My First Memories Of My Life

I saw my father, young and determined, working at the crack of dawn in the brickyard, while my mother stayed home to childproof their small apartment. Using the potent mixture of caffeine and chemicals contained in Mountain Dew, he was able to resist the urge to doze off during his daily classes. I saw myself running around the large oak tree that dwarfed our first house, and couldn’t help but smile as I thought about my mom, pregnant with my sister, walking me to the library to play with the puppets and pick up books about my favorite dinosaurs. I saw the terrifying night that the oak tree was stuck by lightning, and heard my mothers voice over the phone at school, eagerly telling me about my new baby brother. My stream of consciousness was broken as we entered the scorching area where they bake the bricks, but I quickly zoned out again as my grandpa began to explain the technical aspects of brickmaking. This time, the memories took place in a new house, as our cozy home had turned claustrophobic with the addition of a fifth member. Quiet walks to the library were replaced with chaotic days at the pool. The cards began to pick up speed, as I got deeper into my life. The dark years of middle school, when my hair covered my eyes and I

The story of my history as a writer is a very long one. My writing has come full circle. I have changed very much throughout the years, both as I grew older and as I discovered more aspects of my own personality. The growth that I see when I look back is incredible, and it all seems to revolve around my emotions. I have always been a very emotional girl who feels things keenly. All of my truly memorable writing, looking back, has come from experiences that struck a chord with my developing self. This assignment has opened my eyes, despite my initial difficulty in writing it. When I was asked to write down my earliest memory of writing, at first I drew a blank. All of a sudden, it became very clear to me, probably because it had some

Moreover, writing about memory which is the groundwork of the traditional autobiographical genre is a problematic endeavor, since it is a project of conflating memory, imagination, and sometimes a conscious misrepresentation of the past. Likewise, it is a way to inscribe the discursive selves that they envision as “true” representations of their selfhoods.

The author starts with the description of his childhood experience and continues to focus on his feelings and events from personal life during the article. For example, he describes his thoughts about his grandmother’s cooking or explains what he felt when he understood

“Hello, HELLO!” I remember when I was 8 years young and I had just come home from a long day of what I had believed to be rigorous work. I had hoped upon my arrival there would be someone I would be able to speak to about my day. I had not heard a sound besides the gust of wind which slammed the door shut behind me “Whoosh Bang”. With no one in sight, I had bursted into tears with the absence of the sign of life. My parents had divorced when I was 7 years old which truly affected my life. As a child I remember sunday breakfast with my family and many activities and trips taken as a

This is a short story of my life from a wee little one until now. I was born on a Monday October 18, 1982 to Ricky and Aletha Sprayberry. I have three sisters and two brothers. I had some good and bad in my childhood, teenage years, and as an adult. Like most I do not remember life a baby. The earliest I remember, well don’t really remember I just know of this day due to pictures, is July 4, 1985, I was two years old. We went to Lake Striker for a fourth of July celebration and they was having a beauty contest, I am not sure if it was for all ages and they had divided ages groups or if it was just a fun thing for the kids. My mom entered me in the contest and low and behold I placed first in the contest. I brought home a ribbon and a trophy. I made the front page the local news paper and my mom has kept up with that clipping all these years. I know have it and keep it safe and sound in my top dresser drawer. She even still had my blue bikini swim suit from then. She gave it to me at some time during my teenage years and I kept it in my memories chest up until my niece, the first of eight grandkids, was born and I let my sister borrow it. Well that was a mistake, I have not seen my memory swim

The following months a winter, cold and gloomy, surrounded the house. My grandmother came to stay with us since my father had fallen into depression and needed help taking care of my sister and I. When my grandmother went grocery shopping my sister would struggle with homework without my grandmother’s help. One day when my grandmother left to go grocery shopping my sister approached me, which was unusual of her since its very rare for her to come to me. Her dark brown hair and big eyes reminded me of my self when I was younger. “I’m hungry” she complained, a question she’s never asked me. My father sleeping and my grandmother away, I was the only one left to take care of her and that terrified me. I had never cared for or known how to care for someone else. All I knew was how to evaluate whether or not someone was caring for another correctly.

On Monday, July 24th, 2000, at 1:28 p.m., at St. Alphonsus hospital in Boise, Idaho, I, Lynzee McKay Misseldine, was born. I am the first born of two. Nothing worth writing down happened until September 3rd of 2001. That was the day my little sister, Maelie, was born. Eight days later, the 9/11 terrorist attacks happened. That is the first thing I can remember. I was holding my sister on the couch with my mom. She saw it on the news, and she called my dad. Mostly, I had a really great childhood. The biggest event in my life thus far, occurred on July 25th, 2007. My mom passed away the day after my seventh birthday. I am positive I could write a whole page about that day in particular. I could tell you about how I had slept on the floor the

The first story of my life was written by my mom. The early years after I was born on September 28, 2002 were fairly eventful. As a young child, I was “never needy and always good at sharing.” Whenever I was in a situation where something was being handed out at a party or in class, I would always wait until last to select. If nothing was left, I would still be content. If something was ever taken from me, I would look at my mother and say ‘Oh well!’ and continue. When I was three years old, having brunch with my mom and dad at Cindi’s Deli, I picked up a kid’s menu and started reading it on my own with no phonetics involved. I “just started reading.” This amazed my parents. This was followed by teaching my classmates how to solve exponents

In the first paragraph I was attempting to illustrate the moment and gather the memories from that day into a few short sentences. The words I chose and the way I organized my paragraph was in hopes of reflecting the nostalgia that I was feeling while looking at the picture. There is also a strange feeling that I felt while looking at the picture, because it defines a moment that now feels as if I had imagined it. Therefore, while writing my personal essay I felt the need to recover this and other misplaced moments. The entire concept that a previous self may be a stranger to me is something that I feel needs exploring, although I also felt, while writing, that there are certain fundamental aspects of a person that never change. After rereading my essay multiple times, I am pleased with how I was able to achieve my goal. Although I feel as if I could have used more detail to describe myself then, in that particular moment, I believe that by describing what has changed over the course of the years proved to be just as effective. From the beginning of the essay through to the end, it is easy for readers to track the progress I have made from an elementary school student to a high school student. Each paragraph I began to develop a little more as a person and student which then lead me to succeed in my first few weeks as a

My first memory was sitting in my dads old, gray pickup staring at the stars as he drove the highways back home. Tired from a day of stressful travel, when in previous hours I was on a leash led by my mom in the airport. My dad has always created a sanctuary everywhere he went, which was a vital skill growing up with a homeless father. My parents began their long unpleasant divorce when I was two, whereas my dad was gifted a restraining order entering the house. I didn’t see him for months until he was granted permission to pick me up from preschool with a bottle of chocolate milk in his warm hands. Their divorce created a hole in everyone’s lives that each of us tried to fill separately. Mom was never home, working three jobs, going to school full time, and filling that hole with cigarettes, beer, and boyfriends. My sister filled it with endless sleepovers and friends, while I had three friends that I never saw outside of school.

It felt like forever.The first thing my dad and I did was go shopping. I remember him trying to be funny and put on this little yellow shirt, but he couldn’t even get an arm through it. After going clothes shopping my dad and I went back to his apartment. His apartment felt so small compared to my mom’s house. His apartment had two bedrooms, one bathroom, a kitchen, and a living room. Both rooms were taken when I got there my uncle had one and my dad had the other. I felt out of place being their and not with my mom. Each day of spring break was something different with my dad. My dad and I learned a lot about each other over spring break, but I couldn’t help but miss my mom. Finally spring break came to an end and I was waiting at the front door of my dad’s apartment for my mom to pick me up. Something didn’t feel right when my grandma pulled into the driveway instead of my mom. My grandma brought bad news. My grandma told my dad and I that my mom was in the hospital and she had been their for a couple days. I felt guilty for not being with my mom I blamed myself for not being with her when it all

was a tuesday and I had just gotten out of school. I was nervous and excited and my heart was beating 100 miles per hour. My sister was just born and I was anxious to see her. But I had to wait for my dad to pick me up from my mom’s house. I was taking the week off to spend time with her and to help my dad and his girlfriend with getting her situated at the house. After two hours he got to my house, The car ride was full of talk about the future and what she was gonna be like when she was older. When we arrived at the hospital we rushed down the hall to the room. When we walked in I saw my sister amaya. Her brown silver eyes lit my eyes and heart up. I knew at that moment that she would be my responsibility and I would take care of her with

I was born on April 15, 2002 on a warm spring evening. At the time I was born I weighed six pounds and four ounces. I don’t remember much when I was small but I do remember when I was three years old. We moved to a house on the other side of Durham but I was too small to remember. Every week day my mom used to drop me off and my grandma’s house while my mom and dad went to work. She was a retired teacher in english and math so she taught me how to write and do simple math. I’d tag along as she went to do things at church, run errands, and pick up things from the store. Some days when my parents had things to do i’d go to my grandma’s house and I had such a great time with her.

My First Memory- Personal Narrative I’ve had many memories during my lifetime, many good, and some bad. My