An Immigrant: A Short Story

Welcome. A single word on the carpet by the door greets me whenever I come home. There had been times where that one word made my heart beat and cry with joy. But not now, for many things changed through the years. Now when I look at this carpet, I instead question back: ‘Do you really mean that?’

Hello reader, I’m about to tell you a story of some of my life. I am not normally one to volunteer details about myself, which I’ll remain somewhat reserved or completely leave some events out of this autobiography. Nonetheless, I believe I can still make my story interesting for the reader. I was born 1979, in Tampa, Florida; which, is also the same day my biological father decided to leave my mother and I. My mother isn’t a native Floridian, but had moved there with her family when she was still an infant, and had spent most of her life growing up in Florida. Needless to say, my father leaving was not an exciting time for my mother and I. Although she was employed Jimmy Cater was president and had taken the nation into

“Mom, will I ever be treated as a regular person? When will I be like the others without people look at me in a strange way and make fun of me, when mom? When?” Those were the questions I did to my mom almost every day after getting home from school. Fourteen years ago that my parents brought me to this country offering a better life with better opportunities than where I was born. I was seven years old when came to the United States, but I still remember the happiness I felt when I first step in this country. Throughout the years, I have realize that not everything is easy and simple as I imagined. My parents worked in the fields because of the lack of a social security and not knowing how to speak English. Many Americans do not know how hard it is the life of an immigrant, they should have a consideration for us and not just blame us for the deviance of the United States.

I was born on january/31/1919 in Vietnam and immigrated to France. In 1942 I was studying at the university in Nice, where I met a fellow student, Jadwiga Alfabet, a Jewish refugee from Poland. In the summer of 1942 the French police began arresting Jews with foreign nationality. In September 1943 the Germans occupied Nice and all the Italian controlled zones and we were in danger of deportation. I decided to hide not only my wife, but also her relatives. In November 1943 I took a train with a few of my wife's relatives to get them in touch with a smuggler who could take them to Switzerland, I made this trip several

Humanity is ever so much more complicated than one could have ever imagined. Humans can thrive on change, but ultimately look for something to declare as home. In search of this home people travel long distances and risk everything they have. When an American contemplates the word immigrant, one imagines the countless people from Mexico crossing into our country or the refugees that hope to make this country their home. What eludes most of us, however, is the reality that most people were, at one point, immigrants to this country and that our forefathers came here exactly the same as refugees come today. What is brought to mind when I hear the word immigrant is hope and perseverance. I remember the countless people who have traveled here

With the settlement of first immagrants to America, this has been the phrase in which they preach. I seemed to those from an outside perspective of America, that this was the place to be. This was no exception for my grandfather. His valuable lessons of dedication, persistence and passion have shaped me into the person that I have become.

     It started like any other day up on the hills of Rhein, but that day had the scent of freedom floating in the air. The journey ahead of me had been teasing me for weeks, I was just so anxious to get away and start all over again. I had made certain arrangements before I left, our family dog was not allowed on the ship that we were going to be arriving in America, so I had my parents take care of the dog for us. It was a hard thing to do seeing that the dog had become more than just a pet to the children and I, for we almost would recognize him as a family member. Most of our possessions we were able to keep with us, but we had to keep the load light since it was going to be a tight stay in the steerage. I

It was burnt to the ground and most had not gotten out. There was not a single person still living in the city, but I could still hear them. The screams of their last moments before the flames destroyed all were ringing in my ears. It got louder and louder as I sobbed. How could I let this happen? How could I not help all those people to save a tiny family that should even exist? Soon, after what felt like hours of crying, I looked out over the city once more. I could see the future of it being rebuilt and families returning to the once said place. What gave me the most comfort was seeing the small family of three helping all others the came in contact with. They and their descendants would help all, but be remembered by only

I completely agree with your post. It was very sad reading some of these stories and how they were treated. Just within the first story about the child that was shot dead by the watering tank. Workers now a days, I like to think are not deprived from their basic human rights. Migrant workers work depending on the seasons. My grandfather for example would work up north until the winter came along and then he would come back home. At times he would come weeks at a time to be with the family but would always go right back to work. Also the ways the students were treated in school because they were Mexican is very sad, and hard to swallow knowing some of the humiliations they had to go through. You are right prayer was something many families

Both of my grandpas were veterans of the second world war. My grandpa Wolford was a decorated army sergeant in the 318th infantry division who fought in the western front until he was wounded in the leg, and my grandpa Milner served in the US Navy until the ship he was on, the USS Miantonomoh, was sunk off the coast of France, and made a very interesting story to tell when he came back home to my grandma. Both of returned home and proceeded to live a long happy life surrounded by their families until passing away from old age. Like most veterans, they didn’t like to talk about the war when they came home. They didn’t need to say a single word to me to teach me the lessons I’ve taken from them. They taught me what you couldn’t get from a book

Kevin was a comedian. Everything he said was facetious. Everything he said was meant to be taken in a humorous way. Kevin was very indigent; his bank account had no money in it. So Kevin’s main reason for being a comedian was to augment his bank account. If he added to his account he would be able to afford food and clothes. As a person Kevin was mundane he was just like your ordinary guy. Kevin would perform at a bar. He brought in a lot of customers. He thought that by doing so he would make a lot of money. Well the bar took most of the profit and gave him 10$ for his whole act. After this Kevin was indignant; he started to yell and throw bottles of liquor because he was outraged. The owner of the bar tried to mollify Kevin by giving him

I see the people making up the town: the children playing in the streets, laughing and crying over the bruises that would form since they have not yet gained full perception and motor control. The parents worried out of their minds that they will soon slip out of their grasp as they struggle to protect and nurture them. They finally wrangle up their kids for dinner in the safety of their homes relieved nothing happened, but keeping their nerves bottled so they don’t get consumed by the fear. However, the danger that came across their minds was nothing like the pain that would soon rain down on them. The dinner table would get all cleaned up and the house would be illuminated with a flaming orange due to the sun leaving for the day, or so they

While waiting at the front door, I constantly observed my surroundings. A sense of nervousness came over my body as I began to look at the capacity of people standing outside waiting. That’s when I noticed two groups of people having a confrontation right behind my group of friends. The conversation quickly escalated as one of the members of the group swings a punch at another member of the other group. The brawl was on; in a blink of an eye, both groups were on the ground tumbling and throwing punches. People were running towards the fight for some odd reason; instead, me and the girls ran towards the door of the building. “Something bad is about to happen,” I stated as I looked over to my cousin’s best friend. Apparently I had spoken too soon. As I watched one of the members of the fight get up from the ground and reach into his pocket, I knew what was coming next. Fear immediately took over my body. Pow! Pow! Shots were fired. Crowds of people were frantically running in every direction. I began to bang on the door of the building in terror. Thankfully, someone inside the party heard the gunshots, and ran to open the door for us. Everyone stampeded into the lobby of Sartain Hall like a herd of animals. I looked over to my right, in hopes that at least my cousin had made it inside the building. She was nowhere to be found. I desperately began to search for my cousin amongst the crowd of flustered people. “Tia! I’m right here!”

It was a dark snowy night, I walked down the cul-de-sac were I grew up. The streetlights flickering and doors to the houses slightly creak open as I walk pass from the wind. The smell of decay lingered in the air. Several vehicles covered in snow and dirt fill the street unmoved for years. The silence makes me uneasy putting my nerves on edge I came here hopefully to find peace away from the world just for a little bit since the apocalypse, maybe say my condolences to my parents and childhood friends as I walk pass their houses. "Maybe they survived." I thought to myself. As a approach closer to my childhood home dead middle of the cul-de-sac I began to hear a feint voice in the direction of my home.

The time was coming near, before I pass I must pass my medicine bag onto my great grandson. I started my journey leaving my home in the reservation where I live. I put on a big black hat with my long black coat, over my bright red satin shirt. I wore my beaded bolo tie under my collar as a formal accent. I had stuffed my boots with money that my family would need to provide for my funeral. Knowing I would not come back I waved to all my friends on the reservation as I boarded the bus to take me to my only living descendents house, which I have been longing to see, and now will get to before I die. The bus ride from South Dakota to Iowa lastest nearly two and a half days. On the bus I mostly tried to sleep or muttered songs to myself, nobody sat near me which didn’t bother me at all. When I arrived I was tired and stiff from sitting for so long, but I was determined to make it to my family’s house. After wandering around the city for a while I had stopped to rest at a large building, nothing here was familiar to me. Suddenly, a large man who had many weapons around his waist come over to talk to me. He was very nice and guided me to the nearest bus stop and told me how to get to Bellview Drive, a street i’ve have been saying over and over again in my mind. I had took the bus that the man had instructed and got off at Bell View Drive. I had been searching for their household by number but when I walked on the sidewalks it was hard to see the other side of the street. So I started walking in the middle of the street looking on both sides as I walked. As I kept walking wolf-like creatures started following me attacking at my feet but I had to find the house so I brushed it aside. Then children started to congregate behind me. I kept walking till Martin had found me and shued my parade away.