Personal Narrative: My Dad

No one knows the story behind why my dad is such a horrible. You've only heard bits and parts of the story that are easy for me to explain. They don't make me tear up because I know that nothing is ever going to change. There're some parts in the story that make me frustrated and tear up and those are the parts that I hate to share. I just have to be strong enough and courageous enough to tell the parts that hurt the most. I share my feelings about my dad on this blog to vent and to show you that through difficult times you're not alone. Sometimes you feel like you're trapped in a dark hole and you can't get out. The truth is you can get out. Look for the light at the end of the dark hole. There is light somewhere you can't be stuck in the dark for the rest of

you lived a perfect live, worked hard througout school and been a faithful christian you whole life. you were respectful and grateful as a kid and never took anything for granted. you have worked your whole adult life on being the perfect father and dont think you could have done any better. you read the scripture every day and work extremely hard to provide for our family. you never yell or raise you voice and always keep your cool. you manage to bring scripture into punishing us. you struggled early on in your marraige just to put aside money to put us through college. i have done nothing to deserve it. you have been the perfect husband to mom. never fighting and always compromising to make her feel like she should feel. you are so

The person in the book with whom I identify the most is Philip. My life is not like Philip’s after 9/11 and Wisconsin, but before that time, we have a lot in common. Philip and I live on the east coast. Philip lived in Princeton; whereas, I live in Delaware. My Dad and Mom both graduated from elite colleges. Dad graduated from IIT, Indian Institute of Technology, the best engineering school in India. My Mom graduated from Miranda University, one of the top women’s colleges in India. Joel and Amanda, Philip’s parents, both graduated from Harvard. After I was born, Mom quit her job and became a house mom. She drives me and takes care of me whenever I needed help. This was also true with Amanda as she “… quit her job and poured all her energy

“La la la!” I was running around my room dancing to Kidz Bop on Pandora. My blonde hair half up half down.

When I was eight years old, I realized I was slightly different from my dad, but very similar. My dad, and my brother, and I were sitting upstairs in our room and my dad said, “I’m gonna draw something for you guys to guess.” So my brother and I sat there waiting and watched him draw it. My brother and I were interested and what he was drawing and we really liked it. My dad made sure the drawing was well done so we could all guess what it was. He was getting close to the end and me and my brother kept trying to guess it and have fun with it. It took a minute for my brother and I to guess it, but when we finally got it is when I realized I wasn't talented at drawing like my dad and I don't like to draw as much as him. Although I had fun with him, we are very different.

I grew up being the first ever kid to “not have a dad.” My classmates questioned me in ignorance, wondering how I was ever created without a father of my own. This is because I was taught by those around me, at the young age of six, to always reply “I don’t have one,” when asked, “Where’s your dad?”

What keeps me up at night is how privileged I am. My father grew up in a very poverty stricken town, Guanajuato. Even though his family owned a great deal of land to cultivate fruits, they were barely able to make ends meet. My Grandma and father would have to wake up at 5 am to walk all the way to the other side of town and then catch a bus to a nearby town, Celaya, to sell what they had harvested. While there, my father would go to a nearby wasteland to find any old toys or clothes others had thrown out. This was a continuous thing until my dad, at the age of 15 decided to come to the United States, with nothing else other than a few extra pairs of raggedy clothes, that he had gotten from the wasteland. My father stayed in Texas to help provide

There we are, Shelly and I, waking up early that Saturday morning to a hustle and bustle of pumping up ring tubes, packing coolers, walking to the store in the blazing heat, and preparing for the days events. Shelly, being a close childhood friend and later girlfriend of my father, Jeremy, we immediately had a close connection to one another. We had arranged to meet at Stout’s beach, this is not the actual name, but it was named that for one of my dad’s friends Jason Stout, and he was also a close childhood friend of my dads. There were so many of my dads friends who came in support of his memory. Many of these people he called friends he had known since he was a small child. The feeling I had greeting his childhood friends

When I was fourteen I started making excuses to stay with my grandma as much as I could, whether it would be joining clubs, working football games, or just that I wanted to see her. I hated living with my mom and step father. He would go into a drunken rage and I was always his target for bullying so my grandma would gladly take me in. She would hold me when I wanted to break down and cry from the way he would treat me and promised that she would help me in anyway possible. Times that my step father would say something demeaning and hurtful towards me she would be right there to pick up the pieces and put him into his place. She took me in shortly after.

My dad and I were in the car going to our my first organized basketball game. My heart was pounding I was already sweating and I was the most nervous I have ever been in my whole entire life!

It was a cold December night Dad had locked me out of the house it was better than the

When I was in, I think 4th grade and I was playing around and I was called to the office and I didn’t know what for. Was it my dad or mom? Was it someone I didn’t know? Was it just my sister? I had no clue what was about to happen.

I heard a loud yell as I stepped off the last step off the bus. It was 4:02pm and I had just gotten back from school. “Emily, come here! Hurry!” It was my dad. 1 million things raced through my head as I heard the loud yell. Was he hurt? Was someone else hurt? Living on a farm, with animals and machinery, you generally don’t think of anything good when you hear yelling.

I stayed with my dad for the summer while my brothers were at college. I will never forget how much fun we had during that time. As August approached, I was forced to face reality. I no longer had the freedom of my father, but instead the stern holding of a mother trying to keep her life together. I cannot pin point when I harbored a feeling of resentment toward my mother, but I had. I decided that I would make her pay. Middle school was filled with spankings, harsh talks, and constant crying from both my mother and me. I made friends that acted older than their age and disrespected teachers. I skipped classes because the only thing that seemed important to my mom was grades. Despite my behavior, my mother never gave up on her spankings or

I remember talking on the phone with my dad in elementary school and my friends asking me, “Who is ‘Baba’?” or, “Why do you call your dad ‘Baba’?”. Although I was born an American, moments like those made me feel like an alien. I became so ashamed of this language, which I love so dearly today, that I started calling my dad “Dad.” Needless to say, the “Dad” kick didn’t last very long- it just didn’t feel right to me.