My Family And My Favorite Essay

The parents came out of Grandma’s room by one by one, bags under their eyes, makeup running down their face, and bright red noses. By that time, I could almost predict what happened. As my mom and dad approached us with their heads down, I prepared myself to hear exactly what I never wanted to hear. “The doctors are turning off the life support machine. She isn’t suffering anymore, and she will be looking over every one of you guys. She said she loves you all so much,” Mom told us while my dad didn’t hide his tears back.

I asked my mom “what’s wrong,” she replied with a sorrowful “your Aunt Lisa is in trouble, we must leave now.” The worst part of all of this was my Aunt Lisa’s son was with us, Matthew. He did not know what to think or believe. No one knew the world would slowly start shattering beneath all of us that morning. We drove to her house, we saw ambulances and police cars driving by, that did not help our nerves at all. We finally arrived at her apartment, we never thought all of those emergency vehicles would be going there. My brother and I stay in the car since I was only eight and he was only eleven. My mom and cousin run into the apartment hoping to only find my Aunt had fallen and is unconscious, or she is passed out drunk, just let it be something that is not permanent. What they come to find is that my Aunt is laying on the floor, unconscious, but cold as ice. It was not from someone killing her, or us getting there too late. She had died twenty-four minutes before that phone

In 1974, my mother, and her lower class family, emigrated from Canada to New City, New York. They moved frequently back and forth between various American and Canadian cities due to my grandfather’s lack of finding long-term employment; he has a book filled with pages upon pages of business cards and papers recording his numerous previous employers. Eventually, my grandfather found a steady job in print, working for the New York Times in 1985, my grandmother opened her own bookstore for a brief period in time, and my mother and her siblings all attended and graduated from four-year colleges. The entire family continues to retain sole Canadian citizenship. As improved a life they have been provided, not all immigration stories have such a happy ending. Most immigrant families coming from south of the United States border, in the same financial situation as my mother and her family had been, will not have such luck. They are stuck in a paradox of stereotypes, between being perceived by the suburban white family as “lazy” or “taking all of our jobs.” Why is it that we turn a blind eye to our neighbors to the north, as if they collectively live up to the stereotype of unfaltering niceness? Though much has been said about these immigrants coming to the United States from Latin America, very little attention is being paid to the immigrants coming from Canada and Western Europe due to prejudice.

As I sit in the car on a breezy summer day with the windows down talking to my mom we were on our way to meet my dad because it was his weekend. When we arrived, I went into my dad’s car and started to play on my smart phone. I was so utterly bored on the way to his house until my dad got a phone call. I had no clue as to what was going on, my dad had a confused and panic stricken look on his face. He hung up the phone and calmly said “We have to go get grandma, Uncle Steve was in a bad accident.” I immediately texted my mom and told her what was happening. We got to my grandma’s house and took off to a hospital in Illinois. On the way to the hospital my dad received a phone call from my Aunt Sandy. I carefully watched his facial expressions as he talked, his face slowly turned bright red and I could see tears forming in his eyes. I knew that something horrible must have happened. I was so scared of what the news could be. My grandma looked at my dad and nervously asked “Doug what’s wrong? Your face is red and you have tears in your eyes.” Dad shook his head, “nothing ma, everything is fine,” his voice cracked as a tear rolled down his red face. Then I knew something terrible had happened.

Researching my family and my background, I have found that I have ancestors from several countries, including Germany, Sweden, England, Ireland, and Scotland. They all came to America for a variety of reasons ranging from religious persecution, hope for a better life with better economic conditions, famine, family issues, and to colonize America.

But no answer. Walked to the back and there she was laying on the ground. For a second I thought of the worst scenario. Felt everything around me froze. Slowly walked up to her and checked her pulse to see if she was alive. Thank goodness she was just unconscious with some minor injuries.

“unresponsive” “ mom” “ambulance”, that was all it took for me to realize that my grandma’s unresponsiveness the previous day was not a one time thing and that was one of the scariest things I have ever heard. My mom must have heard the faint sound of the bed because not long after awaking, I heard her voice come near as she told me in a frantic but equally as calm voice that everything was going to be alright. And at the time, I believed it.

Michelle fainted and was lying on the ground with blood all over her hand. I was scared. I called the ambulance. Then I ran to go to make the bandages like I would do every single day. I grabbed the cotton tape and gauze, and put them together like I usually do.

called the hospital to see if they had her. They didn’t have her. I rushed to the hospital anyway. I found her luckily she is not dead. They took her in to the emergency room.

Upon arriving to our apartment, my sister, brother, and I shared three hours of endless stories my mom had missed. Soon after, my parents decided it was time for bed. Having lost in a round of rock, paper, and scissors, I was forced to sleep on the floor with my parents while my sister and brother took over the bunk beds. Within a couple of hours into falling asleep, I woke up around 3’o clock from the floor vibrating with the bass notes from the bar downstairs. Scattered memories of my grandma suddenly rushed into my head: all the times I vented to her about how much I didn't want to go to piano lessons; the times I cried to her, limping back home with a bloody scraped knee; and the times we laughed together as my baby brother tried to talk to SpongeBob and Patrick through the TV. The last memory was the final straw, and I was ready to explode with the welled up tears from trying to seem like I had it all together. Still trying to hide my true emotions, I banged my head against the wooden leg of the bunk bed in an attempt to cover the true source of the teardrops. After hearing the loud thump, my parents immediately woke up asking me, “What’s wrong, what happened,” and going along with being the boastful kid I was, I responded, “I hit my head on the bed.” My mom replied, “Everything will be okay.” But everything was not okay because my grandma should have been next to me but instead, she was half way across the world.

I went into the front room shocked, extremely scared and watched until the ambulance pulled into the driveway. My grandpa was put into the ambulance and taken to the hospital. I was really afraid and really didn’t know what

The doctors kept talking and shouting commands. I heard someone say, “She is losing too much blood!!” I got nervous and my head started to pound. My eyes fluttered closed.

I kicked open the door to find Madison laying there, legs cuts off and drowning in a puddle of her own oozing blood. I screamed at the top of my lungs, shocking myself with it's shrill pitch.

I was born on August 22, 1998 in the tiny farm town of Galt. I grew up caught between two worlds: my Filipino household and my American school. When I was in primary school, I would wake up each morning to attend school at Lake Canyon Elementary, speaking English, learning from predominantly white teachers, socializing with a predominantly Mexican and White student body, and spending money on soggy, greasy American food in the cafeteria. At the end of the school day, I would return home to my parents speaking Kapampangan, say my daily prayers, and indulge in delicious Filipino food. In school, I was acutely aware of the fact that I was extremely different than the majority of the students at school. The only other Filipino at my elementary school was my cousin. At points, I was even a little embarrassed about being Filipino; for instance, when my mom offered to pack me lunch consisting of rice and Filipino food, I would decline out of fear of being different and mocked. Fortunately, as I became more assured of myself and befriended people who were a positive presence in my life, I developed more pride in my nationality. As a kid, my family was middle class. My father and mother had decent paying jobs and we were able to buy a house when I turned six. Everything changed, however, when I turned nine as the Recession impacted the United States. My dad was laid off from his job, which left my mom with the responsibility to support us with her high school education level job. It

No one can’t meet a family like mine’s. My family is well diversified. Every family member plays an important role in all my family’s lives. In my family, there are four people: my father, my mother, my little brother and me. My father is one who brings money home and is also responsible for organizing and planning family trips. My mother is the one who is in charge for making meals and makes sure everyone eats at the appropriate times. My little brother is the pet of the family. He actually doesn’t have any responsibilities, for he’s the pet. I am the rock of support in my family. I always go beyond my parents’ expectations. I also support my younger cousins and little brother, by being a role model that they can look up to. Another