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Personal narratives sociology
Personal narratives sociology
Essay on personal narratives
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Sitting at my desk, I eagerly looked at my apple coloring sheet. It had a giant letter A in the top right corner and APPLE written across the bottom. I could not wait to color it. I slid my red crayon out of the box and began coloring. As I proudly finished coloring the red, I felt a tug on the back of my head. I ignored it, maybe he wouldn’t do it again if I pretended it didn’t bother me. I reached for my box of crayons and he pulled my hair again. This time it hurt more. I whipped my head around and whispered, “Could you please not do that? It hurts.” Then I turned forward. I thought to myself, “That’s strike one.” I returned the red crayon to the box and took the brown one out. Then it happened again, a sharp pull this time. Annoyed, I turned
One of the most destructive forces that is destroying young black people in America today is the common cultures wicked image of what an realistic black person is supposed to look like and how that person is supposed to act. African Americans have been struggling for equality since the birth of this land, and the war is very strong. Have you ever been in a situation where you were stereotyped against?
The big day was finally here! I woke up around four in the morning to get my hair and makeup done. I had stayed in Fort Worth at my aunt’s house, since the lady doing my hair lived closed to her. So already it starts to go bad. The lady called in saying she couldn’t make it because her car broke down, so of course I start freaking out. I needed my hair and makeup done a.s.a.p. so I could be on my way home to Jacksboro. My aunt started to call some people she knew and I waited impatiently starting to do my own make up. Finally, after what seemed like forever another lady
Just as Zora Neale Hurston explained in her article, “How it Feels to be Colored Me,” I never thought much about race until I was about thirteen years old during my junior high school years. As Zora stated, “I remember the very day that I became colored” (30). I, too, recall the day I realized that I was white and that it meant something more than just a Crayola color. No longer was white just a color; it was the race I belonged to with its own rules and regulations.
As I walked into class on my opening day of 1st grade in a new school, I knew something was different about me. I looked around to see all my peers who were quite normal and polite, but there was just something off. I soon realized this was my height when I overheard the nicknames “Tree,” “Giraffe,” and my personal favorite “The Statue of Liberty.” As though my first day of school was not tough enough, my teacher pulled me to the side and began to talk to me about advanced education. Word spread like wildfire, as fast as it can in a rural elementary school, and now I was not only the girl who towered over her class but also the nerd. How lucky I was. Entering the jungle of a cafeteria was my next task. Kindergarteners screamed and ran around
“ No, I would never hurt you,” I assured her as I grabbed her small, precious arm and pulled her away from the dangerous tree roots. Monique with 100% trust in me exclaimed, ” go on flip me.” She was so tranquil, which made me more nervous. I was panicking, my though dried up and I was starting to reconsider flipping her. I had a million thoughts, what if I hurt her, why does she trust me so much? ”Victoria, Victoria!”, Monique screamed. “ Yeah sorry!” I reply with hesitation. I pulled a confident face and started counting down, “ 3, 2, 1”. I grabbed her shaking arm and flipped her over my head into the air. Time stopped at that moment, Monique’s face turned from calmed and collected to scared and surprised in an instance. “Bang” she fell on the muddle, and rough ground. “ARGHHHH”, screamed Monique, from the excruciating pain. “It hurts”, she yelled while laying still on the grey grass
“Failure isn’t fatal, but failure to change must be” – John Wooden. Wooden is trying to bring the positives out of failing rather than the negatives. For example, my championship little league baseball game, my team and I failed to win. After the game ended it affected me in a depressing way that made it a sad moment that we all worked so hard to get to, and give it up so easy to lose where I would never get a shot at redemption because it was my last year in the league. Almost like that year was a waste that we threw it away. Though I did not want to be negative about the situations, so I looked at the positives and I thought no matter how hard we all tired and all the effort we put it is was not a waste, the hard work and dedication brought us all so close that we learned how to work almost as if we were one.
As time passed, the more they teased me the more cold my heart got, fired started to grow in my veins, and blue flames formed in the gleam of my eyes. Then suddenly I snapped. My hands and feet were suddenly swinging in the air and hitting flesh, rocks were flying through the air, but as I grasped a stick a hand was on my shoulder and the devil inside me disappeared. It was a teacher.
My life intersects with Into The Wild because I never had a good relationship with my mom or stepfather Dan who was 21 years older than my mother. So I “escaped” to Columbia much like Chris did from his own reality. Dan would drink every day; you would rarely see him without a drink in his hand. His drink of choice would be either whiskey or beer depending on what he could afford. You could always tell when he was smashed and when he was I was the person he wanted to tear down with his words the most. I remember one night after my grandma just had surgery and she was staying with us my mom asked me to cook. I told her I would. I then went outside to check what I was grilling and I knew Dan was out there intoxicated.
Ow. My head hurts. It has been lying against this wall for at least an hour now. I scratched the back of my head to move around my dark, curly hair. It was beginning to feel plastered against my scalp. It was a bit tangled from not brushing it for a day and my fingers did not run through it with ease; nevertheless, it felt good to keep the blood flowing. I was lying on a thin, light blue mat on the floor. My head was propped up against the cold wall as if it were a concrete pillow. My chin dug into my chest and I could feel the soft, warm material from my sleeveless sweater cushioning my jaw. I looked down. I could see the ends of my hair cascading over my shoulders. The red highlights matched quite nicely with my maroon sweater. My arms were folded over my belly and they appeared more pale than usual. My knees were bent, shooting upward like two cliffs. My baggy blue jeans covered the backs of my fake brown leather shoes. ("Christy, let me borrow your pants, the baggy ones with the big pockets. I can hide more stuff in those.")
"You always have to be twice as good and work twice as hard," my mother repeatedly told me growing up. This never truly struck a chord with me until I grew older and finally understood what this mantra meant. Not only even being one of the few black people, but also being one of the few people of color in my elementary and middle schools often made me feel like I was an outsider to an elite group I would gain membership to. During this period of my life, my desire to conform grew stronger than ever as did the burning feelings of discontent towards my heritage. I began to submerge myself in white American culture, rejecting my own at every chance possible. Hiding behind a culture that was untrue to mine, I started to gain acclamation from my
Wait. Be still. Don't go over the line. Don't let go. Wait for it. "BANG!" My reactions were precise as I sprung out of the blocks. The sun was beating down on my back as my feet clawed at the blistering, red turf. With every step I took, my toes sunk into the squishy, foul smelling surface, as my lungs grasped for air. Everything felt the way it should as I plunged toward my destination. I clutched the baton in my sweaty palms, promising myself not to let go. My long legs moved me as fast as I could go as I hugged the corner of the line like a little girl hugging her favorite teddy bear. The steps were just like I had practiced. As I came closer to my final steps, my stomach started twisting and my heart beat began to rise. The different colors of arrows started to pass under my feet, and I knew it was time.
My eyes burned with dust. Red clouds of it blew up around me swirling in the air. "Get up"! screamed a harsh voice. "How many times are we going to have to go through this. Everyday you start on one side of the hurdle and never make it to the other" the director yelled at me. I knew that if I didn't get u p now she would pull me up. I stood and dusted my self off. I came out of the dust cloud to see my director glaring at me with dark , harsh eyes. " I will see you again tomorrow t o continue practice" she said never releasing her stone hard glare. She spun around with a flip of her dark curly hair and walked away.9/6/16
“What would you do” he repeated. Again I said nothing. Without any warning. a ball of fruit paint exploded on my chest soaking me. I screamed in shock and pain, as my body hit the ground. the red seeds attached to my shirt flowed down and fell to my feet. But I did nothing. I was in awe but at the same time, I expected it.
As we entered the emergency room, I could smell alcoholic based cleaning fluid and sterile, latex gloves. We made our way over to the counter. I was dragging my feet. When the woman at the reception desk asked me what was wrong I broke down. I couldn’t answer. Ami stepped in and whispered to the woman that I had been “sexually assaulted.” Paleness took the healthy glow from the woman’s face.
Looking at his ridiculous, surprised face, I grew even angrier. Ironically, to defend a teacher who didn't hit students, I resorted to violence to deal with Chang-Min. Suddenly, I kicked him in the stomach, and we started fighting. Phil-bong, the vice-principal, caught us and brought us to the student life center for punishment. Phil-bong didn't even ask us why we fought; he simply asked who hit first. Admitting that I did, Phil-bong proceeded to beat my hands until they were swollen and reddish. Watching me getting hit by Phil-bong angered Mr. Zang, and afterwards he asked me why I hit Chang-Min. Mr. Zang convinced Phil-bong to forgive me, and I started to blame my classmate for my sore hands, and I asked Mr.