Lindsey Tanner
Writing 150
Like
Father, Like Daughter
How can I be wrong again?
Glancing at the clock I see the bright red numbers reading 6:00. An hour in and
I haven’t finished a single problem. At
least dad is home, he’ll know what to do. I grab my worksheet and rush into
his office. I walk into the dim room, and see the only light in the room being
emitted from the computer screens. Dad, sitting at his comfortable black chair
hunches over the keyboard which seems to barely fit under his hands. He peers
at the monitors as a rhythmic ticking comes from his fingers crawling across
the keys. The jumble of letters, numbers, and symbols he had conjured up on the
screen intrigues me, so I stand behind him. I brush my hand on his rough blue
collared shirt. “What’s that?”
“Oh, nothing,” he says heavily, almost sighing. His hand slowly
reaches up to his eyes, which he rubs, “just a little programming for work.” My
head slowly bobs up and down. I understand as much of the mashed up letters and
numbers as I do my worksheet. Dad’s eyes descend with his hand and stop,
resting on the slightly crumpled paper I am holding. I take a deep breath
before asking him for help. Without warning, he springs from his chair which flies
across the floor toward the wall. The worksheet is gone from my hand before I
knew he had ever reached out to grab it. I stand in silence as his bright blue eyes
move across the algebra problems that lie amongst pencil marks, eraser smudges,
and torn edges. The corners of his mouth slowly turn up into a smile, and a
mischievous spark rests in his eyes. “Do you have any scratch paper?”
“No, but there is enough space on the worksheet.”
“Go get a new piece,” he demands. I don’t move. I don’t want to get another piece. I don’t
even need it. I can tell by the cool gaze he gives me that he is serious,
so I take fresh sheet out of the printer, flip the light on, and join my dad at
the crayon covered counter. I stare at the first problem: Jennifer slept for
nine hours, how many seconds did she sleep? Slowly, I carve “9 hours” onto my no
longer white worksheet.
“Now, what unit of time is smaller than an hour?” I hear
his patient voice say, tinted with excitement.
“Um, a minute?” I say, almost more of a question than an
answer. He nods, and asks me how to turn an hour into minutes. My brows furrow
and I tap my pencil on the hard table. You
can’t turn hours into minutes. Maybe asking dad was a bad idea. “I don’t
know,” I reply. I see a fire ignite in my dad’s eyes. Voice brimming with
excitement, he beams, almost shouting.
“You multiply by one!”
Bewildered, I can feel my eyes grow so big I’m sure
they’ll fall out of my head. Asking dad
was a mistake, he has no idea what he’s talking about. Multiply by one? “You can’t do that dad,” I say, a little harsher
than intended. “If you multiply anything by one, it will be the exact same
number as it was before: nine hours.” I point my finger to the space on the
page I had written the number. I hear his voice repeat the instruction. My hand
begins to quiver as I feel the confusion overwhelm me. Dad lets out a small
chuckle and I am certain he is doubting my intelligence. The apparent amusement
he is gaining from my obvious struggle stings, and I can feel my face become
hot.
“How many minutes are in an hour,” he asked slowly, a
hint of hope in his voice.
“Sixty,” I say, trying to keep my voice from shaking.
“So, sixty minutes and one hour are the same thing,
right?” he says. I nod as he continues, “So if you put sixty minutes over one
hour, then that’s the same thing as one.”
“It is not the same thing as one. Sixty is way bigger,” I say, trying to
shoot daggers at him with my eyes. This
made more sense when I was doing it on my own.
“Just use the scratch paper. If you
write out every step, it will make more sense.” I stare in disgust at the piece
of paper he pushes toward me. The tension in his voice is tangible and I feel
chills run up my spine. “If you aren’t willing to take my advice, then I’m not
going to help you,” he states roughly.
I hear Natalie, my ten year old
sister enter the room. Great. She
stands silently at the door watching us for a few moments before I whip around.
The command for her to leave slips sharply out of my mouth before I have time
to think. She’s just here to make fun of
me.
Suddenly, my body takes over. My
hands start shaking and I try to push back the tears brimming in my eyes. How am I supposed to have this done by
tomorrow? Against my will, the problems on the worksheet become blurry, and
I can feel the hot tears cascading down my cheeks. This father daughter math session has ended just like all the others.
I doubt next week’s will be any better.
The front door slams as sixteen year
old Natalie bursts through, letting the chilly fall air run into the house. She’s
just barely returned and I can already feel the frustration she has bottled up
inside of her. She immediately pulls a large blue geometry book out of her tattered
school bag. Loose papers come with the book and flutter chaotically toward the
hardwood floor. My dad glances up from the sink as he continues to scrub the
grime off of a plate.
“Geometry homework again?” he questions.
“I hate it. It doesn’t make any
sense and my teacher doesn’t explain anything in class. He expects us to learn
everything on our own!” Natalie snaps.
“Would you like some help?”
She returns his question with a cool
stare. She stands tall and prideful, unwilling to admit that she can’t do the
homework on her own. Her blue eyes glare at him through her large black framed
glasses. I continue watching the scene from the couch. I remember when my dad
would always help me with my math homework, but it had been years since.
Suddenly he spots me. “I don’t have
much time tonight, but Lindsey is really good at math. She can help you.”
“Fine.” Natalie retorts defiantly.
She slams her book down on the table, finds her worksheet, and fumbles for a
pencil. I rush over and sit by her side, my eyes move across the geometry
problems that lie amongst pencil marks, eraser smudges, and torn edges. She had
been working on this earlier.
“Alright,” I say with a slight
smile, “Do you have a piece of scratch paper?”
My dad looks up at us from the
kitchen sink with a smile.
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