My dad cooked the same meal again. I tried to explain that his choice of food wasn't appealing with a small outburst. It was uncomfortable; I didn't know where to draw the line. No simple request would even have my father believe that something might change. But, I couldn't yell at him like I wanted to because the way his body would react to such an event suggested that he had some kind of disability. He, a fifty-six year old man, would adjust his vision away - degrees below the horizon, immobilize, and seem to halt his mental processes (which would be deductible from a response that insinuated he had heard a message that was similar but fundamentally different than what would actually be spoken). Regardless, I would feel poor about myself and nothing would change.

I took a couple minutes to find new words to explain what was going on. I pointed out that he, "arbitrarily [chose] when to assign leniency to words". I wanted my dad to see that Carlos no more had a "myriad" of names (he had about three) than my dad always cooked the same meal (which he had a small handful of that covered less tastes). I wanted my dad to see the human value in my request that dinner be different, rather than return what I had said with an air that said I was some pesky machine displaying an error message to an operator who had already fixed its problem. I hoped that the complex, novel nature of my thought would turn on some small empathetic light, or warmth in the chambers of his brain, or soul.

Obviously, it didn't. But, it didn't hurt me any less; I was still left with the unspoken ideological scolding that was his anchored lack of desire to find any compromise.