Samantha Tyrell W.
801/Antoine
Personal Narrative
12/04/17
Life is not Fairytales and Sunshine It was April 1st and it was a terrible and dreary day that’s for sure and it took a turn for the worst.
“I just can’t believe she’d try to hurt me like that”, I told my attorney, Louise Felds. “My mom tried to physically abuse me which was something out of the ordinary from normal beatings you receive with a belt”, I sniff a bit holding back tears, which threatened to spill like a waterfall. Here I was sitting in an office in Downtown Brooklyn, trying not to bawl my eyes out to a woman I didn't even know. Her oak brown eyes seemed full of understanding, had she dealt with this before? My aunt, Evangel, suggested I get an attorney to represent me and my feelings when they went to court with my mother. Louise began to speak as she saw the tears well up in my eyes like a dam beginning to overflow.
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It was around 10 O’clock at night and my mother and I were in a heated dispute. I never had a huge arguments with my mother, so this was a change of pace. While we argued it was clear to see that she was infuriated. The bright blue walls of her room seemed to darken in color as the air filled with thick tension.
“Why are you so damn rude!”, she yelled at me, sounding like a banshee, brown eyes full of
The night was tempestuous and my emotions were subtle, like the flame upon a torch. They blew out at the same time that my sense of tranquility dispersed, as if the winds had simply come and gone. The shrill scream of a young girl ricocheted off the walls and for a few brief seconds, it was the only sound that I could hear. It was then that the waves of turmoil commenced to crash upon me. It seemed as though every last one of my senses were succumbed to disperse from my reach completely. As everything blurred, I could just barely make out the slam of a door from somewhere alongside me and soon, the only thing that was left in its place was an ominous silence.
Suzie attended the IEP meeting for one of her new clients. While in the meeting, the client’s mother began crying. Suzie quickly told the mother that it was neither the time nor the place for crying. Following the meeting, Suzie met with the mother and told her she should do her best to hide her emotions.
“It took Mother nearly half an hour to dress my wound. There was no remorse in her eyes. I thought that, at the very least, she would try to comfort me...
I walked into the room on New Year’s Day and felt a sudden twinge of fear. My eyes already hurt from the tears I had shed and those tears would not stop even then the last viewing before we had to leave. She lay quietly on the bed with her face as void of emotion as a sheet of paper without the writing. Slowly, I approached the cold lifeless form that was once my mother and gave her a goodbye kiss.
Growing up in a bilingual household, I have struggled with many things especially reading and writing. Reading and writing have never been my strongest points. The first struggle that I can recall, is when I was about six or seven years old. I was beginning my education at Edu-Prize Charter School. I was a cute little kid, in the first grade, just like everybody else. But in the middle of the school year, my mom told me that my great, great aunt, who lived in China, was getting really sick and old. So if I wanted to meet her, it had to be now. Being a little kid, I didn’t quite understand why she couldn’t just go see the doctor, take some medication, or let time heal her. Unfortunately, now I know it was my mom’s way of saying that she was dying. My parents made the decision that it was probably the best way for me to understand my Chinese culture, along with meeting my relatives on my mother’s side of the family. So for a month, I had to leave my dad, my brother, my school, and all my
As I walked through the door of the funeral home, the floral arrangements blurred into a sea of vivid colors. Wiping away my tears, I headed over to the collage of photographs of my grandfather. His smile seemed to transcend the image on the pictures, and for a moment, I could almost hear his laughter and see his eyes dancing as they tended to do when he told one of his famous jokes. My eyes scanned the old photographs, searching for myself amidst the images. They came to rest on a photo of Grandpa holding me in his lap when I was probably no more than four years old. The flowers surrounding me once again blended into an array of hues as I let my mind wander……
Growing up in working class family, my mom worked all the time for the living of a big family with five kids, and my dad was in re-education camp because of his association with U.S. government before 1975. My grandma was my primary guardian. “Go to study, go to read your books, read anything you like to read if you want to have a better life,” my grandma kept bouncing that phrase in my childhood. It becomes the sole rule for me to have better future. I become curious and wonder what the inside of reading and write can make my life difference. In my old days, there was no computer, no laptop, no phone…etc, to play or to spend time with, other than books. I had no other choice than read, and read and tended to dig deep in science books, math books, and chemistry books. I tended to interest in how the problem was solved. I even used my saving money to buy my own math books to read more problems and how to solve the problem. I remembered that I ended up reading the same math book as my seventh grade teacher. She used to throw the challenge questions on every quiz to pick out the brighter student. There was few students know how to solve those challenge questions. I was the one who fortunately nailed it every single time. My passion and my logic for reading and writing came to me through that experience, and also through my grandma and my mom who plant the seed in me, who want their kids to have happy and better life than they were. In my own dictionary, literacy is not just the ability to read and write, it is a strong foundation to build up the knowledge to have better life, to become who I am today.
In the morning my father was there to drive us to school. I didn’t ask about the argument that I had heard the night before. I just figured somethings were better left alone. I could tell by my father’s face that he was upset. In all my fourteen years I had never seen him this upset accept for the night that my grandfather died.
I saw her walk over to the dressing table. I watched her appear in the circular glass of the mirror looking at me now at the end of a back and forth of mathematical light. I watched her keep on looking at me with her great hot-coal eyes: looking at me while she opened the little box covered with pink mother of pearl. I saw her powder her nose. When she finished, she closed the box, stood up again, and walked over to the lamp once more, saying: "I'm afraid that someone is dreaming about this room and revealing my secrets." And over the flame she held the same long and tremulous hand that she had been warming before sitting down at the mirror. And she said: "You don't feel the cold." And I said to her: "Sometimes." And she said to me: "You must feel it now." And then I understood why I couldn't have been alone in the seat. It was the cold that had been giving me the certainty of my solitude. "Now I feel it," I said. "And it's strange because the night is quiet. Maybe the sheet fell off." She didn't answer. Again she began to move toward the mirror and I turned again in the chair, keeping my back to her.
I had to go back to my country and come back to campus really feel the change I went through during the first year in college. I had to observe and interact with the first years to perceive the similarities between them and my old self, to see how I have changed and the extent to which humans are all alike. We might face the same struggles, but the ways we deal with them vary from person to person. I will try to tell my version of growing up in Lafayette.
Marjane Satrapi’s Persepolis is one of the most intriguing books for not only students of history, but for anyone who can enjoy the historical time that was taking place in Islam through the late 1970s’ and 1980s’. Through the eyes of a child, Marji shows the underlying issues dealing with war from a child’s perspective, moral uncertainty and the impacts on class differences.
It was the middle of the night when my mother got a phone call. The car ride was silent, my father had a blank stare and my mother was silently crying. I had no idea where we were headed but I knew this empty feeling in my stomach would not go away. Walking through the long bright hallways, passing through an endless amount of doors, we had finally arrived. As we
It was just after 10 o’clock when his fury burst through the wall that separated my bedroom from the living room. I recognized the voice, but not the anger. I knew full well that it was my father yelling, but I had never heard him so upset. Being the oldest and most responsible of my siblings, I had to go see what was going on. I tiptoed down the hallway and gingerly stepped out of the shadows and into the dim lighting of the living room. My eyes shot to my mom who was sitting in her recliner, red-faced, and wiping away tears with a handful of Kleenex. Then I saw my father, quickly sitting back in his chair as if everything were perfectly normal. “Having trouble sleeping?” he a...
.... Finally, my parents arrived, riding the sound of their running footsteps on the hollow wooden dock. Dad immediately relieved my weary arms of their burden and pulled my brother out of the cold blue lake. I looked up into my Mom's face to see tears of mixed panic and joy as she embraced my younger brother, heedless of the world that surrounded the two of them. She focused only on her son, who looked back at her silently with deep brown chestnut eyes.
I wearily drag myself away from the silken violet comforter and slump out into the living room. The green and red print of our family’s southwestern style couch streaks boldly against the deep blues of the opposing sitting chairs, calling me to it. Of course I oblige the billowy haven, roughly plopping down and curling into the cushions, ignoring the faint smell of smoke that clings to the fabric. My focus fades in and out for a while, allowing my mind to relax and unwind from any treacherous dreams of the pervious night, until I hear the telltale creak of door hinges. My eyes flutter lightly open to see my Father dressed in smart brown slacks and a deep earthy t-shirt, his graying hair and beard neatly comber into order. He places his appointment book and hair products in a bag near the door signaling the rapid approaching time of departure. Soon he is parading out the door with ever-fading whispers of ‘I love you kid,’ and ‘be good.’