Personal Narrative: It's Time To Stay In The Barn

At the age of nine, I watched my uncles lowering my father into the ground and what took his life was addiction. All my life I have watched addiction take over the lives of people, I love. My father's side of the family, besides my grandparents, has always faced addiction. Although, addiction runs through my blood, I will not take the same path I have watched people take all my life. I will be the one to end the cycle. Watching the majority of my family waste their life has motivated me to change the direction and better myself from living a life of addiction and misery.

Threads to Which I belong is a book that captivated my soul. As I read through the pages of history, I found myself traveling back in time. Invisible I stood in Mississippi watching a family’s history unfold. As I turned the pages, my emotions changed constantly. I experienced emotions of anger, disgust, sorrow, and happiness. The author has written an outstanding piece of work that forces you to consider researching your own family history.

My home town, where I grew up at, and where I am at now. These three characters link to the three different houses.

When we got to the top floor, Jon told me to be quiet because he had thought he heard something. We turned our flashlights off, and stood very still. We didn’t know if we were about to be face to face with a cop, a hobo, or maybe even Big Foot. After we had stood there for about 30 seconds I thought I heard scratching. I turned the flashlight on, and there he was, the biggest raccoon I had ever seen. We had to get doors from the second floor and did not want to deal with the raccoon, so Jon began chasing the raccoon with a screwdriver. At this point, I had no idea what to do so I just followed Jon and the raccoon with my flashlight. The raccoon ran down the stairs and out the door. After all the excitement, we decided to quickly get the doors loaded up and

The Festival return to Greenfield, MA after being in Turner Fall, MA for a couple of years. I had never been in the Art Block, but found one of their stages The Wheelhouse one to be inmate setting like you what you might find in a coffeehouse. I heard Julia Cira sing on that stage and she had a beautiful voice. One that I like much better than Rosie Porter. It's just a good one to have for ballads. Its a strong one. She plays an electric guitar as well as sings. She was accommodate by a man on drum set and another young woman on an electric guitar. That woman played it well. I listen to her sing a couple of songs and she sang beautifully each time. According to her, They were doing full on rock songs and they sound like very nice quality

But I wasn't as scared as the manikins because I was too busy rubbing my head my mom was terrified because of the bird. After we were done looking at the stuff on the boat we got off. My mom started running on the dock because she didn't want to get the bird angry at her. I was looking around to see if the bird was over there but it wasn't. When we left I took A shower and then I looked at my head in the mirror. It wasn't bleeding too much but there were scratch marks all over. The next time I went there we didn't go on the boat but I could still remember the bird. It was black with a yellow beak. My mom still remembers it too because she is terrified of birds. I don't know why she is scared because she was scared before this happened. I now know to be nice to wildlife and treat them as you want to be treated. Since I treated the bird bad and threw a rock at it, the bird threw itself at

Bare with me for another blog post about volleyball. This weekend was the Badger Region Volleyball Tournament, which my team participated in. When I walked into the building, the memories flooded in with scenes from the elevator adventures, cheese fries, and design your own sweatshirts. The first day, my team didn't play up our full potential, with my team only winning one out of three matches; which meant that we didn't place in any of the brackets, meaning zero chance of receiving a medal. However, at the end of the second match, I got switched from being middle all-around to libero ( a position where you only play back row on offense and defense). I guess it's an honor, but it puts a lot of pressure on me by labeling me as the best passer

On a three-one pitch to lead off the third inning I received a fastball right down the middle of the plate. After making solid contact with my bat, the ball turned right back around heading for the left field fence and cleared it by twenty feet. This resulted in my first home run of the season and possibly the farthest ball I ever hit. Although I enjoy many other hobbies, baseball outshines them all.

Walking away from everything you once knew and starting over is never a picnic. Leaving Iraq, and moving to America has impacted my life more than anything. I was only 4 years old at that time, and the only English I spoke was “excuse me, water please.” My family and I did not know it then, but our lives were going to change; we would become “Americanized”. Learning English was one of the massive changes that occurred, the way I dressed (culture), and even the way I had power to go to school and educate myself.

When my mother asked me to read a book a few months ago, I was hesitant to agree. A stressful school year was approaching, and seeing my friends on a Saturday night seemed much more appealing. When I was younger, curling up with a good book was a typical pastime. Then came high school, and reading was replaced with countless hours of studying, cheer practice, and trying to figure out when I could catch up on some much needed rest.

”Yes, I think that it would be in our best interest after what with your father.”

Who am I? What makes me unique? What makes me special? As simple as these questions are, why are they so impossible to answer? Am I the star pitcher on the varsity baseball team? Or am I valedictorian at a prestigious school where competition levels are at an all time high? Or am I the high school dropout who couldn’t care less where I end up? I am none of these things. I am myself. I am me. My anthology is me.

First to a hunchbacked Harris Hawk, who would once hunted in a large pack, and now in its solitary confinement stared forlornly at the dirt. Then on to three kestrels, each cursed with injured wings. The second of these, a female larger than the males, charged at me when I appeared in its window. Repulsed by the metal bars and disappointed at its failure to pluck out my eyes, it resigned itself to watch me through the gaps between the cage’s wooden boards.

The chickens could barely walk due to their engineered stature. These chickens could not roam far enough to get out of their own feces. I couldn’t understand why large companies wanted dark chicken coups. I would think that chickens would have greater morale if they would see the light of day.

It was an overcast evening on the 5th of December. Most people were inside, looking at the damp air, wondering what kind of idiot would be out in this. I wasn’t one of those people. I was the idiot in a rioting deer blind, wondering why the deer had stopped showing up at that blind in the last 5 days. With 30 minutes left until I could see to shoot, a movement in the distance caught my eye. I pulled up my binoculars and watched a big 6-point buck appear out of the brush, 75 yards down the road. Most people would have killed him, right then and there. However, I knew that bigger bucks haunted this woods than that, so I waited. 15minutes later, he had showed in the small clearing 100 yards in front of me, like a ghost out of the mist.