Ash Champlain

Teacher Name

English 160

September 22 2022

Richard Edward Champlain, my father, has always been the bad guy. He would shower my sister and  me with gifts, candies, trips to the diner, and endless amounts of tickets at the arcade. He was the supposed ‘fun parent.’ He made things fun because we got away with everything. This might sound amazing and fun, especially for a kid, but I can’t remember when he would say he loved me, or when he ever gave me a hug.

Coming home after school, I’d see him on his usual dark, mustard yellow, old-looking recliner chair, that looked to be from the 80’s, probably reading the Funnies in the newspaper from the day before. He’d not move a muscle after the door had shut to ask, “Did you guys do your homework?” Only to get a lying response of, “Yeah, we did it on the bus.” Then my sister and I would dash upstairs, throw our bags down, and get comfortable into bed.

But no, obviously we didn’t do our online math homework on the half an hour bus ride home.

Nevertheless, whenever my dad was home, I wouldn’t do anything school related, especially since my father wouldn’t check in on me. I got away with almost anything if it was him and I under the roof. I could eat whatever junk food my little-kid-self desired, watch whatever I wanted to watch for however long my eyes could watch the bright TV screen before melting out of their sockets, I didn’t have to do my homework, and I also could ask my dad to drive me anywhere I needed or wanted to be.

Until it was time to pick up my mother from the train station, I would watch YouTube or play Minecraft. The three of us- me, my father, and my sister- would then drive to the train station, wait for my mom to walk down the steps, and then we would all go home and have dinner together. It was a pretty basic schedule if you ask me; wake up, go to school, come home, not do my homework, snack, pick up mom, eat dinner, not do more homework until I pass out, then repeat everything the next day.

Both of my parents loved me, at least at some point. I know my mother always has and still does. When I was younger, my parents loved me differently and the difference was very clear to me. Growing up as a kid who wasn’t entirely poor but also not filthy rich made it hard for my family to get things we wanted, yet all I wanted and needed as a kid was love. I did receive love as a kid, just in ways I didn’t realize. My mother, for example, would set a bedtime for me, cook healthy dinners, and made sure I dressed to the best of my tom-girl-like wardrobe’s power.

I never spoke to my mom much; I’d always want to talk or hang out with my friends. But she would always make sure my sister and I did our homework, and make sure we didn’t spend more than an hour on our screens. She was a good mother, still is, but to my young eyes she was the bad guy out of both my parents because of all the rules she set for me. Or, maybe because she actually loved, cared for, and protected me the way a mother should.

Looking back now, I realize she was not the best parent though. She was mean, would yell at my sister and I whenever we were fighting, even if we weren’t fighting, and wouldn’t let us get things we wanted unless it was our birthday or Christmas. My mother taught me that money was always tight, that we didn’t have a lot of it, and asking for ‘unnecessary things’ was wrong. So now I have money guilt, amongst other things caused by her ‘lessons’ and ‘lectures’.[12]

On the other hand, before things got bad, my father was always the good guy. He would do anything I asked when I was young. Mom said I couldn’t go on the dragon ride at Funland? Dad took me just by himself one night and let me go on it. I couldn’t have two milkshakes from the diner? One day when I was sick, my father picked me up mid-day from school and took me to the diner. I had one milkshake with my pancakes and a small shake for the road. My dad really was a fun parent. He treated me like I was his favorite thing and would do anything for me.

I didn’t get to do a bunch of father-son things with him as he was quite lazy. He had diabetes as well, which made simple things such as being outside ‘too much’ for him. Later on, he became the bad guy. I could see it, the way he changed so quickly. Then again he always was; I was just too young to grasp the fact that he started being rude to me, and I made sure it was only me, and he would increasingly get more and more aggressive over time to the point where it was almost an everyday occurrence. My mother just wanted to protect and care for me, while my father just did his best to bribe me for my love.

His bribes worked.

From being a little kid and getting small gifts, or whatever it was my mom wouldn’t let me do, to being a teen and getting gifts in the act of physical violence or whatever my mom didn’t know about. I thought it was all love, I thought and believed for a while. Back then I never understood why he would do such harsh things, but here I am now afraid of becoming what he was; I’m scared I’ll get physical with the ones I love, unable to control my aggression when needed, that my voice will be just a few octaves higher than I indented, and that the way I love people will be portrayed as anger towards others. It was only about nine months before his passing when he would treat me with such vicious acts of violence, and I was only a confused twelve year old when he started.

Once he was starting to go in and out of hospitals due to his poor health, life seemed a little more peaceful in the household. I’m aware that sounds terrible, but it’s true. A part of me believes I helped manifest my father’s death. A week before he was first admitted to the hospital, we got into a heated argument and I wished he were dead. Who wishes for their own parents’ death? I guess I do. After the countless trips and him practically being on his deathbed, I was asked to say goodbye to him.

I said no.

As much as I despised my last moments with my father, I did not want to see him in such poor conditions: the tubes, pale skin, can’t really talk, and so on. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Even though he was the person he was,I regret not saying goodbye.

 

First person

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nice transitional phrase. Gives story sense of momentum

 

 

 

 

 

There’s many places you can go with this story but the problem is that I can’t tell what the concept of it is. There’s a few ideas I have but idk. There’s the realization that Love varies with the people. There’s a possibility that you could go with “Normal looks different for everyone”. Maybe the fact that I have very diverse guesses can be a problem. – Aaliyah

 

 

 

 

 

Good use of short sentences to add emotional emphasis and impact the reader

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Really impactful final sentence to end on!

 

The Lesson sounds like forgiveness. It’s nice but something about it makes you kind of space while reading. That might be to the fact that for most por the story, you don’t feel like there’s a point. Though the end does make itself. – Aaliyah