Descriptive Autobiography

When I first saw in the syllabus the type of paper we would be writing for this course I thought about what culture means to me. What was the culture of my family? Where did we come from? How did we end up in Virginia? How did we end up believing some of the things we believe? To me culture was basically how I was raised—my behaviors, beliefs, values, and ideas cultivated during my youth and its evolvement as I grew into an adult. This truly was to be a very interesting and involved quest for information. Though I attempted to use websites such as www.genealogy.com and www.ancestry.com, I found most of the information from a couple of the adults in my family. Adults? I, too, am an adult, but in my family, age comes

When I was 20 months old my partner in crime was born. Kensey Kaitlyn McKee was born March 7, 2002, and little did I know my life would be changed forever. I was not an only child anymore I now had a little sister who needed all the attention. Once Kensey was old enough to walk and talk that’s when we really started to have fun. We once got in trouble for wiping diaper rash cream all over our walls and mirrors, it was a disaster but I’m sure we were having the time of our lives. Another time we put our new kitten in a cooler in 100 degree weather for hours, and then finally one of us remembered where we had put her luckily the cat was just fine. We always had so much fun. I feel so bad for my parents at one point they had two toddler

"There are no constraints on the human mind, no walls around the human spirit, no barriers to our progress except those we ourselves erect." -anonymous.

It was 8:30pm in my bedroom. I just got home from football practice like every other night.

You know that moment when you’re trying to reach the toilet paper but can't quite, then fall and kill yourself on a pumpkin? Yeah I know that feeling… it’s not good. It all started one very normalish day at 1065 Fitzgerald Ave.

For my memoir I shall look back onto my past and the life lesions I have learned. Through simple things I have found in my life and the trails I have endured. To the earliest memories I have, to a not so proud moment caused by anger and regret.

My first memories of writing were an experience that I will never forget. They have been drilled into my head due to the repetitiveness of my tasks. Which in this case, is a good thing.

I was sitting at my desk, looking around for any small detail that I thought I may have missed. Everything looked organized and the way my roommate and I wanted it to look. I looked at him and told him “this is our new home for a year”. Every upcoming college student dreams about moving day and my time was coming soon. Three weeks prior to move in day, I began organizing and preparing for what was coming, “What are the most important things I should bring”, “How much is the trip going to cost?”, all these questions began to rush towards my head at once and if it wasn’t for the help of my mom, I wouldn’t have been able to organize myself and pack for college.

I was sitting on the couch next to my new dog Earl, I was about eight years old. He was a rescue dog from Upaws. He was about one buth this is the first day that we had him. We spoiled him with new toys, but his favorite thing that we had gotten him was his bone.

Although I had feigned confidence to my friends and a carefree attitude to my parents, I was undoubtedly nervous. I leaned over to pull up my cream-colored knee high socks, then took one last look in the mirror. A killer outfit- one that was supposed to be comforting. Flushed cheeks. Sweaty palms. Shaky hands. Looking away, I turned on my heel and slinked over to where all the other girls audition were.

He sat beside Alistair on the concrete close to the door. The two had managed to stay together since leaving the bus. With thirteen men sharing an eight-bunk cell, both were resigned to a sleepless night on the cold floor.

After he sits with outside with them for a while, Blake sighs unusually loud and says “Alright, I’m ready”

Seven. I have seven days left. One week, 168 hours. I count down the seconds that are passing by and watch the sun turn your black hair purple. You laugh and the sound travels throughout the entire park. The dogs run with their owners, the birds fly, children play, and the water trickles in the creek, but I watch your throat move with every drink of water, the white gold locket moving with each drink. Your tiny hand closes the bottle. The temperature is starting to rise, the hottest July of I can remember.

"Choose a job you love, and you will never have to work a day in your life" (Confucius). Growing up under a conservative father, I never considered art as a profession even though it was always where my heart belonged. My parents wanted me to become a doctor or a lawyer, and I blindly thought that was the way to go. However, I made a life-changing decision to become a fashion designer when I watched a fashion show clip of Christian Dior couture collection in high school. Driven by the energy and excitement of the runway, I thought of creating work like that. My father didn't approve, and he told me that I should not turn my hobby into my profession because I would end up not enjoying it. Despite his advice, I showed him the quote above and told him that I want to spend my life following my passion instead of being forced to do something else.

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