My father speaks slowly; his sentences deliberate, exhaustive and eloquent. His ability to describe every step of a mechanical process—with absolute clarity and precision—astounds and inspires me. His compulsion to describe every emotional nuance—with absolute clarity and precision—used to infuriate me. I would become so impatient while arguing with him; I’d fume, and he’d plod through the plot of our conflict, back not just to the flashpoint incident, but farther yet to the underlying principles he understood, and wished I would, and which I wished to scorch. My mother, too, can explain everything, but she knows when I want that. She knows how to give yes-or-no answers to yes-or-no questions. She knows how to give clinical detail and technical terms, then define, elaborate, and translate for the layperson. She knows how to listen to understand what I think or feel, without feeling hurt that I don’t think and feel as she does. She knows when to agree (when she agrees), and when to disagree (when she disagrees); my father knows what seems morally sound, and contests, recoils from, or blocks out all other noise. My mother may sit silently reading, while the rest of the family roils around her, while my father tries to keep order with a wounded look of dismay. My mother will prattle on about gardening or coupon codes or recipes she hopes I’ll try, or books I’ll later love, while I’m trying to sit quietly and read. I wish I didn’t snap at her. Impressive value and power belongs to those who have feet in both writing and some esoteric field, such as astronomy, computer programming, medicine, ecology. My father fixes things. His carpentry comes home with him: little-Japanese-truckloads of surplus lumber from hospitals and schools he b...
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... stuck, when his voice caught, I even helped him end that eulogy. Someday I’ll probably deliver one to each of them, and someday I’ll probably sit with my own youngsters, teaching them to type. I’ll tease from them the poetry I know would please my mother, and I’ll shout at them the rule I learned not from, but for my father: “Be fucking succinct!”
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Susie’s relationship with her parents involve active communication, safety rules, and understanding, which allow her to develop constructive qualities, where...
First, in the story Confetti Girl by Diana Lopez, the main character is longing for a sense of closeness with her dad after losing that connection with her mom when she left, however, instead of working to achieve this with her, her dad is more focused on talking and other things. A quote from this story is, “Nothing’s more important than his books and vocabulary words. He might say I matter, but when he goes on a scavenger hunt for a book I realize that I really don’t” (Paragraph 26). This quote shows that while her father thinks books and school could be their way to connect she thinks that he doesn’t care about her when he goes on of educational Tagines. From this, you can see their different points of view pull them
The following essay being summarized and analyzed, “The Inheritance of Tools” by Scott Russell Sanders was originally published in The North American Review in 1986 and later selected by Gay Talese for The Best American Essays in 1987. This essay chronicles the story of the author learning about his father’s death in which he is quickly reminded of the tools and techniques he learned from his father which was passed down through multiple generations. I will discuss the themes portrayed by the author as well as the organization and connections between ideas, and transitions within the text.
“The Father” by Carolyn Osborn is a story about Darwin and Casey, a couple who meet and begin a whirlwind love affair. This love affair leads to an unexpected pregnancy. Casey, the mother, leaves when the baby is just one month old only to return when the child is three years old. Soon, Darwin is caught in a court battle for custody of a son. Two days before the court date, Darwin discovers he is not the biological father of the child. This makes no difference to Darwin as he has loved and cared for the child since he was born. The central idea of this story is that sometimes the best parent isn’t always the biological parent.
The speaker chooses that he wants to be a writer rather than what his father does since he had “…no spade to follow men like them.” The speaker uses emotion to put himself down while praising his elders. The speaker does not retain the meanings or the cravings to live as his family did and decides to use his pen to write instead. The speaker creates art based on his emotion about his family which allows a connection for the audience to relate
When I go to sleep at night, do you care? Do you even miss us? Your bottles and mistress I need to know, I need to know why are you walking away. Was it something I did? Did I make a mistake? I was raised by my mother for the majority of my infant years the reason is because my father left before I was born. He went missing for a few years and we didn’t know how he was or if he even was alive, I remember thinking to myself, if my father ever thought of us while he was “missing”. One faithful day out of the blue we received an old crusted letter and it was from my father stating that he was no longer in Mexico and was inside the United States. “What on Earth was he doing there”, I thought to myself. Over the course of my beginning years I didn’t
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Even at the age of 17, many adults have praised me for being a well-rounded, responsible, and mature young adult. Though I am often complimented for my character, I have my mother to thank. She is a big part of the reason why I am the person I am today. From academic awards to character recognitions, my mother has helped me reach all of those accomplishments. From a young child to a young adult, my mother has taught me to be obedient, respectful, and nice. She has ensured that I keep my conduct in check and my grades up to par.
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