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Your father shot himself; those are the words so engraved in my mind that every time I remember them, I hear my mothers voice as she said them to me that late night in July. I was 14 years old in the summer of 1989 when my father shot himself in the head. My parents had been divorced for about five years and been separated because of problems they had for much longer than I can recall. My father had remarried a former housekeeper with one child of her own and four of his; this was not a man who believed in the vows of marriage he had once uttered to my very young mother at the age of 15 in front of a judge in a courthouse. My life as a child was one filled with love from my parents, my four older brothers, and older sister.
Then along came my younger brother to take away what I felt was my place, being the baby in the family. My father was the traditional Mexican male with a strong belief that women belong in the kitchen barefoot and pregnant; this I know from the simple fact of being one of the seven children he bore with my mother. My father was a very successful landscaper who ran his own business and spoke the minimum English necessary. We were raised in a household in which we were consistently reminded that we were not Americans and we must speak our native language, better said by my father as, No somos gringos, en mi casa se habla el Espanol. In the eyes of many people we were from a great family who had it all, but behind closed doors we lived a life in which we were sometimes afraid of the one man we should have felt protection and love from. My father was very strict and set in his ways and no matter how hard you tried he was never pleased.
I was fortunate enough to be the apple of his eye and could do no wrong while my mother, brothers, and sister consistently got the bad end of the stick. We lived in Chula Vista, a decent neighborhood on the south side of San Diego on a piece of land that was about an acre in size with a small two-bedroom house right in the middle of it all. My parents had one bedroom, my sister and I shared the other and my brothers had the garage, which was converted into a bedroom. We were not an ordinary family having dinners or outings together, the boys did one thing while the girls did another. My father would occasionally take us camping to different parts of Mexico and he would invite his friends along with their families.
Camping was always fun for my brothers and me but for my mother and my sister, this meant cooking and washing dishes outside and still cleaning up after the boys. We were a baseball family being that there were four boys old enough to play, so we went to the Padres games and that was always fun. Of course, the girls were only allowed to attend if my mother came along otherwise it was a boys only event. I think those were the only times we shared time together as a family.
My fathers business was well off and the majority of his work was located about two hours north; this meant he left for work early and came home late, if at all. My mother did not work outside of the home, her job was to tend to my father and us kids. She would wake up early to cook breakfast for my father and pack him a nice warm lunch with homemade tortillas and then of course, cook breakfast for us and get us ready for school. She made dinner for us, then prepared dinner for my father when he came home. He was so ungrateful for all he had.
I think he felt that he deserved it all. In a way, I think I believed it was my mothers duty to tend to my father as she did and to do everything for me too, I had never known anything different. Not having my father around for most of my childhood didnt make me love him any less, in fact I thought life was great with no father around to punish me and only to spoil me when he was there. I always heard my friends talk about how mean their fathers were and I knew deep down inside, mine was too; but he wasnt around enough for me to realize it, let alone tell my friends. My mom put up with a lot of my fathers attitude and ungratefulness throughout the years and never complained.
The sad part is, I know I was always so much happier when he wasnt around because I knew my mother was better off and my brothers and sister werent getting hit or yelled at for petty things. I guess I always thought hed be there in one way or another and that one day in July, he left with no good-bye. That day changed me forever. Nearly a year later, I wrote a poem about how I felt about a year later because until then, it all seemed like a dream and I just knew hed be back again; hed left before and not called so this to me again, was one of those times. I think the reality shocked me and made me realize that no matter how awful things were, I should have always wanted more time spent with my father. This incident in my life not only strengthened the relationship between my mother and myself, but I love and respect her even more for having the heart to tell me that no matter how bad my father treated her, I should not hate him.
I have grown to forgive him so that he may rest in peace and be forgiven for the sin he had committed. I remember him always talking about how welfare wasnt for us and how the men in my family would succeed and the women would marry hard-working Mexican men who would take care of them. All of this has made me a stronger person in which I have accomplished most everything he wanted the men in my family to do. I have grown to be independent and I realize that life doesnt always have a happy ending for everyone.
No Good-Bye I was the apple of your eye And still today I wonder why I was daddys little girl As precious as a pearl I was as free as a dove And yet you gave me all your love You let me fly, oh so high And promised never to say good-bye It was one of the coldest days When they called to say you went away I felt so helpless and blue And yet it seemed untrue You didnt want to run So you took your life with a gun You left a day in July Without a simple good-bye My heart has an empty space Because you didnt say good-bye face to face Soon it will be your birthday again And when that day comes, it will stir feelings from within So you see youre on my mind And yet I feel my eyes are blind I cannot find you anywhere Its a feeling of desperation I cannot bare Everynight I sit and pray That Ill be with you again someday Everynight I sit and cry Because you left with no good-bye
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Research essay sample on Left With No Good Bye Left With No Good Father
