Personal Narrative

I wish I could tell you all of this in person but I know if I try I’ll probably get very nervous and forget some small details that I would really like to tell you, and those are probably the most important to me. I saw you for the first time on February 23 at the valentines party, and that was such a fortunate thing to go to because I was able to get free food, have a good time, see old friends I haven’t seen since last semester, but most importantly I was able to see you. I didn’t know who you were at the time, but I knew you were like a very sweet, funny, caring, smart, and very beautiful just from your appearance. I first noticed you when you sat across from me when we were playing charades, and that’s when I knew that I wanted to get to

Hello! I hope everyone is having a great day/afternoon/night. I’m Mayra Barragan, I’m Mexican, so yay tacos and burritos! No, I’m just playing. I do love tacos, but believe it or not, that’s not all we eat or that we tremendously adore. I am the type of person who would rather keep to themselves than socialize and attempt to make new friends because I’m not so good at it. Singing, drawing, decorating, crafting, listening to music, reading and writing are not only my hobbies but some are also my passions. English is my absolute favorite subject because the ways we can utilize it are endless and can also be very creative.

My life began in Manhattan, New York in January of the year 1977. I was born to a 21 year old Irish American mother, Catherine Cunningham, and a 60 year old Sicilian American father, Anthony Perniciaro. My parents came from very different backgrounds. My mother’s family was relatively wealthy and affluent. My father was born and raised in Brooklyn. His parents were extremely poor immigrants that were seriously affected by the Great Depression. My father was a bricklayer and an artist when he met my mother, who was just starting her life, being only a few years out of high school.

The front lawn of Valdosta State hardly looked like a lawn, but more like a flea market on Saturday afternoon or a carnival on a Saturday night minus the rides. There were so many people there I could barely pick out one conversation because the roar of the crowd was so overwhelming. As I approached the hectic scene I seemed to be swallowed by the swarm of people around me and continued to travel in the same direction as them. I began to feel the beat of the music in my body, the booming in my chest felt as though my heart was racing and then the unfamiliar beat became clear to me. I continued shuffling my feet in the grass and could feel the warmth from the sun heating my skin. I could hear the excitement from the student’s voices when they received a free souvenir. I also listened to the workers from the booths advertise their business saying where they were located and what extraordinary deals they had to offer. From then on I began paying more attention to the booths themselves. A majority of them were plastered with their logo and surrounded by bright colors to grab the student’s attention and more often than not, it worked.

She's got the black plastic of a cutting knife handle gripped in her palm. Beige-painted fingernails glisten under the scrutinizing lights of our glazed kitchen; a classy and neutral color, like herself. She's grinning in concentration, a thin upward-curving line shaping her lips.

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.

The most powerful moment that has happened to me involving music happened in the middle of my seventh grade year. Prior to seventh grade, I played the violin but desired to learn the Double Bass. I asked a few times if I could switch instruments so that I could fulfil that desire, but my teacher always turned me down telling me that I should just stick with the violin, this of course made me devasted. Then the following school year, the teacher asked if anybody could play Bass because Alex (the bassist) had moved to a different school and we had only one bassist left in the orchestra and at that moment I got my chance to learn an instrument that I not only loved to hear, but also loved to look at, listen to and play. My teacher was skeptical

The sand is cold, the sky overcast, and the waves crash against the shore echoing harshly through my ears. I see clouds rolling overhead, I can smell the salt of the ocean, feel the texture of the sand, taste the electricity on the air and it all points to the coming storm. Is it real? Can anything be real when seen through someone else's eyes, felt through someone else's skin, tasted through someone else's tongue, Breathed through someone else's nose, heard through someone else's ears? This is what the world looked like to her, felt like to her, but what did it look like to me, feel to me? Was there ever a me or only this continually changing sculpture, patterns of a person and nothing more. I shivered as the cold air caressed the flesh I wore.

I walked to work trying to keep a decent pace for my weary body, while my mind raced with excitement. How lucky was I? I was going to marry and have a child with James Abby a wealthy kind man, while I was a poor factory worker! Although we had only known each other for a short amount of time, I knew he was the one. We met when I started working at his factory a few months back after I left the coal mines. He treats me so well, he occasionally gets frustrated with me, but it’s only because I am uneducated. Back in the coal mines men would take advantage of me every day, but James actually cares for me. I was snapped out of my deep thinking when I saw James walking into the factory building. I sped up as fast as my hurting body would let me and

I softly said to Scar “I’m sorry, I’m too late.” We hugged with each others tears flowing onto our backs. But Scar wasn’t done fighting, she whispered to me,

I couldn't remember for the life of me what I was running from but I kept hearing whispers saying over and over again you can't run from us we are what you know you are your not what you think you are you cant keep running as I ran I felt the cold air sharp as razors i finally gave in to weakness I feel to my knees and coughed up blood I looked up to the sky as the rain poured down I couldn't move my legs felt as if they were lead I could just sit there my eye wide with fear and filled with fear and regret I eventually was able to pull my self up to my knees and turn to face the horrid thing chasing me, even though I was once one I feared them more than I should fear the demon hunters, it was an angle, something I once was I was shaking in my boots no weapons no nothing to protect my self...the only hope I had was to pray to the Egyptians god I would be safe, if I even believed in them at this moment in time, I was lost with in my self with in my own secrets of my mind, before I could finish my thought I felt myself fly across the cold, hard, wet concert as my head made contact with a loud THUNCK!

The freezing cold seeped into my clothing and made me shiver. I was finally here. I slowly raised my hand to the button to ring my dad’s apartment. I was very reluctant to be here all alone not knowing what I had gotten myself into. My dad greeted me with the brightest smile,telling me to set my things in my new room. Nancy, his girlfriend, smiled warmly, greeted and asking me if I needed any help with anything to ask her. I set all my things into my new room. Christmas lights hung by the window and a twin sized bed was put in the left corner. A small closet was tucked to the left side of the door. I had set all my belongings onto the floor. I sat on the bed and thought through what had just happened.

When I started Middle School, I was nothing close to the social butterfly I am today. In fact for my entire first two years of middle school, I didn't have much of an identity. Or friends. I wasn't a part of any clique, or involved in any clubs. All I did was keep my mouth shut and blend in. I literally had no passions, no ideals, values, I just followed the crowd. But as my middle school experience went on, some drastic changes happened to me. And no, not puberty. Here is how it began.

Sun rays like lightning bolts hitting their backs, burning their skin slowly and painfully. They were in love and united, not only by law but by their promise to each other to find a better future. Although they had options, staying in their hometown was not one of them. Walking through, what they referred to as, El Cerrito was what they saw as the easiest solution. There were steps to getting there, hiring a Coyote was the first, the money transfer came later. Walking through that path was unimaginable, and even scarier than of the unknown that would of come once they arrived to the United States. She had met him a couple years ago, and married him months after running away with him. A glance, that’s all it took for him to decide that his life will be dedicated to making her happy. He was a very rich man, in lack of money. He, like her, cared for his family and was connected to his proud aztec roots. Those of which made him strong, giving him the courage to continue walking all 136 miles from Tijuana, Mexico to Los Angeles, California.

The blistering sunlight glazed the back of my neck with sweat, as I walk the desolate streets of my neighborhood in Dallas. Wearing black pants had its advantages, but boy, today I met my match: the sun. The scorching sunlight relieved the soil of its green and the energy of humans, such as myself. The dry winds crack my lips as I trudge through the unwavering heat. It had been an early release day for some reason. I have always walked home, except for when it rained, but it never did. The houses howled with the breeze as it echo through the crevices. With each step, the earth below me crackled in response. The trees, barren of leaves, wilted in the doldrums. I walked through what was once an old pumpkin field. Littered with the remains of dried roots and stumps, this path was my secret shortcut home. My trek home continued on the arid plain, but little did I know, it would be the last time I navigated these familiar paths.