Personal Narrative: I Bring Me To The Amnesia

Lying in bed after a sleepless night, I had to find my inner strength and courage to overcome the sadness that would surely plague this day. What once belonged to him, and still holding the distinct scent of his cologne, I took the freshly pressed suit from the closet and drove to the church in a fog. It was a day that I had wished would never come. Holding the paper tight in my hand, I could feel my palms getting sweaty and my pulse starting to race. A still silence flowed through the room as I stepped up to the podium and took a minute to glance at all the somber people whose lives he touched. It was time to say goodbye to grandpa. Holding back tears and with my voice cracking, I started to read aloud the eulogy I had written last night:

It was late one day in June, and the sky was as blue and clear as sparkling wine. I sat back in my hammock reading the book Unbroken enjoying myself, and my uncle came up and asked me if I wanted to play poker with him, 5$ buy in. I jumped at the idea finished my page and went inside the house. Poker is a pretty big thing in my family and I’ve grown up playing and my uncle was one of the best, so spending time with him playing poker is always one of my favorite things to do. We proceed to set up the table, “Texas Holdem“ he says, Jacks to open”. Nothing weird, so we get the game going and the pots getting pretty big when all of the sudden he drops his cards. I stare the cards dead in the eye and see that i'm going to surpass him! He looks

I have a hard time recalling my early writing instruction, but what I do recall was not pleasant. I struggled with words, writing and reading for much of education so writing was not my favorite thing to do. However, I do recall the need for perfection that was so frustrating, as it was a struggle just to produce the imperfect stuff. We did minimal work with the five-step process, prewriting, writing, revise, edit, and publish, until I was in high school. Currently, this is something that is being introduced at a much lower grade and in different ways to engage students. Also, certain aspects of writing, such as spelling, are not required to have perfection

I have lost my grandpa and have not gotten over the idea of it. When I was in the sixth grade, my grandfather was very sick; he could barely walk. While my grandmother and some other family members went uptown for some household things, food, and medication, I was told to take care of him. Yet, I wanted to play with my friends outside. He told me to go ahead and play, but for some reason I just got mad and slammed the door and left. Around nighttime, I seen an ambulance pull up to my grandparents’ house.

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.

I come across a rear projection TV on the side of the road one day, load it up, and take it home. I eagerly spend a good four hours stripping it down and saving as much as I can. I end up with a 48” fresnel lens, two hefty speakers, a couple large capacitors, three glass lenses, and a glass mirror. Left over is a box of electronic waste and the particle board skeleton of a TV. I take the electronics to my local electronics recycling center, and set the wooden frame on the curb. I took 70 lbs. of trash and turned it into 10 lbs. of treasure ripe for projects, 30 lbs. of recyclables that would have gone to a landfill, and 30 lbs. of refuse that I had fun

The brain-dead seldom seem like they’re dead. The rise and fall of their chests is so convincing, the ventilator seems like an ornament rather than the single source of oxygen that keeps their hearts beating. Their skin is warm to the touch, and condensation clings to the inside of the catheter from the fresh streams of body-temperature urine. Despite how peaceful they look, their bodies are undergoing progressive autolysis, utter and massive self-destruction. Without the helm of consciousness, my father and all of the patients in his section of the intensive care unit seemed adrift in a tiny boat on a wild, infinite sea – yet unconcerned about finding their way back to

I cannot recall an instance in which Ely has not been by my side. The baby blue plush elephant takes me back to sketching masterpieces on the stark white kitchen walls using my 64 pack of Crayola crayons with a sharpener. She represented innocence in its entirety; I was her troublemaking best friend. My bright blue eyes mirrored her powder blue skin perfectly, and her yellow pajamas echoed my unruly golden mane of curls. Her design was based upon the drawings of the Beatles' John Lennon. Coincidentally, I've developed a passion for music and art as a form of self expression. We were an impeccable match.

This is rather unfortunate because it implies the impression that after we are dead we aren’t worth remembering, not even by an animal. I do not believe this is true, because I have lots of people who have passed in my life and I still remember them; not necessarily grieving them, but I haven’t forgotten

Recalling a time when I observed a negative action and could of done something about it was probably back in middle school. This event was when one individual was bullying a kid and talking in a negative manner to this certain individual and this cause one person to flip over a desk, but I was just a witness I would have stopped this by notify someone or telling the person to stop or calm down.

“When the explosion happened, I got threw out by the shock wave onto something hard. I passed out after that. I don’t know how long I was out. But when I woke up, I realized that I was on the shore next to the burnt down warehouse. And I couldn’t remember anything. ”

There I am standing alone at the top of Mount Everest. I have everything I need to go back to the bottom. I don’t use any of it. I am a soldier, and my mission is not complete. Alone, I am still not afraid. Temperature is 28 degrees, but I am not letting it affect my skills. I walk alone through the dark, eerie woods. It has been 32 hours, and I have still not completed my objective. I was sent to assassinate the leader of an military trained group. The group was out here training to intercept signal for a helicopter transporting cargo to an unknown military base in the valley of the mountain Everest. I have intercepted their signal and found out where exactly they were located. I found them, and it wasn’t an easy mission. Many

More people would understand if I was in a wheelchair. Everything would be clear if I had a terminal illness or something wrong on the outside. The problem is that my wounds aren't discernible to most people. My scars aren't tangible. Instead of receiving sympathy from those I first let in, I was told to get over it. I was told that I wasn’t depressed because I have a loving family. I was told I wasn’t sad because I’m well off, because I do well in school, because I’m a guy. Despite that, I learned to find strength in my brokenness so I could make myself whole again.

I remember waking up everyday to my brothers voice as if the sound of it was an alarm clock going off everyday when i heard it i knew the day was starting. We had something new to do everyday whether it be us being lazy all day and staying inside or go outside and be the young reckless boys we should be. With him there was never a dull moment it was always constant smiling and happiness throughout the years we grew closer had the same interests he was my best friend. We had our ups and downs as does everyone but we always found a way to come back together and make the situations right again. We as brothers went through alot together throughout our younger years from moving to another state, into new schools with new people. We both fit in fine

I found it a little difficult to find what to write about that would satisfy the definition of my “minutia”. Perhaps it is because I did not quite understand what minutia really meant outside of a textbook definition and in the real world, or I have not fully realized or acknowledged on a consistent basis how many of the moments in my life have contributed to that which has an effect on me in the form of shaping or altering me. After nostalgically scrolling through my Instagram profile for a while the other day, I came across quite a few photos of me recording my gym workouts dating from the autumn of 2014 and into early 2015, and I eventually decided that this would suit the requirements for what could be my own minutia.