Hi there, I am Deeauna Venatta and I am interested in the day time bartender position as seen as seen on Craigslist. Honestly, I love what I do. Over the past 10+years I have over had the opportunity of working in a diverse range of establishments and events. A more detailed, yet brief, summary of my experience and can be found in the attached resume.
On October 8th an early afternoon my mother and I rode a train to head downtown to visit my father at work. He worked so much the only time I see him was in the morning and at bedtime. We pasted through most of the wooden brown town. Every time I go outside I see a million shades of brown. We reach busy and crammed downtown.
I am a pioneer! My pioneer story isn’t your average Latter Day Saint pioneer story, as far as historical LDS stories go! I was raised by goodly parents, I was born and raised in Spokane Washington. I am the youngest of three children born to Jim and Shannon Newell. My brother James is the oldest and four years older than myself.
As I peer through the thick smoke, reminding myself why I chose to come in the first place, I see a half dead man on the floor- begging for water. We don’t have enough food or clothes. There are very few of us left to fight against the redcoats. Even though on some days we are cheerful, we are starving and freezing. I am wondering if I should re-enlist or go back home.
It was only eight o’clock, but the sky was as dark as night when the cold and rocky bus ride I had endured for more than three hours finally came to an end. I traveled to Alaska with my mission team hoping to learn about the Iñupiat tribe and to evangelize about the gospel. Deeply buried near the edges of the Bering Sea, the Iñupiat tribesmen fish, farm, and hunt daily to provide for their families. They surprised our mission team by welcoming us with two large pots; one filled with walrus meat and another filled with their traditional dish of shimmered and shredded fish mixed with berries. Their hospitality was unexpected and helped me to experience their culture from the inside—something that I could never have experienced from a National
The first thing I wake up to was the stench. “Hey, move along! Do not slack behind.” Someone yelled in the front of the line. We are moving through the muck in Song Tra Bong.
For the past twenty-five years my close friend has attempted to enlighten me to the teachings of her ancestor's each time I questioned her reactions to such things as death, disaster, injustice, and also to her seemingly insane determination in the face of sure defeat. As she gently explained, the sound of her word's went into my ears. I comprehended what she was saying, however I didn't really understand until I was browsing through some pictures on the internet using a key phrase I had heard her say so many times; The Trail of Tears. A particular image caught my eye and as I looked at it, the flat words she had said to me began to come to life. Each word with it's own shape and rhythm began to come alive and together poured out to me a beautiful
“Hop in the car,” my dad said. His outstretched arms guiding my eyes to the open doors. Our 2009 Honda Odyssey was a beige colored behemoth. Comically overstuffed with passengers and cargo, the sporadic rumbling of the V6 engine was disconcerting as we hit the road. “Will we even reach Meredith at all,” I wonder.
If I were a plain’s Indian living in the 1900s my reservation would be the Choctaw reservation. I would explain to my grandkids that us as plains Indians we were great wanderers, travelers but we did not like farming. We were greatly known for being great warriors and fighters by using the tactic of gorilla warfare as a sneak attack.
I was a fourth grader when my dad told me that we were moving to the Unites States, “land of wealth, excitement, and fabulous cities.” But there clearly was a mistake; I was brought to the middle of nowhere in the arid region of the Hopi Native American Reservation in Arizona. Our family’s migration to the United States was not a well-planned search for lucrative opportunity, international education, freedom, or happiness. Rather, it was a call to mission. Yet I struggled to accept it, because I thought that I was only forced to follow my parents.
We are often told that it’s ok to be different. My younger version would definitely agree. Growing up Indian, I had the benefit of teachers repeating instructions a bit louder and slower. I never worried about getting injured on the baseball field, because I got to sit on the bench. My parents never had to worry about driving me to sleepovers, though I was seemingly friends with everyone in school.
For my first diversity event I decided to attend the 43rd annual Mankato wacipi (Powwow). I chose this event because I attended some like it when I was younger. I always have admired Native Americans and their deep connection with their spirituality. I remember in fifth grade my elementary school hosted a Powwow that my mother and I attended. This was the first time I have ever been exposed to the Native American culture and the memory has stuck with me till now.
Being of Native American decent I have a valuable understanding on what it feels like to be underserved medically. Although I have been fortunate enough to grow up in a city that has sufficient healthcare resources and apart of family that has been provided health insurance through an employer, many members of my immediate family have not been as fortunate. As a member of the Choctaw tribe healthcare services are granted to its members, but to seek treatment one must travel to the reservations' medical facilities in Oklahoma. While care is provided, it is not the ideal situation, such as in the case of medical emergencies. Members of my family use the healthcare provided by the tribe because it is cheaper than seeing a physician outside the
I take a deep breath my lip quivering as the wind blows on the last week of winter vacation. My family decided to go on a road trip up to Big Bear. We decided to stay the whole week. It was a snowy beautiful drive up the mountain. We stayed up in our cabin and I brought one of my friends up with me.
Life as a Native American sucks. I realized this when I was a little kid. I’ve come to accept that what other people label or describes us as are true. I’m not happy to admit this they are right. My people don’t do anything to prove these people’s claims, or better known as stereotypes, about Native Americans wrong.
