Michelle E. Diaz
Prof. Beck
ENC 1101 - 189381
November 3, 2014
Narrative Essay Revision
Resentment: Self-Inflicted and Self-Cured
Overcoming an obstacle doesn't mean that certain events have to stop occurring so that it's classified as overcome. I was once told, “Life is ten percent what happens to you and ninety percent how you respond to it.” I believe that to be 100% correct. I was raised in a culture where the man of the family, the father, the husband, holds the utmost authority and responsibility over the well being of his family. At the beginning this is the way that I viewed my dad, but with time I realized that "the man of the family" is also just a simple man with a title. It was his lack of persevering when we needed him most as a family that made my views towards him change. Even though I spent most of my teenage years resenting him for everything he never did, I can say that I no longer blame him for that. It was his negligence that made me realize the importance of the decisions I make in my life whether they’re big or small; because of this, I've learned to be happier and a much better person for myself.
My dad is a very laid back man. From what little I know about him I can't seem to pinpoint anything that defines him other than my childhood memories. I see him faintly drawing perfect boxes and squares and sometimes reading books titled Master It. He pursued architecture as his vocation. When I was young, I would sit behind him and admire his body leaned over a big drawing table under bright white lights for hours at a time: hours of silence and the smell of lead and rubber eraser in the air. If I had to call anything his passion, it would be architecture. There was nothing else he did more intently than drawing two-dimensional masterpieces of three-dimensional buildings. I can't complain about the quality of my childhood, as he was always a figure of inspiration to my fictional conquests. I can't say I never looked up to him, and sometimes I still miss his soothing voice strumming away to the melody of a guitar. To say the least, I never expected to find his true colors shine like grays of negligence.
When I turned thirteen years old my family had been separated by immigration because we had an order of deportation. The only reason I'm here today is because my parents were cooperative with the immigration agents. The agents allowed us to stay so that we may gather our things, but there was one condition. One member of the family had to be removed, and my father was that designated person. It was heartbreaking to feel my dad holding us tight in his arms, all of us with tears in our eyes. Nevertheless, I strongly believed that everything would be okay and that my family would be together sooner than I could notice. I would tell myself every day that we would be together soon, and like that, five years swiftly passed by.
Close to seven years without seeing my dad, I started questioning why he never did anything to change our situation. I saw how hard my mom had worked for my brothers and me, and I noticed that my father didn't do much. He never seemed to keep jobs, or even save money to help my mom with his children. What troubled me the most was that I knew how intelligent, charismatic, and talented he was, but it was for nothing. I later learned that he wasted most of his earnings on himself. My mom never really told me all the details, but from what I could grasp, his selfish desires seemed more important than his kids. I began to ask myself if he was playing some sort of twisted role. I just couldn't understand