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There were pieces everywhere. Sharp, shattered, sparkling. The music masked the clatter, but only long enough to shield younger eyes. Sometimes it’s better to be left in the dark. The room filled in and flowed out, empty buckets, clanking trash bags, and soaked rags trickling with them. I am cold, but it was summer, and I had been warm only seconds before.

My happiness drained through my toes. The shouting was loud but I wasn’t listening, there were too many busy faces and furrowed brows to distract me.

I can’t believe he went straight through it. Destroyed the glass that separates children from adults, shattering a sense of innocence, bridging the gap. A conflicted frame of staggered edges. I heard, but I couldn’t see him. I searched for his tangled blonde mop in the crowd but he had already disappeared. The others whizzed around. Suds flew. Towels rolled. Bodies on autopilot. An organized frenzy. I couldn’t control the mess. It was going to last longer than the blood. My skin crawled.

He was rescued. Removed and absorbed by the bustling herd. No longer at stake. We picked his pieces off the floor, shard by shard, drip by drip. We removed the evidence of destruction, but a heaviness lingered on my chest. I hated that he put me in danger.

My time there had been long and short. Summers don’t last forever but they happen every year. Each time it feels like we never left our bubble of independence and responsibility. Our own heated snow globe full of children, held delicately in our palms. But his hand broke the glass. He shook too hard. Disturbed the comfortably settled dust. We let him. So we fixed it. Patched his hand and the door. Closed the young eyes. Shielded him by shielding ourselves. Everyone is affected by weak links.

I stood at the window, poking my head out. Clueless as to the horrors about to take place. Observing the environment around my house. Looking up and down. I locked the door, slowly dragging my body up the stairs. I made my way into my bed and kissed my wife on the cheek. She slept so soundly, like a kitten. I laid my head down on the pillow.

I woke up and yawned. I could feel my heavy bladder. I walked down the dark hallway. What was that weird smell? Leaky pipe? Spilled hairspray? It had a strong metallic scent.  I walked into the bathroom and struggled to flip the light switch on, and took a piss. I approached the sink and scrubbed my hands. What was that smell? Was it me? I squeezed out more soap and scrubbed harder just to be sure, applying some deodorant as well. I hurried back to my bed and laid down. Why am I all wet? My pants were drenched with something, the smell had also gotten a lot stronger now. I got up from my bed and turned on my lamp.

I turned around and dropped to my knees. The tears instantly came running down my face. My wife. MY WIFE. I grabbed her hand, it was covered in blood. Everything was covered in blood. I stood up and looked for my phone. Where did I put my god damn phone? I ran down the steps and to the kitchen. Sweat was dripping down from every part of my body. I tried to pick up the landline, but I couldn’t grasp it. What was that noise? Sirens? I ran to the window. Red and blue violently bled into my kitchen, blinding me before I even opened the curtain. I put my eye up to the fabric and peeked through a small opening. Police surrounded my home. Who called the police? I took a deep breath and walked out the door. The men saw the blood on me, pointing their firearms at me in response. They approached me as I yelled. “ I didn’t do it”.

They wrapped the cold cuffs around my wrist as shock ran down my body. I was shoved in the back of the police car.

As I sit in this dark cell, I dread that night. Every second of it, but I can’t forget it. I’m alone and as clueless as I was when this all started.

I blink, hard, and begin to remember.
They had told us to get ready, this could take a while. Our eyes held shut with old bandanas that smelled like sweat, we gripped each others hands and sat on the cold and dusty concrete as the triangle was constructed around us. Reilly and Corinne likely stood back, clipboards in one hand water bottles in the other, smiling, and informed us of our challenge. We could only imagine what she was doing from the sounds of their voices, ambiguous scuffling, and giggling. We were in the triangle, we could get up and feel around. Plastic chairs, wooden beams, tape, and gaps. We had to get out somehow, but we couldn’t go over, or under, or break through it, given only the reassurance that we could ask them for things we might need.

My socks glared with a taunting mantra: “You’ve got this!” I was reminded of that after kicking off my shoes and was grateful for my blindfold. My first thought was to ask for a spoon, as if the feeble structure were a prison I needed to dig out of. They amusedly asked if that was really what I needed. It wasn’t; I couldn’t picture anything that could get me out. It was hard to even reconstruct my immediate surroundings with my eyes shut that tight. I felt dizzy. I became reliant on the comfort of holding my fellow inmate Virginia's hand and knowing we were in this together. The blindfold bound my eyes shut both painfully and blissfully as I drifted between frustrating confusion and appreciation for this moment we spent together.

We. The shift from we to I was sudden. They incessantly asked “What do you need?” and although I have no idea why, when my counterpart mumbled, “a giant...” we felt it together. Corinne threw an orange peel at me and and we, disoriented, laughed. About an hour in, Reilly stepped in and held our hands and we could hear her crying softly, feeling with us. But sometime, when our bodies were not linked in an embrace nor even our hands holding tight to each other, I felt her go. I called for her and after a couple sinking moments it was revealed, coldly, “Virginia has left the triangle.” I fell to the ground, physically and mentally exhausted, and utterly alone and in the dark. How?

The ceaseless “What do you need” continued, but now with a sense of urgency. They were worried about me. Chairs were stepped over, arms were wrapped around my figure on the ground, tears were shed, mine and theirs. I didn’t know what would get me out, but I knew I couldn't figure it out alone. Reluctantly I found the words: “I need help,” afraid to disappoint them with this weakness. I felt a tugging behind my head. The blindfold fell away and light flooded to reveal Corinne’s smiling face and the strained teary eyes of all. Tears ran down my cheeks, now free from their bind.

A sudden jerk of my body results in a near full trash can. I lay back down engulfed in pillows and blankets, trapped under an immovable force. After a few moments of suffrage, I become fed up with the boiling of my body. I twist and roll but the boa constrictors refuse to letup. Too weak to call out, I assume the house is empty. The faint hall light illuminates a world light years away. My head sinks back into the ground.

A cold hand placed on my forehead sends my head into a downwards spiral. I arise to a serengeti, the mellow breeze follows the commands, the grass, revealing a group of men. They’re all circled around a crackling beast. All of the sudden they begin to fling their sticks at the creature, only stoking it to lash out directly at them, swallowing them whole. I turn away from the suffering men but I’m forced to stay.   

In the blink of an eye I find myself in a world of color, the room I’m in was drowned in color. The walls appear to be comprised of granny smith apples, the floor made of oranges and finally a sky blue ceiling to pull it all together. This feels much more like I’m awake but some surreal feeling doesn't resonate quite right. The world begins to spin and I begin to overheat, I unwillingly disappear once again. My head throbs me into another world. Icy water flowed down my throat, it begins to freeze my body from the inside out. My mind refuses to thaw and I’m left looking at the face of a giant pillow. The darkness begins to swirl and blotches begin to turn to light. The instant rattling of a train along it’s tracks is heard until I’m engulfed in light. I lay in silence until I once again fall back into a swirling sleep.

Authors Note:

In my piece I draw great influence from Ken Kesey and much less than Atwood. Much like Kesey my novel is surreal and is a trip. Although a lot of my novel is very psychedelic it has real life translations much like Ken Kesey's. Kesey uses a lot of descriptive language in order to convey events in the book. Like Chief, my character is not mentally stable so he describes what he sees. For example when the boa constrictors are wrapped around me, it actually translates to blankets draped over me. Kesey's character in "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest", Chief Bromden doesn't have a sense of time. My character doesn't have a sense either. 

The little I do derive from Atwood is her ability to use Offred as a platform to convey facts in the novel without anyone down right saying it. Like when my characters body is freezing, it's actually the character drinking cold water from the sink. 

After spending a few hours at my desk, my eyes drifted to the wall of my cubicle and my mind drifted elsewhere. I was twenty-eight years old, and I was sitting up in the captain’s quarters of my very own freighter. I might have even put my feet on the desk and my hands on the back of my head, however, I refuse to believe that I could have been that carefree in such a high risk job. I looked up and saw Miami, the city that made me the man I am today, I seem to remember always grinning whenever the great city came into view after seeing nothing but ocean for days. But my smugness soon turned to annoyance as I saw the US Coast Guard approach. Having done this job for seven years, this was far from my first encounter with the boys in blue. As their speedboats encircled my freighter, I sighed as I walked down to greet the officers. They boarded and scattered throughout the boat. I walked down to greet the head officer. I shook his hand and he went into his usual spiel “Hi I am here on behalf of the US Coast guard and I am here to conduct a mandatory search of your vessel for any unregulated commodities.” I rolled my eyes as he went on with his speech “unfortunately, recently, we have been unable to find the source of the influx of arms, so we will have to inspect the contents of your shipping containers.” My heart suddenly beat 10 times faster, there was no way that I could have possibly anticipated this.”What sort of products are you shipping?” he asked. “Farming equipment,” I lied. He opened one container and found a collection of tractors, hoses and pipes. I breathed, but immediately tensed up when he approached the second. He opened it, to reveal a few barrels of grain and some seeding machinery. He looked at the third shipping container which I knew was full of AR-15 rifles, and I could barely breathe. It was a miracle that he didn’t notice my shaking knees and sweat drenched forehead. But then, he looked back at me and said “you’re good to go!” All of the tension suddenly left my body and I looked back at my men and smiled. I should be grateful now that I don’t have to live in fear of the law, now that I live a normal life with a nine to five desk job. I should be grateful that I never had to feel so much tension in my daily life. Yet I can’t say that I feel any remorse for this memory. In fact, I honestly miss the moments when I feared for my life. Because I have not felt a single strong emotion since I got my new job. Though maybe I should be grateful? Boredom is preferable to the slammer.

We’re driving up a narrow street, our little Volkswagen Jetta slows down, the sounds of sand and rocks grinding between the wheels and the pavement. Though I already noticed the car coming to a halt, the place we stopped just felt off. It was a normal street, no stores between apartments, just houses.

“Guess where we are!?”, Mom glances at me quickly through the rear view while reversing the vehicle.

“No mom, I thought you were driving towards that old high school you used to go to?”, I say this not knowing it’s a lie. I know that house too well. It was the apartment that my mom and dad used to live in. I remember now why I feel so uneasy, it’s where I saw that thing.

I can remember the little side room that was on the other side hall from my parents, in that room was a crib on the center wall where I would sleep soundly but I was awake this time, that’s my room. It’s funny trying to stretch a scene that probably took 6 seconds into one that seems like 30 looking back at it fifteen years later, I close my eyes and open them to end up in that same crib.

I’m a baby now, turning my head must feel like moving on anesthetics and with the warm and protective green of the walls only makes my time awake more limited, the room has one little window that covered, the crack between the drape shows me it must be early morning. Even as a baby I could tell some things were up with the light this morning because I saw the sun. No, not a real sun but a small green one, the green sun. It’s glow was respectable, only illuminating within a couple of inches from its body. It’s weird, it has a face, almost sinister in its warm smile but oddly making me sleepier. Its revolves, just like the sun would and its face becomes hidden from me once more and as the face disappears completely, so does its body, sinking back into the ceiling of my room and I sink back into a slumber.  

I wake, still with the same amount of question about that object I saw all those years ago. I can’t help but wonder weather or not it was real, I used to think it was my guardian angel, my zodiac of sorts but now driving off I’m almost certain it was best to forget again.

There were pieces everywhere. Sharp, shattered, sparkling. The music masked the clatter, but only long enough to shield younger eyes. Some things take time to understand. The room filled in and flowed out, buckets, bags, and rags trickling with them. I am cold, but it was summer, and I had been warm only seconds before.

My happiness drained through my toes. The shouting was loud but I wasn’t listening, there were too many busy faces and furrowed brows to distract me.

He went straight through it, I heard, but I couldn’t see him. I searched for his tangled blonde mop but he had already disappeared. They whizzed around. Suds flew. Towels rolled. Bodies on autopilot. An organized frenzy. I couldn’t control the mess. It was going to last longer than the blood. My skin crawled.

He was rescued. Removed and absorbed. No longer at stake. We picked his pieces off the floor. Removed the evidence. We rescued him from second death but we were still in danger. I hated that he put me in danger.

My time there had been long and short. Summers don’t last forever but they happen every year. Each time it feels like we never left our bubble in the woods. Our own heated snow globe. But his hand broke the glass. He shook too hard. Disturbed the comfortably settled dust. We let him. So we fixed it. Patched his hand and the door. Closed the young eyes. Shielded him by shielding ourselves. Everyone is affected by weak links.

Plastic protected my bitten fingers from the glass but I was still bare. At mercy of another; powerless to change his mistakes. The bass still bumped, matching my heart beat. I had to walk away. Find comfort in less danger, away from the shards, away from the glares. I wanted to be warm again. But that was too much to ask.

The chaos chilled me no matter how many layers I put on. I wasn’t protected anymore. But that is life. The fog lifts on everything eventually. If you don’t prepare for the worst, you will be left cold, shivering. It took too long for me to see this. Took shards covering the floor where children played. They would never know. They didn’t have to know. We glued their snow globe back together with our stories. We kept them warm.

This passage came from one of the short memories written in the class exercise. Originally, the memory was from a specific episode. However, I ended up adapting it and simplifying the idea into a simple unnamed episode. Mr. Brown is meant to symbolize a dramatized version of loneliness. He finds solace in this TV series where the characters make jokes and live carefree lives. He sees this as what he wants in life, and it makes him smile. When the characters are in his ears, he does not feel so alone.

Cold hospital air hit my nose as I sniffled, I stared at the hospital bed in front of me, holding my dad’s hand. I thought back to all of the time I had spent with him, sitting with my mom in the small apartment we lived in, awaiting my father’s arrival home from work. My mom walked around, humming to herself and cleaning spots off of the countertops. That’s when a key hit the lock, turned, and the door opened. “Daddy!” I yelled, hopping off of the couch to run into my uniformed father’s outstretched arms. He picked me up and squeezed me tight, that’s when I assume that my mom walked over and kissed him on the cheek, asking him how his day was. That’s what she normally did at least, but it slips my mind if she did it that day.

He then put me down, walking over to the cd player that sat in the corner of the living room. Ring of Fire, by Johnny Cash started playing, followed shortly by my father’s raspy voice singing along. He then picked me up and held me in his arms. We danced around the living room of the small apartment we lived in, while my mom sat and watched, smiling from ear to ear.

I can’t remember how long we danced for, if it was just that song or more to come. I can remember though, how the smell of cigarettes radiated off of his clothing when you got close enough. That’s when the beeping of the hospital monitor and my dad’s deep coughing pulled me out of my daydream. He half smiled, the most he was able to do. I held tears back as I smiled back, squeezing his hand.

In you, everything sank. This phrase pops into my head, from an English class long past, or at least that’s how long it feels. We spent weeks upon weeks investigating every couplet, scrutinizing every stanza. I hated it. I hated talking about “author’s intent”. Why did Pablo Neruda repeat this line? Why was it a motif? Who gives a shit? In you, everything sank. I think about you and I wish I didn’t. The kid who sat next to me would always fall asleep. I couldn’t blame him. It was an easy escape. Why did I ever bother staying awake? His light snore invades my thoughts, of Neruda, of the teacher’s droning. It’s there, gently, always reminding me that there’s another way out.

In you, everything sank.

Stocks pop into my head. Our economics teacher was always right after English. He taught us all about the stock market that year. We even invested a little bit ourselves. I heard but didn’t listen. In you, everything sank. Science was next. We would skip class together, you and I. We’d sit in the stairwell and talk. Or we wouldn’t. But we always understood.

In you, everything sank. It happened on a Sunday. The Lord’s day. Funny, because we had always hated religion. I like to imagine you did it to spite God. I didn’t find out until Tuesday: you weren’t in the stairwell. They called me to the office. Your mom broke the news.  In you, everything sank. On a whim today, I visit the bridge. The cold wind whips my hair, the seagulls below call, like sirens. And I, too, am sinking.

In the dentist office I couldn’t seem to get my mind off the fact that I will be removing my braces. I was nervous because of all the stories I had heard and experiences from my friends. It was a strange feeling because I was afraid, but I also felt relief. I had been waiting on this moment for so long. At first, I wanted braces desperately; I thought they were appealing because of the different colors, they were like jewelry for your teeth. I didn’t need braces, I wasn't qualified to get them because the dentist said my teeth were fine and straight. When I first got them, I couldn't eat, drink, or sleep for a week. Braces were the most painful thing in the world. We went on vacation the day after I had them done. I couldn’t enjoy anything. Later on, it got better and I thought I would start to like them, but I didn’t. Food always gets stuck in your teeth when you have braces, which is disgusting. As much as you brush your teeth, they never seem to be clean. Your breath somehow never stays fresh and it's the most annoying thing in the world. Thinking about that pain of getting them on, I didn’t want to feel it again. This time, it would be twice as bad. I kind of felt like leaving the office. It was almost my turn. I’ve been afraid of the dentist ever since the first time I ever took my tooth out, I was four going on five. My mom told me I had to go to the dentist to remove the tooth. In my head there was no way I was going to the dentist. It was a late night and my mom was home with friends. I went into the bathroom twisted my tooth out and finally got rid of it, I came out proud to show my mom and everyone else. And for that I overcame my fear of taking out my teeth. I guess removing my braces wouldn't be so bad afterall, I could get them removed and get it over with.

Authors note:

In my writing I chose to emulate Margaret Atwood's style of writing because she uses symbolism to represent what is going on, whereas Ken Kesey uses dialogue. For my writing piece I think Margaret Atwood's style fit best with what I was trying to do with my writing. I used a lot of symbolism to emphasize my emotions as Atwood did in the handmaid's tale. I also visited many similar memories to connect them all to one main point of overcoming my fear. I feel as though Atwood does a great job of that and I was inspired to use more of her skills in this writing for that reason.

Creative Writing Piece: Haunted

Reading our old text messages brought me back to where it all started. The flirtatious conversations, the plans for our first date, our first phone call. It reminded me of a happier time, one that bore no resemblance to the trauma I’d end up facing. Looking back on it now, I wish I would have known that the first phone call would be a contract I unknowingly signed. He wanted all of my time, every second of it. If I said I was busy or that I wouldn’t be able to call that day, he’d guilt trip me by threatening to kill himself. He knew that was my weakness. That I cared about him enough that I couldn’t risk it happening.  I felt helpless. I couldn’t help myself because if I left and he ended up killing himself, it would be my fault. The guilt would have been harder to handle than dealing with him ever was. As time went on, I thought I’d been getting better with coping. I thought going to therapy was aiding my healing process. It was supposed to show me that his abuse was not my fault.

I hadn’t noticed that my heart had been racing until now. My posture was stiff and my breath was coming in and out in nervous, short intervals. Just seeing his name brought back all the terrible memories. It reminded me that he still followed me everywhere. His harsh words were forever embedded into my being, and whether I liked it or not, he still had me under his control. I could never get away. He knew exactly what to say in order to make me stay. “You can’t leave me, Claire,” “I’ll kill myself if you do!” he’d say. His mental health history and the things he’d confided in me during that first phone call let me know that the threat was real. I was convinced that the fate of his life was in my hands. It was too late now. There was no turning back. I wish I would’ve known that there’d be one moment in time where the rest of my time would never be mine.

Author’s Note:
When writing my reconstruction of memory, I was inspired to emulate Margeret Atwood’s narration tactic of putting more emphasis on how the moment she’s writing about makes her character’s feel rather than spending too much time contextualizing the moment itself. I felt that putting an emphasis on the emotion would aid in the characterization of the narrator of my memory and would make it easier for the reader to see that her memory was a reflection of her experience. Similarly to Chief Bromden in One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest by Ken Kesey, the narrator of my piece solely speaks about her experience with her antagonist in order to show the effect he’s had on her. It was an intentional choice on my part to make the narrator of my story focus on the actions of all of the other characters but themselves because I didn't want the reader's perspective to be skewed. As for the topic, I felt that writing about emotional abuse in the manner that I did would allow people to see how it’s an internal battle that many people can not see.

My elbow lied on the armrest, with my jaw in my hand. As I glared out of the window, I let my eyelids float along my eyes. I felt tired, but I couldn’t go to sleep because the bus was too cold, so I sat in silence and watched my reflection cascade over the mountaintops. When did I get so old? It feels like just yesterday I was living with those I used to call my family. My family and I were kinda like a beat-up car. It’s funny now, but we were so beat up that we were constantly in need of repairs. Everytime the mechanic fixed us there was always something else, we were always in need of an oil change.

This one time, I had to be about 15 and I did not want to live with my parents anymore. I hated it. Living with them felt like living alone because there was no support.

“I’m hungry,” I said to my mom who was tucked away on the living room couch.

“Well go find something to eat then” she said casually, as if we had food in the house to sift through.

“We only have these arbitrary ingredients, I can’t make anything out of these.” I responded, hoping that she’d throw me a bone and feed me.

“Well we have bread, and a toaster. So figure something out.” This was my mom at her most helpful. I looked at her from our tiny kitchen and I saw that she’s sank into the couch even further than she has before, she’s not getting up. Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her get up from that couch before.

“We don’t have anymore bread, I ate it all. You’ve been telling me that for the past three days.” Then she said something along the lines of, “Well, look for something else then. You need to learn independence, start feedin’ yourself. I’m not gonna be here all the time, start lookin out for yourself,” she continued.  “‘Cause at the end of the day it’s kill or be killed.” She answered.

What was the word for it? It ended in an “ia”, like every term describing something does. The term that describes a feeling. The feeling you get of understanding that when you’re on a bus, everyone on the bus has an imagination as vivid as yours, with a life as detailed and crazy (or not) as yours. There’s a word for it but I always seem to forget it when I need to remember it.  

What a conversation starter that would be.

Bright lights. Bright lights and white halls. Bright lights and white halls and white tiled floors. Prison. At least the walls were covered in colorful drawings done by what I assume to be the prisoners. Walking even further in, and taking a right, the walls changed color from white to orange. I don’t think it was a good idea to wear my bright neon green jumpsuit. I would surely get picked on and my stuff would get stolen. But that morning I was feeling confident, as if the world couldn’t touch me.

Funny enough, I didn’t have an escort so I felt a slight sense of freedom. But that small feeling quickly left, fleeting my grasp as I continued on through the hallway. I passed rooms full of the other inmates. The rooms seemed to be all the same, rows and tables of people, getting fed information. I was expected to report to one of these rooms pretty soon now.

As I neared the end of the hallway, I came across a small metal door. Opening the small metal door revealed a small room with a singular chair in it. In the chair sat a small man that resembled a leprechaun. A thought came to mind; that I should ask him where he keeps his pot of gold, but I quickly dismissed the idea because this could be a potential leader. I noticed the leprechaun man was wearing knee socks. I don’t think I was in any position to judge this man for what he wore. After all, I was wearing a neon green jumpsuit. What caused this man to wear those knee socks? There was a series of events that made him, after all. There must have been something crazy going on in his life. And there’s a word for what I’m realizing. What’s the word again...

Authors Note:

Our old house was small but it always fit us. Our living room was the main hub that everyone frequented and it was the main room before we entered and left.  As a family of four in a small South Philly row home, we were always together for the good and the bad. The good, playing house under the desk that my big sister rarely studied at. The okay, getting chased up the stairs and down the hallway when I broke one of my sister’s paper robot collections. And the bad, which were usually from my sister to my parents - now that I think of it. I remember specifically the first bad time I had in the house and it wasn’t because of me. I was young enough to understand but not old enough to fully understand.

This time, the TV was on but no one was watching. The TV volume was muted but it sounded like there was a fight scene happening. The voices were loud but familiar. Looking up, I saw my sister arms bent at her side and in an angry SuperWoman stance and my parents standing over her. They were fuming. I stood behind them, staring at my sister yelling back at my parents. She was nine and we never did that as kids. We don’t talk back to our parents like we need to enforce nine year old made rules. But I guess Ellen didn’t learn that yet. My parents said “well if you don’t like the rules, you can get out!” What?! Get out? I remember standing there, crying without even noticing at first. This girl is my only sister - how can they just tell her to get out? I felt the tears and the heavy breathing kick in and everything was muffled as the snot filled my nose and ears. I couldn’t make of the last thing they were yelling about but the next thing I knew was Ellen was getting picked up and I dropped our taling toy dragon.

As he hit the ground, he said “I love boisenberries,” but that didn’t stop them! That would have stopped me! My dad put her outside and watched her through the screen, door half cracked to isolate her. I remember crying even harder. They just threw away my sister! My only best friend. What was I going to do? I didn’t have the power to let her back in, right?  I paced around scared and started packing some food, clothes, and shoes. She was barefoot on the door mat! That’s not allowed. After packing, my five year old body pushed the door back to let her in. My parents were shocked. They're faces were focused on what I would do next so I let her in. I was a big girl making big moves for my big sister.

After she stayed outside of the house for a few minutes, I opened the door to let her in. We both started crying and hugging each other. We cherished every moment from there on. That was really a traumatic experience for a little kid to experience even though they were not the one in trouble but got to see. To this day, my parents have never done that again. When I look back, I see that this teaching moment brought us together.