Personal Expreessive Essay

Andre S.

ENG 111

Personal Expressive Essay 1

Silent Strength

While working late one afternoon, I heard the weather report forecasting continuous

thunderstorms throughout the evening. Hoping to escape the downpour and chaotic commute, I concluded

my affairs and hurriedly exited the building where I worked. The warm humidity and the fragrance of rain

momentarily engulfed me as I walked outside. Ominous clouds pregnant with moisture curtained the sky

as rumbling thunder and flashes of lightning illuminated the stratosphere. The low lying wind steadily

increased in velocity; the promises of a ferocious Norfolk summer storm were on display.

I raced to my car and accelerated to Interstate 64, praying for favorable road conditions, but a sea

of red lights beckoned, welcoming me into unmoving traffic. The motorists’ frustration heightened as we

inched forward—crawling at a snail’s pace. A sense of foreboding and alarm suffused the air at the

inevitability of the impending deluge. As thoughts of warmth and comfort pervaded my consciousness, a

resounding clap made me jump. The clouds unfolded giving birth to torrential rains which descended

mercilessly in blankets of white, impairing visibility as the wiper blades uselessly attempted the chore of

removing water from the windshield. So I, along with the others who could, moved to the shoulder of the

road.

Sitting there waiting for the waters to abate, listening to the pounding pulse of the rain awakened

an unpleasant childhood memory—seeing my mother cry for the first time. As a seven year old boy,

numerous details escaped my observation because of my preoccupation with playing games and watching

television. I vividly recalled my stupefaction at this peculiarity.

When we were kids, inclement weather prevented us from venturing outside. To alleviate our

boredom, my sisters and I started a rousing game of Uno—adding our own rules—starting arguments and

fights. The sniffles and voices coming from the next room caught our attention. Mother and father were

standing in the kitchen, speaking in hushed tones. We peeked in and saw mom hanging her head while

dad stood rigidly, arms by his side. They attempted to keep their voices lowered, but the intensity of their

disagreement caused fitful outbursts. Clearly they were embroiled in a dispute evidenced by the harsh

words and gestures. The exchange escalated and father declared the argument futile, walking away. He

emerged to tell us goodbye individually, then collectively, and left. Staring out the window, silently

sobbing as tears rolled down her soft cheeks, mother helplessly watched his retreat. I walked over to her,

tugged on her skirt and asked the obvious questions: “Is something wrong? Why was dad leaving and

where did he go?” She straightened her spine, wiped her face and offered promises saying soothingly,

everything would be fine.

However, it was not fine. In the weeks that followed dad did not return. He called regularly, and I

was always excited to speak to him. The conversation though mirthless made me happy; pretty soon, the

calls became infrequent as well as the funds. Our finances became strained with insufficient money to buy

food, clothing and pay the bills. But mom found a second job working part time in a hospital to cover the

family’s expenses. I would ask dad when he would be returning and he’d evade the question or fumble

the response. Whenever I asked mom, she’d remain silent or say, “I don’t know.” Neither offered an

explanation for the change in our family. Neither accepted responsibility. Weeks became months, and

months became years, but when mom spoke of him, the words and memories were continuously fond. We

adapted without quite understanding what happened. As I got older, I would sometimes see mom teary

eyed or staring out that same window and I’d think to myself, pitiful. I could not control my annoyance at

her weakness and inability to distance herself from his memory; I felt anger at him for abandoning and

discarding us like waste and sadness by the chain of events. This vulnerability tarnished an otherwise

amazing woman in my eyes.

Blaring horns jolted me from my reverie. As the rain tapered to a drizzle, traffic slowly started

moving again. I pulled back on to the interstate; my thoughts still lingering on that memory. I realized

that in my anger, I misjudged my mother. All this time, I was blinded to her strength in adversity;

remarkably overcoming feelings of desertion with class and resilience, deservedly earned my admiration.

She assumed all the household responsibilities – providing our necessities, allotting us quality time,

compensating for the absence of our father. I now understood that her weakness was caring and patiently

attending to our needs. And so in our lives, the meanest tests bring out our inner untapped reserves of

strength—pulling us through our darkest and certainly toughest moments, building stern characters and

mental backbones of steel.

I drove home silently apologizing to my mother for all the mean thoughts I cultivated and

harbored over the years. I said a prayer to commemorate my newly found sense of the true and real life

illustration of fortitude. Thankful for the lessons she taught me without speaking, she taught by example

the authenticity of family responsibility. There are untold volumes and mountains of strength in silence.