Parent Exploration II
I used to pride myself on the fact that my parents - unlike so many others of my peers - were still together, still married. They married in 1974, sporting afros amidst a creme-baby blue color scheme. And today, despite my mom's frequent "Your father is so asinine"s, they still share the same last name. I remember asking my mother once, when I truly understood the meaning of divorce, why my "asinine" father was still her husband...she shrugged and offered a slight smile. Today, I have a fiancé of my own that does things I don't always understand, a man who I don't always agree with...a man I love because our differences and misunderstandings make life more interesting. And I can't see us separated, nor can I see my parents apart.
But there was one day - a day that stretched out for almost three years - that I caused a rift between my parents. A divorce.
I had the wisdom of a high school graduate, the optimism of youth endowed by a naive knowledge that - despite all the mismatched perfection pieces lying ahead of me - things would right themselves before the buzzer.
His name was Charles, and he was the first boy that gave me the attention my girlhood fantasies dictated was appropriate. he was intensely devoted to me and expected the same focus placed on him. He challenged my devotion - insisting that I use the L-word within a week of our meeting - and threw tantrums when I chose to spend time or side with my family and friends instead of him. I forced myself to believe that it was love...and i took the bad with this lie.
A month after graduating high school, his mother and father chose to rekindle their marriage...and Charles prepared to move to Georgia.
It was move or stand still and I followed him, letting him carry me like a feather in the wind.
It was an early July morning when we had finally filled the U-HAUL truck. It was time to leave.
Mere minutes before our departure, a car pulled up to a house it had never seen. My mother and oldest brother, Nathan, stepped out. My father was nowhere to be found.
It was impossible to make eye contact with my mother as I asked why my dad was absent. "He couldn't make it" was her vague answer, delivered in a weak voice.
But I could see through her words. I knew he wasn't chained to his desk at work or otherwise occupied...he hadn't come because he couldn't support my decision.
I swallowed this truth, the same way I'd swallowed the truth that I was making a mistake... My father knew it, my mother knew it, and I knew it...
But my mother had mustered up the strength - though I know she shed many tears as a result of my move - to stand there and watch me ride away.
But there was one day - a day that stretched out for almost three years - that I caused a rift between my parents. A divorce.
I had the wisdom of a high school graduate, the optimism of youth endowed by a naive knowledge that - despite all the mismatched perfection pieces lying ahead of me - things would right themselves before the buzzer.
His name was Charles, and he was the first boy that gave me the attention my girlhood fantasies dictated was appropriate. he was intensely devoted to me and expected the same focus placed on him. He challenged my devotion - insisting that I use the L-word within a week of our meeting - and threw tantrums when I chose to spend time or side with my family and friends instead of him. I forced myself to believe that it was love...and i took the bad with this lie.
A month after graduating high school, his mother and father chose to rekindle their marriage...and Charles prepared to move to Georgia.
It was move or stand still and I followed him, letting him carry me like a feather in the wind.
It was an early July morning when we had finally filled the U-HAUL truck. It was time to leave.
Mere minutes before our departure, a car pulled up to a house it had never seen. My mother and oldest brother, Nathan, stepped out. My father was nowhere to be found.
It was impossible to make eye contact with my mother as I asked why my dad was absent. "He couldn't make it" was her vague answer, delivered in a weak voice.
But I could see through her words. I knew he wasn't chained to his desk at work or otherwise occupied...he hadn't come because he couldn't support my decision.
I swallowed this truth, the same way I'd swallowed the truth that I was making a mistake... My father knew it, my mother knew it, and I knew it...
But my mother had mustered up the strength - though I know she shed many tears as a result of my move - to stand there and watch me ride away.
Criticism II
Well, you're writing this piece finally...and that is definitely a step in the right direction. Spend more time detailing the actual experience and don't bog the reader down with so much introspection. Granted, it is a short memory (albeit an important one)...but try to put the reader INTO the scene.
Expand on your interpretation of your father's absence. Compare your parents' ways of dealing with the situation at hand.
Expand on your interpretation of your father's absence. Compare your parents' ways of dealing with the situation at hand.
continue
