Personal Narrative: A Personal Autobiography

My personal memoir is going to be about when I moved here in Homedale, Idaho. When I was 6 I moved to Homedale and I was going to start 2nd Grade. When I got dropped off by my parents I went to the playground. When I was young I used to never speak to anyone because I was so shy and scared. When I got there a kid named Oscar came up to me and asked me what is your name, for a few seconds I stood there saying nothing and finally I said my name Osue. There were one of his friends that I remember, there was Antonio, but that wasn’t the first time I have seen Antonio because the house we moved into I went outside threw rocks and so did he but when I backed up and went forward etc. he copied me. I When we went I she Ms. Garrett was welcoming us

I was ten, the most terrifying event I had been through was riding the little dragon roller coaster at the fair, but that night changed it all. The fear that started in my head spread like wildfire to the rest of my body from the tips of my fingers to the bottoms of my toes. My heart was racing so fast that it could have beat Usain Bolt in a 100m dash. Stop, drop and roll, three steps that should have come naturally, but instead I froze, looked down at my yellow and black checkered flannel in complete terror, fearing for my life.

It hurts. My bright red bruises under the light were buzzing from the pain. The yelling and arguing were muffled by my loud sobs. Why did this have to happen to me? I was just a kid, I didn’t do anything! Stomp stomp stomp. I heard footsteps coming up the stairs. He found me and yelled into my ears even more. I was called ugly, fat, disgusting, useless, girly, weak. The words ringed in my ears as I asked myself once again, why? I was like a slave, I couldn’t defend myself, I had to survive the beatings. I succumbed to the insults and descended into chaos.

It was 3 am in the morning. I woke up to a chilling phone call. I grabbed my phone and it was from Veronica. I was so confused, so I answered it. “Hello... “ I said as I heard screaming and crying coming out of her voice.

I had always assumed that my legs were strong and that I had decent muscle control, however, this thought was proven wrong at the beginning of my junior year in high school due to a detrimental injury. It was the first game of fall league for basketball, and within the first five minutes I had succumbed to an injury. Tearing my ACL and Meniscus has taught me to continue improving on my strength, not let this one injury keep me down, and to keep a positive mindset.

Hey, it's me as usual. You’re never going to read this but I just need to get some things that have been on my mind out. Lately I find myself listening to X‘s album 17, and it makes me think about so much stuff that I had put aside and hidden somewhere in my head during the beginning of summer. some which I can't even fathom the words to explain. what makes letting go of things so hard is that I promised myself that I would never abandon anyone or let go of the things I care the most about. I never wanted to turn out like my birth mom, I didn't want to be able to forget about someone as easily as she forget about me or even when she forgot about me in the hospital the day I was born to go buy drugs because she cared about that more than her own child. I've always promised myself that I will be the person she was never able to be, that's what makes it impossible to just leave when someone just gives up on me. I've figured out why I'm the way I am, everyone says I have bad taste in guys but they couldn't be more wrong. I've never admitted liking someone till

A cliché way to start a personal essay on why someone would want to go to into medicine would go along the lines of “As I stare towards the future with a decision to make, I look at my own personal experiences and the experiences of those around me for guidance.” Afterward, they would premise their argument by talking about at how they look at medicine as an exciting career option because it is a field perpetually at the cutting edge of discovery, continuously opening newer vistas of human thinking, and knowledge. They then would conclude their argument by talking about how the fulfillment provided in healing physical, and psychological wounds, scars, and bruises go beyond the satisfaction produced elsewhere. While this is all good and true

Home is the beginning of one’s book. It is where your story begins, forms its characters, shows its purpose, and reveals its ora. This is how mine is written. Home is on the buzzing highway down a bumpy gravel road. It’s Brandon, Mississippi. It is the only home I’ve ever known. Home is the smell of homemade biscuits and tomato gravy on Saturday mornings. It is “Bless Your Heart” and “Yes Mam” and “No Sir”. The little bedroom in the back of a grey double-wide where Carrie Underwood songs played and where I learned to curl my hair and put on mascara. My cousins and I running around with mason jars, chasing the lightning bugs. Bar-B-q on the back porch and never meeting a stranger. It is the morals learned and the identity

In life do we see that everyone else is wrong or do we not want to admit that we are wrong? In my eyes I don't want to admit that I am wrong because I don't want to seem stupid. I ran into a situation last night during soccer practice that I want to understand where the other people are coming from. In this situation people are saying that a group of us Seniors on the soccer team are favorites and in my eyes I don't see that at all.

As a whole, I think my memoir is very truthful. Even though it happened almost a decade ago, I remember it very well because it was a turning point in my life. Everything as I knew it was going to change in an instant; my parents are separated, I’d only see my dad every other week, I’d have two of everything (birthdays, Christmas, etc), and other mental and emotional changes. From beginning to end, my memory is spot-on with this scenario. I wouldn’t have any reason to change it or believe it differently. It made me who I am today. I wouldn’t say I was exaggerating either. I definitely took this better than my brothers did and I have the strongest relationship with my father between my brothers and I. I wrote in first person because I feel like writing in third person doesn’t have the

Writing an autobiography is like getting to know myself in a different way. I have learned not so much about my self, but also the world and events during the year I was born. 2001, was a big and tragic year. Mostly known, the 9/11 where I was born exactly before a month of this event happening was very unbelievable. I can’t stress enough how terroist have affected our world greatly. I learned the time, the weight and my birth hospital. Also, learning where my family history and that my parents were both the first of their families to come to America was very cool!

I found out that I had deep buried emotions. I didn’t know they were so deep before. I thought I was healed from my experiences but I have come to the realization that I was not healed emotionally. I also found out that I had a plot inside me and stories to tell from that plot.

Of the memoirs in the packet, number I was my favorite and the one that stuck the most in my head. Now it may have just stayed in my head because it was the first, but I still believe that it was the most exciting one in the packet. I really like stories that start out like any other day, like it could for anyone, but then it changes drastically and all of a sudden your heart is beating fast and you feeling the adrenaline as if the events of the story are happening to you and not the character. I can somehow relate to the author at the end of the memoir because I too wonder if I could handle myself in a dangerous situation. I would like to think that I could but the occasion has never arose where I could prove myself. It was amazing how the

The brain is 3.3 pounds, has 86 billion nerve cells, and makes up 2% of 100% of people. Though this organ belongs to all people, it is still unique to everyone. The decision made, emotions felt, and life that was lived can be held in the palms of a person's hand.

I’ve always thought of myself as a decent writer until I got prompts like this. I usually do well on writing assignments when I’m tasked to analyze two varying texts or record the development of some fictional character, but when it came to analyzing my life I’ve always had a difficult time. It's like everything becomes cluttered in my mind and I feel that I have so much that I need to say, yet so much that I shouldn’t. I remember just last year we had a memoir project with a rubric that stated that "the goal of a memoir is to describe the subject’s personal experiences, not to make the reader feel bad for the subject". I found that project especially difficult due to me always thinking that some of the best memoirs had to invoke some powerful