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Illegal Immigration Narrative

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Ever since I was a young child, my dreams were filled with Emus, Emus, and more Emus. Those tall, long legged birds of glory fascinated me and invaded my every thought. I couldn’t go anywhere without imagining them- Two sticks reminded me of their powerful legs, capable of launching them forward at speeds almost as fast as North Korea's nuclear progression. A bird feather on the ground in Alberta Park would prompt me to think of their royal crown of feathers, not capable of flight, but still soaring high in the sky. I painted them in my Kindergarten class, like Van Gogh on cocaine, slapping paint one way and another until it represented one of these mythical beasts. I sat in the winter clicking Legos together and building four feet tall models …show more content…

“Please?” I would say, as if a single word would change her mind about importing a species from thousands of miles away so I could live my six year old dream. After a thousand ‘No’s,’ I decided to take matters into my own hands. One bright summer day I was decided. If I wanted an Emu, I was going to have to get it myself. I sat up from my scheduled chaotic collage of Legos in a fit of intenseness greater than a Donald Trump supporter describing how they feel about illegal …show more content…

I could already picture taking my Emu for walks, grooming its feathers, and even putting a saddle on it if it was possible. Before my mom could stop me, I strode to the giant glass door of my house where all of the shoes were sitting. I grabbed the only pair I could put on by myself, my rad kicks, Buzz Lightyear on the sides with two giant Velcro straps. I tightly wrapped the Velcro and hopped up ready to go. My reflection transparently looked back at me in our door. I wore my favorite shirt, a souvenir I had gotten in New York a year before with a giant yellow taxi on the front of it. In my cargo shorts I held my whopping four dollars and 35 cents. I loved the jingle the coins made because my Grandma would always tell me how it reminded her of her fallen brother. With a twist of the door handle, I was off. I took two steps at a time down our concrete stairs and didn’t even bother with the railing. The pet store I was going to was three blocks away, on the corner of Alberta and 30th. My eagerness to get my Emu compelled me to break into a quick sprint and all of my personal landmarks blurred past me. The place where I dropped my Ice cream cone, the part of the sidewalk that they dug up to replace a pipe, and the little corner store that had the lollipops my mom would sometimes treat me to. I heard her call me in the distance. Finally, I stumbled into the wide open door of the pet shop like a

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