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Moving Day Humans are not stoic creatures. Since the beginning of time nomadic cultures began the influence for the start of complex civilizations. To move is to simply live. Experiencing different environments and people, prompts the concept of evolution. Changing and bettering ourselves to accommodate for the opportunities that are presented. My family and I are an example of these concepts, moving to achieve a better life than the one that was handed to us. November 22nd, 2004, a day that is described as the step forward to another life. It was loud. Hectic and urgent people moved so quickly like they were never going to get a chance to slow down and breathe. At this point, breathing was the only thing I was sure of. My mom held my …show more content…
Wondering where our bags were and realizing I hadn’t seen them in a while, a rushing panic sets in that all of my toys are lost, and there will truly be nothing left in this weird and confusing place. The last time I saw those bags they were in my home, sheltered away in a corner by the door, and me being afraid of what they meant. Finally seeing some familiarity after staring at the revolving machine for hours, 6 massive mustard colored duffel bags arrive to my dad’s hands. Like a flash on a camera, everything was so abrupt and brisk, my dad picked 2 bags at a time and set them right next to me. I remembered the same fear that I felt when they were at home, by the door far away from me. Now they were much closer which meant this was becoming a …show more content…
I didn’t budge. “I’m sorry, just give her some time to adjust.” She told me to never talk to strangers, and at this point, everyone was a stranger. Stepping through gray doors, I finally felt a breeze on my face. I felt like I was suffocating wrapped in my wool jacket, 3 pairs of pants, and a hat that buried my entire head. I was an example of what a child would look like if they had an overly cautious mother. Two big, tall guys approached us, one significantly younger than the other, they seemed to know us since they started to hug my parents, and I went into my safe zone: grabbing onto my mom’s leg, hidden from the rest of the world. They didn’t try to talk to me, probably because they understood I was confused enough, and it was the best part of my day. We were packed into a huge red car, I’ve never seen anything like it, and there was so much space! Back home my family and I didn’t own a car, every distance that needed to be traveled was done so on foot, or by the local bus. Nothing was as extraordinary as this. I sat in the middle, fidgeting with my fingers for what seemed like hours. I never knew any such activity could be so entertaining and
She lifted the hat one more time and set it down slowly on her head. Two wings of gray hair protruded on either side of her florid face, but her eyes, sky-blue, were as innocent as they must have been when she was ten. Where it not that she was a widow who had struggled fiercely to feed and clothe and put him through school and who was supporting him still, “until he got on his feet,” she might have been a little girl that he had to take to town.
cold, harsh, wintry days, when my brothers and sister and I trudged home from school burdened down by the silence and frigidity of our long trek from the main road, down the hill to our shabby-looking house. More rundown than any of our classmates’ houses. In winter my mother’s riotous flowers would be absent, and the shack stood revealed for what it was. A gray, decaying...
For many young people, the idea of moving is absolutely forbidden. Why would anyone want to start over, again and again, having to make new routines, meet new people and somehow learn to accept that you won’t be with your friends anymore? Most of us would rather avoid the topic all together, but occasionally, it can’t be helped. People move for many reasons; maybe a tragic event occurred that needs to be escaped, maybe job opportunities popped up, or a job itself even requires the move.
“Migration uproots people from their families and their communities and from their conventional ways of understanding the world. They enter a new terrain filled with new people, new images, new lifeways, and new experiences. They return … and act as agents of change.” (Grimes 1998: 66)
‘Confront scourge of sexual abuse, stand up for children, Inuit leaders demand ‘, is an article written by Kristy Kirkup, who reports the impact on indigenous people of Canada due to the disregard and lack of respect from the government for years. Indian residential school systems are disastrous mistakes that wreaked havoc on Canada’s Aboriginal groups. It later, lead to the tragedy that many aboriginal parents do not know how to treat their children in a good way. Abuse, including physical, sexual, emotional, is one of most serious and common issues that still affects several aboriginal communities. Indigenous leaders and victims told The Canadian Press the level of abuse in some communities is shockingly high, although there is limited data that indicate exactly how pervasive the problem is across the country. Sexual abuse had gone through residential schools over several generations. The cycle abuse is continuing to infect subsequent generations in recent years. Prominent Inuit politicians are urging Canada’s leaders who recognize the importance of the
I felt pressure on my body as if the air pushed it down and the blood fluid up to my forehead and ripped my veins, it is the most painful experience I’ve ever had. My face started twitching and my hands started shivering. That was all I remembered
I stood at the end of the driveway with a bag of clothes and my little sisters by my side. My dad pulled up, we got in the truck, and we drove about 10 minutes until we got to his shop. This would seem like a normal day, but things were different this time. We weren 't at the shop to ride the four wheelers around or to play basketball in the garage or to mess with the pinball machines. There was a gloomy feel about everything around us. Even though I didn’t say anything, I knew things were changing.
As we pulled out of my parents driveway, the circumstances seemed very surreal. My entire way of life had been turned upside down with only a few hours consideration. I was very much “at sea” in the ...
Standing on the balcony, I gazed at the darkened and starry sky above. Silence surrounded me as I took a glimpse at the deserted park before me. Memories bombarded my mind. As a young girl, the park was my favourite place to go. One cold winter’s night just like tonight as I looked upon the dark sky, I had decided to go for a walk. Wrapped up in my elegant scarlet red winter coat with gleaming black buttons descending down the front keeping away the winter chill. Wearing thick leggings as black as coal, leather boots lined with fur which kept my feet cozy.
It was a cold October afternoon in 1996, and I raced down the stairs and out the front door, in an attempt to avoid my mother's questions of where I was going, with whom, and when I'd be back. I saw my friend Kolin pull up in his rusted, broken-down gray van, and the side door opened as Mark jumped out and motioned for me to come. I was just about to get in when my mother called from the front doorway. She wanted to talk to me, but I didn't want to talk to her, so I hopped in pretending I hadn't heard her and told Kolin to drive off.
When most people think about an eventful or memorable place, they almost certainly would not picture a bus. As we all know, buses are not exactly attractive. The design scheme is the same in almost every bus: rows and rows of brown seats, a thin black aisle down the middle of the bus, hundreds of hazy windows, and the big, lemon-yellow exterior. Not many people, I am sure, would consider buses to be an important part of their lives. However, if a person were to think about it, they would realize that they probably have had at least one memorable experience in their life that took place on a bus.
We all remember these grey gloomy days filled with a feeling of despair that saddens the heart from top to bottom. Even though, there may be joy in one’s heart, the atmosphere turns the soul cold and inert. Autumn is the nest of this particular type of days despite its hidden beauty. The sun seems foreign, and the nights are darker than usual enveloped by a thrill that generates chills to travel through the spine leaving you with a feeling of insecurity. Nevertheless, the thinnest of light will always shine through the deepest darkness; in fact, darkness amplifies the beauty and intensity of a sparkle. There I found myself trapped within the four walls of my house, all alone, surrounded by the viscosity of this type of day. I could hear some horrifying voices going through my mind led by unappealing suicidal thought. Boredom had me encaged, completely at its mercy. I needed to go far away, and escape from this morbid house which was wearing me down to the grave. Hope was purely what I was seeking in the middle of the city. Outside, the air was heavy. No beautifully rounded clouds, nor sunrays where available to be admired through the thick grey coat formed by the mist embedded in the streets. Though, I felt quite relieved to notice that I was not alone to feel that emptiness inside myself as I was trying to engage merchant who shown similar “symptoms” of my condition. The atmosphere definitely had a contagious effect spreading through the hearts of every pedestrian that day. Very quickly, what seemed to be comforting me at first, turned out to be deepening me in solitude. In the city park, walking ahead of me, I saw a little boy who had long hair attached with a black bandana.
One Saturday night, Kasi, Beth, Beka, Amy, and I had nothing to do. Like always, at times like this, we decided we would ride around town. We let the top down on Kasi’s vehicle. It was a red Jeep Wrangler, with red interior and big mud tires. We climbed in the Jeep one by one until we were all inside. Amy, Beka, and Beth all sat in the back after a fight about who had said “shotgun” first. The back was the most uncomfortable. The Jeep was only built for two backseat passengers, so with three back there, it was a tough ride. Kasi and I slid into the front seats. We strapped on our seatbelts, trying to convince the three of them in the back to do so. Our friends did not want to bother strapping in because they were too crowded, and there were only two seatbelts anyway. I was sixteen at the time, and they were all seventeen. We were the perfect picture of youth, five young girls packed into a Jeep with shorts, sweatshirts, and ball caps on.
I wearily drag myself away from the silken violet comforter and slump out into the living room. The green and red print of our family’s southwestern style couch streaks boldly against the deep blues of the opposing sitting chairs, calling me to it. Of course I oblige the billowy haven, roughly plopping down and curling into the cushions, ignoring the faint smell of smoke that clings to the fabric. My focus fades in and out for a while, allowing my mind to relax and unwind from any treacherous dreams of the pervious night, until I hear the telltale creak of door hinges. My eyes flutter lightly open to see my Father dressed in smart brown slacks and a deep earthy t-shirt, his graying hair and beard neatly comber into order. He places his appointment book and hair products in a bag near the door signaling the rapid approaching time of departure. Soon he is parading out the door with ever-fading whispers of ‘I love you kid,’ and ‘be good.’
As I walked I let my eyes close and my feet feel the groove in the gravel. My mind, still asleep, dreamt of breathing. The lining of my father's old coat escaped inside the pockets and caught my fingers, which were numb from the cold. I would have worn gloves but the sun would be unbearable later in the day. The clouds would rise over the mountains and disappear and the birds would slowly become silent as the heat settled in. But for now it was just cold. I tried to warm my neck by breathing down the collar. It smelled like diesel and sweat.