Personal Narrative: Feminism

I realized that feminism was rooted in equality but branches into so many other issues like combating rape culture or the inclusiveness of LGBTQA+ and POC in the movement. And a campaign that supported the eradication of toxic societal norms was something I could wholeheartedly get behind. Before this discovery, however, I lived in blissful ignorance because I shared the same sentiment as most teens my age; you’re a kid, you can’t make a difference. I did not stand for anything of importance besides the occasional bandwagon belief because what did my opinions matter? Did I even have my own? Or were my words simply regurgitations of the ideologies my parents fed me? At sixteen years old, I was unsure. Give it a year, some heated conflict with my parents as well as a relearning of values and I would be. At seventeen years old, I fully understood what I chose to back those beginning days in APUSH but, more importantly, the significance of having something to stand for. I realized that a person’s beliefs characterize who they are and before I became a feminist; I didn’t have much of an identity -- I knew who I wanted to be but not who I was. So, in a way, discovering feminism and the girls at my table who first educated me helped me unearth who I am today. And I’m proud of who I am, proud that I am no longer the girl that shames, the girl who is unwarrantedly spiteful, the girl that puts others down. Not

They called me an apple. Since I was supposedly red on the outside, but white on the inside, I was automatically a walking bullseye. Being one of the many oppressed Aboriginals, I understand their need to hurt someone else in an effort to release some of their internal pain. I understand why so many give up or turn into raging alcoholics in an effort to numb their pain. Coming from a reservation, my greatest challenge was proving to everyone that all the stereotypes about my people were fallacious. However, the need for a government and an education system that won’t keep on failing us repeatedly is imperative. The only way that I can make my voice heard is to break these stereotypes and to reach a higher education; hence my application for

Last summer I wanted to work and earn a little cash and distract myself and not be home all summer. I didn't know where to apply so I applied everywhere I was even open to working in the fields my parents told me that the fields were the last place they ever wanted me to work. My mom and step dad Raul always told me that field work wasn't easy and that it was not for me but I didn't listen.

I quickly swallowed my homemade authentic Indian food leftovers and gulped down my chocolate milk. Looking down at my watch that read 11:28am, I knew that I only had two minutes until my most favorite part of the day: recess. This particular day in 5th grade, I had run a lap around the playground before getting the rest of recess to myself. As I started walking for my warmup, another student ran up and said, “My parents said that your people caused 9/11.” Completely caught off guard, I held back the tears in my eyes and tried to shake off his comment. I had never encountered something like this.

Although I have not thought about how I would stage a play I will give myself a chance to thinking thoroughly about how I would want an audience to receive a piece of work written by the four playwrights we have read this semester. Drawing on Wilson’s famous speech, I have an idea about what I would want. The Ground on Which I Stand is one that acknowledges the amazing playwrights we were able to read this semester. I appreciate what they have given to the world through the stage and in print. There have been plays that I resonated with me and some that were harder to grasp. Many of these playwrights talk about connections and family which is a way that I have connected with the characters. I wouldn't use many of the playwrights as influences

I have worked for The Advocate, a Baton Rouge award winning newspaper, for more than 23 years. When I first hired on in May of 1992, it was only to be a temporary job until I finished college. Before computers and electronic layout programs simplified this process with the click of a button, people had to cut out and paste the stories, pictures, and advertisements that appeared in the daily newspaper. This was my job: I was a Compositor. I worked evenings so this allowed me the availability to go to school during the day. I have always been a hard worker and taken pride in whatever assignment I was given. This character trait was recognized by others and I was quickly promoted to other jobs. As the computer age and world wide web came to life,

Have you ever been so desperate for something that you modify your motive in its entirety? Throughout my life I’ve found myself placed in this frightening situation multiple times; the most confusing of which would be what I’ve endured this year. People in their 20s have it rough. We’re old enough to feel like we’re supposed to know what we’re doing, yet young enough to roll in the tide aimlessly and clueless and it still be acceptable. Then there’s those of us who believe we’ve got it all figured out only to be proven tremendously wrong. I have learned, however, that being tremendously wrong can lead you right where you need to be.

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

“We don’t have anytime time to waste today guys, get moving!” my mom announced. My brother was coming today and she wanted the house to be spotless. We had just started fall break and I was in the fourth grade. I was playing games and relaxing like any 10 year old would do. My dad was lounging on the couch watching some show, and my siblings were running around. By then I had only 5 siblings, 2 sisters and 3 brothers. We had known for a while that Johnny, age 9 at the time, was coming to live with us, what we didn’t know was that he would bring with him a fish. I was happier than a child opening presents on Christmas. The fish was a beautiful white male betta with long flowing fins. He lived in a small 1 gallon tank with blue pebbles, pointy

50 minutes had passed since Bailey Madison James whom some called Bai and others called BJ. Though when they called her BJ that just pissed her off to the point of no return. Bailey thought it was funny when she'd explode and the looks on people's faces made her day sometime. She just couldn't get enough of it. "I love you." Bailey typed into her phone sending a text message to Calahan not knowing if he was going to get it or not. Even if they fought a lot she always made sure that he knew she loved him. Even if it was a simple text message before bed, a note on his pillow, a note on his plate when he'd come home late. It was just her little way of trying to make things better between them. She hated the fact that all they did was fight including

A famous actor once stated “But I learned that there’s a certain character that can be built from embarrassing yourself endlessly. If you can sit happy with embarrassment, there's not much else that can really get to ya.” However, I did not quite agree with the man when I was embarrassed directly in front of my friends and adults. That day I will never forget, I had made the biggest fool out of myself, and I had just given proof to the stories about women being terrible drivers.

Life really doesn't like to tell you what's ahead; sometimes it's nice and gives you a little hint, sometimes life replays itself so at least there's some familiarity in it, but most of the time my life seems out of my control. As a fifteen year old many people would hear me say this and scoff saying I don't have 'real' problems, or I don't know what the 'real' world is like. On one hand they're right, I shouldn't know what the 'real' world is like, most fifteen year olds are thinking about what picture they Instagram is a 'real' world problem. But being the not-so-average teenager, I do know what this so called 'real' world is.

Since my early teenage years I have been told that the way I think and reacted to things was like a man; so for the one day I had to live the gender experience of a man, I decided to take the role as far as I can. I did everything I could think of doing: I dressed, acted, talked, ate, fixed thing, be in control of everything and I even though like a man.

From a very young age I was brought up around religion. I would go to Sunday school every day, church camps and I also never attended a public school, all private religious school. But I began to become confused very quickly as the actions of my parents began to prove otherwise.

“Congratulations it is a girl”. These are the final words that I told a girl, the last ones she would hear before I took her life. I wanted her to die like this sad, lonely, and in fear. No one would understand why I felt this way. My only friend were the voices that were in my head yelling and ringing like sirens, never stopping making me want to hurt people and do bad things. I wanted to control it, everyday before I go I want to stop myself, but I just can't.