Lisa
Mr. Patrick
Language Art 8P3
August 29, 2010
The Cost of Selfishness
The horns were snarling, signaling that if someone didn’t move forward soon there would be a grievous uproar. As usual, the chaotic scene of a normal afternoon was sweaty, grimy, and piercingly loud. However, I sat blissfully on the back seat of Dad’s motorcycle, humming a familiar song and thumping my foot to the beat. My head was bobbing to the music with a satisfied smirk. Suddenly a flash back popped into my mind of when my teacher handed me a report card that gave me a shudder, a shudder of excitement. My G.P.A for the whole year of seventh grade was gloriously written on the plain white paper.
“Okay…I understand, sweetie,” mom swallowed as her eyebrows knitted slightly. “But I’m NOT letting you go.” My eyes watered with disbelief, choking me into a series of coughs. I struggled to clear my throat, as my mind raced for a solution to turn the situation in my favor. But I was too slow; my mom shot me a malicious glare, saying, “I’m really exhausted so PLEASE stop bothering me. If you really want to go either Ms. Nga or your brother must be there to guard you. End of story.”
I snorted, letting out a scoff, and foolishly scratched my head awestruck. Believe it or not, that was what I received after using my spectacular excuse—my 4.0 GPA—to ask mom for permission to go to the end of the year party, nothing. It was definitely a battle of will. I refused to yield before her despicable posture, and surprisingly, she adamantly clung to her decision.
“This long shot of conversation is never going to end.” I impatiently struggled with doubt. Smacking my tongue, I glanced at mom with an indifference that showed what she was saying was nothing but rubbish. But my glance only buried my argument deeper. She intolerantly shot from the hip, pulling the trigger,
“Vy… I can’t believe it. You’re acting like an idiot. I doubt how I’ve taught you these past years. Who are you? How did you become so insolent! Now get out of here. Go back to your room!”
I managed another scoff, but stunned I stood starring at mom as if looking through her. With my hands clutched hard into fists, I plodded out of the bathroom, my eyes flaring with tears. I slammed the door behind me and squeezed my stomach so that I wouldn’t burp out the ‘F’ word. Doggone it! My life was wrecked by that disgraceful conversation, making me wonder, “Why is my mom so unfair?” I kept on thinking about the matter in a sort of trance and found myself leaning against my bedroom door, crumpling the report card wet with tears. My vision was dazzled by the shimmer lights on the ceiling. Flashes slipped out of the corners of my eyes and crawled down my cheeks, eventually muddling into my mouth. Just then, I felt my face aching, while my tongue tasted something bitter. I cuddled my legs, trying to slip into my own world. I was so lonely. I kept sobbing, “I hate mom.”
Out of the blue, the phone disturbingly rang in the corner of the room. I miserably dragged my flabby muscles there and plainly picked up the phone. My sister was on the other end, calling my name. For the moment, I knew for sure that mom had called her and ‘reported’ her everything: it wasn’t a surprise at all. After prowling around for a while, she hit the topic and said:
“Vy, I know how you feel. First of all, just take a deep breath and calm down … I understand how you’ve been working hard to get good grades, and you’re like, getting better and better than all of us day by day. Even better than Mom, don’t you think? Well, look. Mom has been working hard for our sake. She has been the lead of the family for years, and now, someone is actually becoming better than her already. With things she doesn’t know like computers, you’re way better than her. How does she feel knowing that fact? Now I’m not telling you that you’re wrong, but just think about what I’ve asked you, then tell me the answer tomorrow. Remember, it all depends on negotiation!”
Soon after I had the conversation with my sister, I started to think about it a lot. Obviously, I wasn’t saying that I was wrong, but maybe the ways I spoke and expressed my feelings were not appropriate. Not to mention how surprised I was to see Mom helping me dress up the next day. She was really into it, ordering me around to try this and that on. I indeed stood stunned, staring at her with my mouth dropping like an idiot. Just then, a harsh feeling suddenly embraced me, making me feel guilty. My arms were sweating hard while my feet kept fidgeting, feeling ill at ease. Seriously! I babbled when responding to Mom’s questions, blinking my eyes as if they were filled with dust. That, reader, was shame – the cost of selfishness.
Well, I guess Mom is not that horrible after all. I suppose I got what sister said; the more mature and older I get, the more Mom worries about how she should take care of me. The way mom sees things is really different from me, for I’m the new generation with an open mind to modern ideas. Besides, since the day that I entered the American International School, I’ve recognized a big change in my attitude as well as my points of views. That causes me a lot of trouble with my mom, for she is Vietnamese - who values traditional issues more than modern issues. Will the differences between the two cultures continue to kindle our problems in the future? I don’t know. Yet one thing I know for sure: we both have to sympathize and sacrifice a bit in order to co-exist with each other. In other words, I know that Mom had put her worries and anger away in order to make me happy. To make it fair for her, I should also respect her by sacrificing my own selfishness and pride.
