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Personal Narrative: My Idyllic Childhood Home

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In a world of noise, there are yet many who have no voice, whose cries go unheard. The world looks at them from afar, rarely embracing them. As for me, actually seeing, touching, and living among those with no voice, so near my childhood home, marked an awakening in me that transitioned my idyllic childhood to adulthood.
During my Catholic grade school in Naples, Florida, community service was always part of my education. I volunteered summers at Grace Place, a center dedicated to lifting poor children out of poverty through education. There, I tutored the children in English and Math.
I continued to serve the poor at Grace Place into high school. By the end of my Sophomore year, I began to seek other ways to help the less fortunate in my community. At the time, many of my
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The migrants taught me something I had seen in pictures but had not truly known: the dire poverty in which they live, only an hour from my home. I came to realize that my problems pale in comparison to the problems of others.
I returned home after Immokalee to the comfort of Naples. But I kept thinking about the migrants I had left behind. The girl with the bowl of soup. I had not done enough. And so, I devoted the rest of that summer to collecting food, clothing, toys, and school supplies for the families of Immokalee. Then, on a late summer morning, I directed a convoy of trucks and cars loaded with the goods and delivered them to Immokalee. The families were overjoyed. Their smiles were my reward.
Ever since, mission trips to the migrants of Immokalee have been my rite of summer. This summer will be my third summer of mission trips to Immokalee. But not my last. With my degree from Stetson University, I plan to work in the nonprofit sector as a voice for the unheard migrant workers. As Nobel Peace Prize winner Malala Yousafzai once said, “When the whole world is silent, even one voice becomes powerful.” My voice will be
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