Did you feel secure and comfortable sharing your thoughts and emotions with this person? How did this impact your level of openness and vulnerability?

Who is a person you think you have impacted in your life? What impact have you had on the person, and how?

Think about a specific scenario times when your close friend felt bad about himself or herself or is really struggling in some way. How did you respond to your friend in this situation?Think about a specific scenario times when we allow others to care for you and what did you feel about reflecting on it

StrangersGrowing up, I never had what was considered to be a good relationship with my father. He was never mean or violent; he just seemed indifferent to my existence. Shell-shocked from the war, he had become a fiercely private man who rarely spoke to anyone. Most of the time he failed to notice that I was around. This led, throughout my teenage years, to me avoiding him. To say we were not close is an understatement. We were strangers bound by blood.Of course I tried in the early days, like every young boy does, to get his attention, but it was to no avail. I attempted to be the good son, doing housework and running errands, and when that didn’t work I tried my hand at being the bad son, being insolent and untidy even though it was not in my nature. My behaviour made no difference. His response was always the same – a quizzical look cast over the rim of his glasses, first at me and then at my mother, urging her to administer praise or reprimand me as she herself saw appropriate. Then his eyes went back to his book as if they somehow felt uncomfortable being out in the real world.By the time I was thirteen I had given up hope of him ever connecting with me. I won a prize at school for science and I wanted him to tell me that he was proud of me. The congratulations never came. That was when I stopped speaking to him. I made a decision on that day to ask him no more questions, to make no more comments, and to only speak to him if and when I was spoken to. He never instigated exchanges, and so my stubbornness led us into silence.I skirted around the house steering clear of him, making an effort to not be in the same room as him. Mealtimes led me to become more and more creative with my excuses. Whether my father knew of my strategy, I don't know. Perhaps he was oblivious. But it was a peace that I eventually grew accustomed to, and I actually started to prefer it that way. We were two individuals waiting on a train platform, aware that the other was there but choosing not to engage.I left home at sixteen without saying goodbye. My father was reading and I chose not to disturb him. I didn't see him again until my wedding day many years later. It was my mother who had invited him. I expected him to say nothing, and that's exactly what happened. But when he looked at me over the rim of his glasses I thought I saw the very beginnings of a tear. Question promptThe son adopted different strategies to deal with his father when they lived together.How did these strategies change?Question response areaSelect one optionfrom deliberate avoidance to false affectionfrom strained tolerance to outright defiance from peaceful understanding to spiteful antagonismfrom active engagement to self-imposed indifferenceNext

StrangersGrowing up, I never had what was considered to be a good relationship with my father. He was never mean or violent; he just seemed indifferent to my existence. Shell-shocked from the war, he had become a fiercely private man who rarely spoke to anyone. Most of the time he failed to notice that I was around. This led, throughout my teenage years, to me avoiding him. To say we were not close is an understatement. We were strangers bound by blood.Of course I tried in the early days, like every young boy does, to get his attention, but it was to no avail. I attempted to be the good son, doing housework and running errands, and when that didn’t work I tried my hand at being the bad son, being insolent and untidy even though it was not in my nature. My behaviour made no difference. His response was always the same – a quizzical look cast over the rim of his glasses, first at me and then at my mother, urging her to administer praise or reprimand me as she herself saw appropriate. Then his eyes went back to his book as if they somehow felt uncomfortable being out in the real world.By the time I was thirteen I had given up hope of him ever connecting with me. I won a prize at school for science and I wanted him to tell me that he was proud of me. The congratulations never came. That was when I stopped speaking to him. I made a decision on that day to ask him no more questions, to make no more comments, and to only speak to him if and when I was spoken to. He never instigated exchanges, and so my stubbornness led us into silence.I skirted around the house steering clear of him, making an effort to not be in the same room as him. Mealtimes led me to become more and more creative with my excuses. Whether my father knew of my strategy, I don't know. Perhaps he was oblivious. But it was a peace that I eventually grew accustomed to, and I actually started to prefer it that way. We were two individuals waiting on a train platform, aware that the other was there but choosing not to engage.I left home at sixteen without saying goodbye. My father was reading and I chose not to disturb him. I didn't see him again until my wedding day many years later. It was my mother who had invited him. I expected him to say nothing, and that's exactly what happened. But when he looked at me over the rim of his glasses I thought I saw the very beginnings of a tear. Question promptWhy did the author misbehave as a boy?Question response areaSelect one optionto force his father to acknowledge him as a personto show his parents that he had become independentto punish his mother for her lack of affection towards himto protest against the breakdown of his parents' marriageNextBack

StrangersGrowing up, I never had what was considered to be a good relationship with my father. He was never mean or violent; he just seemed indifferent to my existence. Shell-shocked from the war, he had become a fiercely private man who rarely spoke to anyone. Most of the time he failed to notice that I was around. This led, throughout my teenage years, to me avoiding him. To say we were not close is an understatement. We were strangers bound by blood.Of course I tried in the early days, like every young boy does, to get his attention, but it was to no avail. I attempted to be the good son, doing housework and running errands, and when that didn’t work I tried my hand at being the bad son, being insolent and untidy even though it was not in my nature. My behaviour made no difference. His response was always the same – a quizzical look cast over the rim of his glasses, first at me and then at my mother, urging her to administer praise or reprimand me as she herself saw appropriate. Then his eyes went back to his book as if they somehow felt uncomfortable being out in the real world.By the time I was thirteen I had given up hope of him ever connecting with me. I won a prize at school for science and I wanted him to tell me that he was proud of me. The congratulations never came. That was when I stopped speaking to him. I made a decision on that day to ask him no more questions, to make no more comments, and to only speak to him if and when I was spoken to. He never instigated exchanges, and so my stubbornness led us into silence.I skirted around the house steering clear of him, making an effort to not be in the same room as him. Mealtimes led me to become more and more creative with my excuses. Whether my father knew of my strategy, I don't know. Perhaps he was oblivious. But it was a peace that I eventually grew accustomed to, and I actually started to prefer it that way. We were two individuals waiting on a train platform, aware that the other was there but choosing not to engage.I left home at sixteen without saying goodbye. My father was reading and I chose not to disturb him. I didn't see him again until my wedding day many years later. It was my mother who had invited him. I expected him to say nothing, and that's exactly what happened. But when he looked at me over the rim of his glasses I thought I saw the very beginnings of a tear. Question promptAccording to the text, what was the reason for the father’s behaviour towards his son?Question response areaSelect one optionthe son’s insolent behaviourthe father’s experiences as a soldierthe son’s lack of interest in reading booksthe father’s desire to maintain a level of privacyNext