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Foreign Kid Narrative

Decent Essays
I packed my life in one night. Again. My cramped bedroom was my shelter for six months, it was the place where I could take a break when my scruffy house was too loud for my thoughts. The door opens. “I am sorry” my host mom said after a bit of reluctance. The puppies are perpetually barking at the Christmas tree downstairs; it’s past midnight and I still hear the hiss from the old television set in the bedroom across the hallway. My mind clings to the memories of my first months lived as the “foreign kid” in an unknown environment where people existed in all shapes and color: black, white, latinos, mexican, the cool people, the awkward geeks. I glance at the letters scattered in my suitcase.
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