Personal Narrative: Born An Immigrant

As a part of an immigrant family, there is no doubt that, as the oldest, I had to help my parents with English translation. Even though I have been in this role for years, it was not until recently that I realized the significance of my responsibilities.

It was summer of 2010. My parents were still married and we went up to Wichita Falls, Wichita to go see my brother Chris who was in the Military on base working. We stayed there for a week. I still remember the car ride up there. We rented a van, we had tvs in the rented van, my sister Rylee, my other brother Garrett (he was in the military too), my mom Traci, and my dad Doug, and my brothers military bag it was like a person. I still remember I had to sit in the back with that bad it was so big. Garrett put the seatbelt around the bag like it was a person. The car trip was so long but it was all worth it in the end. It was in the middle of the week and we were out on the beach. My brother Chris and his pregnant wife Ashley had a boat the water

I am a first-generation immigrant, a DACA recipient, a DREAMer. I was brought into the United States as a child and since then have struggled to become a part of our society. Growing up, there was just enough for my family. The extra we had came at the cost of not being around the parents much and with the thought that they might not come back after work in the back of our minds. No matter how busy my parents were to provide for my brothers and I, they always made sure the little time they had was focus on us, our studies, and to raise us to be good citizens of the world.

Growing up as an immigrant I view the world in a much more different light than most people do. Whenever an opportunity presents itself to me I am willing to put in the effort if I know it will better my life. This trait of resourcefulness originates from my family who, over the years have created a life for themselves out of virtually nothing. I moved to America at the young age of two years old with my father. Though he didn’t have much to begin with, my father decided to move to this country in hopes to lead a better life and follow on the path of the American dream. I vividly recall being in the backseat of our car while my father trained me on the importance of remaining perceptive and hardworking in school and abroad, I remember he would

I am from a country with beautiful landscapes that has turned into a warzone country.

I chose my immigrant participant from a personal perspective, yet not knowing much about him. Last year, my first year teaching, I had a little boy in my class that was Latino, very shy and quite. He struggled in reading and writing and after meeting with his parents and ESOL teacher several times, the decision was made to retain him in first grade. His parents, especially dad was hesitant about the decision, and began to tell small glimpses of how his son was very much like him, shy, and scared to reach out because of the language barrier. There was never much elaborated on, but I could tell that dad had possibly been in a similar situation before. This year, I was lucky enough to have this same child in my first grade class again. After receiving

One person can have the power to change a community’s perspective or sharpen it. As a Latina and an immigrant, my family’s experience has taught me about the process of entering the United States and the complications that follow. Still, my comprehension of social issues developed further the day I met my brother’s friend and classmate, who followed my brother home, unannounced, on the bus. I will call him Eric, my brother’s friend and his family are Salvadorian undocumented immigrants who seek political asylum. Eric’s family consists of a younger and an older sibling, and his mother. The only source of income is what his mother, who does not speak English very well, makes. Lately, this is what keeps me up at night. Thoughts of this child and his family consume my mind while I brainstorm ways of helping. At a young age when their biggest concerns

My father left my mother as a young immigrant, he left me at a young age, I only had my mother and my little sister. I couldn’t imagine the world without them, so when I discovered I could potentially lose my mother, I almost fell apart.

As I walked into the house, my parents were waiting for me in the living room. I did not know what was happening, but from the look in their eyes, I knew that was something wrong. My mother sat me down to tell me that my father had lost his business. The situation seemed so hectic; yet, the conversation felt like it lasted a lifetime. Finding out this news was detrimental to my family because my father had worked hard in America to build this business. I learned that my father had to give up his business and, as result my family had to start over, and find a new way to make a living.

I am an immigrant, originating from Ukraine. I moved here three years ago to take advantage of the “land of the free”. I had heard of the conscription under Russian imperial dictators, such as Tzar Nicolas, and Soviet despots, like Stalin. Fourcing an individual to perform a service, regardless of the cause, seems to be slavery to me. When I found that men in America must register for the draft, in my eyes, “the land of the free” became slightly less free. It is abhorrent that men may be required to enlist in the military, and equally so for women and therefore should not be tied to feredal grants.

A year and a half ago I moved from Venezuela to the US with my family; since then I have tried my best to make this sacrifice worth it and make my family proud. Leaving everything that you own behind and moving somewhere new with only a couple of luggage with you is extremely difficult economically, which is why my family is currently experiencing financial difficulties that make it more difficult for me to be able to afford the costs of a good college education. I currently work 3 jobs cleaning houses to help my family, however, it is still not enough to afford a college education. Being an immigrant is a part of my identity and it has shaped my character into what I believe is a hard-working student and person. At West Marshall high school

I came to the US on September 15, 2009. My mother had accepted a job at Wake Forest Baptist hospital and decided to move my whole family to America. I did not understand why we had to come to America, having to leave my friends, my home, and all my childhood memories to go to a completely foreign environment. But my parents said it was a new beginning.

I was born in 2002 in Kampala, Uganda, a small landlocked country in East Africa, dubbed the nickname ´Pearl of Africa´. In 2006, leaving behind the faces of family members my family of 7 packed and moved to the United States. My family is one of the lucky ones, we did not move because of conflict or a terrible dictator. We moved simply because we had the resources that others around the world don´t have.

I am the daughter of Mexican immigrants. I am the daughter of two individuals who left a small town in the center of Mexico in search of a better life. I am the daughter of two Mexicans who crossed the Mexico-U.S. border, like millions of immigrants, in search of the highly acclaimed “American Dream.” I am a first generation

The first car we had when we moved to the United States was a car that was so cheap it was almost free. It wasn't the best looking car, it was an ugly gray scrap car that had little skulls for the lock buttons but it was extremely appreciated and eventually earned the name el negrito (literally translating to “the black”). A small duplex became our home for five years after moving from Mexico and eventually was the same as my old home, warm and comforting. I was born in a little city called Piedras Negras, Coahuila, Mexico right next to the border of Eagle Pass, Texas. My parents decided to move after discovering that my dad was born in the United States was to provide a better education and future for their children. My parents didn't look