Memories Of My Life

It has been 11 years since we have arrived to Los Angeles, California. I can still remember the feeling of when my father had said to us that he we would be moving to a far place to try to find better jobs for my mother and him because with the two jobs my father had and the washing and ironing of other peoples clothes my mom did was not bringing enough money to support my sisters and me and did they wanted to provide a better life for my sisters and me. Mexico was such a poor country that my parents could not see themselves make enough money to support my sisters and me, let alone see us get a better education. So my parents decide to migrate to the United States with one of my mother’s brother. We arrived in Los Angeles, California on

After being dropped off from dance late at night, I was expecting to walk into a silent house where everyone was asleep. Instead, I walked into my living room to find the rest of my family sitting on the couch with the television off, which was strange for my family. It was clear they were waiting for me to get home, so I sat down too. My mom and dad exchanged a look and a sigh then turned back towards my brother and me. They babbled absently for a few minutes, then, my mom quickly spit out the words, as if ripping off a Band-Aid, "We are moving back to Arizona." There was a brief moment of stunned silence before I burst into tears. I could not imagine why my parents would decide to separate me from my best friends six months before we were supposed to

I was born in Northern, New York, about forty miles from the Canadian border in a wasteland of a town called Carthage, sixty miles from the nearest walmart. My mother, now Louise Percy, is ex-navy and worked for the federal government on Fort Drum until she retired ever since I was born. My father, Donald Bishop, was a beauty. He was in and out of prison all his life, including juvenile. He was imprisoned much through my baby-toddler stage and when he wasn’t imprisoned he jumped from construction job to construction job, drinking and smoking marijuana heavily until the day he died, last May 28th. I was born into a household with my mother, father, brother and half-sister for the first few years in my life. My half-sister skipped town after developing a heroin addiction and my father drove my mother psychologically insane until she ended up in a psych ward and we spent a few weeks with my grandmother (father’s mom) until she was released. My mother and father split up and my father never fought for custody nor paid child support. My mother had been a single mom for ten years

While growing up several deaths that took place within my family. Some I had no idea who the people were but can clearly memorialize the funerals taking place and the reactions of those around me. Even though I cannot recall any memories of my great grandfather, I can remember when he passed away. Everyone was gathered at my great grandparents' house in Kerrville,

I was born in a middle class family in China and my parents care about me very much. Before I was even born, my farther adjusted the business hour of his clinic to make more profit by accepting more patients and my mother was a nurse who worked in my dad’s clinic, so they saved the money to send me to school and prepare to move to the U.S. Most of the members of my family already moved to the U.S. Moreover, once my aunt got her U.S. citizenship, she, as the sponsor, was able to apply for us to come. When I was 15, we finally got our immigrant visas and my parents told me we were ready for move to the America. Therefore, we sold everything we had in China we were staying at my uncle’s house in Hong Kong because we need to take the airplane from Hong Kong to Missouri, U.S. I still remember what my uncle said to me because he looked at me with a very serious face that caught my attention. “Qianxin, the America is different from China. I’ve heard people said life in the America is harder than China. However, if you work hard enough, you will get what you deserve.” The words are always in my mind. I tried to do my best in school and in everything because I want to be the person who can help my family.

Living in the United States wasn’t any easier for my dad. Having no parents meant he had no permanent home. He lived with his sponsors that helped him come to the United States. My dad knew very little english and was enrolled into high school. There he and many Hmongs were discriminated by other students. After graduating High School my dad received his first job where he worked for minimum wage. Even though having a job my dad still had no permanent home. He moved in with his uncles that treated them poorly. My dad had to sleep in an attic that had a broken window in the harsh Minnesota winter. That night it was twenty below zero and my dad had three thick blankets on still struggling to stay warm. After thirty long years our family has came a long ways. Today we are fulfilling the American dream in the natural state of Arkansas.

The first memory I have of death would be that of my dog, Gucci. At the time, I was six years old. I remember waking up that morning and finding my mother in the backyard holding my dog to her chest, crying, and advising me to say my last goodbyes. I recall my father taking him to his car, informing me that he was going to take him to a better place. I did not really understand what was happening at that time in view of the fact that I thought he was a healthy dog. My mother told me that he was in a lot of pain and that the doctors would put him out of his misery. She explained that he was gone and was not

I lived with both my parents, an aunt, and four brothers including me and a puppy. My house was perfect for the small family we had. A lot of memories were made in the house. My mom and dad raised every one of my brothers in this house. My parents are very strong workers. They emigrated to the United States to have a family. Having a family in Mexico will be tough because of the lack of jobs and the violence going on. Due to new laws and regulations, my parents live in fear. Everyday, the US Border Patrol transfer illegals back to their country. Them going to Mexico will leave a devastating mark in the family. Without them, Child protective services will transfer my brothers as I to foster care. My parents risk their lives so that we can have live a easy

I have waited eight years to be with my father again. I was ten years old when he had to leave. He figured his salary was not sufficient to support our needs. Like any other father, he wanted to be able to provide for his family and give us a decent life. Living in the Philippines, where poverty is a common predicament, moving to a more developed country became the norm for many fathers. He had no other choice but to take the risk and leave us behind as he left in search for work in Hawaii. Growing up, I would ask my father why he had to leave us behind. Why couldn’t he just stay and be with us? I never really got the answer until I was able to experience the opportunities offered in the United States. After eight long years, my father was finally able to take my brother and I here to the United States. However, in this joyful moment, I know we are about to face another obstacle. We had to be away from my mother. I don’t know how long I would be away from her. But, life has to go on. Great opportunities are more accessible here, in the United States and I know I have to make the most out of it.

The first memory that I have is of me and my brother when I was the age of 2. My brother and I were brought to the U.S by two strange men, who promised to protect us. Their definition of protection was locking me and my brother up in a small, pitch black room boarded up by wooden planks. We were locked for three days, until my parents were able to emigrate to the U.S. and join us. During those three days I felt lonely and lost, and although my brother was by my side I felt deep despair and sorrow. Those three days seemed like an eternity, we were not allowed to go out and were told to be quiet. Although, we felt abandoned, we had hope of seeing our parents one day. On the third day when our parents finally arrived we were let out. As I walked

My parents did not come to San Diego with a lot of money, they only had ten million dong when they came, which to me sounded like a lot but my mom laughed and told me it was a thousand dollars in the U.S. For my parents, this meant they would go homeless in two months if one of them did not find any sort of work. For the first month, it was very difficult for them to find a job because they did not know how to find one. My mother would tell me how my father was a very strong man and yet no one would hire him because he would not know what to say during the interview. My mother would tell me how there were many nights she would fall asleep crying because she would think back to Vietnam when she was with her family and friends, where she did not feel limited or restricted by anything but money, and how now that she was here in San Diego, it was not only money but also her opportunity to socialize and communicate with many of the people around her. Even with my father by her side, she felt helpless and excluded from the community, like she no longer had a voice. Fortunately, near the end of the first month, one of the Vietnamese neighbors actually noticed my parents and greeted them. This man had a family and welcomed my parents greatly. He even helped my father find a job and get access to government services such as rent assistance, Medi-Cal and Food Stamps. Many immigrants share the same experiences my parents

In 2010 my dad, sister, and I moved to America. I did not wanted to leave. My sister told me that everything was going to be okay and that I was going to a better school. All I wanted to do was to stay and play with my cousins and help my mom with my little brother. I was very angry with my dad because he was forcing me

Throughout this paper I will be writing about my life, starting from my very first memory and ending with my life as it is now. Since I was brought into this world I had an older sister who is two and a half years older than I am. My parents said right away that my sister was so excited to have me in her life that she did not care that she was no longer the center of my parent’s attention. She acted as if I was her baby. When I was just starting out, as a toddler was the time that I started to develop my first memories, which are not all good. Lets start from the beginning, my first memory that I have of myself would be from when I was almost two years old. In this memory I was attending my papas funeral. I remember that there was the colour red everywhere, all over the walls and even on the seats. It was his favourite colour according to what my parents tell me. From this memory I also remember my parents walking me up to him during his wake and allowing my older sister and I to put a photo of us into his shirt pocket so we would always be with him. After this memory, my next one occurs when I am around the age of two as well. I remember being in my families first home sitting in our kitchen with my mom, on her lap wrapped in my little mermaid blanket, drinking a little bit of tea with her while we watched my older sister catch the bus to go to school. This is still one of my favourite memories because I truly fell that this helped shaped the person I am today. I also

Most of what I remember of my life is tainted with a glistening, crude feeling that overwhelms all my senses. My memories are filled with fondness, but, at the same time, underneath, in the core, is an unimaginable feeling that cannot be described by any other words than a shadowy torment. It was not immediate, and I have not experienced it my entire life, but all that I remember of my life is filled with it. It is a pain so twisting, so cruel, that it has unraveled my entire life.

It was mid-January, and spring was approaching. Just as the seasons were changing, so was everything in my life, but it was going to be for the better. My journey began eight years ago in my early teens. I was physically and mentally abuse by my own parents. My physical abuse came from my father and the emotional abuse from my mother. As I was in this abusive relationship with my parents I felt alone and lost. I felt like I couldn’t go to anyone for confront. My trust from them and others was fading away.