Foreign Kid Narrative

As an Immigrant child, I had a conclusion that all immigrant parents come to America for a better education for their kids. They wanted to give them the opportunity to have a better life that they never had. In American the first thing that I notice was that the airport, weather, and the school are all very different.

My sisters and I all squished together on the small couch. So finally after what felt like twenty years, mom and dad said “We’re moving”. My stomach dropped. I loved this house, it was the only house I could remember living in, it was home. ”Where are we moving to?” I managed to say, hoping it would be across the street or something close. “Georgia!” she said with a soothing smile and hope and excitement in her eyes. Of course I didn’t want to move, especially out of state, my nine year old self was devastated, and before I knew it boxes were

It was the fall of 2003, a cool and cloudless California morning. My parents, who dressed me up with a polo shirt and khakis, waited patiently for the school bus as I looked fearfully at what was going to happen. I didn't want to leave my house, nor did I want to go to school. I was a shy boy, who didn't like doing anything but staying at home and minding my own business. When the school bus finally came, I climbed on to the yellow bus and looked outside fearfully as my parents waved goodbye. I was too scared for the first day of school, which helped me shape the person I am today. Throughout my life, I've been to different places, from Oklahoma to a whole different country in a different continent miles away. During that time, I was able to shape myself with the cultural experiences I got through being in a multicultural environment,

I had no knowledge of the English language or American culture. I never knew any other culture past my hometown’s. A fish out of water, I struggled as a first grader to learn the language, assimilate into the different culture filled with people with different physical features. I felt

The next day, I went straight home after school like my mother had said, she made me sit at the bench perched up on those hideous stools and do my homework until dinner time. She keeps telling me to respect our culture, and how if I were in Vietnam, I'd still be at school at this hour. Hearing about Asia frustrates me, it just reminds me that I don't belong anywhere. But I didn’t have a choice, I sat there alone in front of my open books. I was almost the queen of procrastination, so I found myself questioning why I let her dictate how I spent my afternoon and why those nasty girls at school

My mother gave me this book to write in before I left my entire family behind in Chiapas, Mexico. She told me not to be afraid and to write whenever I am feeling upset, anxious, or angry. I haven’t wanted to write this stuff down, but I do not want to say it out loud either. I moved to America last year to stay with my aunt, uncle, and cousins in Brooklyn, New York; I was twelve then and perhaps very naive about what my life would be like in America. I didn’t know any English, but my parents told me that coming to America would help me become smarter. Better even. Unfortunately, America is not what I thought it would be and in recent times, the President is even threatening to make us leave. In Mexico, I felt that I had such an amazing life, where I was able to run around and be free. But here, I am stuck between four walls in a small one bed-room apartment. In the land of opportunity, I feel that I have none.

“It’s not fair,” I huffed, “I don’t want to leave! This is my home!” My mother’s brown eyes stared back at me, filled with a knowledge and understanding I had yet to possess and would lack for years to come. She left the barren living room, leaving behind a trace of the fruity perfume she always wore. It was futile to argue; the boxes were packed and ready to be loaded onto the trucks in a few hours. Having nowhere else to sit, I descended to the floor. The light oak wooden floorboards that used to be clothed in rugs were now naked. In the next month, new pairs of feet would walk on these boards.

Awaking with the knowledge that the room I had slept in for the past six years would not be the same room that I would rest my head that evening or for six more years was a hard idea to consume. After taking the final morning stretch and dressing for the day, I awaited the moving truck to make its presence known in front of our big yellow apartment building surrounded by a white picket fence. While waiting said truck we began to finish packing our left over dishes and clothing. During that time, I returned to my room I began to take down my posters, plastic ceiling stars that I would stare at every night and ponder the future over and pack them into a nearby crate. I was thirteen at the time of the move and a recent graduate of elementary school, I remember feeling like such an elder, but I assumed that I would graduate elementary school, go to one of the best high schools in my area, and then go to college in New York so that I was not too far from home but finally had the opportunity to fulfill that need for difference I always thirsted for as a child. It was when the back of our moving van was opened that I realized that I would not get to obtain any of those goals and that it was best to move forward and begin to accept the new

Past, on the eve of July 25th A little mixed Asian baby boy was born, on the island of Hawaii. That little Asian kids name was Takeo, an only child till the age of three until he was gifted with another rampaging monster he could wreck house with. The two grew together Corroborating on their Meticulous destruction, terrorizing their parents. Then the other monster had gotten into an accident that took the ultimate price, at the time I didn't understand because I was too young. As time went on so did life, and with it came hardships that most people work through and become better stronger people.

I breathed in the after rain smell. It must have rained the night before but I hadn’t seen it so I wasn’t aware that it would be wet. As I strolled onto the sidewalk and began my route to school I stomped on the wet, fallen leaves. I walked about a half mile each day to get to Florence Nightingale High school , or as I liked to call it, my daily prison. It was a good high school but it was still a high school. The usual American high school is full of people who are unsure of themselves and because of their un-surety, they feel the need to others down. Now take those people and add in an over-confident deaf girl into the mix and that's my every day. I am extra isolated but that’s fine by me. I really don’t care what they say about me. It's not like I can hear it

I had never felt more alone in my entire life. I knew my sister and my parents were there with me, but I wasn’t able to run down the street anymore to talk to Mira, or call up Angelica and tell her to meet me at Town Square in 10. There was a lot of adjusting to do, but slowly and surely, I did it. I was still too nervous to join summer community activities and make new friends, so for those 2 summer months I was satisfied reading books to fill my time. I’d read books at South Lake, the Starbucks near Woodbridge High School, and all around Irvine to familiarize myself with my new home while feeling at ease. Thus, once school began, I was back to the old me- bubbly, open-minded, and all

I dreaded coming home, it was the worst thing I could imagine and as i grew the feeling didn’t change. I would get out of bed quietly not wanting to wake up my mother, my bruises are still healing from yesterday’s beatings. I go to my closet and put on a black, long-sleeved shirt to cover up the scars, a pair of jeans to cover the hurt and a pair of hand-me-down sneakers. I quickly tip-toe past my mom’s room, only to see her lying there, sound asleep with an empty wine glass slowly slipping out of her hand. I grab my book bag and walk out the door and to the bus stop. I walked through the hallways, to each class and I hear the nasty comments and the rumors, secretly believing every word they say. I walked to lunch a sit alone as people pull

In retrospect, my childhood should have been wonderful, and to any outside observer it was. Our family wasn’t impoverished, we lived in a wonderful house, and life seemed to float by in an absolute utopia. “The American Dream” is an understatement to describe that life by any means. Of course, nothing is ever as it seems. A picture says a thousand words, but how many of them are true? Only I knew what happened behind our closed doors. To outsiders, we where perfect. However, what the bulk of the masses did not know is just what was hidden. Long nights spent in tears, from myself, my mother, even my father.

Think back to the time when you were eighteen. What category of kid would you put yourself under? The wild type? The rebellious and difficult type? Or the stay at home good kid? That is me right now. I have always been the good kid. Doing what every errands my parents wanted me to do. Cooking, cleaning, babysitting my two younger siblings, going to school and now working two jobs to help out even more. I am pretty content with my life and how things are going but sometimes my thoughts get to me. Usually when I'm sitting in the house alone I think to myself. And the same feeling always seems to come back. That sort of empty feeling. Like I'm running the marathon of life, everyone is passing me and I finally realize I'm stuck on a tredmil. It resembles the color gray. Dull, flat, but there is beauty in it. I hope. But for now its not much.

The world was now a foreign land to me. There was no dotted line or a bold red “X” to guide us. My family searched for places to live and jobs to support us. My sister and I walked through different hallways and attempted to fit in at our new school. Most of these kids had grown up together and suddenly, multiple Katrina victims were thrown into their mix. As the quiet girl at school, it was intimidating to approach people, introduce myself, and make conversation. I struggled with forgetting everything that was left behind: toys, clothes, pictures, jobs, and friends.