Descriptive Essay About My Mom

​Parents are one of the most beautiful things that could happen to anyone. They are always there by your side no matter what; they always want the best for their children. They can be strict and protective, its because they love their kids and they don’t want them to get hurt. My parents are special to me because with all the hard time that they had to have me and my siblings in their life they still fought for us and didn’t give up, even after 17 years of trying. But for me? The greatest of all is my mom. She is the one that I look up too. She is the greatest of all. Simple, funny, strict, protective, but yet she is the best.

In 1974, my mother, and her lower class family, emigrated from Canada to New City, New York. They moved frequently back and forth between various American and Canadian cities due to my grandfather’s lack of finding long-term employment; he has a book filled with pages upon pages of business cards and papers recording his numerous previous employers. Eventually, my grandfather found a steady job in print, working for the New York Times in 1985, my grandmother opened her own bookstore for a brief period in time, and my mother and her siblings all attended and graduated from four-year colleges. The entire family continues to retain sole Canadian citizenship. As improved a life they have been provided, not all immigration stories have such a happy ending. Most immigrant families coming from south of the United States border, in the same financial situation as my mother and her family had been, will not have such luck. They are stuck in a paradox of stereotypes, between being perceived by the suburban white family as “lazy” or “taking all of our jobs.” Why is it that we turn a blind eye to our neighbors to the north, as if they collectively live up to the stereotype of unfaltering niceness? Though much has been said about these immigrants coming to the United States from Latin America, very little attention is being paid to the immigrants coming from Canada and Western Europe due to prejudice.

As a little girl, my hair was always down. My grandmother would basically have to fight me, in order to braid my hair. I believed my hair deserved to be loose and free. Even after a bad haircut, that earned me the nickname of Dora among my fifth grade classmates, I still felt comfortable with my triangle shaped hair.

I like your momI like your mom I like your mom I like your mom I like your mom I like your mom I like your mom I like your mom I like your mom I like your mom This module explores the ethical issues regarding sexual behavior. In this activity, you will develop an essay about contemporary sexual morality.

Family history is very important to me. It teaches me about my ancestors, family background, culture, heritage, and generations of traditions. By knowing where I came from, helps me have a better perspective of my life. Having a clear understanding on my family background allows me to know how deep my family’s roots are, and it brings me closer to self discovery.

The dark brown eyes staring back at me were foreign, the slightest trace of their previous owner had faded and the soul of their new owner shone through them with a happiness that could only be conjured up by one thing- new hair.

Yet, I was surprised at myself because at one point in my life I was a Beyonce, in a room full of other Beyonce’s, grabbing attention with lengthy weave. I have grown with the notion that having long straight hair was the right image for a black girl, like myself. My surroundings and the people around me, in East Orange, NJ, were lying to not only themselves but to myself as well. They spoke and breathed the language of weaves and perms, and I inferred this from watching young ladies get their hair done at my mothers salon. One day, I got tired of this mentality of weaves being related to black females, and cut my hair off… all of

Accepting my hair has been difficult for me. It’s always the first thing people notice; they look at me, and all they see is hair. Big, blonde, curly, and a bit of a mess, hair is my identifier. Standing out was

The connection with hair and racism, and comparisons of the society about white and black women is problem faced in society around the world, to see how you feel inside this is really interesting. And also why weaves entered in our life. In your conclusion I can see that you really grow up your mind during the time and like your hair right now. I think it is important to like ourselves and have our styles without others judging us.

In this research, hair had been a part of our identity. Not only women, but it goes with men as well. Hair had been symbolic for each individual in front of the society. Hair had been important and crucial to our identity because it plays an important role identifying identity such as gender, race or health or age. These differences help us to identify which categorization of superiority vs inferiority or strength vs weaknesses. Therefore, hair as a cultural identity impacts these traits or intelligence of a group or individual. Hair can perceive different perception, such as in work’s place. Many minorities here in the United States felt the pressure in one physical feature-hair. Hair as an appearance is one of the beauty attributes that

Becoming naturally haired truly jumpstarted my thirst for knowledge pertaining to my culture. I began to truly understand and internalize the pain and achievements of my ancestors. During this process though, I learned to have an enhanced respect and recognize the positives in other cultures, to boot. This modified my ontogeny, because turning natural lent a hand to me, too truly, for the first time in my life, genuinely and completely love myself. Thus, granting me the poise and dignity to be the noblest person I can. To summarize, though it took various stages to become internalization commitment, along the journey I found an appreciation for who I am.

At age three I said “I love you mommy.” At age seven I said, “Mom, stop kissing my cheek!” At age fifteen I say, “You’re so annoying – I can’t wait to move out!” At age eighteen, I’ll be saying “I miss home.” At age twenty-seven I’ll be saying “I miss my mom.” At age forty I’ll be saying “I miss you so much; I wish you didn’t have to go.” My mom is the sun to my shine.

Any women can be a mother but it takes someone special to be a mother. Having someone in your life who means so much to you is a blessing. My Mom, Fatima was born on June 4, 1973. Moving to her appearance, I could say that the way she acts says a lot about her personality. She is the kind of person that is interesting to listen. Every time I listen to her, I learn something new. The moment she had me in her life was also a blessing for her. Im her third daughter. She is someone who cheers me up while I’m feeling sad. Without her, I wouldn’t be who I am today. Her smile is the only thing that will make me happy throughout the day. Her guiding hand on my shoulder will remain forever. Ever since her childhood, my mom was taught that

At just over five feet tall, she was the kind of woman that you saw on the street and knew to move out of her way. Her demeanor was strict, her hands tied with thick blue veins, criss­crossing over her thin, frail fingers.

A mother is someone who can take the place of all others but no one can take the place of her. There are many different definitions you could use to describe your mother. My mother, Pam Krull, fits every one of those. Today I decided to pick the three that I thought was most important to me. I admire and aspire to be like my mother because of how supportive, how selfless, and how loving she is.