Short Story Of An Immigrant At The Mountain

The next day Nicole and I wake up early so we can go to the park when it’s fresh. We slump in our seats with the empty trails below us staring eagerly at the terrain, dying to arrive the top. When we reach the top we ski right off go down our normal trails leading to the terrain. We approach the beginning of it and it is empty with music blasting. “Perfect!” I say in my head. The first rail comes and Nicole goes first, she goes up and comes down with a fall. Then I go up, and down with a fall. We move onto the next one and she goes up and lands standing up at the bottom. Then I go up and back down with a fall. The next one comes and I go first. I go up and skis down it and land standing. Then Nicole goes up and comes down standing up. We look at each other filled with

The feeling of fear excites me, an ecstasy of joy trickles into my veins. In a quick moment I make a choice and the adrenaline surges as I boost off a massive cliff, with a thud and a mushroom cloud of powder, snow drifts onto my face. With each line persuading me towards the life of a ski bum, living in a van, going from mountain to mountain, meeting new people and experiencing new thrills.

     It started like any other day up on the hills of Rhein, but that day had the scent of freedom floating in the air. The journey ahead of me had been teasing me for weeks, I was just so anxious to get away and start all over again. I had made certain arrangements before I left, our family dog was not allowed on the ship that we were going to be arriving in America, so I had my parents take care of the dog for us. It was a hard thing to do seeing that the dog had become more than just a pet to the children and I, for we almost would recognize him as a family member. Most of our possessions we were able to keep with us, but we had to keep the load light since it was going to be a tight stay in the steerage. I

I completely agree with your post. It was very sad reading some of these stories and how they were treated. Just within the first story about the child that was shot dead by the watering tank. Workers now a days, I like to think are not deprived from their basic human rights. Migrant workers work depending on the seasons. My grandfather for example would work up north until the winter came along and then he would come back home. At times he would come weeks at a time to be with the family but would always go right back to work. Also the ways the students were treated in school because they were Mexican is very sad, and hard to swallow knowing some of the humiliations they had to go through. You are right prayer was something many families

“To mountain to get wood and maybe an elk.” I read the note with a glum face. I had just gotten home for lunch when I read the note on the kitchen table. I finally decided that it was okay for my dad to be on his own sometimes but he needed help with a lot of things too. I heated up a quick lunch and was about to start eating when my dad walked in the back door. “If you want to go, you better get ready now!” I looked at him with surprise and shook my head yes. I ran down to my room and changed into what I needed to stay warm in the snow. After grabbing my overalls and a heavy snow coat, I ran out the back door. Dad was in the truck while I went to the back seat of the truck and threw in my overalls and coat. I spun around to the other side

I was sitting in the Livingroom staring out into the air waiting for the first snowflakes of the season to come down from the skies. I had waited all year for this so that I finally could go out and enjoy some real Norwegian pow. My dad had promised me that we would go out for our first ski tour together. Then finally it began to snow, it snowed more than 300mm the first five days. Then the day had come and we were sitting in the kitchen and planning our trip, I was so excited that I had everything packed in a few minutes. As we were driving up to the mountains my anticipation just rose. We were finally close enough so that I could see the peak shimmering in the distance. Arriving at the foot of the mountain we began to take on our skis. As I took the first steps in the cold and crisp snow, I knew that this day going to be one of the best days in my life. When we were circa halfway up the sun was shining through the thin skies and as it steady and slowly became lighter around us we could see the top of the mountain that was hiding behind the morning fog. At the time we reached the peak the sun was out glowing and there I turned around and look down the steep and majestic mountain, it looked like a big ocean of snow. I was prepared for the ride. Then the moment had come and we were ready to shred

Having growing up in West Texas surrounded by so many people whose stories trace them back to Mexico, the topic of immigration is one with which I am very familiar. Furthermore, as a first generation Mexican-American, the son and grandson of immigrants, immigration is one of the most important issues in my life. The immigrant story is my story.

“Guess what!” said my mom “Levi can come over to tomorrow.” I imagined what it would be like out there. It was up to my waist. Dad did want me to go outside so I guessed I'd please him. Monday morning I woke up and ran downstairs. It was going to be awesome out in the snow. But then dad told me something that ruined my day, I would be shoveling the alley until it was clear.

As a child I witnessed my parents work hard all day, so hard that my father developed pains in his back, for our family business and simultaneously struggle to buy me clothes as I grew out of them. I was a joke for to the kids from the nicer neighborhoods dressed in new outfits because mine were held together with patches.My family’s business began getting less customers every week after a bigger business was opened, and eventually we went out of business.It wasn’t fair that across town they were drowning in money, as I was going to bed hungry.

Many objects have a story to tell. Those stories can be very historical and eventful. Some are not just objects, but structures and monuments. Some are even unexplainable and have been studied for years. Native Americans have many stories and objects to tell stories to other generations. The headdress had a very important part in the story of how the Native Americans survived the fight for this land. The fight between the Indians, Cougars, and Vikings was a great battle in Georgia history that is not well-known to many people except the remaining descendants.

Except those seeking the shaman, people rarely travelled the path to the lair. It crossed several fast moving streams where the shaman placed logs across to walk on. The trail crossed the face of a hill with a long drop to the valley below. Father had pointed it out the night before, but it was only in the daylight that I realized how lucky I was not to have stepped off the path.

On my first day, as I would later tell my mother, my work was tragic. I had to call people and ask them if they still needed a lawyer. Or at least that was how I had understood it. Given a general outline of how to go about the phone calls and the voicemails I was to connect the outline into a conversation with people, real life humans with questions and desires and needs. I hated calling. I did a terrible job. I was awkward. I was cold. I had no idea what I was doing.

It was the summer of 2014 and my family were vacationing in Colorado. My family and I just got off the Pikes Peak Cog when Abby, my third oldest sister, whined, “I’m hungry mom. Let’s get something to eat.” Abby seems to always be hungry. My dad wanted barbecue so we decided to stop at this barbecue place right next to the steps. I was eating my pulled pork (it was some good pulled pork) when I asked if we could go up the steps. We asked the owner of the shop about the steps and the old, pleasant lady replied, “That's the Manitou Incline. Its 0.9th of a mile up, but most of it is at a 80o angle.” We decided we should go try it and see if we liked it.

Now, it’s finally time to go to the bus. I slowly walk through the sparkling snow to get to my bus stop. All I can hear is the wind whistling through the trees and my feet crunching in the snow. When I get to my stop, I can see the bus starting get closer. I pull out a book and get ready for the hour long bus ride.

It was a long day of climbing. They had overcome one mountain in the whole day. They now had too face the cold night with no cover but them and there sleeping bags. It was a long windy night filled with frozen toes and fingers as well as frostbite. The boys couldn’t sleep very well so they decided that they would continue the expedition at first sight of the sun.