Personal Narrative: My Daddy

The most impactful event I experienced, was the loss of my father. I lost my father as a result of homicide, but he had made choices that kept him from being in my life. As a child, I saw my father every month and I enjoyed it: I had two sisters, I could hang out with and play with our dolls. My father could be a loving and great person when he chose to be.

Initially, Carlos (aka Charlie) was court ordered for treatment to explore his issues with substance abuse, when he was arrested for driving while intoxicated. During subsequent sessions, Charlie spoke of his early childhood struggles with being accepted by his family and his rebellious behaviors. Currently, Charlie still explores his issues with his self-esteem while he blames others for the way he feels about himself. However, Charlie had expressed feelings of anger towards those around him including his girlfriends, ex-wives, manager, directors, and co-workers proclaiming them all as losers and himself as a “Winner!” He has commented to reporters that he has no anger issues and it is everyone else’s problem with the way he acts not his,

“No, mon cher,” the woman looks at a flat panel television screen that hangs outside a bar-restaurant near Dana Point, “That isn’t daddy.”

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

“Prove them wrong” When I was in fourth grade my dad and brother and I were playing basketball at our house, to help my brother practice. I had never played basketball except against my brother, Brayden. My dad would always be our referee and it was a lot of fun. Even though I never beat Brayden. Brayden didn’t think I was very good, and he would have to play easy on me instead of playing as well as he could have played. It really annoyed me I wanted to be as good as him or better because I wanted to actually have a chance to be better than him at one sport.

"Victoria! Don't forget to pack, it's your dads weekend." My mom shouted across the hallway in our house. My parents have been divorced since before I was born so every time my father was in town I'd visit him. When I was younger, I would always ask my dad if I could spend the night at my cousins house since they were from his side of his family and that was the only time I could see them. Afterwards it became a routine going over to their house, little by little I hated going there but I was left in silence. One night, my cousin Emily went out with her friends and I was left to sleep alone in her room. As I was slowly falling asleep, I heard the door creek open and quietly shut closed... I quickly awaken, my heart beats as if it is about to pop out of my chest, I weep as movements get closer and he says "shhh.." There he was, beside me gliding his fingers down my belly to places his hands shouldn't be.

The game was a close one… I could hear the cheers and groans from fans, while my hand wa gripped onto the railing hoping the worst won't come. I was waiting with warm box of nachos on my lap for something to happen. I took out a handful of warm cheesey goodness, and stuffed it in my mouth.Warm sizzling cheesey goodness touches down on the surface of my tongue. I look out onto the field my eyes fixed on the players. As the players dash down the field they gained tons of velocity as they get closer to the goal, and then it happened a twenty yard kick turns 4-4 to 4-5.

Daddy was a preacher man. Every Sunday of the month he would go to a different small

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

My stop was the last on the bus. I sit on the bus with my head tucked into the hood of my sweatshirt, so Erik and his friends do not see me. The bus squeaks and pulls to a never-ending stop. I let everyone else off before me and finally walk off, then say “thank you,” the driver.

If there is one thing I have learned in life is that it doesn't take much for someone to be a dad or a mom, but it does take a lot to be a mother and a father. I know this because there are people in this world that call them your dad but that doesn't make them your father, because my dad I always called him dad and he claimed that he was my dad, but then when I was about six I walked into a park and glared at my soon to be step-dad Nick.

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.

my life is not perfet I was born do not have everything like the others my parent dirolce when i was a child iI live with my grandpareants grandma taught to take care of my everything I got love from grandparents Although iI have no father sine I can remember I don't know word father I've never seen a face but I get love from the people around and my mom bak on 6 years ago I'm 12 years old As the memories of special the best story for me I met father come to me my father never saw more than 10 years I was shocked and excited don't think that's true I looked at my father for a long time and I think this is my father  It'good for me  I don't think I will met but why am I like this I'm not interested father unti now I want to go back in time but

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.