, even though it’s my own fault and I probably deserve to suffer a little bit.
Every single time I come home crying, my parents are there. Even if they’re laughing because even I have no idea what my problem is, they are still there, ready to pull me into a hug and tell me everything is going to be ok. I can go to them when I am upset or confused or having problems because I know that I can tell them anything. That is rare. I know that. I have not met a single other person my age who tells their parents everything, who when something happens can’t wait to go home and tell their mum. But I have that.
This is what makes me mad. This is what I go home feeling guilty about. I have two parents who care more about the happiness of their children than anything else in the world. Two parents who sacrifice everything to give their children the world. Two parents who are so rare that I have not met a single person who is even remotely lucky enough to have parents as caring as mine.
I love my parents more than anything but I know that no matter what, they will always love me infinitely more. I know because they tell me every day. But not everyone gets this. In fact, very few people have what I have and I hate it. I hate it. But as my parents have always told me “life’s not fair”.