AUSTRALIA
lewisblayse.net
It’s Father’s Day today. In our family, we’ve always called it Daddy’s Day. There’s a fridge magnet on my father’s fridge that says, “Anyone can be a father. It takes someone special to be a Daddy.” My brother, sister and I always called my father “Daddy.” It was one of the ways we tried to communicate to him how much we loved him and how precious he was to us. For me, it was my way of reminding him that I treasured every minute of my life with him, and still loved him as unreservedly and completely in adulthood as I did when I was a little girl and he was the brightest light in my life. I loved Daddy’s Day so much. It was the only day of the year that my father didn’t make a fuss about being given anything or tell his kids that we shouldn’t have spent any money on him.
My father’s life was not easy. It was never going to be. The damage done was too great. He woke every day of his life in terror thinking he was still in the Alkira / Indooroopilly Salvation Army Boys’ Home. He told me about this around eight years ago. I tried to break whatever terrible loop was still going on his mind decades after his abuse by being ready at the prearranged time every day for the seven years I lived with him with a cup of coffee, a knock on his door, and the most cheerful “Hey Daddy, would you like a cup of coffee?” I could muster. I didn’t know what else to do. It was futile, but it was something.
The day before my father died, the television crew from the ABC had come up and filmed and interviewed him. My father was ecstatic when they’d left. He had lost hope that he’d ever achieve justice from the Salvation Army. His hope had sprung anew. He believed, and he was right to do so, that the Salvation Army only ever did anything remotely good for people when its reputation (and thereby its money) were at stake – when people were watching. He felt that with the spotlight on the organisation once more, there was a chance again at real justice. And not just for him, but for all the Home Boys, and all the others. These things flow on, he said. If he could achieve proper compensation, he’d shout it from the rooftops, whether or not he signed a confidentiality agreement (“Let the bastards try and sue me – they couldn’t!” he said one night), and all the other institutions (and government) would have to follow suit, or be seen to be left behind. We bought a bottle of non-alcoholic wine at the IGA, ready for the day we’d crack it open and celebrate.
Note: This is an Abuse Tracker excerpt. Click the title to view the full text of the original article. If the original article is no longer available, see our News Archive.