My Dreams

Decent Essays
I grew up in a poor neighbourhood. The town my parents decided to raise my brothers and I wasn’t a place where you had the means to pursue your dreams. My parents were young and naive thinking that they could raise a family at such a young age. Although we had a place to sleep and food to eat, we were barely getting by. Coming home every day from selling snacks in front of the local school, my brothers and I were greeted with my mother’s smile but we could all tell the twinge of sadness hiding itself behind her smile. Growing up in a poor neighbourhood, the kids around the block knew each other very well; we could understand each other because of our situations. In some nights the neighbourhood kids would gather around the abandoned house just around the corner from where I lived. We would talk about our dreams of going away to the city and our unrealistic hopes of becoming a millionaire overnight. We all knew that was impossible, but one can dream. I—for the longest time—dreamt of becoming a teacher. When I was younger I knew it would only be a dream, it would never become a reality. But as I grew up watching “children who don’t dream, or dismiss their own desires”, I knew I wanted to make something out of myself, to prove those that said I couldn’t, that I could. I wanted to make my dreams a reality. When I voiced these feelings to my family, my father laughed at me. I sat there at our worn down dinner table and fiddled with my thumbs. Why’s that funny? I can do it,
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