Personal Narrative: I Am Kassan Gold My Life

Since I was a kid, I had a ton of responsibilities, cleaning up after myself, doing chores, managing to not fight with my brother, although we fought all day everyday, but you know, it happens. One thing that I didn't know wasn't normal was parenting your parent. I go to school do all my class work and during recess and lunch I listened to all the other kids talk about going to the park after school and eating dinner together with their parents. When I got home from school, I had to do my homework and then take care of my mother. Bring her things she needed such as food, water, help her with many other simple everyday activities. Of course I wasn't the only one who was her “little helper” as she put it, my dad helped her and my older brother by two years,

At the age of ten my aunt had twins a boy and a girl and I had to learn what it meant to be a mother. I would wake up at 4oclock in the morning to change diapers and make bottles for my aunt

Being the oldest, I grew up with many responsibilities. I have always been the one to set the example, create the right path, and be the role model for my younger siblings. My single mother worked day and sometimes even nights to provide us all with what we needed, never failing to keep a roof over our heads and clothes on our backs, so she along with my brother and sister became my motivation to become the best I can be. I knew schooling would be an issue for us economically; there was no way my mother could ever help me pay and there was no way I would allow her to overwork herself. So I made the decision to leave home at the age of seventeen and move to Oregon. Becoming a resident of Oregon allows me to afford schooling at a much better cost, even if it means being so far away. It is very difficult being distant from my family, but I am doing this for them. Finally, I reached the moment in my life where I saw what was most important to me and it was to be the best I can be for my family.

I am part of a large family, I lived with a mother, father, three older sisters, and a younger brother. We lived in the large city of Los Angeles, California. There was no apparent infidelity that I was ever aware of in my family, but yet there seemed to be a small bit of the same crass attitude that my mother had for my father. He was stricken with a disability and unable to provide in the same manner she was accustomed. All of my siblings that could helped out in any way they could. The point is that we were a family that pulled together when needed. When I left for the military odyssey, I had no idea I would be placed in harm’s way. It was peace time. I made a surprise appearance one Christmas eve, my family was under the impression that I was still aboard ship and that I would be home in January for a visit. I secretly showed up on the front porch in full uniform, my sea bag slung over my shoulder. Holding back my own tears of excitement. I opened the front door and I stood there. For a brief moment frozen in time was my whole family, my beloved

Cathy’s idea that its okay to be a late bloomer felt like an incredibly Grinnellian notions. While reasonable, I feel that it is used as an excuse for not making something out of your life and education, and I take issue with this. I understand that I am judging from a place of privilege, having never attempted to find work post-grad myself, however I simply cannot understand how individuals can “throw away” their education in this fashion. There are countless job opportunities out there, and while they may not fully encapsulate exactly what you want in your career, they do represent something else: the experience that is necessary to succeed. It felt to me like the majority of the Creative Careerists who spoke to us understood this, yet a

I’m Kayden Trod. I was in the 9nth grade when I died. Yes I know it’s impossible for me to talk to you, but I’m actually only half dead. I’m not a zombie, mummy, or a vampire, but an angel. I’m not just any angel, I’m a guardian angel. It all began on Thursday, September 13. I was sitting in my bedroom listening to my favorite Blink 182 song when I heard my mom yell. I quickly ran downstairs to get to her. She was lying on the floor holding her right eye. Standing over her was my drunken stepfather Frank. “You deserve that you fat pig.’’ He said spitting on her. I quickly helped my mom up and moved her so she wasn’t close to Frank. “You’re drunk, please leave.’’ I said trying to sound stern. “I ain’t leaving, it’s my house!” He yelled in my face. He was

“Someone forgot to take a shower.” Two pairs of eyes immediately looked over at me. My first day of sixth grade was full of many microaggressions and passive aggressive chuckles. “No, but actually, who smells like that?” Attending a predominantly white school in the suburbs of Minnesota attenuates you to that kind of stuff. “Is it true Ethiopians eat food with their hands like monkeys?” Little did I know that these microscopic insignificant interactions had a greater impact on my awareness of my own identity than anyone else. I stood five feet tall, with my dark brown skin, and wore my hair into two puff balls, one on each side. I already stood out. The strong smell that surrounded my entire body is what made me stand out even more. Middle

That same night. my uncles and my dad took us where we lived for about a year. We lived with his friend´s family. There was only one bathroom and we had some problems because of that. We were six and they were four only. My dad started to think about renting an entire apartment, but we could not because my mom did not have a job. My dad was the only one who paid the rent which was $500 for a month. He was responsible to buy food and pay for all of our other needs.

As a teenger , growing up was tough especially without a mother. At the age of fifteen I became the woman and mother to my 4 year old sister. She looked up to me as a sister, mother and a role model. Being that age and taking that much responsibility it was nerve wracking and frustrating because I couldn’t go anywhere neither allow to participate in any after school program because my dad had to work to put food on the table and make sure

I was responsible enough to take care of two nieces, starting at when I was at the age of eight. Mainly taking care of them alone because my brother was busy playing Call Of Duty Black Ops One. Another reason is that I have never been late home except one time due to my bike chain acting up. I hit a rock on the road and then the chain popped, and I had to put the actual chain back on, so it was a huge mess. Oil was all over my hands as it covered the chain. Lastly, when anyone calls me to go back home, I come back in a few minutes at most. That is how I am responsible enough to go outside for longer.

At the age of thirteen, was my first time as being seen as “accountable“ for myself, this was because of my Israeli side this is called Bat Mitzvah, yet my family was saying I was accountable, I wasn’t completely responsible for myself… but I had to know how to be mature and know right from wrong. This stage in my life had helped me mature in such a way, because I had to learn how to do things for myself and for others, pretty much being the woman in my house… which meant knowing how to cook for a family, and being able to wash laundry for everyone in the house. Not only did these tasks

In the 7th grade I had a crush on my history and geography teacher Ms. Nail. She was in her early to mid twenties, slim and attractive, I thought she was Jackie Kennedy's sister.

In the third grade, I was chosen by my teacher to write a newsletter. I had to pick someone who was a hero to me to write about. I chose my grandpa Dave, who was honored that I chose him to write about. I sat down on the ground, crayon in hand, a notebook in front of me and began to ask him about silly things at first. What his favorite color was, his favorite food, his favorite television show. Then I asked him how he survived, to which he answered, “Her,” meaning my grandma. Writing about him made me realize what a real hero was. A real hero is not the one wearing spandex pants and carrying a shield, a real hero is someone who fights for what’s right, and for the person they love. I believed that to be a positive experience, until he passed away when I was in fourth grade, when what I had written was read at his

The person I consider my personal hero would be my twin sister, Brittlyn Massey. She’s 16 years old and looks exactly like me, we’re identical twins. We’ve grown up together and have always had an amazing pact. She understands, has a calming presence and is compatible. I have never been so unquestionably influenced by anyone else. We’re great sisters and even better friends.

Dark brown eyes lined with a certain hardness within them as she stared straight ahead, unflinching, unblinking eyes at me. Her slender angular face is soft—a warm honey beige that makes the orange curvature of her lips painted in a not-so smile, red from the wine and ambrosia that she had been eating. She holds herself upright, her rough calloused hands placed firmly on the metal infused with a jade sword, yet at her back is her most favored weapon; her jaded ax.