Personal Narrative

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

That day when I returned home from school, my mom’s boyfriend called me asking to speak to my grandmother. Typically, Gus would call my grandmother himself if he wanted to speak with her, which was rare. I found out about my mom going to the hospital from my grandmother after that phone call. The doctor told my family that a stroke afflicted her in the middle of the day. My mom confused the date with her birthday, had trouble getting words out and remembering our family member’s names. The nurse had to take her for walks periodically and exercise her legs and arms because they were weak. Seeing my mother in this condition made me appreciate my mother and everything she does for me tremendously. However, I was terrified for my mother’s health.

I went to my living room to ask my mom a question, to see she wasn’t there. I asked my brother “where’s mom?” and he replied with “shes at the hospital, grandpa got burnt.” I would never have expected “grandpa got burnt” to be as severe as it was. I remember my mom coming home around two in the morning. I got up and out of bed to ask some questions. She said “I don’t wanna talk about it right now. Pack some stuff up, we’re going to Waterloo tomorrow.” So I listened and packed up a bag.

An ambulance came and carried out my mom. I didn’t know what was going on, so many questions running through my mind, what was wrong with her, was she going to be ok. I was scared, more scared then I had ever been. My sister Sheridan who was 8 asked me “what’s happening?” through tears. On that day a little piece of me began to change because if I let her see my fear that would not help anyone, and so even though I didn’t know what was happening I responded “everything is going to be ok” even though I did not trust my own words.

One summer day getting off the school bus running home, excited about going outside; couldn’t wait to go play with my friends when I walked through the door and there was my Aunt Liz. Standing there with tears in her eyes, in extreme amount of pain. I was scared, didn’t know what to do or who to call. Do I called, Mom or 911? After calling my mother then 911, I knew I had to help my Aunt Liz, bring you into the world. No one around, no one to ask for help, only Liz and I. My panic turn into a brave teenager who needed to help her

On a fateful November day, my aunt called my mother. This was usual, so I thought nothing of it until she hung up. When I saw the shock on my mother’s face I knew right away that something was wrong, but it wasn’t until my older sister asked that we knew the devastating news. My grandmother needed surgery, but not something minor, she needed heart surgery and my mother wanted to be with her during her time in the hospital. My siblings and I begged our mother to let us come with her, but she said no, when my mother made up her mind that was that and there was no way around it. The day my mother left for the hospital, we all gave her a kiss and a hug and told her to tell Granny we loved her, my mother smiled at this and promised to tell her, but she didn’t know at that time what would happen not even four days later.

“It’s going to be fine,” that's all I hear from the lady sitting next to me as I am crying and looking out the window as the house I was first brought home to grows smaller and smaller. I turned around and cried not knowing what was going on and why I was being taken from my home. The lady next to me began to comfort me and held me close while I cried. I didn’t know her or the other people that were with her and I was scared. I had no idea where we were going and I had no idea where my brothers or sister were. We drove for about half an hour and then we pulled into a big parking lot and stopped. We all got out and they led me into a large building that smelled like winterfresh air fresheners. The sound of crying and laughing filled the air while kids and

If you were to ask me why I love running the hurdles you would probably expect to hear this long story about this life changing event that happened to me which made me love running, but that’s not the case. In high school I was on the shuttle hurdle team, I wasn’t the best nor the worst, but I was the most motivated. Everyday I went to practice and pushed myself to the point were my coach would make me stop. I wasn’t motivated to be the best nor to win every race. I was motivated by the thought of going to state or even winning state.

It seemed as if we had only been at school for about an hour before it was time for

It had been around 42 days. I had no way to know when the sun was rising or setting; I only had my sense of time. They came in every day and gave me a small loaf of bread, some sort of meat, and only enough water to wash down my food. It was not enough to give me strength only enough to keep me alive. I was not sure where I was or even how I got there. The only thing I knew was that I wished I could go back home to my loving family.

I do not belong to an American lineage. I originate from the beautiful country of Nigeria, in West Africa. My grandfather once told me a special enlightening statement that I will never overlook. “Life without knowledge of one’s roots is useless. Once you truly begin to learn and experience your roots, your perception of life fluctuates.” Nigeria is the home of over 500 languages. My grandfather can speak and comprehend English, French and my tribal language Yoruba. 10 years ago, my family held a reunion in Nigeria. Every individual family member there communicated by speaking in French and Yoruba, however, I stood there bewildered.

A few hours and two trips back to the refrigerator later, John found himself staring at the clock on the wall, attempting to decipher the time. It had to have been well into the evening by now, and he surely was supposed to be home hours ago but Alexander Hamilton had a way of making you forget things like that. He had just done a rendition of a Christmas song that John could not recall moments before and had stumbled through the lyrics to the tune of John’s laughter. At the final chord, Alex had taken it upon himself to dramatically drape his body across John’s legs and pushed as close as he could manage into his chest. John giggled at this before absentmindedly running his fingers through his hair.

With a doubtful look my mother asked me if I was ok, I couldn’t resist anymore and I had to tell her what I was going through, the pain was oblivious at a point that I couldn’t even stand by myself. Thus, my father lifted me up and the diabolic journey to the hospital had just

I looked at the school clock; it read 2:59. I was chanted in my head come on come on. For a whole minute I couldn't hear anything the teacher said, just the ticking of the clock. And there it was. Ding! Ding! Ding! The school bells rang, I quickly got out of my chair and nearly knocked everyone in my path. Everyone ran, it was thanksgiving eve! Everybody can't wait to go home and prepare a feast.

Well the dream first started out with a bit of a background information scene. I, my mother, my sister, and another guy was in the spare room of my house. My mom was s I sewing or seaming a coat that had army camo on it, it was my crush’s coat. My mom and my sister couldn’t understand how to pronounce the name on the breast pocket. I kept telling them how to say it but the just wouldn’t listen. They turned to the only male in the room and asked him, he told them that I was right. I turned to him and thanked him, he nodded his head. In my mother’s closet sorting clothes and I saw two jackets hanging up in, what was to me, a pool of golden light. One was a heavy winter coat that was army camouflage, I automatically recognized it as the coat my