Krystyna Briliunas Research Paper

Kateri Tekakwitha, also called the Lily of the Mohawks, is considered the Catholic patroness of ecology and the environment. She was born in 1656 in what now is upstate New York, on the upper part of Lake Ontario and near the modern Canadian border.

Marijana Ruzic was 21-year-old Yugoslavian who lived in Belgrade in an apartment with her mother. For many days a man was asking her to for her assistance. The man was asking her to smuggle drugs like heroin in Canada and Ruzic refused. The man was getting impatient with her and threatened her, that he would kill her and her mother if she did not follow his orders. Ruzic still refused and the man stalked her and that eventually lead to violent assaults. The man who was threatening Ruzic was Mirko Mirkovic. Ruzic finally agreed to smuggle drugs and flew to Canada. When she landed in Toronto, she was arrested. She not only importing two kilograms of heroin, but she also used a fake passport to land in Canada. Ruzic accepted both charges against

Elena Macias is a third-year journalism and media studies major with a minor in history at San Diego State University. Macias is from Colton, Calif. and was raised by two parents who loved taking her to rock 'n' roll concerts. From the first amplified strum of an electric guitar, she was hooked on the heavy sound and wanted more. Her music taste was developed with the help of her grandfather's radio and dad's CD collection.

Anzia Yezierska was born in plonsk in Russia .She immigrated with her family to the United States.She was working during the day at a sweatshop and in the evening she studied English.Than she work teacher for few years.

P.E. Fun. Breana has a great deal of fun at Miller. Her favorite, however, is P.E. She loves the fact that she can play basketball, volleyball, and soccer during her free time. Of course, that’s not all. Her friends have P.E with her too, so she also admires that she can hang out with her friends.

example of how life was in Russia by talking through the story and reflecting her experience

After interviewing BT, I don’t necessarily see her from a different perspective. I realized there was a lot I still didn’t know about my grandma. Now that I’m older we have grown apart. Unless something out of the ordinary happens, we only get together eight to ten times a year. This interview helped me to gain a better understanding what makes her the person she is today.

I was delighted and honored to carry out an interview with my 89 year old grandmother Marie Charles. It did not take much of an effort to establish a rapport with my interviewee; she was more than willing to open up to whomever that was willing to lend an open ear. Marie felt comfortable to share her life experiences with me, during the interview. Her demeanor exemplified one who is full of grace and compassionate towards others. Marie emigrated from Haiti and has been living in the United States for 45 years. She enjoyed her life experiences both within the states and in her native country of Haiti.

My grandmother’s parents immigrated to Johnstown, Pennsylvania from a small town in Poland close to Warsaw. As a young child she spoke two languages Polish at home and English when she went to school or with friends. Life started out very difficult and never really got any easier.. Her life continued to get worse when she lost her husband in a mining accident and her eldest son to a car accident. My grandma used to tell me the stories of their deaths, and how it taught her how strong she really is. She turned the hardships in her life into something beautiful, something joyous, and something sentimental. These moments shaped her into who she is, but they do not define her. These moments that she shares allow me to move on and find something joyful about every situation even if they are not be ideal. When my grandfather passed away my grandmother gave me the strength to look on the brighter side of the situation instead of the sad side.

“Oskar chodź tutaj szybko!” my mom called in Polish from the living room; as I was playing upstairs with my power ranger toys. She was yelling for me to come down for something that I, being the usual four-year old boy that I was, pretended I didn’t hear. After about a minute of her pleading I felt bad, because I could sense a tone of sorrow in her voice. This next scene I will remember truly until the day I die. Down the creaky stairs I went cheerful as ever, but my cheery expression suddenly turned to total mortification. I saw many people I knew; my uncles and aunts, grandmas and grandpas, but also others whom I assumed to be distant relatives. However what really struck me was something totally different. I looked to my left and heard the slow ticking of the clock, and then I saw her when I turned my head. My loving Grandma Halinka laid on our makeshift sofa bed, white as could be, and her breaths coming out as if each one could be her last. She called for and motioned me over but I broke into tears and fell apart as it only took a second for me to realize that there was no way Babcia was going to live another day. Everybody started shushing me, whispering to me that it was disrespectful, but I didn’t care and ran upstairs. My caring cousin Paulina (whom I consider my sister to this day for all that she did for me growing up) did her best to comfort me and insisted that I go downstairs and spend the time I have left with my grandma but I

Josephine "Betty" Bull Clarke; my great grandmother. At first glance, when you saw her tiny frame, and cute wrinkly face, you would almost think she was just your average grandmother. A common mistake. Only when you heard her war stories and sat down with her to have her tea, will you really know why she was to me, granny. She was born in nineteen twenty-five, in Essex, London. When world war two started, she became a war nurse, and she met my grandfather. When she had her first child, she fearfully moved to the United States, never to see her parents again.

My grandmother, Esther Turner, has impacted my life in more ways than just simply being there for me, as a grandmother. She’s much more than that, in my eyes. Being the eldest of three, I’ve always taken on more responsibility as the older sister. It was my job to show my little brother and sister which paths were safe to take in this wild, confusing maze called life. At times, I felt like a mother myself, and at a young age, I found myself slightly intimidated by all the responsibilities that were laid on my shoulders. The main person I could talk to freely and openly, without judgment, was my grandmother. We have always been able to speak to each other about any and everything, nothing was off limits. That’s what I think brought us so close, the fact that she accepted me entirely for the person I presented to her.

She had little schooling, but she had run businesses. She had managed on her own, with a husband and sons, in a country that didn’t care for her or her culture, but only for their aggrandized version of it. Her experiences were rightful cause to be jaded and hard, and yet she saw brightness and she saw brightness in me. She saw the great things in life, she loved hard and appreciated the little things — us going for a walk together or just sitting in the sun on a warm day.

    I remember a time when Bumma and I stood in her herb garden in the backyard. As we discussed stories and memories of the past, I pondered what exactly made that moment so special to me. Yes, their house and garden were beautiful, and I loved to spend time with my various grandparents, but this particular setting had always been different. As I called my grandmother over to look at a certain flower, it clicked. That silly nickname I had given her when I was young had cultivated and blossomed, attaching itself to memories and emotion, and becoming a firm foundation in my life. Of course I love all my grandparents and relatives, but the ones that I have special nicknames for certainly hold a place in my heart.