My Family - Original Writing

I felt that my parents dragged me to a place where I didn’t want to be. The three of us moved to NYC, and the first three months we were all compacted into one single bedroom, trying to start a new life. It was a drastic change from the way we lived back in Colombia, each having their own separate bedroom.

It was a rainy day with grey clouds filling the sky when my mom told me, "We are going to move to Fresno." Those few words shocked me for days, I did not think we were going to ever to move again. I had grown attached to everything in my life in Los Angeles. I was going to have to step out of my comfort zone and get accustomed to new surroundings.

My life was flushed down the toilet I didn't want to move to California I was fine with staying in Austin, Texas but we had to move because of my parents’ job. I lived in a grey house in the middle of nowhere our backyard was in the forest, we haven't explored it yet. I lived with my mom,my Dad,my sister Julia,and my brother James. Julia and I were 12 and James was 6. Lucky for us me and Julia weren't separated from James yet I mean it was in the middle of the summer.

We eventually moved to Summerfield Florida so my dad could do work down there. Construction had crashed due to the drop in economy. Moving was a huge change. Living in a tiny apartment was a major transition. You could hear the people outside during the nights. Walking, yelling, fighting. I missed our home in NC. It was new to all of us what my parents called a “learning experience”. My aunt lived there in a nice house that I enjoyed staying at when I had the chance. It seemed liked everything was finally turning around. My parents hadn’t been fighting and it seemed

It was a drizzling Saturday morning, when my dad pulled into the driveway as my excitement bubbling from within. My dad opened up the little dog carrier and there was a small chocolate lab cowering in the corner. As my dad handed my brother this little shaking puppy, he received his bright red collar with little tags on it. My dad promptly asked, “What should we name him”? I responded with Dexter. My brother on the other hand wanted to name him Basco. With my dad as the final decision he became known as Basco. The more I heard that name the more I hated it.

February 27, 2002 was the last time I told my father I loved him. I was home watching old action movies and preparing for school that night, when my little brother barged into my bedroom and jokingly demanded that I come to my step mom’s house and have a sleepover with her kids. I declined and reassured my little brother that I was most definitely not coming because our dad was cooking his famous gumbo and renting an action movie from Blockbuster! I loved movies so much that as a child, my dad called me the VCR bandit. After about what seemed to be a million pleases from my brother, I finally caved and said yes! As I got my bags packed and began to enter my step mom’s car, I yelled to my dad, “I love you daddy!” and he yelled back, “I love you too, Boo Boo!”

Charity was sewing in the kitchen, mother cooking beside her, offering my younger sister tips and clucking like a disapproving hen when Charity pricked her finger. I cleared my throat, announcing my presence.

As I walked through the hospital doors, my heart began to race faster by the second. I walked towards my mother 's room, praying that everything was okay. My aunt walked out of my mother 's room and looked at me as though her world had shattered. Tears began to fall immediately from my eyes; all I could do was run away, running away from the worse fear that could ever happen. My aunt followed me out of the building, grabbing my arm and pulled me into a hug. She continued to soothe me, letting me know that everything will be okay. She explained to me what happened to my mother, and how she passed away after her second heart attack. Although I continued to cry, there was not much I could do other than walk towards my mother’s room and cry into her cold stiff arms. While holding my mother, I prayed that God would help me through this difficult time, and to allow me to understand why everything happened, especially to the one person that felt I needed the most. At that moment I promised myself and my mother that I would continue what she started; I would do everything in my power to finish school, become successful, and help everyone I possibly can. At this moment, I did not know that this promise would be one that I would continue to keep for the rest of my life.

When I was in seventh grade, I was almost arrested. It feels shameful to even type those words but I, the teacher’s pet, was almost arrested in seventh grade. One day in gym class, a girl named “Lacey” called me a “nigger.” I cannot remember what I said to Lacey, but I am sure I was loud and angry. In my household we never used that word. My grandfather was born in 1920s Florida and my grandmother was born in 1950s Georgia. They both told us that “nigger” was the last word some of their neighbors heard as they were killed. Although I never had those experiences, that word is emotionally charged for me.

During my mother’s childhood, she would walk or bike half a mile on dirt roads in the humid Cuban heat to return home from school. After coming home tired from school, she would help her mother make endless batches of Cuban pastries to sell. In addition to preparing desserts, my mother would help finish sewing the clothes her mother made. My mother had sewn so much that her hands were stiff from all the sewing. Her mother could only maintain her two children by selling desserts and clothes,since her father was imprisoned for political reasons. My grandmother never finished elementary school, so she struggled to obtain a job. Through my mother working hard alongside her mother, my mom grew a longing to seek a better way to earn a living when she grew up. She desired to assist her family get out of the harsh economic conditions and improve their lifestyle.

If I am going to tell the story of my life I might as well start at the beginning, the very beginning, my parents. My mom is Monica Ann Hill. She is a quarter Italian and a quarter German. She was born to Cathleen Trosen and Gary Trosen on August 29th, 1973 in Covina, California. Her parents were divorced when she was a teenager and her mom later remarried to Boud Jackson. My Grandpa Bob. My mom was baptised a member of the LDS Church at the age 16 and went to college at BYU, Brigham Young University, where she met my dad. My dad is Paul Clement Hill. He is a quarter Scottish, a quarter Welsh, and a quarter English. He was born to Audrey Hill and Donald Hill on August 29th, 1973 in Bangkok, Thailand. He was born there because his dad was an international banker. He later moved to many other places ending in Connecticut, USA. He was baptised a member of the church at the age 8. He also went to college at BYU, and after meeting my mom served an LDS mission in California. After his mission they married in the Salt Lake, UT temple.

I woke up from my nap feeling much better and smelling food I was indeed hungry. I got out of the bed and headed to my nana room. I pushed open her bedroom door. My nana was sitting up watching the news. I loved looking at my grandma that way. I was sad because I know in due time the lord will be calling her home soon. I smiled as I entered her room and went laid in the bed next to my grandma with my head in her lap. My grandma began running her soft small old fingers through my hair. My grandma always did that to comfort me and it was her way of saying everything will be okay.

I was raised in Jellico, Tennessee, a quaint town bordering Kentucky with my parents, and three older sisters. My family was extremely religious up until I was nearly a teenager. My family attended church every week, in addition to leading the church youth group. One would be under the impression that the Hughes family was an exceedingly wholesome family that did little wrong, I was under this impression also. Being a white family in an old-fashioned town in both the south and the bible belt, this was not completely accurate. When I was still a young child, no older than ten, my paternal uncle taught myself and my youngest sister a derogatory noun that referenced to those descending from Africa. My sister and I, being children that had not learned right from wrong, repeated this word. I quickly realized that I was not scolded by my parents or older siblings for using this word, as I was for saying less harmful words such as “crap,” “fool,” “darn,” and “jerk.” Due to this, I was under the impression for multiple years that this word was inoffensive to any person. Soon I learned that this word was suitable for both home and school. Multiple classmates used the word often, and teachers either never noticed, or simply overlooked it. Ten years later, I am completely aware, no thanks to my family, that that word is unacceptable, and should never be repeated by a Caucasian person. Parents are not always aware of what is truly right for their children when it comes to how to treat

“Please, stop! You cannot take my children away from me!” yells my mother, as my father is trying to take my little sister and brother out of our home in the freezing cold. It is 30 degrees Fahrenheit outside in Texas in December of Christmas Eve night. My mother and father had just got into an altercation and my father was being extremely abusive towards her. I was only five years old; moreover, I remember feeling unbelievably scared. What was suppose to be a fun, loving, evening turned into one of the most terrifying, dramatic, life changing moments for my mother, myself, and three other siblings. My mother threatened to call the cops if my father did not give my siblings back. Fortunately, my father departed and without a doubt my mom told us to pack our things and grab as many clothes as we could. This was not the first time I had watched my mother abused; nevertheless it was finally the last. She was exceedingly distraught, but she recognized that we could not live like this any longer. We ended up staying with my grandparents and what was supposed to be a couple of days turned into six years. My mother decided to raise us four by herself with the help of my grandparents. She worked three jobs to support us along with making, as much time for us on her days off, however I knew she was extremely exhausted. She did her best to put all four of us in sports and summer activities and even made sure to have our doctors and dental visits scheduled regularly. But those medical

It all started April 16th 2009. My family and I had just moved into a new bigger and better house on eveston. We were so happy because It was an actual step up from our old place that we use to live in. But anyway when we were excited to move into this new place, but my siblings and I were also sad because we were leaving all of our friends and being uprooted to a new place. Plus, I didn’t really kNow If would make new friends are not. But my mother assured me that there were plenty of kids to play with in the neighborhood. Which made me feel a lot better.