People get up and out of bed on a Sunday because of the smell of BACON. The beautiful
“My mother would tell my father she was considering fixing chitlins for the holidays. My father would groan, twist his mouth, and protest in vain. ‘Why you got to be cooking them?’ My two sisters backed him up with exaggerated whimpers, calls for gas masks, threats to run away from
“Niyah, when you come in here for a second, please,” my mom said. “Oh no,” I thought. “It was only 8 o’clock in the morning! What could I have possibly done?” I washed my hands and went to my mom’s room.
Daddy would always greet me, while I sat at the kitchen table as he had every morning. By this time, I’d be eating a bowl of Lucky Charms, the ones I’d had every morning from the time I was six until sixteen. It was my routine, like it was my Daddy’s routine to give me a knuckle sandwich, which would send my hair straight forward, knocking me off balance. He’d watch me try hard to put every strain of hair back in its place, while I tried hard to keep my attention on the television set. My mornings began the same way every day, wake up, shower, dress, have my favorite bowl of cereal, watch television until it was time for school.
As the echoing steps of my mother coming downstairs hit my ears, my eyes widened. Panicking, I shoved all the bitten strawberries back into the bowl. My mom ambled into the kitchen. I sat at the table, acting as if I knew nothing about the bitten berries. My eyes kept shifting between her and the bowl next to me.
I was hardly focusing on my surroundings. All I knew was that my stomach had settled into a feeling of cold dread. I realized I was at the school. Somehow, my mom had herded me into the car and drove me there. She had also grabbed all my supplies, including my small calculator, the five freshly sharpened number two pencils, my extra notebook paper, and the book I was reading.
The aroma throughout the entire house was delightful, the smell of bacon sizzling in the pan and melting chocolate in the fluffy pancakes. We got called into the kitchen by their mother and sat down awaiting our breakfast. The pancakes and bacon tasted better than they smelled. The pancakes just melted in our mouths and the bacon crunched in our mouth because it was cooked to
Personal narrative The Drive I personally hate mornings, they’re always way too early, and my bed is just too comfortable to leave. However, my mom isn’t affected by mornings at all. That's why she decided to wake me up at five thirty on a Saturday morning. I feel someone shaking me slightly and softly whispering “Jaime… Jaime… time to get up.”
From the day I was born, I was instantly labeled by the people surrounding me. To the eyes of many, I was to be a gang child, someone to drop out of school, and someone that merely existed to never fulfill their dreams. Some, many of my close relatives decided that there was no use fighting for something better and instead turned to drugs and gang violence. I grew up in South Central, a place that is pyrotechnic with violence. I was surrounded by people whom thought that being in a gang was the best thing in the world.
I ran in and slammed the door hard, and quickly ran up the stairs. My mom heard the door slam and was standing at the kitchen. “Welcome home Alex,” my mom said in an emotionless way. I saw the food she had prepared for me on the table in my room. Ignoring it I turned on my computer and launched “Scarlet Swords.”
Who am I? This question is posed by almost every person at some time during their lives. Who we are defines our experiences, impacts familial and social relationships, characterizes our expectations of ourselves and others, and governs our values both learned and perceived. A difficult task for any person evaluating this question is being honest with ourselves about our own prejudices concerning factors such as ethnicity, socio-economic status, sexual orientation, and country of origin among many more underlying differences that distinguish ourselves from other minority groups.
The sun is shining and there isn’t a cloud in the sky on this cool seventy degree July Tuesday. My mom, my grandma, and I walk down the sidewalk of downtown Ames and open the door to our favorite store. As the rush of wind from the open door blows back my hair, I am quickly reminded why we love to play dress up here. Our excuse to gaze lustfully at the diamonds is always my mother wanting to have her wedding ring cleaned. When the sales clerk tells us it will take forty five minutes we don’t mind because we know exactly how we will fill our time.
Failure. Though even the mere mention of the word may evoke disconcerting thoughts, at some point, everyone must stare failure in the face. In certain cases, not living up to a particular standard can affect a person’s entire life. For a typical teenager, however, these misfortunes often occur on a much smaller scale, perhaps failing a math test or losing a friend. Personally, I experienced one of my most heartbreaking failures during the swimming season of my junior year of high school.
At this time of year, I begin to look back at my life after 12 hard years of schooling. Throughout the course of my life, there have been many ups and downs, but these up and downs is what made me who I am today. These influences have shaped my values, attitudes and beliefs towards life. There have been many important people and events that has impacted my life. One of which is family and the media.
“Remember why you started” is the motto if lived by since starting school three years ago, but I have come to realize this has been applied to other areas of my life. Coming back to school after nineteen years was not a hard decision, however I was definitely nervous. Growing up I never really felt a clear cut calling to be anything more than a wife and mother. I was married at nineteen and had my first child the same year. My husband and I knew early in our marriage that we were called to ministry.
