My Grandmother - Original Writing

My mother, Lisa Dawn Hicks Kern, was born at Wadley Regional Medical Center, Texarkana, TX, on Sunday, June 15, 1969. Her father, James Kenneth Hicks, was 28 at the time of my mother’s birth; he was employed at Red River Army Depot as an electrical engineer. Her mother, Sharon Lee Clark Hicks, was 25 when my mother was born, at the time she was the home maker. My mother had an older sister who was a four year old toddler at the time of my mother’s birth. Kimberly Ann Hicks was born at Wadley Regional Medical Center, Texarkana, TX, on Monday, August 30, 1965.

O'Connor’s incorporation of tone allows the reader to understand that the feelings made by the environment and characters are important to the theme of the story due to its effect specifically on the grandmother. At the beginning of the story when the family invites the grandmother on a road trip to Florida, she begins to complain stating that “the children have been to Florida before... You all ought to take them somewhere else for a change so they would see different parts of the world and be broad” (O’Connor 501 ). This tone from the grandmother can be portrayed as bossy and authoritative even though she attempts to disguise it with an excuse of bettering her grandchildren even though the family did not have to invite her on the trip. The

Much like O’Connor, the grandmother in this short story was raised in a religious setting. This contributes to and defines the way in

In the beginning of the book, an odd scene was described. A mother was rummaging through the garbage, and this was described from the perspective of someone else. This person is the mother’s daughter. She is sitting in a taxi on her way to a party up the block when she lays eyes upon her mother. The author describes the daughters reaction by saying, “I slid down in my seat and asked the driver to turn around and take me home”(Walls 3). The daughter is literally ashamed of her homeless mother. This reaction is appaling to someone who is not in the daughters shoes. “After ducking down in my taxi so my mom would not see me, I hated myself - hated my antiques, my clothes, and my apartment” (Walls 3). Obviously, she regrets the feeling of embarrassment

Growing up I believed that being Hispanic meant being a particular shade of brown that had to be just right. I had no concept of colorism during my childhood and adolescents and had a meager understanding of racism and how it looked like to be discriminated against. Furthermore, less of understanding was diluted even further by my struggle with accepting my romantic and sexual orientation. The nuance of those identities and my many others left me exploring those intersections within myself than exploring the greater picture of social discourse. This all ignoring my lack access to information only found in higher education. Once I had access to this information and meet others that were like me and different than me, I starting learning that what it means to be Hispanic is vastly different than what I thought.

However, I have not always been confident in my own skin, being as my appearance clearly shows I am hispanic. My tan skin, slight accent, dark hair and eyes, shows my hispanic being on my outside. Last year, in my eleventh grade year is when I was the least confident in myself. I have always brushed off the gardener and maid jokes, but this experience impacted me. Last year when I was walking in the hall, a random boy I did not know handed me a folded up sheet of paper. When I opened it, it had the bolded, upcased letters spelling out “Trump.” At the time I took it hard. I did not know what it meant. Was it some silly prank? Was the boy telling me I was gonna get deported? My parents and I are here legally, but it still shook my character and confidence in myself and culture. For a week I felt down, there was even a family gathering that weekend, and I told myself that I did not want to go, so I sat in my room the whole time. But then I realized that this is who I am. I am cuban. I am proud of who I am and no one should be able to take that away from me. My hispanic background is not something I can hide, so I have learned to not only accept it, but to embrace it. Even though this experience made me less confident in myself then, it made me learn to love my culture so much more now. I feel as if my

Though I did not have to learn English as my second language, I still understand what it feels like to be judged by my skin color. I will never forget the stories my parents told me about how they were treated when they moved to America. Initial judgment of my parents would tell people that they did not learn English until they moved here; however, both of my parents moved speaking English as flawlessly as your average Joe, if not better. I mean, my dad was taught English in England and my mom had taken multiple classes in Africa. My family will never be able to understand how the Riveras felt about living in a world where they could not communicate due to language barriers, but we are able to relate to them because we know how it feels to be treated

Religion has always been around for many years and will continue to live on. Since 2014, there are an estimated 4,200 different religions, all over the world each believing in different things Having their own set of rules and tradition that must be followed. Storytelling became a way to give people advice or telling people what would happen if they disobey their religious rules or tradition. In the story of a grandmother, it critiques religion for the way it can lead to snap judgments and a loss of freedom.

Walking the halls at school was an overall awkward situation as I attended a predominantly white private school. It was not uncommon for my peers to make jests and snide comments about the oddity of our relationship. I vividly remember the stunned expressions on the faces of my parents and siblings as I explained that my new boyfriend was not white. While my family was accepting of the news, I was warned to not mention my new relationship to my grandfather who would not be quite as understanding as he would only be blinded by his outdated and old fashioned state of mind. Meeting my boyfriend's parents for the first time was unnerving to say the least. I felt like an exhibit at a museum, being observed and analyzed by a group of people who no doubt had already made their own assumptions of my character. I could see from the skeptical look in their eyes that I was nothing more than a vapid and privileged white girl to them. All of these outward opposing forces undoubtedly created friction within the relationship. I found myself questioning if our racial differences were forcing a wedge between our families and friends or if the relationship was worth the criticism we faced. A few short months later, we called it quits, although not entirely due to the racial

“Don’t listen to them,” my grandmother said as she wiped the tears from my face and ran her fingers through my long, black hair. I remember the constant teasing from my peers in elementary school. Growing up in a predominately white neighborhood, my family and I were looked at differently because we were “people of color.” All of the parents who would drop their children off for school in the morning would stare at my father. Growing up, it was incredibly difficult to figure out who I was because I was Mexican and Caucasian with a Puerto Rican step father who raised me since I was three. Thus, his culture heavily influenced me as well. At family parties I was spoken to in English and Spanish with both Mexican and Puerto Rican dialects.

My great-grandmother was raised by her mom, dad, and other relatives. She, and many cousins, were raised up as brother and sister in a close-knit family. Harriett Marshall, my great-grandmother, was born in Saltillo, Tennessee on January 7, 1931. She has lived through many trying times. It is a blessing to live through so many events that changed the nation, even the world. She has lived through the following events and many more: The Great Depression, World War II, the historic signing of Jackie Robinson, Brown v. Board of Education, the Civil Rights movement and many more.

My educational experience with other races had been limited before high school. I can count on one hand the number of classmates from elementary and middle school that were not caucasian. Even in my church there are only a couple of families of color. Entering high school was quite a learning experience for me. Suddenly I was thrust into the world of Joliet West where only a third of the students are white. Entering this new world was like discovering mythical creatures, created by the stories from movies and my older sister, were real. Based on the myths I heard, I found myself questioning if any of the Hispanic students in my classes were illegal immigrants. I encountered loud black girls that intimidated me with their larger than life personalities.

Of course you always hear people talking about how great their grandmother or grandfather are, I too feel the same way about my grandmother. I see her as more than my grandmother, she’s a role mole, my best friend and also like a sister when I need her. She’s always been a loving and caring person. Not for only her friends and family, but also strangers. People she has never met a day in her life she would be willing to go give her last too. You don’t find to many people like her too often.

I will tell you a tale of a woman of great success. This is a woman that has inspired me to be something great one day and to never give up trying. Though she may be growing into her elderly years she has lived a very challenging, joyful, loving and successful life. She is a woman of great faith and character, she is my grandmother.

Have you ever heard about poetry? Poetry is when you express your feelings and ideas by using a distinctive style and rhythm in a story. In my class we do poetry. Sometimes it can be difficult to understand. We also have to know how to read a poem because it is not like a story. What poems do you like? The poems I read were Winter by Nikki Giovanni, The Rider by Naomi Shihab Nye, and The Courage That My Mother Had by Edna St. Vincent Millary. These works are all very different from each other.