My Critical Essays

Beguile

Only the clattering of cutlery was able to break the eerie silence that fell upon the dinner table. Astrid's gaze tentatively turned to her mother to see her scowling at her plate, not wanting to make eye contact with anyone at the table. She quickly shifted her focus to her father; he was clutching the knife so hard, his knuckles whitened, and her mouth became as dry as the Sahara.

She could never recall a time where peace had ever filtered through the home. Having parents from different backgrounds meant that the house always became a battleground. As deceptive as a house—beautiful on the outside and crumbling inside— the family was disintegrating. It was strange, yet expected.

That night was no different.

Shouts filled the hallway as Astrid and her sister stood sullenly next to each other, facing the door of their parents' bedroom. The walls were closing in on them, and they felt trapped. The locked door in front of them loomed over the young girls, making their dread amplify. Astrid tried to be strong for herself and her younger sister; while her sister, Kaya, a tall girl who towered over everyone, cowered in the corner, unknowing of what to do

On the other side of the door was the couple. A British man and a Chinese woman were positioned in front of one another, yelling at each util spit flew all around them, and red faces were mere inches apart. Brandon was a man whose pride and ego got in the way of his empathy. His wife, Chanel, was small and stubborn, which made her easily aggravated.

"For once, Brandon, why can you not let me decide what is good for our children!" Chanel gritted through her teeth. Her fists clenched at her sides and her nails, digging into her palm and drawing blood. She was ready to clock the man standing in front of her.

"Channy, you may be their mother, but you need to understand that we cannot raise our kids the way you were raised! We live in England, they have to be able to conform!" He tried to keep calm, yet his simmering anger was building. If you took one look at this man, you would have thought he had just run a marathon. His wild eyes were blazing with fury, his hair was standing in different directions, and his laboured breathing was becoming more rapid by the second.

That was the thing with interracial couples. Values repeatedly clash; never mind what values they contradict. Once this happens, relationships start to break down, and everyone's left in the dust.

Chanel looked at her husband in horror. When will it be realised that filling in the gaps omits and contorts the truth? Her stomach plummeted to the trenched of her stomach, and she felt sick. She knew what he truly meant. That the "Asian way" is no way to raise his children. Tears pricked the woman's eyes, and her hands shook as she stepped forward to meet her husband toe to toe.

"So, what you're saying is, I will be unbeneficial to my children's childhood. You will just cast me aside making me look like the 'bad guy' while you go and play hero for them. I. Am. Their. Mother." Her voice turned menacing, and Brandon winced. He cast a quick glimpse at the door, wondering if the children could hear the argument.

He tried to get in the last word, but his energy was wearing him down. His chest felt as though there was a wall of bricks stacked upon each other. "Chanel, honey, you know that is not what I meant." He was exasperated. Done with the conversation, but he knew that he had to try and patch things up if he wanted to keep Chanel. He reached out to her, but she flinched, halting Brandon instantly. He blanched and stepped away. "Why did you just do that?"

She ignored him, wrapping her arms around her self protectively tight.

"Honey," he stepped even closer and brought her into a stiff hug, both of them unsure what to do, "I love you, and I love our children. We have to do what's best for them. I know you understand where I am coming from. I just want our girls to fit in." Brandon grabbed his wife's face and looked into her eyes lovingly. His rich, soulful voice filled in the gaps, disintegrating every last evil thought, leaving a soft, buoyant, pleasantly intoxicating bliss. The crumbling house, slowly building itself back up inside.

Astrid sighed in relief from the hallway and rested her back on the wall, beaming with elation. The burden that she had been carrying with her since dinner long forgotten when the silence of her parent's bedroom filled the house, serenity finally settling in.

Such stories as these tend to become parts of eulogies, like a book or a painting or a house or a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Astrid hoped that her eulogy would include more than just this story.