Personal Narrative: Back On The Western Front

Moving past the 1920’s, the stock markets crash of 1930’s, and the Second World War, we enter into a new world for many people, post war. The war ended in 1945 and the soldiers were sent home to their loved ones to marry and start families. Many of the fashions after the war remained the same as what was worn during the war. Many men continued to wear uniforms even at home as their way of adjusting to post war life. Another way soldiers adjusted to life after the war was by taking jackets like the Eisenhower jacket, named after President Dwight D. Eisenhower, worn during the war by wearing it as an everyday look (Welters 2015). My great grandfather, Frank Blair, on my mother’s side of the family was one of those soldiers who returned home to

Entry #4: The man eventually stopped bringing us food, and we all waited to die. One day, soldiers broke into our prison, but they didn’t wear Nazi uniforms. A man in our group translated for us: they were Americans soldiers and they were going to give us food and medical treatment. I could barely believe it was all over! The Americans pillaged houses, and the slaves took food, and one slave got the icon of the Madonna. It was hard trusting the nurse at the hospital because of what I’d seen at the work camp, but I eventually started to heal and regained my strength. Soon, Nurse Astrid got permission to take me to the relocation camp. I first found the church and pray ed for my family and my friends, those dead and alive. I had trouble getting up, but a young

Last year Hitler became the Chancellor of Germany. Ever since he became the Chancellor of Germany, the world has changed. Many people have lost their lives. Before Hitler came to power, we the Jews, didn’t have to worry about anything.

“The English are fools!” Sprawled upon a sign hoisted above the German trenches. A hiss escaped behind me, ready to order gas masks I was surprised to find one of the senior commanders quietly laughing to himself. “ Is something funny sir?” I queried as he struggled to control himself. Regaining composure, he turned my shoulders to face the German trenches speaking to me quietly, “James, look out…. can’t you see the death and destruction? In this hopeless mess they try to provoke us with silly signs.” Leaving me with those words to ponder my senior officer disappeared further into the trench. Silly sign it may be, I ordered it shot down. Rifle shots made quick work of it, but not before one of the more junior members became over eager and exposed himself.

After the war was over the family left the internment camp and came home and everything changed. “When we came back after the war it was fall and the house was still ours. The trees on the streets were taller than we remembered, and the cars more run down, and the rosebush our mother had once planted alongside the narrow gravel path they led up to the front steps of our house was no longer there” (Otsuka 106). This describes how during the years they were gone the entire street changed. When the family entered the house it smelled really bad. “We did not care. The paint was peeling away from the walls and the window frames were black with rot. Shreds of lace curtain dangled in front of the soot-covered panes and the floor was littered with

12th March 1915: The day hadn’t started out differently to any other day. I had just been out to milk the cows and feed the calves. As I was walking back to the farmhouse for breakfast, I met Dad, who had come back from the markets. He stopped the truck beside me and wouldn’t look me straight in the eye. That was when I knew there was something wrong. He wordlessly passed a brown envelope out of the truck window. “GOVERNMENT OF NEW ZEALAND” was emblazoned in bold red print across the front. My heart lurched, constricting my throat. As I opened it, my worst fear was confirmed. In small lettering it announced, “Mr Michael Jones, we need you to protect our country.”

The Generation of the World War 2 era benefited from the hardships they had to face. Nothing like their childhood has been prevalent in the years to follow. From searching for food in the dirty 30s to killing for freedom on the beaches of Normandy, they had a lot of growing up to do very quick. The qualities that these people had was a strong work ethic, patriotism, and the determination to fulfill one's potential. Those traits in it of themselves changed America forever.

First, the cost of war is tremendous. America is so in debt, and instead of trying to pay it all off, they’re using it to buy weapons of mass destructions. As our national debt goes up, so do our problems. The money that is being spent on the transportations for the soldiers, the food/ shelter being paid for, the weapons, can all be used to pay for much more important things. The taxpayer’s money could be used to fund underprivileged families and schools. Schools could be using the money to fund the music and arts programs that could help the students express themselves. The money can also be used to help keep people off the streets, and even fix roads and buildings all over the country. We can make this country beautiful, but instead the

Disclaimer: I’m using material from my previous Journal because it was over chapter 5-7 and this one is over the second half of chapter 7 through chapter 8.

The sounds above me wouldn’t scare a foreigner. But here, it was a little different.

Our three day journey began in the state of Virginia. We drove through West Virginia, Kentucky, Illinois, Missouri, Kansas, and it came to well anticipated ending in Colorado. That is where my father's new military base was stationed and that is why we had to move, I think. To me, a fourth grader at the time, the reason being did not matter. The only thing that mattered was the fact that we had moved for the second time in my nine years of life. The only thing I focused on was the rear door of our 1997 Ford explorer being lifted into the air. See the rest of my family had decided with there being no seats lefts at the front of the truck, my tiny stature would fit perfectly in the back, along with the luggage. So for three days straight the six of us had been stuffed into that truck like a can of tuna. This was not the first time we had moved and it was certainly not the last.

Give me a topic. I can write for days about v-mail’s effect on World War II or the assassination of President Kennedy. However, this essay may be one of the hardest assignments I’ve ever had to write. If I say that who I am is defined by the project I did on the rights and responsibilities associated with archaeology, can I continue this essay describing factual research instead? I tried to Google how to write a “Who Am I” essay. Templates and suggestions popped up, but nothing like the idea I have in my head that I can’t quite form into words yet. Usually, I am quite good with words. I love to write and could spend most of my free time writing lyrics, short stories, and poetry - anything fictional. Although, I never seem to be able to write about myself. I write about fictional characters and the impossible, about plot twists and imagination, but if you ask me who I am, I wouldn’t know where to start, as you can probably tell by my now 176 words of rambling.

Now this is getting to become a serious military war. Many of the transformers and army have been trying to scout out for any decepticons. I'm going to have to go with Bumblebee and Optimus and stay safe on this trip. We were just driving and out of nowhere a bunch of decepticons came and so it was a big fight against Autobots and decepticons. There was a lot of robots getting destroyed and trying there best to keep everyone they can safe. I had to stay cover and try to help but I mainly tried to stay safe. We have had a lot of decepticons shooting at us I don't know how long we can last. Were doing out best but it looks like Megatron is going to fight Optimus. I've been trying to keep calm and analyze what is going on and it's scary to know

In order to progress in this analysis, I decided to interview an individual who has remained next to me throughout my entire life; someone who ardently encouraged me through periods of excel and stagnation. There was, in reality, only one person who I strived to speak to: my mother. Before commencing this discussion, I anticipated numerous astounding facts about her; my mother rarely talked about her years in Vietnam - presumably due to the Vietnam War and its chaotic nature. Therefore, late Friday when twilight was approaching, I interviewed my mother and received some peculiar information, which disclosed fragments of her life. It became apparent that my mother strived to become a schoolteacher or an architect; however, due to the war, she could not continue

Shots pierced around me. I scurried across the grass for somewhere to have cover. My leg bled constantly, while pain was shooting throughout my leg. The blood oozed. I found a tree that had a wide trunk. I went around it, and there in front of my eyes was an opening that was big enough for a person to fit in it. I didn't know if it was a trap or safety. I had to take the chance, the piercing pain in my leg was too much. I walked through and I was able to stand up in it. In front of me was a curtain. I pushed it to one side. “Hands up or I’ll shoot.” I stopped. The voice didn’t sound much older than me. “Please,” I begged, “I just need help with my leg.” I cautiously turned around and there behind me was a girl around my age, 15. She was around