Personal Narrative: Ma Monique Merci

As a third and fourth grader, I participated in choir. I enjoyed it then but decided to stop so that I would have more time for homework. In the beginning of seventh grade, when it came time to decide if you want to join choir, Maria Abbulone and I chose to sign up. We thought it would be a fun experience because we enjoy singing, and we had done it in past years. As choir practices began, Maria and I thought that it would be a fun experience for the year, and we might decide to do it in eighth grade. As the choir kicked into full swing, everything was going well.

To begin, on May 15, 2017 I interviewed Maria Mojica about what it means to be American to her. Also, Maria Mojica, mother of 2, felt the necessity to describe that being American means that you acquire specific rights only accessible in this country. Since her mother, Guillermina Diaz, gave birth to her in Guerrero, Mexico and raised her in Anaheim, California, Maria was aware of the drastic differences between Mexico and America. Furthermore, she captured the idea that her life would ameliorate and that she could become much more successful in America versus Mexico. Although she believes that America is unsatisfactory due to more crime and violence, she declares that America has progressed in the aspect that America has grown economically

When most people hear my full name , “Joann Botani," they automatically assume I'm Italian, but truth is I am actually Middle Eastern. From what I know my dad does have a little Italian in his blood but the name “Botani” actually comes from a city in Turkey. I come from an upper-middle class house hold and I have two younger siblings, a brother and a sister. Being the oldest has its challenges because there is so much expected from me whether it is school, work or social life. I tend to think my younger siblings have it easier because I am the one who pushes the boundaries with my parents and because of that my siblings usually get to do what ever the want because it is not as extreme as what I do. It has always been easy for my younger sister because she is the “princess” of the house but I am my dad’s favorite while my brother is a momma’s boy. My family is very competitive when it comes to school and grades, my little brother and I were always duking it out

This year, I have three superb friends. They inspire me to do by best at just about everything. Audrey is inspiring when it comes to Cross Country, something she’s not the best at. Katie motivating when it comes to my writing, and C.j. encourages me to do my best, and always learn more.

It is worth nothing that “Every cause produces more than one effect,” (Spencer). In like manner my grandmother’s selfless acts of compassion left lifelong effects on every individual she encountered. Beatrice Strong was a backbone of her family and the community: She supported us by working two full time jobs, she volunteered in her church, and sojourned the elderly in nursing homes. Her love and support have helped me and my family conquer the inevitable. She managed to instill positivity in everyone who knew her. Not only was she an amazing role model, she was a hardworking woman who believed “Happiness does not come through selfishness, but through selflessness.”

I knew her for less than a year, but in that short time we got to know each other as well as if we had been friends for our entire lives. I met Anna Rondeau* at a private online high school where we were both taking a few courses. With long, sleek, chestnut hair and mischievously twinkling eyes, Anna was one of the most fun-loving girls I knew. Everyone loved her for her blunt honesty, entertaining personality, sharp wit, and charming southern mannerisms. Oddly enough, our best friends shared the same first name and both Anna and I wanted to be the same thing when we grew up. To listen to us banter over both the most serious and trivial of matters, it would have been difficult for someone who didn’t know to guess that we lived over a thousand

I remember the night I was taken from the home I had lived in for nine years. I’ll never be able to forget that night no matter how hard I try.I lived alone with only Daddy to take care of me. I don’t Think Daddy ever really liked me. I know that he had always wanted a boy. He would never have the chance to have one because two years later mama died from small pox. After that daddy would barely get out of bed, and when he did he would go down to the local saloon and buy a bottle of rum and sit on the curb and murmur to himself as he drank the bottle down.I wouldn’t of survived if I hadn’t meet Dame Kleur, african for color lady. People called her this because of the colorful beads she always wore around her neck. I met her one day when

September 9, 2015, a baby is born. With black hair, brown eyes, and the face of an angle, she was wrapped in a two blankets and pajamas. The name on the certificate, Elizabeth, and she is born 5 inches tall, weighs 6 ounces, and has a perfectly round head, she looks like a turtle as she stretches her neck. We call her our little lizard, but to be honest she looks more like turtle than a lizard any day. The hospital I go to, to see little lizard, smells like soap and hand sanitizer, it brings back memories of a moment in time 2 years ago when I walked down the same hospital corridors to see my area 51 baby, Evelynne. As I walk down the same hallway to the same room where I first saw my Evelynne I am reminded of a responsibility, a responsibility

Monique Price felt an urge when she was a 15-year-old girl, and that feeling would stick with her into her adult life, eventually becoming an addiction.

My nights and weekends so far at Marquette have been pretty relaxed. On nights during the week, I tend to go to the AMU or the library to study and work on homework with friends. Also, on week nights, I have club tennis and try to spend at least an hour working out. If I get all of this done, I usually go back to my dorm to play a little Xbox or go to bed slightly earlier than usual. Weekends are different, in that I focus less on studying. I will hang out with friends at different dorms to watch movies, go bowling, attend any sporting events, play basketball at the rec center, and on Sunday, I finish any homework I have left. For me, this plan has been perfect. It allows me to balance my school work with some fun, keeping me sane.

Near the end of eighth grade year, around noon on a Wednesday, lunch was just beginning as we grabbed our multi-colored lunch boxes and sat them down on the glossy, brown desks. As my three, closest friends and I looked up, we noticed the seventh grade lunch monitor taking pictures with his iPhone 5s for the yearbook. As we stood in the back of the heavily decorated room he caught our attention. “Hey! Look up.” Cheyenne, the second tallest, said. The four of us decided to strike different poses in the midst of the picture being taken.

Have you ever changed your mind about something? Well I have. First, My friend, Ivy told me to listen to a singer Melanie Martinez. She made me listen to the song Cake. The style of the song was different from the other music I listened to, I just didn't like Melanie or her songs. At this point I was sitting in the room listening to the whole album and I hated it, song after song I was getting agitated.

Eight years ago, in an old copy of Paris Soir dated 31 December 1941, a heading on page three caught my eye: "From Day to Day".* Below this, I read:

Now that she has passed on, we can live in peace knowing that she succeeded and followed her dream of helping people and making a difference in people’s lives. Her inspiration will live on for many generations to come. May God bless

Continuing our stampede, we pressed towards the front of the dining hall and closed in on the sides of each line; a tactic we had rehearsed numerous times. Legs chafing against each other and arms jiggling at my sides, I was Marie Antoinette screaming, “Let them eat cake!” Rather than speaking to the malnourished, I protested for a meager slice of pita pizza for my rather corpulent bunkmates and me: an obligatory treat served only on Thursdays. With my diminutive Styrofoam plate, juxtaposed against my one hundred and twelve pound frame, I stood on-line longing for the simple, yet somehow exquisite sensation of crust, sauce, and mozzarella filling the cavity of my mouth. I, like the last Queen of France herself, called for justice. My battle cry, pizza, and the kingdom I reined, ‘fat camp’.