Personal Narrative: My Childhood Memories Of A Native American

It starts early morning “adiós, adiós México querido, yo nunca olvidarte podré” (bye, bye dear Mexico, I can never forget ) my mother carries small boxes out our bright blue front door as we walk and get in a rusty old truck. The engine purrs and the truck jumps up and down because of the rocks that make up the road. My small turquoise house starts to fade way along with the trees, and mountains. That’s how it starts early morning leaving the memories of my childhood that influenced my character. It happens every day I watching my parents tired eyes go to work before the sunrise “toquen mariachis, canten alegren mi corazón” (play mariachis, sing to rejoice my heart) to pay the bills of a one bedroom apartment for a family of six. The first year we had moved from Mexico to Houston was full of distant memories and nostalgia. We also hadn’t had much interaction with many people but one we decided to go and explore the big building where you bought pretty things. We entered the building but when we got inside we became the subjects of entertainment because people like us where a novelty.

My mother held her head high and told us that the only time we should ever feel ashamed or inferior is when we have forgotten who we are and our purpose because we are proud people with a wonderful heritage that doesn’t bow down or crumple. This memory reminds me every day that should be always proud of my heritage and ethnicity because these are the components that make me different that allow me to be loud and bright to be determined and ambitions just like my