Personal Narrative: The Influence Of Domestic Violence

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I am a kaleidoscope of my mother’s committed recklessness and my father’s wayfaring humanity. I am the random chaos between humility and self-love, between Sikhism and clouded judgment, between yesterday and tomorrow. To the “responsible” child, a divorce is when time and motion cease to be, when two unenthusiastic partners become stuck in this tired, old dance. But with a dreadful unfamiliarity and yet the hope of relief, I knew it was coming. I remember the piercing sting of fingernails grinding into my hand as I tried to stop one of them from calling the Johns Creek police or how words failed me in Ms. Gibson’s class because partner violence really has a way of shutting an 8th grader up. Yet I could never tell if it was a frenzy of love or hate that coiled and tangled us together. Eventually, my mother left; she only fought for custody of my siblings. It was a simple act, not a new line in the script. Simple and sordid. …show more content…

She left and he stayed. Time to switch into “Daddy Mode.” No mentioning of Mama, no acting “rude,” no complaining about the food served for dinner –I can do this. Sure, giving my family the silent treatment helped but so did the unconditional support from my friends. I am still the “responsible” child, but I foster a seriousness mixed with a graceful gaiety; now, I even make dinner. I feel a familiar sense of calm come over me beyond the honey-colored walls of my Sikh temple, my gurdwara. I am in complete awe. The journey I make every Sunday sparks reveries of the days when I still had flowing, ebony hair falling down at my knees. For Sikhs, hair is a symbol of love for God and respect for everything he has given us. Although I kept my mane for fifteen years, I no longer harbored dreams of split ends and being called “blue avatar.” I wanted others to see the beauty and potential in me without assuming that they should pity me or think differently about me because of my

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