Personal Narrative-Literally Divided

“From a scene of constraint and confinement, ill-suited to my years and inclination, I have just launched into society. My heart beats high in expectation of its fancied joys. My sanguine imagination paints, in alluring colors, the charms of youth and freedom, regulated by virtue and innocence. Of these, I wish to partake. While I own myself under obligations for the esteem which you are pleased to profess for me, and in return, acknowledge, that neither your person nor manners are disagreeable to me, I recoil at the thought of immediately forming a connection, which must confine me to the duties of domestic life, and make me dependent for happiness, perhaps too, for subsistence, upon a class of people, who will claim the right of scrutinizing every part of my conduct; and by censuring those foibles, which I am conscious of not having prudence to avoid, may render me completely miserable” (Foster, 29).

On 10/02/2017 at 0017 hours, units were dispatched to 627 Central Ave for a report of a Domestic involving a knife. I responded at emergency speed, priority one. Upon my arrival, I located the accused female in the bathroom.

Man is a product of the culture in which he is born and brought up. For the same reason, no one can negate the influence of the society in forming one’s personality. I am well aware of the fact that my views, thoughts, and attitude have been shaped by the society I live in; hence, any attempt to sketch my personal experiences would be incomplete without referring to the part played by my surroundings. Throughout my life, I have paid utmost importance to initiating and maintaining interpersonal relationships with others. I had to face varied situations out there, both joyous and depressing. However, each instance was a great lesson for me to learn several things about my practical life – I wouldn’t be exaggerating when I say that I have learned more outside the four walls of my classroom than within them. My autobiography is closely associated with my social connections including my experiences with my family, educational institution, and the larger society I reside within.

I am mixed. Mixed [black/white] people can look mixed, they can look white, they can look black. Although it may make a lot of sense, you cannot always determine a person's race solely off of skin color. When people assume I am fully white it is the same thing as telling me "the entire other portion of your race doesn't exist nor does it matter." I want the other half of me to be recognized. It may not be prominent physically, but that does not make me any less mixed than any other mixed person. There are a lot of slurs and stereotypes directed at people like me: Oreo, the blackest white person/whitest black person (not exclusive to mixed people), mutt, calf, zebra,

The hour was late, it was warm and hot. The waves hitting against the rocks in the chasm was like music to my ears. I was sprawled on the ground feeling exhausted, I felt discomfort on my right side of my cheeks. I regret the decision I made tonight. I regret what I just did. I regret hurting Tris. I was lying near the Dauntless chasm along with Peter and Drew, I lift my head to see that Peter was gone and Drew had passed out. Struggling to get up from the pain I cautiously managed to rise, without warning a fist comes swinging at my face.

I can still recall that day and its scent; the scent of freshly sharpened wooden pencils, disinfectant, old paper, and dust. The busy hustle and bustle of the halls of chattering kids walking to class and teachers shouting in different directions. All of this appeared to me highly surreal; I might have been there physically, but I was not entirely there psychologically. To me, it was all a moving picture in mute. I could see, feel, smell, and taste, but I could not listen. I was only able to perceive gabble, meaningless sounds that were meant to be words, but, unfortunately, did not make any sense.

Being biracial is such a unique experience and has a lot to do with the person I am today. Growing up, I did not completely realize how it would shape me as a person. Now that I am older and looking back on past experiences, I know exactly how it has impacted me. There were many times where I felt uncomfortable and confused, because I was different. That has all changed now that I recognize that the differences are what make people beautiful.

One of two. That's how I feel everyday of my life. I'm a twin and that means I will never be complete without my other half. When I was younger, I learned that having a twin does not keep me from things. It's getting to have a person in my life that I don't need to hide from, other than in hide and seek. When I was little, my brother probably hated me as much as I hated him. But we were together all the time. We went to school together, we were in the same class almost all the time. Sometimes, we had the same friends even. We shared birthday parties, cakes, presents, money. Basically the same things we still share now. But between us, we shared secrets. Little things that we thought were so cool. When my grandma gave us money, we split it and made sure not to tell our parents. I went and bought

As he stomped down the hall dressed in all black, I timidly stepped to the other side of the hallway with my head down avoiding any type of interaction. When the sounds of boots and chains faded away, I was overwhelmed with relief. Nothing had calmed me more than this instant; nothing had been more soothing than the sound of pure nothingness. The fear that came over me was like being trapped in a small room with no way out. I felt helpless, defenseless, like something was going to happen to me in that hallway with the boy dressed in black.

I woke up. Feeling groggy, I went to take my pills. Being the way my brain was, I needed pills to function. I see things, but others don’t see them. These things, they are right in front of my face, but they are not visible to other people. I could not find my pills, I looked everywhere, even in my drug stash. They were not there. Wait, I sold them to Angelo. Well, remembering this, I need to go to the drug store.

It was 2:00 AM and I was working 3rd shift that night, it was lonely and dark. I was the only one here. As I sat in silence the phone rang I picked it up not expecting anyone to be calling because I haven’t had a call in years. When I picked up the phone all I hear is a deep soft whispering, I couldn’t make out what they were saying. Every second the whispering got louder and louder until there was a high pitch screaming. I slammed the phone down on the receiver with a rush of adrenaline. My heart was pounding so fast it felt like it was going to burst, (the reader takes a deep breath to build suspense) agin I sit in silence, waiting for something to happen. I was so paranoid I didn’t know what to do, my mind was racing, do I leave or do I

“He kneeled at the bank of the river and stared at his reflection. A bearded man stared back. As he dipped his hands into the brown water, his arms disappeared beneath the surface. He shook his arms in the water, cleaning them, and then gathered some water in his hands to splash his face. He looked down again, and now the reflection rippled, fractured by the movement of the brown water. He could not see into the depths of the

At two in the morning seven years ago, my nine year old self was jolted awake by my mother. Begrudgingly, I peeled my eyes opened and tried to blink the sleep away.

The second I walked into middle school, I knew what I wanted to do, and how I intended to do it. Growing up, I was always taught to value education since nobody in my family had gone to college. Questions about college were frequently met with blank stares and dismissive shrugs. It was regarded as unchartered territory, and I planned to conquer it. My earliest memory of my grandmother was when I was 8 years old. Yearning for something to do, I resolved to learn Farsi, and began nagging my grandmother to teach me it. However, growing up in Iran, she never learnt how to read or write, and so she couldn't write my name, or even teach me the alphabet. My 8-year-old mind couldn't grasp the idea that my grandmother was illiterate. I went to school every day, learned how to write

I can remember the gut wrenching feeling that overwhelmed my entire body the moment my parents broke the news to both my sisters and me. I sensed a lump in my throat and was unable to swallow, and tears that filled my eyes right before they streamed down my face. My cheeks were feverishly red as anger overcame my body. I could not accept that my parents were going to be getting a divorce.