Personal Narrative: Car Rides Home

Her sequestered rebellion began with advice murmured during our car rides home. “Make sure you ask your partner’s friends about their ethics before you say your vows,” she said on numerous occasions. “You don’t want to be surprised by any prejudices.” It didn’t take long for me to recognize that my mother was directing her advice to herself at me as if ensuring its credibility.
Later, she tested hesitant remarks in our car rides home. She’d mention that she wouldn’t be fixing dinner for my dad that night because work had exhausted her, and I, precociously defiant of him, would laugh and reply, “Good! He needs to learn to cook, anyway.” A small curve of her lips in the review mirror agreed. Her defiance gained strength as her opinions developed a candidness: “I’m not cooking dinner tonight because I’ve had a long day. Dad needs to help around the house, too.” Still, she scrubbed his dishes after every meal while he remained in his chair like a king spectating his servants. I kindled her subversion every night at the dinner table with my unwillingness to comply. My father’s monetary compensations for his insults and impulsivity earned no further gratitude on my end. “You should keep it,” I said on a particularly
I completed my sentences at equal volume to his interruptions. I met his eyes when he expected submission and diverted my gaze to the wall when he assumed his lectures warranted attention. I thanked him for his disrespectfulness, and I stood calmly from the table when he unleashed his anger, terminating any possibility my falling victim to his rage. Often I would occupy a meal with such deliberate, robotic obsequiousness that he demanded that I regain autonomy. “What?” I asked, chewing my food with great care. “I thought you demanded I eat quieter.” By acting condescendingly servile, I emphasized his domineering nature to him, my brother, and, most importantly, my