August 24, 2002
anger in the car

When my dad gets mad about something, he either keeps it to himself and brings it to the surface in one big explosion later, or goes hostile instantly. I have inherited his temper, but I lean more towards keyboard venting or immediate, decidedly more mature replies.

Within three seconds of meeting him he had acid in his tone, the all-too-familiar look in his eyes. He followed up with a false accusation directed at me, one so false that he must have known wasn't true the moment it was out hanging in the air, reaching to choke my throat. It was so stupid, so irrational, so uncalled for, and it was just begging not to be dismissed. It had an overtone not at all related to those few seconds or even me, it hinted at other nagging problems in his life, more personal issues he never told me about and I never cared to know.

I was all too familiar with his mood and that tone, that particular type of hostility and the things he'd say. It was the kind of accusation that if I had just kept quiet, he would stack more and more words of his on top of it and without me saying a thing in response, get so angry he'd storm out of the house, drive away, call me in a few hours to apologise, and immortalise it in shape of a present the next day. Despite the abundance of gifts in my room now, I still haven't got used to him. In fact, I have gotten worse. I snapped.

Mum always tells me to shut up and look out the car window whenever Dad's yelling. He always make it a point to go into complete rage and outburst only in his car, where the space is so small every word is poignant and heard, where he doesn't have to hold anything back. I know she's talking from experience. When she strokes my hair while saying it I wish her advise would work. But then again, she and him ended up getting divorced on bad terms.

But I don't have her patience, I couldn't bring myself to just sit there, facing the car window letting everything pass me by except his voice. I hated clenching and unclenching my fists remembering how good daughters never talk back to their fathers. I didn't want him to get away with it all, his paranoia against everyone, badmouthing my mum's relatives, my neighbours, my friends whom he doesn't even know, people he's never talked to, like the driver my mum was privileged to get because of her promotion. That poor man, diligent in his duty to chauffeur my mum around and run errands apparently has every intention of 'breaking up our family'. It's so rotten it's not even funny.

So this time, I yelled back.
"The hell with you! You don't even know what you're saying! ... How, dare, you."
He gave me a venomous look and I got up and went upstairs. He was silent then, and I was a fool to think that he wouldn't bring it up in a future outburst in his car. And I didn't even have to wait long.

On the way there we fought. I couldn't stop myself, he thought that he wasn't accusing at all, that he was politely gesturing. Gesture this, fool, I felt like demonstrating. But I didn't.

Well, to summarise one of his rants lasting 5 minutes, "How dare you say 'hell' to my face? I never taught you that word."
I had replied "That's a curse to you? After all you like to say, 'hell' is a curse? You want me to curse using the words you use? Okay then. "B--"
"Stop."

At the British Council I had so much fun, I laughed my ass off at various things and I surprised myself at my recovery skills. Or maybe store-away skills.
Unfortunately, Dad was also sending me home after.

He killed my mood the moment I got in the car. I don't know why he was itching to resume the argument. He loves to backtrack to previous events when he has nothing left to shout at me for. Even those events weren't shout-worthy. So he backtracked, and he also played the father-respect card on me. Maybe one day, I'll actually respect the way he wants me to. When the respect is mutual. I'm sure father-daughter/son relationships are supposed to be mutual in respect.

He circled the neighbourhood three times before actually sending me home. I saw the house pass me by three times.

I blew up again on the third round around the neighbourhood. He was playing the I-can-never-trust-you card. All the backtracking had unravelled far beyond today's actual events.

"Fine Dad. I honestly don't know what you're going to need to believe me. So go ahead! Believe what you want. My friends, they're all evil. They're all against me and out to corrupt   me. Is that your truth? Mum's driver really intends on breaking "the family apart" right Dad? And religion? I have never taken that seriously. Go ahead and believe that. And I don't bother to study. I sneak out every night and party hard. Damn it Dad! I'm not who I am just to impress you. And I'm tired of trying to make you understand that I'm not some juvenile delinquent. If you find it so hard to believe that some 'teens these days' are actually great people then that's your bloody loss! Now send. me. home."

He had the most grim expression on his face. I felt it. I just didn't look his way. I was intensely sick of the view out the window repeating itself like a carousel, and sick of his baseless arguments scratching my ears in the car. He said some final words in an attempt to justify 'his view', which really were just sad and short repetitions of earlier. I hated to think that not a single ounce of realisation had crept in after my venting. My throat hurt.

I slammed the car door and rejected all his calls.

But today, to my dismay, I needed him. I had to go to Kinokuniya, a bookstore, to get something for school. My eyes were swollen, my composure maintained, and we were silent in the car.

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