My childhood has been surrounded by stories, whose casts and settings are as real and fantastical as any fairytale. Masterfully orchestrated, these stories have been brought to life by the people that have survived decades to tell them, people I love dearly but will never truly understand — my grandparents. A South Korean surgeon trapped on a North Korean farm; a razor-sharp loan shark of a mother in Haiti; a sibling-favoring geography teacher in South Korea; a proud doctor in Montreal.
These strange and unknowable people are my ghosts, characters in unvisited places and unknowable times. These timeless moments are the fragments of my history, woven for me in that haphazard place between the real and the imaginary, the past and the present. These stories are the legacy of my grandparents. I am a stranger to their worlds, worlds that survive only in their memories. The people who once inhabited their lives becoming ghosts that inhabit mine.
My grandmothers: one Haitian — Grandmama — and one Korean — Halmoni. Each from a wildly different culture and world and yet so similar to one another — smart, headstrong . . . rude to waiters. My Korean grandfather — Haraboji. Quiet, sweet, burps at the dinner table, and loved at the community gym where he has spent two hours, every day, for the past three years. And my Haitian grandfather — Grandpapa, who died in 2007, joining the rest of the ghosts in an almost-remembered place in my mind.
When I think about my grandparents, I
Every family has their fair share of stories to tell with each generation. My grandparents told my sister and me some interesting stories and my parents passed them on to my sister and I. Through all the experiences that they have shared with us, it felt as if we were with them and shared that moment together. With all the stories that ‘exist’ it was inevitable that there were a few stories that intrigued us or stuck with us wherever we go.
From my childhood itself, the interest that I developed towards sciences, especially chemistry influenced me to consider a chemistry-based degree to pursue my profession. Also, I dreamed about working in the medical field since my parents both worked in the same medical field. When i was small, my mother used to carry me to the Hospital where she worked. I loved the caring attitude of the Hospital’s staff members. My frequent visits to the Hospital made me Hospital-borne. So, i dreamed to be part of the health-care providers.
Where I come from it's taking pride in your yard, knowing every single one of your neighbors, and leaving doors unlocked because there isn’t a thing to worry about. I find comfort in that small town feel, and I am more than proud to be from good ol’ Warrenton, Indiana. Here, we are just a wee bit shy of being big enough to be on a map, but we have a name and we have town lines. Within those lines nearly two hundred people have found a home, and thanks to Mr.Dave Gruible our community is steadily flourishing. There are now three subdivisions on the rise in addition to the church, salon, family restaurant, and campgrounds that nestled into the area years ago.
From fairy tales to Shakespeare stories have become an intricate part of our world. A story is something all of us have some are short some are long, and they always define who we are as people. My story is much longer than most it is one of sorrow, happiness, loneliness, friendship, love, regret, pain, and sorcery. You shall see a part of my story through my eyes alone, and I hope that in the end you will properly understand my life. Most stories begin with the birth of the main character, and mine is no different. My mother Emma Griffith was the princess of a kingdom whose name history has long since forgotten. My mother was the free spirit of her family never one for rules and never allowing anyone to control her life. My grandfather Nathaniel
Whenever I picture him, I imagine the nose I inherited, that favourite yellow polo, and strong shoulders. I see his hands flipping book pages, calloused fingers rough against soft paper. Yet, the grandfather I remember so clearly isn’t the figure I see before me. This body is small beneath the hospital blankets, skin as pale as the white walls. I’m supposed to be talking over the beeping of the machines swarming him; the nurses say it might be helpful. There’s only one question I want to hear, but it’s one he always asks and the words feel uncomfortable on my tongue; instead, I stay quiet and hold his still hand. A crisp wind blows against the tree outside the room’s window, sending a flurry of colourful leaves into the air. The group spirals to the ground, and only one bright red leaf is left clinging to the closest branch.
The things my grandparents struggled to achieve are at my fingertips, but the turmoil that I thought I would only read about, continues on around me.
While this couple shaped who I am, two alternative couples shaped who they were; my grandparents. Beginning with my mother’s side, my grandma, Sharon McCloskey, was born in Stanford, Montana in 1939. Her parents and sister dwelled in Texas and California, living half the year in each state in order to satisfy each parent’s wishes. As Sharon matured, she soon discovered her passion laid in music; thus, Sharon attended Westmont College in California in the fall of 1957 in part to a vocal scholarship.
That evening in Washington, D.C. My head buried in my calloused hand The image of painting the magnificent rotunda of the Capitol blossoms in my head My splotchy cloth apron hanging down my front nimbly letting the wispy bristles of my brush tickle the thick swirling bursts of brash color in the rusty, clinging can meticulously bestowing life on the lifeless concrete every time the brush gracefully kisses the concrete Jaunty tunes of satisfaction waltz out of policemen’s mouths for after many hours of breaking through the barriers of droopy eyes, the ruthless rule breakers of the street are now gone.
When I was a child my father would tell me stories before I would go to bed. Rather than being stories about magic or adventures, the stories that my father told me were stories about the past. These were the stories of Richard the Lionheart and Julius Caesar. Later I would find that these stories were not always the most accurate, but they were the foundations for my interest in history. From that early foundation, my interest in history was further fanned…….
The reason parents read fairytales to their children is not for the sheer purpose of entertainment (or to get them to just fall asleep already), nor is it to install false hope. These improbable stories are didactic. Parents recite these tales in the hopes of inspiring their children and teaching them a life lesson. If the girl who was deprived of her father, was treated as a maid, and was verbally abused by her stepmother can get the prince, anyone can preserve through the obstacles of life. Making the Case has the same purpose, however this story is not a fake. TS Kimberly Guilfoyle’s style utilizes powerful anecdotes in Making the Case to successfully explain her life, teach life lessons, and inspire the reader.
Most of my Grandparents died. Only My mom’s mother remains alive! Almost all of my family lives in Dakar, Senegal, Africa! One Uncle lives in spain. My last grandmother lives in Paris,France Europe.
His stories range from fishing mishaps to radio contests “wins”. Each one when told makes my day just a bit brighter. I hadn’t learned until recently that most of my father's stories had a lesson that could be taken out of the story. Much like how many books have themes, my father's stories had lessons that my siblings and I learned from. Sometimes the lessons would be to work hard or studying is important, but most of the times his stories were just reminders of not just his childhood adventure, but also to remind us that determination can get you out of a life of poverty to a life of
One Day, as my family was gathered sitting around telling stories. A while into telling these amazing stories I decide to tell my tale.
Life history is an important method that could be used to recapture someone’s experiences, traditions, values, social, and economic status. Through life histories works we can better understand former societies and their people, especially when real life stories are told by members of these societies. Although, most societies had some forms of writing, storytelling was the art that connected the people. The methods by which life histories are collected have several advantages and disadvantages for the interviewee and interviewer as well as the audience for whom the story is intended to enlighten.
Despite my dread, I am inextricably drawn toward her, like a child demanding stories of witches and werewolves and then crying out in the nightmares that follow. I must know the worst, I believe, to accept, to understand, to recapture love. And so I tread reluctantly but persistently up the stairs to her room-running clothes on, load of laundry on my hip, book in hand, lego between my toes. I peer into her bedroom-a cave, purposefully dark and drawn away from the world, damp with mildewed history, silent and completely removed from any reminder of an outside world. Blinds are dusty and drawn, walls barren, and bureau littered with a meaningless jumble of nothings. A bulge in hospital-green has collapsed on the bed, and I strain to hear and count Grandma's breaths, to make sure there really is existence in her still form. Six seconds, and a breath. Six . . . breath . . . another six . . . and another. Marking time, but not life.