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Elite Veteran
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Location: Inside the Writer's Digest office | Write about a heated argument you had with your parents (real or fictitious).
You can post your response (500 words or fewer) here. | |
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Veteran
Posts: 190
Location: swamps o' Florida | Sunday morning breakfast was so good, no rush, t.v. afterwards, feet up, digesting… nice. Dad entered the living room with his paper tucked under one arm, coffee in hand, looking for the remote.
“Here it is Dad.” I handed over the remote and started to get up from his favorite chair which also happened to be my favorite chair. “ Dad, I finally have enough money saved up to get a motorcycle!” I stated o so innocently in hindsight, not knowing what fury I was about to unleash.
The lay z boy the paper, the remote and the coffee were all forgotten now, along with it the promise of a pleasant Sunday.
“There is no way in hell I am going to let you buy a motorcycle, you might as well just find your own place to live if you‘re going to buy a damn motorcycle!” Dad didn’t really yell, actually, when my Dad was really upset his voice would take a lower pitch. The opposite of my Mom whose pitch would raise into the supersonic dog hearing range when upset, thus allowing her protests to go largely ignored.
In an uncharacteristically defiant reply, I shouted, “You won’t help me buy a car! I have enough money for a bike! I’ll just be using it around town!”
Dad wasn’t hearing any of it. “Fine! If you have some place to move to, then go ahead, but while you live under my roof you will not buy a motorcycle!”
Dad left the house, slamming the door behind him.
I was completely shocked by the violence of his reaction. This was the first fight my Dad and I had in years. I knew that there was no way I was going to buy a bike unless I could get him to change his mind.
I started scheming on a plan to win Dad over. It would take time of course, but with the properly executed campaign I was sure he would see how responsible I would be with a bike.
Weeks later my friend Mike came up the steps to our apartment. I was so glad to see him, I had been thinking about him and for some reason hadn’t had a chance to catch up with him at school.
“Mike! Hey! As he walked in I started teasing him about his new girlfriend, after loving her from afar for many months he was so happy to find that she thought him worthy boyfriend material.
I was oblivious to the tears in his eyes. I had a new joke to tell him, that I had been waiting all this time to tell him, I told him to shut up so I could tell him the new joke, and I told him to quit telling me Sam was dead.
“Shut up! He is not dead!” Mike put his hands on my shoulders and looked me directly in the eyes, and repeated it over again. When his words finally made it into my consciousness, I fell to the floor screaming.
Sam was my good friend and so well liked by almost everyone that it was hard not to consider the old addage of the good dying young. Of course he was on his motorcycle, he was riding at night on an unlit road and hit a rock in the road that sent his bike out of control. He was seventeen.
My seventeen year old son came to me last week, excited because he thinks he can get together enough money for a motorcycle.
“There is no way in hell I am going to let you buy or for that matter ride a motorcycle, you might as well find your own place to live if you buy a damn motorcycle!” The tone of my voice was lowered to the same pitch of my Dad’s voice, and I set my foot down then and there with the same fury as my father, as I looked into the shocked eyes of my son.
Edited by Neets 2009-08-26 2:34 PM
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New User
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Location: BC, Canada | "Space, you want space?" My mother screamed at me from her vantage point at the top of the stairs. "Listen Missy, until you are actually an adult your space is my space; got it!" She stared me down with her best ‘I mean business’ mother's stare. What could I say? As any of us know, you can not say anything after that stare from your mother. I conceded, dropped my shoulders and let me gaze move to the floor.
"I thought so. Now you can go to your room, which is still my space, and think about this argument and what you might change next time." With her edict delivered, she turned and went back into the kitchen. I waited for her to be out of sight before I turned my back and quietly closed the door to my room. Then I dramatically threw my body on to my bed, head first into the pillow and silently screamed out all my frustration until the pillow was smothering me and I was forced to stop.
I pulled myself up on the bed and hugged my knees into my chest. I could still feel the frustration warming my cheeks and sending tense waves through my muscles. It wasn’t fair how a mother could unilaterally decide that something you wanted was not allowable. It was like being a lion cub getting picked up by the scruff and carried away, helplessly, against your will. I am fifteen years old and going to a co-ed birthday party is hardly an unreasonable request. My friends did it all the time for crying out loud. I sighed deeply then released my legs, stood and started pacing the room. Thinking as she said, about what I could have changed about the argument.
The conversation had started with my asking if I could help her in the kitchen. This of course automatically alerted her mother’s version of ‘spidey-sense’. Why was I offering to help? What did I want? She was right to question my motive, I did want something. My conversation was light at first, small talk about her day, while I started to help drying the dishes. Looking at this now I can see that my conversation added to her suspicion. My tone was different, it was, a little phoney. After a moment I went in for the strike.
“Mom, Tanya invited me to her birthday party. Can I go?” I said a little too forcefully like I was blurting it out. She was quiet. Her expression showed that she was considering my request. Then it happened. “Will her parents be there?” she said calmly. And, that was it, she had caught me; she knew the hidden agenda. The defensive yelling, crying and pleading followed and led to the demand for my own space, a stomping to my basement room and her proclamation.
I sat back down on my bed, pulling my knees up again. I let my head rest on my arms and I sighed. “Damn, she’s good.” I said out loud in a whisper.
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Member
Posts: 16
Location: Same place, just 17 years later | I don't get it. A man, my mom's husband and she are still married. A marriage for thirty- three years, he cheated on my mom, moved out of the house, and in his old age--56--got his mistress pregnant. Although the baby is biologically not his child, he decided to stay with his mistress anyway. What an dumb donkey.
"He's still your father!" mom said angrily.
"He doesn't give a ship about you...about the family." I answered and then administered some other curse words.
Surely, she had to know that any man who commited to paying the rent at their shared home in which their autistic son resided, and who jeopardized the living arrangements of her, my brother and me to the brink of eviction, did NOT deserve another chance.
"He would rather see us on the street...why would you let him move back in?" I screamed.
"We need his three hundred dollars," she shouted back, "he's gonna pay three-hundred-dollars every month to store his stuff in our garage. Can you pay his share? You can't afford it!"
"NO! This is ridiculous! You are so ridiculous! He doesn't care about us. He's trying to use us again. Why are you letting him do this?"
My mom ignored me, she turned her back swiftly and whizzed across the floor to the other side of the kitchen. She snatched my cars keys off of the wall and with them gripped tightly in her right hand, she pulled her arm back like an archer and threw them at me.
The keys hit my bare skin and turned the space on my chest, the clean, cocoa colored skin under my neck into a three-inch long, reddened bruise.
"If you don't like it, then you leave!" She said with rapid fire, "get out! you need to learn some respect!"
"Wow, you're really, really ridiculous." I answered.
I haven't spoken to neither of my parents for the last two years. I promised myself that I would call my mom for Thanksgiving and Christmas, but I won't, because I'm stigmatized by the whole 'holiday' cynicism thing in which you 'call the ones you love, and tell them that you love them'; It's so typical, so human.
I planned to reach out and touch her again for Valentine's Day and then on Easter, but, it just doesn't materialize.
She doesn't even know that she has a grandchild by me; a handsome boy, my handsome, gorgeous son, Gabriel--petal-soft, cafe-au-lait skin with faithful, lime green eyes and supple wavy locks.
Edited by LoReina 2009-08-30 9:01 AM
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Member
Posts: 16
Location: Maplewood, Minnesota | VERY GOOD! I liked it a LOT! You totally pulled me into both characters. I felt their emotions and I can relate.  | |
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Location: BC, Canada | Thank you for your feeback I really appreciate it! | |
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New User
Posts: 4
| At thirteen years old, I felt the phone was a legitimate accessory to every outfit. Going outside in a t-shirt and shorts? Phone goes on the ear. Climbing into bed in a knee-length nightgown after a long day in eighth grade? Phone goes on the ear.
Apparently, this was frustrating to my mother. But since she didn't have any friends, or it seemed to me at the time, I didn't give a thought to ferreting 50 - 100 calls each day. During one such call, I heard the click of a second call. Excited at the idea of incoming eighth grade news, I put my current call on hold and hit the "flash" button on my coveted black cordless phone, only to be disappointed since the caller was not for me.
Unfortunately, I was already on the phone discussing what I'm sure was high priority topic. I politely explained to the second caller that I was on the phone, but would be happy to take a message. Quite proud of myself, I even wrote it down on a piece of handy scrap paper. Oops. When I hung up the phone about an hour later, still holding my cordless in my left hand, I palmed the scrap paper with the message in my right hand and headed upstairs to my mother's room.
I proudly presented my mom with the message from her old friend and stood for a second, waiting for the praise at what a good job I did, writing down the message and remembering to deliver it. The look my mother returned fell somewhat short, if she was trying for pride. Which I'm sure she wasn't, because the following shout of "What the hell?" didn't exactly fill me with warmth of her love.
My mom had a habit of letting things simmer too long in her tolerance burner and then exploded in a fury of flying dishes. When I got the yell thrown at me, I was sure household goods were to follow. I stepped aside as she flew past.
Instead of returning the call, my mother decided that the solution was to eliminate the phone. She stormed down the stairs where the base of my phone plugged into the wall. This was in the room next to our workshop. A workshop that contained tools. My mother grabbed the crowbar off the wall. She turned and glared at my innocent phone base, and smashed it into 35 pieces, I counted later. I stood there for a minute, devastated at the loss of my phone more than her rage, then left the room.
The next day she picked me up from school and handed me a package. The note attached contained a new phone number and the package, a new cordless. I was the first among my friends to have their own phone line, just so my mother wouldn’t miss the second call she got three months later.
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Member
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‘Dad, you should increase my pocket money from Rs 20 to Rs 30, otherwise I cannot go to college?’
‘Ok, you need not go to college,you remain at home,’
I was shocked at the reaction of my father.I felt sorry that he could not understand that my demand was only legitimate.
‘Dad, this is not the correct way or approach; Then why did you admit me in the Engineering course. I have already finished three years. This is the final year. Now you say that I may remain at home.’
‘I have been paying regularly Rs 20/ -towards your bus fare, and other pocket expenses, but all of a sudden you are demanding a 50 % hike.Is it fare on your part?’
‘Dad, I am not asking anything for me.The bus fare has been hiked by three rupees.A tea or a coffee has also become dearer by two and three rupees, due to the hike in the price of milk.What can I do? Having supported all these years, how can you bluntly come forward with such a reply?’
‘Ok, Ok,Here is the money that you asked for.You go to college.’
‘Thank you dad!’ I heaved a sigh of relief and proceeded towards the bus stop.
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Member
Posts: 18
| THE ARGUMENT: My Girlfriend. ALL CAPITALS=ITALICS(Didn't know how to paste it like that)
(I would love if somebody or a couple people could comment on the speech. I am a beginner and I realize there is no formed story here, but I am interested in improving my dialogue. I will also respond to those people's pieces too.)
Thanks. Here goes nothing:
My mother hated her. Said she was too young and immature for me. I, Dale, was 55. She, Belinda, was 35. But the age didn’t matter to me.
“Obviously,” my mother retorted. “ You’re too afraid of somebody your own age. She might manhandle you.”
“Like you did?”
“That’s not fair Dale. I never broke your balls like your father did. G-d rest his soul.”
“But you broke them halfway like my father did.”
‘’Yes, but you needed it. You were an ornery boy.”
“Well, listen, what does this have to do with Belinda. When she came over here today, you looked at her as if she were a piece of trash and not the fine woman that she is.”
“ Yes, but she’s half your age! What are you going to do when you are sixty five and she is fourty five. And you know,” my mother reminded me in that way meant to teach a lesson, “a woman is in her sexual prime when she is in her forties.”
“I know that Mom,” I reminded her. “It’s not that the thought never crossed my mind. Believe me, Belinda and I have discussed it thoroughly.”
“And what did you come up with, might I ask?”
“What we came up with was that we both like each other-“
“You are supposed to more than like each other. You are supposed to LOVE each other.” And that “ L” just rolled off the tip of her tongue.
“I DO love her. That’s what you don’t understand.”
“Fine. Ruin your life. But don’t come crying to me when you hit sixty and she runs off with another guy.”
“I won’t come crying to you. I assure you. I can take care of myself.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it.
Edited by Oriole 2009-10-14 11:44 PM
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Member
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Location: California | Write something that makes you sound a bit mature. Since your topic sounds like trying to challenge the capacity of parent. Making few justifications but still trying to emphasize the lessons and good moral values of the author. This goal would help others understand why there would sometimes conflicts and how to deal with them. | |
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Extreme Veteran
Posts: 440
| I could feel the emotion. That was tense. I enjoyed it!
Keep up the good work.
Liked:
"We need his three hundred dollars," she shouted back, "he's gonna pay three-hundred-dollars every month to store his stuff in our garage. Can you pay his share? You can't afford it!"
A marriage for thirty- three years, he cheated on my mom, moved out of the house, and in his old age--56--got his mistress pregnant. Although the baby is biologically not his child, he decided to stay with his mistress anyway. What an dumb donkey. | |
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New User
Posts: 4
| The picture frame hanging from the wall to my right violently shifted with each step I took.
“I swear to God, mother, you harm so much as one fething hair on her head and I will finish what I started back in the day! You and I both know I don't give a rats arse about hurting you if you push me, so don't!”
Mom took a step back for a brief second, terror on her face melting away to rage.
“How dare you, I am your mother, you will honor me!”
I let out a laugh, maniacal, full of hate before glaring down at her from the six inches height that separated us.
“Honor you?” I guffawed “You beat me, you hurt me, you humiliated me, you never listened, thought I was a dupe and a moron for years, called every dream I've ever had unrealistic, not to mention all the lies that you fed everyone else when I had bruises on my body, you strapped me to a chair with belts and made me watch as the rest of you ate Lunch, Dinner, and Ice Cream because you didn't think I'd had enough discipline for your tastes, and I'm supposed to honor you?”
I let out a sigh and slammed my fist into the cherry wood table to my right, the glasses on it dancing to the rhythm of my outburst before settling down.
“It's never been about anything but appearances to you, you and your church and how we all looked, you were never mad at me for a damn thing I did, just for how bad it made you looked. Don't think I don't know that's why you thought it was o.k. to beat the crap out of me. And I swear, I will put you through more than a wall this time if you touch her, she's not even 6 damn it!”
She looked at me, the rage in my eyes and realized I wasn't kidding, she knew right there and then that I'd kill her to protect my baby sister, and she lowered her gaze, either ashamed or afraid I'm still not sure which.
“Get out.” She said, barely loud enough for me to hear. “Get out, you moved out, you will not run this house like it's yours...You didn't even have the nerve to tell me you were leaving, and then your stuff was all gone. Get. Out.” Looking up again, this time with regret but definite resolve.
My anger flared just a bit at her quiet, this would have been the time she'd smacked me, punched me, when I was still a teenager relying on her, but she knew what would happen then if she tried. I nodded and headed for the door, shoulder checking the woman who'd given birth to me twenty years prior as if she was one of those jocks I'd despised in high school.
Edited by shadesofkin 2009-11-04 10:58 AM
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Parents Just Don't Understand - 8/25
