Personal Narrative Essay: From Foreigner To Scar

On 08/04/16 at 8:42pm, I was dispatched to 2087 S. Hamilton Rd, on a injury dangerous or vicious dog/injured dog, serious injury, involving a Columbus Police Officer (CPD) being bit by a dog and shooting dog. I arrived at the location. I was advised my CPD personnel that the CPD Officer that was bite was transported to the hospital and that the dog was still breathing. I was escorted to the area where the dog was. The dog was on the ground, next to the dog was dog owner Jackie Fate. I was unable to see any visible injuries to the dog, the dog had shallow breathing. I asked Ms. Fate to wrap the leash around the dog’s mouth to prevent the dog from biting her or me while I placed the dog on the stretcher. Ms. Fate complied, I slowly guided the dog on the

I believe in having responsibility for my actions for the rest of my life. Responsibility can earn me a ton of things, such as money and treats. If I do an action or sometimes help my mother with an action, I gain a dollar or two or my mom gives me a treat, like Sweet Frog’s. In this case, I wouldn’t mind being responsible because it involves something that I care about dearly.

It can often be heard that it is not a scar that leaves a mark, but a story and a lesson behind it. The scars are simply there to remind us not to make the same mistakes again. Just as any other person, I also have scars, both visible and invisible ones, but the ones that have left the greatest mark on me are the ones that I got when I was just 7 years old.

November 26th, 2004, and there is a sea of burnt orange everywhere at Darrell K

It was a bright sunny summer day when I stepped outside of my friend’s house. As I hopped on my bike and began to pedal, harder than usual, I began to groan as I peered down at my front tire and saw that it was flat. So then I jumped off my bike and grumply began to walk home. As I was walking I noticed something unusual, two men in suits, one in front and one behind me and as I began to think of a way out of this terrifying mess, a black van pulled drove up screeching against the side of the curb with its wheels and before I knew it the same men following me had put a black bag over my head and they tossed me in the van.

When I joined the military, I had absolutely no idea what I was getting myself into. It is one of the main reasons why I decided to join the Reserves and not Active duty. The other main reason was because I knew the Reserves would still pay for college while I was only active one weekend a month. Growing up in Killeen, Texas – I was right beside one of the largest Army post which is Fort Hood. I had a lot of friends whose parents were in the military, and two distant cousins who were also in the service. All I knew, (or thought I knew) was they had good money.

I knew this was my only break so I made the most of it. I spotted the house across the street and the cover it could provide. I left my bike on the ground as I ran over to the house quickly, not looking back the entire way. It felt as if my feet weren’t even touching the ground, the second they did they leapt up again in fear, as if the asphalt were lava.

With the slip of a hand, my friend was falling to the ground. I grabbed onto her, right before my head hit the mat with a crack. The room was spinning as blackness took over my eyesight. I got up on my feet, tripping as I ran to the next spot to throw another girl into the air. We needed to keep practicing, and I was giving my best effort to do so. My head was pounding, and I realized I couldn’t keep going. I didn’t want to hurt someone if I couldn’t catch them because of how I was feeling.

My mom always told me she felt comfortable in her dented-but-charming 2011 black Toyota Camry. I’ve never bought into the notion that a car could be a sanctuary, but she thinks of her car as a second home. She grew up in the San Fernando Valley of the 1980s, a mall-centric autotopia, so it makes sense. But, at twenty years old, it’s not the sort of mentality that I’ve grown to share.

Scars mean different things to different people. There is usually always a story behind a scar. I am not talking about emotional and mental scars. This post is about scars on the skin.

Scars are something that stay with a person forever long after they have faded. Scars impact people’s lives in many ways whether it be physical or emotional. What if one scar affects you in both ways. If your life is impacted both ways it do some pretty bad things to you not just physical but also mentally. Dealing with a scar like that can make you lose yourself and also push the people who care about you the most in your life away.

Being healthy and staying active is not something my family has been worried about. I have to be honest,I thought the same thing before I started wrestling. I ate anything I wanted too, I was not too active. I like to sleep in and play video games. I was out of shape and couldn’t run very far without losing my breath. This all changed when I started to wrestle.

Suddenly, I had a peculiar sensation of wetness on my back, as if my water bottle was leaking. Still racing down the mountain, I reached behind my back to adjust my pack with my right hand, braking with my left. I could slightly feel the back tire bearing less weight as my front brake took the brunt of the momentum. As I adjusted my pack, I compressed the front brake just a bit more to slow down. The next second, time stood still as I flew through the air, staring at the ground. A second later, the angry concrete tore through flesh and jeans and my bike clattered on the pavement. Hobbling to my feet, I assessed the damage: road rash down one leg, abrasions on both hands, and a plummeting ego.

My leg has gone numb from sitting in these torn black booths for the past hour, tearing apart a pizza with Ves. I gave up after three and a half slices, but he picked up the slack. He wiped off some lingering pizza sauce by his chin, leaving the faded scars on his hand exposed. Scars from fighting, or messing around with the trains, I’m not exactly sure. He catches where my line of view has settled and pulls both hands back under the table with insecurity, I look away with shame.

Then the 134 arrived. I got on, showed my pass to the bus driver and