<p>This has been building up for quite a while (14 years). I wrote this one night when I was reflecting upon my life. It's pretty grim stuff. </p>
<p>What the $%^& is wrong with you? Just shut the $%^& up! Where is the money? Get out or else Ill call the %^&(&^% police! I suddenly wake up in my bed hearing the screams of both of my parents. It is five in the morning; I have school in a few hours, but I cannot fall asleep. I lay awake staring up at my ceiling, waiting for the noise to die down. Ever since I could remember, this has been a habitual occurrence in my familyscreams, tears, sorrow, and the occasional curse word that shatters the silence of the morning. One may conclude that I have no family, only a hodgepodge of people with different beliefs, morals, and personalities living under one roof. To a certain extent this is true; I do not have a family.
Under the middle-class façade of moderate wealth, pleasure, and happiness lie several broken spirits nominally united under a family name. My father, who is rarely home during the day and at night, occasionally comes in to greet us and gives us our lunch money. He generally comes home at one in the morning with a reddish or pale face, a byproduct of his social drinking or late-night work sessions. Likewise my mother, a middle age Asian woman with ample academic knowledge, spends her time in a food court inside a local mall, trying to convince shoppers to buy some Thai \ food. She works from seven in the morning until ten at night, seven days a week, three hundred and sixty five days a year. My grandma is an aging woman from a period of Korean-Japanese segregation and prejudice. Her sight, her hearing and her consciousness slowly ebb away from this world, making her into a feeble woman unfit to take care of even herself. That leaves me with my brother, the closest person I have to a family. He is another lost soul in the midst of traumaa stout, short boy with a brownish tan and crooked glasses. Even though I try to guide him through life, he rarely stays at home and frequently plays with his friends in their houses. I dont blame him.
Living in La Canada, an upper middle-class neighborhood Los Angeles County, it is difficult to believe that a family does not have enough food or enough money to pay the bills on time. But here we are. After fourteen years living in this country, my parents have finally separated. (I guess its just unorthodox for Asians to divorce). My father now lives in his office, continuously working on various engineering projects to support my brother and me. He drives home from work every morning to greet us and give us rides to school. Albertson, go away from here as far away as you can, he told me once in the car, come back to visit when I am dead.<br>
To a certain extent, I do wish to move as far away as I possibly can. I want to escape the social façade and the struggle for livelihood. Yet I remain determined to beat these odds instead of running away from them, for myself and for my family. I fight for my parents emotionally, physically, and mentally, either in the boxing ring, on the wrestling mat, or at home, studying for an upcoming test or helping my brother with his math homework. I try hard academically to provide solace for my parents, so they have, at least, raised a son worthy to be proud of. My family is broken and detached, but it is still something I can claim for myself. It is something that defines who I am. It is something I cherishsomething I will never let go.</p>