I came to realize that what my father wanted, on his return from Japan, was the perfect daughter. And when a Rastaman said daughter, he meant both his wife and his child, as my father called my mother his “dawta” when speaking to his Rasta bredren, who also called their partners their dawtas. For the men of Rastafari, the perfect daughter was everything a woman was supposed to be. The perfect daughter was whittled from Jah’s mighty oak, cultivating her holy silence. She spoke only when spoken to. The perfect daughter was humble and had no care for vanity. She had no needs, yet nursed the needs
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