My American Culture

Decent Essays
The morning of May 28th was sunny and the sun rays felt like they were going through my skin. The houses were huge and made of concrete. On the side of the road, there was some trash that the people would not pick up. I was getting ready to go to school and content as always. I lived with my grandmother and my mother in Mexico. While driving with the windows down my mother was taking me school. The air in my nose felt as if I was coming back to life. Breathing the pure air reminded me that I was actually alive. Everything in my mind was perfect when I was five. I did not have the discern of the things that were happening around me.
In my own little world everything was halcyon. Waking up, going to school, spending time with my family, everybody speaking the same language, and doing the same things. Even though, I was loquacious and always wanting to know everything my mother would always make things obfuscate for some reason and I did not understand why. My family was patrician and we lived with less concern than some people in Mexico. Every Saturday, consisted of my family getting together and spending time with each other. Each of my family members cooked something. They made: tamales, posole, menudo, tacos, enchiladas, and I loved it. We all related with the vernacular language. I absolutely loved my culture. Being able to read, talk, and write Spanish made me feel delighted.
When my mother picked me up from school she said I have to tell you something. I my little
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