First Person Singular Narrative

As I walked outside the morning of August 12th I noticed the clouds in the distance, they were dark and ominous; I couldn’t avoid feeling as though this was a bad sign of what was to come. Then I thought, “Just my luck, I have to drive on the interstate and it’s going to storm!” There was no getting out of this though, I had to leave, so I got into my car and started driving. Pulling onto the interstate it seemed as though I was heading right into the storm, it somehow had lined up perfectly with the road. The closer I got, it suddenly hit me, the metaphor wasn’t one of bad things to come, but of the step I was about to take in life. I didn’t know what was going to happen, just that I had to keep going. Everything in my life up to this point

I never thought that I would be saving someone life from drowning. That was until my friends and I did help someone. Which was something that happened very fast.

To me there is more than one danger of giving someone a single story, it’s more than not seeing their full identity it's diminishing all of their accomplishments, hardships, specialties, and everything that makes an individual, individual. True in my life I have not been innocent of doing that to multiple people, such as last week when my family and I were driving home from Memphis through Arkansas. I was feeling sick so we stopped at a truck stop that looked kind of rugged, so I was already feeling that as a black woman I should keep my wits about me (and the probable Trump supporters that would be inside) but I was feeling so sick that it wasn’t an overbearing thought. When I walked in and saw the white man with a camouflage snapback hat

On March 4th, 2005 I sat in Mrs. Musser’s first grade class. I talked with my friend Olivia Thacker, like I did everyday. We talked about boys; how smelly they were and how we would never have boyfriends. We talked about our sisters who were also friends, and we talked about our parents. However, that year we mostly talked about my mother. Around 2:45, my sister, Lauren and I, would walk to the farthest end of the school. That end of the school was filled with the bigger kids and I was always scared to walk on that side. My sister who was in second grade at the time, always walked with me, so I had some protection. Anyways, we walked out the doors to the student car-rider pick up line. My grandmother on my father's side always picked us up

The first couple steps were bumpy, my trembling feet vibrating against the crackling floor. The door swings open as I go to knock creating a loud screeching noise. As I walk into the unfamiliar home, I become more aware of the man I'm about to meet. I travel further into his world and can hear the noise coming from under my feet. I get closer and closer until I find it, the crooked door where he told me to meet him. As the stairs appears from the darkness, my path becomes lighted ahead of me.

I was not an intentionally bigoted twelve-year-old. I was raised in an affluent suburban community where the vast majority of people are white. The 100% white private nursery school which I attended was chosen by my parents largely due to its proximity to our home. My public elementary school was about 70% white as it was populated with students who resided nearby. Finally, the private middle school which I attended, located almost an hour from my home, provided me with exposure to the most diverse student body of my youth as it was comprised of about 65% Caucasian children. What each of these formative academic experiences shared in common was both that their student bodies were disproportionately Caucasian, as well as that their senior administrators

Hello, Dr. Taft, I look forward to another exciting semester with you, and my cohorts exploring my inner and outer world. Let’s start with my family constellations it begins with my stepmother, and my father, my older brother Steven along with myself. At the time, I did not know that Ann was my stepmother, and I did not find out until I was older, and she had two sons who lived in Arizona. A few years later her eldest son Tommy would come to live with us, and the life that we were accustomed to would change the outcome of all our lives.

The first person narrator of the story uses a reflective tone when expressing her thoughts. The unnamed narrator's antagonist is her father and her father invents systems around the fox farm to make it more efficient and effective. She also aspires to be like her father instead of helping around inside the house like her mother. Foreshadowing is used when her father mentions “She's only a girl” (59) and this gives a hint to the readers that the unnamed narrator will never become a fox farmer like her father. She wants to chase her dreams but she is in conflict against her family.

1,764 miles, 26 hours, 1560 minutes from home. My feet may have left the frigid snow in Minnesota ten years ago, for a sandier terrain in Florida, however, my heart has yet to travel. Growing up in Minnesota till I was six years old provided me with the comfort of growing up alongside family and friends, who’s families have known each other for generations. This comfort in my surroundings was shifted to a new sense of ignorance when I moved to South Florida. I was greeted by a new reality of diversity. My peers no longer resembled me, with their light skin, blonde hair and blue eyes. They were replaced with a medley of skin tones, eye colors, and accents. To be greeted in a grocery store with a “buenos días”, rather than a “good morning” was a complete eye opener to my family and I.

I had been employed in the spirit realm. This wasn’t just part time job that I happened to obtain the fry. The pay sucked and I’m sure the working conditions wouldn’t meet the typical standards. Now onto explain how this came to be.

I grew up as a creative, very imaginative person. My imagination was always going, 24/7, going like Lebron in the paint, it couldn’t be stopped. I would stay up some nights imagining myself as a cop, a football player, basketball player, astronaut, truck driver, you name it. I imagined myself being anything I wanted to be. But how I got to be so imaginative is because of something I didn’t think until I began to write this essay. I was raised in a small town call Crossett, Arkansas, above the border of Louisiana. This town is a town in which I call a “chill town.” Everybody knows each other, and when pass by in your cars you can wave and give a bright smile and they’ll do the same back. Usually on a weekend you can find mostly everyday in their

Where am I? It is black. It is thundering and lightning. I hear my mom snoring. Then I remember that I am on a camping trip with my Mom, Crystal, Xander, and my papa. We had left at 10pm and slept till we reached the Mcdonald's for a quick breakfast. Then we drove for a few more hours till we reached our campsite in Minnesota at 12:30 pm the next day. We had to set up our tent, but the problem was the tent only held 3 people. My papa wanted to sleep in the bed of the truck. So one of us kids had to sleep in the back seat, Xander volunteered since us girls should not have to sleep in the same tent as a boy. The next order of business was to find the bug spray, there were so many mosquitoes and biting flies. I hate bugs so I hid under a sweater

“A lie can travel halfway around the world while the truth is putting on its shoes” (Charles Spurgeon). To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee, is a first person narrative recounting two years in the life of Scout Finch. The novel is about the personal growth, social justice, injustice and friendship. The core of the novel is the essentially concerned with the problems of prejudice and cultural bias in the 1930s. In life, everyone learns to walk in someone’s shoes before judging them.

Have you ever had that feeling of deja vu? You hear an old song and connect to it. You walk down a certain street and it seems familiar. You meet someone and instantly it’s like you’ve known them your entire life. That’s what it was like when I met my best friend Tori. I met Tori at the local park when I was thirteen. She was wearing red doc martens and so was I. So I sauntered over to her with a smirk on my face and told her that I liked her shoes. I told her she had good taste. Tori laughed at that and insisted this was a sign we had to be friends. Instantly we clicked and soon she was coming over to my house every other day. It was like we were meant to meet. We were the kind of best friends that finished each other’s sentences. Tori was

First person narrative research is a term that uses a group of approaches that in turn depend on spoken words, written works or pictures/drawings of people. These approaches tend to focus on the lives of individuals as told through their own stories. The importance and focus within such approaches is in the narrative, usually based on both what and how it is narrated. The audience validates narrative research. Being a very useful tool and all, narrative method may not always be strong enough to stand-alone as a central piece of evidence in concluding a point. Regardless if it is part of a presentation or whether it is a stand-alone piece of information, it must be accepted, based on its own merits as an individual experience and