The gleaming sun caressed my squinting face as I glanced up at the magnificent blue sky decorated with white, fluffy clouds that resembled white cotton candy. I was outside exploring the vast backyard. It was only my first morning in the United States. My stepfather, my siblings, and I had just arrived from the Philippines to our new home in Rhode Island seven hours ago from the T. F. Green Airport at around midnight. Last night, was my first time seeing my mother after a year has gone. I was finally able to live with my parents! Since I was two years old, my grandparents had raised my siblings and I. When my biological father had divorced my mother, my mother and stepfather later sought work in the Middle East to support our private education. …show more content…
My first thought of Rhode Island was an island that was surrounded by a body of ocean and by coconut trees. My seven-year-old self was slightly disappointed when my assumption turned out to be false. I actually thought that I would be living in my very own paradise. It would have been a dream come true! Yet, my disappointment was dwarfed by the surrounding nature. Here, the grass was greener and the flowers were colorfully polished. I admired the green leaves that were falling from the oak tree. Inhaling the air, I savored the smell of timber combined with the soothing scent of perennials. As two Bewick's Wren continuously chirped, my mother had interrupted my train of …show more content…
The title read in pretty font: The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein. The book showed an illustration of a small, pudgy boy dressed up in a green t-shirt and red overalls who looked like he was trying to catch the red apple hanging from the tree’s branch. After quickly flipping through the pages, I flimsily placed the book on my messy bed and complained to my mother, “I don’t want to read. I already know how to read!” After I protested, my mother was promptly possessed by Momzilla. “Read not because of what you already know, but because of what you will learn,” her face scrunched up as she scolded me. In a few moments, the smell of burnt food hit our noses. Covering my nose with my hand, my mother swiftly returned to the kitchen to fix our lunch, leaving me in utter shock. Afraid of disappointing my mother, I obeyed her commands. I ran downstairs and skipped to the backyard to read the book outside. After I found my favorite oak tree, I sat Indian-style and leaned back on it's rough, yet comfortable trunks. I glanced at the cover page and wondered how this book could possibly impact my life. Slowly cracking the book open, I began reading. “Once there was a tree….and she loved a little boy...” the words flowed in my head “...[but] time went by/And the boy grew older/And the tree was often alone.” Great, another love story. I sighed heavily and continued reading. Page after page, I was eventually hooked and found myself lost in reading.
Moving from the unpleasant life in the old country to America is a glorious moment for an immigrant family that is highlighted and told by many personal accounts over the course of history. Many people write about the long boat ride, seeing The Statue of Liberty and the “golden” lined streets of New York City and how it brought them hope and comfort that they too could be successful in American and make it their home. Few authors tend to highlight the social and political developments that they encountered in the new world and how it affected people’s identity and the community that they lived in. Authors from the literature that we read in class highlight these developments in the world around them, more particularly the struggles of assimilating
	"It mattered that education was changing me. It never ceased to matter. My brother and sisters would giggle at our mother’s mispronounced words. They’d correct her gently. My mother laughed girlishly one night, trying not to pronounce sheep as ship. From a distance I listened sullenly. From that distance, pretending not to notice on another occasion, I saw my father looking at the title pages of my library books. That was the scene on my mind when I walked home with a fourth-grade companion and heard him say that his parents read to him every night. (A strange sounding book-Winnie the Pooh.) Immediately, I wanted to know, what is it like?" My companion, however, thought I wanted to know about the plot of the book. Another day, my mother surprised me by asking for a "nice" book to read. "Something not too hard you think I might like." Carefully I chose one, Willa Cather’s My ‘Antonia. But when, several weeks later, I happened to see it next to her bed unread except for the first few pages, I was furious and suddenly wanted to cry. I grabbed up the book and took it back to my room and placed it in its place, alphabetically on my shelf." (p.626-627)
John expresses a strong importance for reading in Aldous Huxley’s “Brave New World”. In John’s perspective, reading is so important as it is the only gift his mother ever offered him, and it is the only moment they shared together. His mother was never able to show any form of affection towards him nor invest any time to spend with him. The only shared moments they had were when Linda recalled the past and told him anecdotes or taught him how to read. She also gave him the only book she had as a gift; this being the closest form of affection he has ever received from his mother.
The island itself suggests a place of wonder and relaxation. Providing the reader with the impression of an utopia society, an impression that will soon be contradicted as the novel progresses.
I walked around unsteadily all day like a lost baby, far away from its pack. Surrounded by unfamiliar territory and uncomfortable weather, I tried to search for any signs of similarities with my previous country. I roamed around from place to place and moved along with the day, wanting to just get away and go back home. This was my first day in the United States of America.
About 9 years ago on July, 2008, my family moved to America to reunite with my grandfather, and to seek better living opportunities. That day was the beginning of a thrilling but equally terrifying journey for my family. That day I made a conscious decision of making my living experience in America a positive and rewarding experience for my parents and their hard works.
Being a 1st generation college student born to immigrant parents has not been an easy task but it has definitely been one of the most uplifting challenges that I have ever experienced. I witnessed my parents wake up before dawn to work odd jobs and still manage to maintain smiles on their faces for their customers. However, this meant that I was left to raise myself because I was always home alone while my parents worked vigorously to make ends meet. As a result, I developed the trait of independence at an early stage not because I wanted to but because I had no choice. I learned to cook and clean before most of my friends. And as my siblings came along I became a second mother to them. My parents relied on me to help navigate my siblings through
As a child, I used to sit on my mother’s lap and she would tell me stories about my family, origin, and culture. Through these stories, I learned that my family is far from typical. Both of my parents were “boat people,” refugees who fled Vietnam after the Vietnam War. My family escaped to America with nothing but the clothes on their backs; however, despite coming into a foreign world with so little, they rose through the ranks. In many ways, my family is the embodiment of the American Dream; yet, I discovered that their success was not an individual effort, but one supported by those around them. It was because of hosts, family, and friends that they found the encouragement and opportunities needed to prosper.
Ever since I was a child, I've never liked reading. Every time I was told to read, I would just sleep or do something else instead. In "A Love Affair with Books" by Bernadete Piassa tells a story about her passion for reading books. Piassa demonstrates how reading books has influenced her life. Reading her story has given me a different perspective on books. It has showed me that not only are they words written on paper, they are also feelings and expressions.
My parents’ love for me changed my life. Born in a rural town in China, they both immigrated to America in pursuit of new opportunities. Coincidentally, I was born about one month after the fateful World Trade Center tragedy on September 11, 2001. Nevertheless, they still remained upbeat in order to prevent my childhood from being disturbed. Thus, I’ve
I still remember back in the year 2005 while I still lived in the city of New Bedford, M.A. with my family. I lived with my mother, father, and my little sister. It was always us four as a family we were always together thru the bad times and the good times. We lived there for quite a while but I enjoyed it very much. As a child I loved playing outside with friends and neighbors we played almost everything especially sports. I remember our favorite sport we played almost every day was baseball. My favorite position was always first base, pitcher, shortstop, and outfield. I loved the adrenaline it brings to me when I play baseball I automatically felt energized, those were the days. Living in New Bedford every summer my father and I with some
For the first time in my life, I discover a kindred spirit. I feel empathy for Harry as he makes his way uncertainly through a strange magical world where he has always belonged, and rather think this is how it will feel when I finally leave home myself. Tears, muffled laughter, and smiles of pure joy accompany my secret readings. Each week as I return the book to its place, I think to myself I have never read a book I had loved so much. My sister loses interest in the middle, but agrees to keep running the diversions. Library day cannot come fast enough.
I stumbled across my first love at a very young, hazy age. Both, the crisp smell of the virgin pages, and the aged, fragile, wrinkled paper of my mother's favorite bedtime story, held a tale I had never lived, a journey I could experience through my subconscious that allowed me to feel emotions that I would not be privileged enough to live at such a young age. Book after book, tale after tale, I found myself falling in love. I allowed myself to be consumed into the worlds I read about; the letters on the pages acted as a portal from my mundane world to anywhere of my choosing. I lived ten lives before mine had hardly begun, and from this new-found love, I would gain many more.
It was a sunny morning in the month of June. All I wanted was to stay home in the cool protection of the A.C., but my mother insisted on taking me and my siblings out somewhere to soak in the sunlight. The only thing I wanted to do with the sunlight was to get out of it! She decided to take us to our local library and choose some books to read. My younger brother was jumping with excitement, whilst my younger sister was dreading the trip. I, on the other hand, had mixed feelings. I couldn 't remember the last time I opened a book. All I remember was that I was in love with reading. I still wasn 't sure how I felt about it now. We were welcomed by a cold breeze once we entered the library, which to my surprise was pretty full. I took a long look around the place. The bookshelves were wooden and shiny, filled with books of all shapes
The union of my parents stands at 37 years. My parents migrated to The United States to better themselves and their families. Their struggle to obtain the “American Dream” instilled family values, and showed my siblings and myself a direct link to education and work. During my childhood, my mother was the first woman to show me what tenacious means. She stood front and center to save her family from becoming victims of society. In order to move her family out of the ghetto, she worked three ...