Personal Narrative: Nothing Was Free

Dialectical tensions are important to practice and understand in order to maintain healthy relationships. There are three that are the most useful in my everyday life. They are autonomy verses connection, novelty verses predictability, and openness verses protection. I also use the three strategies of cyclic alternation, segmentation, and disqualifying to ease the dialectical tensions in life. I think it is important to know how to understand and work through these dialectical tensions in order to maintain healthy relationships.

This year was my last year at The Little Middle School. Even though I’ve had a lot of speed bumps, I’ve accomplished a lot of stuff. From learning new instruments to working on my ability to focus, I’ve grown a lot.

I'm turning 18 soon and I want to clarify my freedoms if I'm going to continue living with my parents. I'm afraid they'll continue to restrict me like they have for the past 17 years. If I'm living under their roof, are they allowed to tell me that I can't go out? Living there is a generosity, so legally, I don't think they can hold me from going out, but they could not let me back in (which they'd never do, but it's always possible). And for house rules, I completely understand taking out the trash, doing the dishes, but do they really have that much power over me that they can set a bed time. This may be a sit-down-and-talk-about-it-issue with my parents, but legally is this possible? And lastly, my dad said he would give me his old car which

I contacted with Chicago Law Clinic. Then they directed me to the National Immigration Justice Center. I know this place and other alternative places. I called them several times to make a free or reduced rate appointment. I also spoked with many people from different departments of Loyola. Unfortunately, they are busy or providing general help. I know many of their advice. I also know well asylum application process due to my personal research during the absence of an attorney for me. As a result, many free legal services are very limited and don’t provide specific help or advice! As a result, the best solution is to have an attorney. Unfortunately, I couldn’t afford it now!

It was a right of passage where I grew up. Beer cans littered the backroads and glistened in the moonlight. For miles around country music filled the honeysuckle perfumed air, boots hung out the passenger windows, and mud flung off the tires when we hit the highway burning rubber as far as the tires would let us. Those nights we spent on gravel roads making memories with long time friends are irreplaceable but it all changed in a split second on a beautiful, warm, and sunny morning. When my phone rang and his Moms voice came over the line and all I heard was "He's gone." Before the screaming started. It took me a while before I realized it was me screaming and I sat on the floor and waited for him to call. I thought if I waited long enough

“Give me Liberty or get me a Tent.” There have been better signs of course. But that was what my protest sign read for the first Occupy action I went to. I carried it proudly to a number of Occupy marches and rallies; for womens’ rights, for housing reforms, for improved prison conditions, and for a better educational system. But I made it for that first idealistic action: the Daylong Nonviolent Mass Occupation.

For the fifth time that night, I walked over to my mom’s bed to see if she was breathing. I felt the relief wash over me when I saw that she was breathing. She had started to slur her words after dinner around six thirty. Judging by my past experiences this meant she popped a handful of her usual pills around quarter to six. There was nothing out of the ordinary for me in the situation. This was every day life for me, the years leading up to my first year of high school. I was fourteen, and I had been taking care of her from what felt like the time I could walk. Little did I know that would be the last night I had to wake up in twenty-minute increments to check on her. When morning came my bags are being packed, confused I asked what was going on? My aunt walked in to the living room and simply said, “you will be living with me.” Just a short phrase changes my life forever on a day I’ll never forget. It was in the

At twenty one years old, while others my age explored life, I chose to examine mine and with a co-pilot named Sue. Sue was also a professional psychotherapist and played the part well, representing everything a therapist to be: the soft voice becoming stern when necessary, the sympathetic look yet retaining an air of detachment and the style: pastel colours, beads, turtle neck. With regard to why I was ‘in therapy’ this was not exclusive to self-exploration, I was there to sing though not to Sue.

Growing up in Canada, I have been able to witness both Canadian and American cultures, and have developed a good understanding of what it means to be an American. Being American means freedom. This is what leads many immigrants to American soil. The freedom of religion, of speech, and the right for each person in America to pursue happiness. These three concepts are demonstrated through some of the texts we have studied so far this year. The freedom in America allows people to pursue their happiness, and decide how they want to live.

“Fine,” I sighed. Even though it was a cold winter day, and I would be glad to go inside for a bit, I had almost finished up harvesting Mr. Steve’s crops for the day. Ever since the blacks had become free, we all had to work harder. Not that I cared, for I had a few friends and I don’t agree with slavery. Anyways, he said that I had to finish the crops before 7 o'clock.

What does it mean to be independent? How do you really know what independence is until you experience it? Sixteen years ago, the last string in the web of my small world was shattered and one day I would come to realize that the course of my life would be forever changed. When I was a child I found myself living with my mother and sister. My single mother, who was now raising me, helped me realize that I had to learn to become independent.

More people would understand if I was in a wheelchair. Everything would be clear if I had a terminal illness or something wrong on the outside. The problem is that my wounds aren't discernible to most people. My scars aren't tangible. Instead of receiving sympathy from those I first let in, I was told to get over it. I was told that I wasn’t depressed because I have a loving family. I was told I wasn’t sad because I’m well off, because I do well in school, because I’m a guy. Despite that, I learned to find strength in my brokenness so I could make myself whole again.

I interviewed my mom. I interviewed her because she is always saying how different things were when she was in highschool and I thought this was the perfect opportunity to learn a little more.

Yesterday in Language Arts class was very awesome. The class got to go outside and me and Jesse were walking down the hall, when Jesse saw his little brother.

I was busy working on something the other day, and a tiny turtle crawls up my hand, all the way up to my face and slowly worked its way inside my ear! It was little, yes, yet I was so helpless! It latched itself to my skin and would not budge! I could not do anything but whimper! It was as though my hands were tied. I wake up screaming, utterly convinced that it was real and confused why no one would help me get it out!