I grew up in India and for the first 10 years of my life, dinner started the same way. My mother would tell me to bow my head and together our family would say the dinner prayer. “God graciously, god goose, lettuce thanks. Amen." I remember lip-syncing the words as if I knew the prayer, pretending to remember it. In fact, for a long time I thought the dinner prayer was in a foreign language, because it sounded so strange. Even though I hadn't idea of ​​what I was trying to say, I bowed my head and recited, “God is good, God is great, let us thank Him for our food, Amen.” Say no to plagiarism. Get a custom essay on "Why Violent Video Games Shouldn't Be Banned"? Get an original essay Every evening our family would sit on a white floor in the living room and eat dinner, shoulder to shoulder straight line. I sat next to my father and my sister sat next to me, who in turn sat next to my mother. My father sat next to a candy pink wall on which the telephone was hanging , he would reply with an echoing “Hello” and quickly ask the person to call back later. After prayer my father would turn on the television and we would always watch Crime Patrol. I would ask a lot of questions during the series and only during the commercials would my mother try to answer mine questions. I asked many of the same questions over and over again, but no matter how many times I asked them, my mother always patiently explained them back to me. Many days, my father didn't come home for dinner. The phone would ring around five, when my mother usually made dinner, she would stop to answer the phone only to hear that she couldn't make it in time for dinner. On those nights he let my sister and I watch whatever we wanted on television. We often watched cartoons. If it was later in the evening, we watched Doraemon. Gradually, dinner began to incorporate more responsibilities. My job was to pour chocolate milk, because I was taller and stronger than my sister, better able to handle pouring a large gallon of milk into our glasses. She had been assigned the task of setting the table, even though I couldn't stand that she always made mistakes, so I followed her and put the ceramic plates in the right places and folded the napkins. At some point, my family outgrew the “God is great” prayer and moved on to our own impromptu devotions. My biggest fear during dinner (other than the presence of bottle gourd and ridge gourd on my plate (a disgusting vegetable dish) my mother started randomly asking me to bless the meal. I couldn't bear to do that blessing, because I hadn't. I don't know how to do it. Yet, once it was finished, I sighed with relief thinking that my prayer duty had been fulfilled for that moment and, hopefully, at least for another couple of weeks that my father moved to America for a job promotion, dinner became strange. During this time we ate a lot of pizza and Chinese dishes. During dinner we spoke little. My father came home during holidays and holidays and dinner became of again lively and homely, even if pleasant conversations were forced during meals, because we needed to "focus on each other". My father went to America several times a year for long periods of work. he left, he stayed, and sometimes he ate with us and sometimes not. t. I also started ignoring all his attempts at conversation as my studies became challenging. I wish I could say that we enthusiastically and intellectually shared and discussed our lives. I wish I could say we stayed longer,!