The Mask We Wear
This writing marks the first time I have spoken about my father and our relationship as I explore how stories hold both pain and tenderness within their folds. This exploration laid the foundation for this study, in which storytelling transitioned from remembrance to a form of healing. Through it, I came to understand addiction as a spiritual journey shaped by histories of loss, resilience, and reconnection with our kinship. Indigenous Storywork, as described by Archibald (2008), guided me to see that stories live as family. They help us understand who we are and where we come from. They lead us home when the world forgets how to see us.
The Mask We Wear-Remembering My Father through Story
My father was a very handsome man. I remember one instance vividly: my mother was yelling at him about a Native woman who had been looking at him at the grocery store. In hindsight, I realized I always admired how my father looked. Even my friends used to comment on how handsome he was. However, I do not think I fully understood how much I thought of him this way. I was always on the outside looking in, yearning for him to turn and see me. He was a light-skinned, mixed Ute man—one his peers called “Pretty Boy” in high school. He spoke Ute fluently and was not very tall, yet he carried himself with a strong, expansive presence. His energy could be torrential, swinging between extremes—sometimes positive, but often negative. As a child, I came to understand this as his mask, the one everyone saw when he was not drinking. However, most of the time, that mask was replaced by something darker.
When he drank, he transformed into a dangerous, hungry bear, consuming pieces of himself—and me—with every bite. It was not physical violence alone; it was a spiritual devouring, a slow, deliberate destruction. Alcohol coursed through him like blood, fueling the wounds we both carried. I often wished for physical injuries instead because, at least with those, the pain might eventually subside. Trauma and alcohol share a complex relationship that lingers and festers. It is a bond that does not heal easily, a wound that leaves no visible scars but cuts just as deeply.
This story is not typical, but it is the one that comes to mind as I write this dissertation and reflect on the importance of stories. In my dream, I see my father as he was when he was young and still handsome. I perceive him as powerful, ancestral, and liberated, and I feel beautiful too. Our beauty does not need healing to shine; it only requires recognition. I gently lower my mask onto my lap. He can see me now (Sireech, 2024).
Conclusion: The Path Forward
As a child, I sensed that my family was seen as different. My father, a mixed-blood Ute man, carried both pride and burden in his light skin. His presence held contradictions: strong, humorous, and full of spirit, yet shadowed by the pull of alcohol. Our home rested between tribal land and a white town where we were reminded of the boundaries that were not ours to build. I did not yet know the word for what we were living through, but later I would recognize it was systemic racism. The low expectations placed upon Indigenous families shaped how I viewed myself and what I thought was possible. However, even within that environment, I made a quiet promise to become someone who would carry our story forward and bring my little sister with me as I grew up. Those promises have guided my path and continue to shape my purpose as a mother, wife, artist, counselor, researcher, and storyteller.
In my work today, I help others find meaning in their alcohol and substance use and connect to their histories. I ask them to see how their relationships, especially those with parents, continue to shape their sense of self. This practice mirrors my own healing. Ball & Moselle (2013) emphasize that reclaiming father-child relationships is part of cultural restoration, as colonization disrupted traditional fathering roles through forced assimilation and disconnection from the land. Similarly, Reinhardt et al. (2012) notes that the bonds between Native fathers and daughters are rooted in spiritual belonging, responsibility, and the transmission of cultural knowledge. Reflection on my father through this lens allows me to see his addiction to alcohol as part of a larger pattern of survival in the aftermath of generational trauma.
After my father’s passing, I began to uncover the deeper roots of his addiction. I learned that he had suffered physical abuse as a child at the hands of his stepfather, an experience that marked his early life with fear, powerlessness, and isolation. Childhood became a space of survival rather than safety, profoundly influencing how he learned to endure pain, to remain silent, and to cope without the language to articulate what he carried. The trauma entered his life long before alcohol did.
If I could speak to my father now, across time and age, I would tell him this: You deserved protection. You deserved care. You deserved a childhood free from fear. Help was available, even if it was hidden from you. Healing did not require silence. Growth did not require endurance through harm. What happened to you was violence, and survival shaped the rest of your life.
My father never spoke openly about the physical abuse he endured as a child. Silence functioned as both shelter and weight. Instead, my mother carried his story. She shared fragments over the years, careful and restrained, offering glimpses into a childhood shaped by injury, fear, and emotional abandonment. Through her words, I learned to understand his alcohol use not as failure or moral weakness, but as a response to harm inflicted by someone entrusted with his care. Alcohol served as a refuge. It softened memory. It quieted the pain that remained unnamed and untreated, as well as the disruption to kinship.
