How Fragile And Precious Life Is

His mother treats him like a slave, giving him daily chores and unbelievably ruthless punishments. He has become inhuman to her as she refers to him as “It.” The only hope of survival relies on his dad, in God, or in a miracle. His story promotes the courageous human spirit and the determinate to survive.

Losing a parent is presumably an unthinkable concept for those lucky to have them alive, but sometimes the title of “parent” dies long before a body is placed in the ground. Toi Derricotte author of “Beginning Dialogues” unfortunately had to experience both the death of her mother’s title of “parent”, as well as her literal death. Derricotte’s parents had divorced when she was eighteen, and her father did not seem to play much of a role in her life; she was left to be raised by her mentally abusive mother. Her mother also had a tough road to walk growing up, having to face and deal with brutal issues like racism and bulling. Persevering through those tough times may be the underlining reason behind Derricotte’s mother’s negativity and abuse towards her daughter. Perhaps she just grew a thick skin at a very young age and had never learned how to feel, accept, or administer love. Derricotte’s had said: “She told me all my life she loved me, as if she completely forgot the hundred slights, humiliations, threats, and insinuations. Of course she loved me;

I came home one day to see both of my parents sad. As a third grader, I didn’t completely understand at the time, but my father had been laid off from the job he’d had since his teenage years. My father had started at the age of eighteen as a student worker at Southern Miss, and after years of hard work he had been promoted to the manager of shipping and receiving on campus. When the recession struck, the need to save money resulted in his position being terminated. My father was without a job. My father loved that job and when he lost it, he changed. He found a new love, alcohol. He let his love for alcohol become an addiction. He would do anything for alcohol; he even had secret stashes when my mom had removed all the prior alcohol from the house. Quickly my father became a violent drunk and began to routinely beat my mother and me. He became unstoppable; no person could get him back on track so my mother, in an attempt to keep me safe, removed him from the house. Even my mother’s best efforts weren’t always enough, as my father constantly broke into our house. One day my mother and I came home and my father was waiting in our den with a gun. We walked in, he pointed the gun at us, and then back at himself. He couldn’t decide to kill my mother, himself, or just all of us. He had more hatred in his eyes

And then, the day I had feared of most, finally arrived. We lost our father, the only figure I truly felt safe with. After months of mourning and painful transformations, our mother fell sick. In those terrible days, days during which I was locked in the basement most of the time, for my safety and even more: for the safety of my family, I was incapable of helping. To this, I regret even today.

From the day a person is born until the day they die, their family is always there. Friends may come and go numerous times in a lifetime, but a family bond is a bond that is formed like no other. Writing My Wrongs, by Shaka Senghor, is an autobiography that takes the reader through the life Senghor lived. From a young age Senghor’s parents clashed on every idea and topic known to man. After years of dealing with constant disputes, Senghor moved out, finding himself living on the streets. He sold whatever he could, including crack, to survive another day. A couple of years into this new lifestyle was all it took for Senghor to end up back at his father's house. Soon after, Senghor became involved in the drug world once again, but this time his seemingly innocent argument would escalate into the death of the customer, landing Senghor in jail for at minimum, 19 years. Throughout these years his father and son visited, motivating Senghor to be released from prison as soon as he could possibly manage. In Writing my Wrongs by Shaka Senghor, the role of family impacted Senghor the most on his journey through life and redemption.

death among my peers. It is something that has never left me. I still think about this event every

How To Kill Your Guilt Have you ever wondered what guilt and pain could do to a person? Have you ever wandered what immense pain and hurt can drive a person to do or thin? In two short stories, authors delve into these ideas and take on different forms of pain and guilt, and the consequences it has on the human mind. The story “Killings”, by Andre Dubus depicts a man named Matt Fowler. In the story his son is killed after having romantic relations with another man’s wife.

hostile environment his father sought to escape. His mother betrayed him as she never embraced

“This is an extremely painful and uncomfortable book. The author's father committed suicide when she was only 13 years old, leaving behind a wife and four children. Obviously, the struggle to go on with life, to find joy again, wasn't easy. The author writes to her dad as a way to heal, wondering if he can hear her words from wherever he is. She wisely understands that she will never truly know why he committed suicide but she also knows that she was irrevocably transformed by this act.

In the essay, “Can We Love Our Battering Fathers?” Helen H. Gordon creates a sharp image of despair and pain in her family. By reflecting on her past with her family she paints a picture for the readers to imagine what she experienced. This is a reflective essay because as she chooses a Father’s Day card for her father she reflects on her past with him. The main cause of her despair is her father which is demonstrated through his attitude and treatment towards his family, especially her mother. She creates the feeling of haunting despair through the use of diction, allusions, and foreshadowing.

I heard a feminine voice call out to me as I blazed out the front door. "Good morning Amber! Oh, where are you--" I cut her off with a sharp slam. I couldn't look back. With each step towards my car, I inhale painful sobs of air. I feel as if I don't know who I am, as if I was that 18 year old girl hearing the news of his death for the first time. I couldn't think of the name that belongs to me, or any one else but my father. Any face my subconscious offers had the resonance of a total stranger, then was replaced with the haunting image of

Even six year old me could see the great suffering my father experienced not only mentally but physically. I recall once walking in the bathroom and seeing my father vomit, it was the first time I seen him so vulnerable. I could see the pain in his eyes. It was our third month in the united states and my father could not find a job, it was killing him. He was considering a job as a dishwasher to support his family, for that I could never repay him. A sprinkle of hope glimmered in our dark world when my dad got a job as a dispatcher at a local Airport, when I look back now I wonder if father ever felt disappointed that his hard nights of studying in college was futile, if he know that he would have to give up his career to support his family. Soon we moved out of my aunt and uncle’s how’s into a small one bedroom apartment in a sketchy neighborhood. By that time my mother has lost a total of thirty pounds. The once vibrant and sociable women was always tired, she often made called relatives back home which resulted in her crying for hours. My father would often cook and clean, it was fascinating to see my dad performing these tasks

When we love someone, we are often blinded by who the person really is, especially when it comes to family. Graulich, who once thought the world of her grandfather, was told what an abusive man he was to her grandmother. “He yanked her from the car by her hair” (Graulich, 202) was just one of the many violent attacks Graulich’s grandfather performed to her grandmother. Graulich seemed so appalled that someone she loved so dear

Everything was dark, Christopher was nowhere to be found. I was alone my biggest fear came to life as I looked at it in the mirror. In my hand I held a handful of painkillers in my hand with cough syrup. “HELP, I CAN'T BREATHE” I yelled, it was official, no one was there for me. I was on my own with no way out. Standing in my own puddle of blood from my stabbed back my fear became a reality. Where’s my manners, my name Aisha and this is my story about betrayal. It all started thanksgiving dinner, oh I was in awe to see my family. It's been nearly 5 years since we sat at a table all together, but we had been reasons. The last we saw one another was at my sister's faith funeral, she killed herself from depression. “Okay the table is set ”, my

As a young girl, I never quite understood the importance my dad’s job had on me until I became much older. Throughout my childhood I was often mistreated out of the sight of my parents. From brutal words to simple exclusion, I never really fit in at my church. I was constantly separated from all of the children because I was the Pastor’s