Personal Narrative: Growing Up In A Middle Class
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Furthermore expertise and excellence means that i am determined to keep learning in my
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The Rosenbergs: A Case of Nuclear Secrecy and National Hysteria Introduction In the spring of 1951, Julius and Ethel Rosenberg found themselves in the unfortunate situation of being the first American citizens to be convicted of espionage during peacetime. Their case has become an emblem of the American nuclear age, and especially of the American attitude toward nuclear secrecy. Today, the Rosenberg case has become a highly disputed event that provides a debate between the importance of national security and secrecy and the impacts of national hysteria. At the time of the case, the ongoing Cold War between the United States and the Soviet Union saw the nation place national security and nuclear development as its highest priorities, and the
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At the beginning of this assignment, I choose inner city culture because I was under the impression that I knew at least a little about it. I live in the suburbs of Chicago, and my parents have often worked in the inner city, and so I have heard many stories. However, completing this project has shown me how little I know about other cultures, and how important it is to research before meeting a client. To begin, I have often been told that violence and poverty in the inner city are partially caused by bad parenting and drugs. While those can be a cause of problems in the inner city, just like they can be anywhere, none of my research identified those aspects as ultimate causes.
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Upon meeting me, not many people know that I am a first generation American. However, they are usually interested in the orgin of my last name. I am in fact Ukranian. Both my parents and my older sister were born in Ukraine. They immigrated to America in 1992 because of religious persecution that they were facing.
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Growing up in a public housing development, I longed to one day help individuals from an underserved community obtain care. At this soup kitchen, my responsibilities included welcoming guests, serving food, waiting tables, and cleaning trays. I empathized with their excitement when watching them receive a hot cup of tea on a sub-freezing day or a book bag with a built-in trench coat on a stormy day. Having an opportunity to spend time with and learn from the diversity of the population that we served was invaluable. Each person had a unique story to tell and just wanted someone to hear it.
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When I was a bit younger I used to envy guys that had awesome cars. From Mustangs and Beamers, to Range Rovers and Gelandewagens. In my extremely narrow frame of mind at the time, I felt that if I acquired an elite vehicle, then I would reach a state of fulfillment and happiness. At least this is what was pumped into my head through a constant deluge of television and magazine advertisements.
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My identity has always felt inextricably linked to what Miami is. A city that is teeming with immigrants, a city with dreams stacked and slopped atop each other, and a city that is living proof of the failed American dream. I say so because of my early observation that generation after generation of immigrants often seemed to stay trapped in dead end jobs; I saw this within my own family – within my grandmother, my aunts and uncles, and even my cousins. Here it was even within my own family tree the deep implicit message that there was no way out of our socioeconomic level. When I made it into an Ivy League college, it was a message that was slowly re-enforced by the fact that my demographic was the most represented in the custodial staff rather than within my own classmates.
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What exactly is the hood? The hood is a slang term for the ghetto. Many people may associate the hood with the birthplace of criminals, people with no lives, and even what some people would call “gangsters”. From the outside looking in, one would assume the hood is a horrible place to be, and those were my exact thoughts in the beginning. Is the hood as dangerous as it is described?
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I identify as Black. Growing up as a minority in America has shaped my identity by making me a creative, hard working, and understanding individual. By being Black in America I realized that there is this stigma that Black kids can’t excel in certain areas of education because the majority of our neighborhood and public schools lack the proper resources for us to do so. While this stigma holds truth, I refuse to let this stigma handicap me. Growing up with less resources allowed me to be creative.
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Growing up I always knew my mindset was far past my years. The way my mind worked was different and older than those kids around me, so it was no surprise for me to be on my own right from the get go after turning 18. For as long as I can remember I have always done everything by myself especially school related. My parents are Hispanic and speak little English, making me the first person in my family to attend college. My parents brought me to the United States from Mexico at the age of four and I have lived in Oklahoma ever since.
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Crack, the ball ripped far into left field, I shot up from my hard plastic blue seats, Chase Utley did it again. He rounded the bases one by one and slid smoothly into second. “That’s a double for Chase Utley,” the announcer Dan Baker said, over the intercom. I sat back down to a light tap on my shoulders, I turned around.
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A huge number of kids that are going on to junior Think the won’t be able to survive, most of them are scared to come because they fear that they won’t have enough time between classes, Not opening your locker, and lastly they fear that they will be squashed or pushed by the 8th graders! These are the steps on how to survive middle school. When I came to middle school I was pretty scared to but I survived! The first thing I had trouble with was that I couldn’t get my locker open, every time I tried I couldn’t open it
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When I was in elementary school I wasn’t the brightest kid. In fact, I always got B’s, C’s, and sometimes a D at school. Despite getting that score, my parents rarely got mad at me. As a kid, I would always wondered why my parents never care about it, and a lot of time I would think to myself that none of my parents is actually care about me. Going home from school, I got jealous of my friends that got picked up by their parents.
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I mostly grew up in poverty. We were the people that were thought as “smooching off the government.” My dad is retired and we both live off of social security. Throughout my entire schooling till the end of high school, I always received the free/reduced lunch program. We went to a lot of garage and yard sales growing up.
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I am a middle child, yet I am not the yelling, screaming, dramatic kid who strives to get others’ attention. I am probably the only middle child in the world who doesn’t hunger for the spotlight to shine on them as they act in idiotic ways to gain scraps of validation. I remember the very day that I became a middle child. Up to my sixth year I lived as the youngest child, bathing in the attention of my father.
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Life for me growing up was super difficult. A lot of my childhood was pure traumatic. Also, it was a struggle for me and my family, money wise and food wise. Also, our house was very small. We even lost our father and I also became a teen mom.
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