First Last Name

October 9, 2016

English, Period 1

 Sample Memoir  A Confrontation

My dad and I have never seen eye to eye no matter what the situation was or about. Whatever it is, we have always seemed to butt heads. Our disagreements are usually loud and both of us seem to never want to back down and give the other that pleasurable feeling of triumph even when things turn ugly. Although our debates are mostly verbal, one particular disagreement will always stand out to me in a monumental way.

During the summer before eighth grade my dad and I got into a very large and somewhat frightening, as my younger sister puts it, confrontation. It was about how late I could stay up, before going to bed. I wanted to stay up later, after  my sister left because she was younger than me, and I wasn’t going to have the same bedtime as her, but my dad would not allow it.

It was Sunday evening and my dad had just gotten home. I came out of my room, and he seemed to be in a bad mood which might have been a factor contributing to how he would later act. My dad, who is my adopted dad, is more on the stricter side of things, and he likes things done his way.  Be warned, there are no changing things after what he says is final.  I said that I wanted a later bedtime, after my sister was gone, and I recall that he looked at me, stood up, towering over me. His face contorted, but instead of cowing before him like I’ave seen other kids cower before the bully, I stood up straighter, and pulled on my own fierce mask.

“ You don’t get to tell me what to do, you're not my real dad.” I growled, my eyes narrowing. I knew it was a low blow, but I was angry. I was not going to back down. He started to walk towards me, and I stepped forward to meet him; I would not become panicky or paralyzed with the fear that was slowly building inside me.  When he noticed that I had stepped forward, he got even closer and continued talking-shouting is more accurate-but I wasn’t  really hearing what he was telling me. It was like I was deaf to what he was saying.  How come when the adult says that it is final everyone listens to them, but when the daughter says that it is final, no one listens to her?

“What did you just say to me, Megan?” He spat at me. The tension was palpable in the room. I was tired of how he always got the last word, of how he always made me apologize to him even when he was the disrespectful one, how he didn’t have to apologize no matter what he did to me. Even if he was the adult in the room, sometimes he acted like a child. For example, sometimes, when i wouldn’t do something that he asked of me, he would have a sort of temper tantrum, and he would go to my room, and take some of my things like a little child having a fit, instead of being the adult.  

I then remember being grabbed roughly by the shoulders, dragged down the hallway, and to my room. I first felt pain, and it wasn’t until a second later that I realized that my dad had physically touched me and moved me as he pleased. This though enraged me.

“Don’t touch me you-!” I screamed. I twisted in his grip and slapped him. On the chest. Granted, it wasn’t much of a slap, me being still held in his iron grip, but his face said all that was needed to without words.

He. Was. Pissed.  He dropped me to the floor, and just then my mom came into my room. I don’t remember when I had started to cry, but suddenly I had tears streaming down my face. I felt almost betrayed by them, as if they wanted me to seem weak. And I’ll be damned before my dad thinks that I was weak. My mom was the one who eventually got my dad out of my room and away from me. “Mark, stop it, be the bigger person.”

For the rest of that week my dad didn’t look or speak to me.  Eventually, we came to speaking terms. Although, i don’t think that i will ever truly trust him again. Looking back, I finally realize that maybe lashing out all the time isn’t such a good thing. I have learned that while it is okay to disagree with someone; it is not alright to physically touch them. This is a fault against both my dad and I. I don’t want anyone to think anything bad of my dad because this was partly my fault too, but I hope that in the future nothing like this will ever happen again.

I feel like now, even though I still have that stubborn streak in me, I feel like it is not as potent as it was. It will always be a part of me, but i feel like it has receded in a sense.  I still will have many more disagreements in the future, with both my family and friends, but hopefully none will turn physical. To finally realize my mistake, and how to fix it, I feel somewhat freed now, as if a weight has been lifted from my shoulders and I can breathe again without the fear of drowning.