Personal Narrative: I Am Not A Child

Maybe I was too little, or maybe I was too short, but either way I did not make the jump. In the second grade I was your average eight year old, who always wore her hair in ponytails, and enjoyed playing tag at recess. One day I saw the fifth graders on the monkey bars at recess doing something I had never seen before, they were jumping to the fourth bar. I waited untill Kids Inc. that day to try the jump, but it was no use I was acting like a scared baby.

She vicious placed the piece of paper in my hand then ran away. Curiously I opened the envelope and three crumpled pieces of paper fell out. I opened then and they read “Hello stranger, my name is Anabel I am 16 years old and female. I live with Mum, Dad and older brother(Jason). My older brother is 18 and finished school. I hate my life… and everybody that I care for hates me. My parents are happy together but they hate me. They beat me up, swear at me, deprive me of food and don’t love me.” I read the start of the letter with a smile but then it took a vicious turn. I continued to read with my chin hanging from my jaw. “Every night, morning and during the day I have to find my own food with the money that I make. On school days’ struggle to get there. At school I have no friends everybody teases me for having colourless and holey clothes. I am thinking of moving out of my house because at home all I receive is violent abuse. I lay in my bed every night thinking of what I screw up I am. At about 11:00 o’clock at night Jason comes home extremely drunk he is so tipsy that it looks like he is trying to walk on a sailor’s boat. He storms into my room banging on everything in his attempt to walk. Jason then grabs the first hard thing he sees and starts to hit me with it. I never know what to do because my parents wouldn’t care. In these situations, I grab a blanket run outside and sleep in the tree in our backyard.” My eyes

One night her best friend showed up at their doorstep after walking four miles from her house. The family had known this girl for two years and never knew about the abuse, torture, and neglect she endured at the hands of her father and step-mother. The family gave her a place to stay while they tried to figure out what to do. The girl’s father arrived fully expecting to take his daughter home, but Steve and Trudi knew they could not let her go back to that house. Law enforcement was called, but since there was no physical proof, the girl was sent back home with her father. The abuse got worse because the girl was being “punished” for running away so she left home again, albeit this time she went to the house of someone employed at the school. The father never believed that the girl was not at Steve and Trudi’s house so he would constantly harass the family and demand to have his daughter back. The girl’s living situation was only temporary. She quickly found an abusive boyfriend and became pregnant. They moved away after graduation and the connection was lost.

Growing up is very difficult. It takes time and responsibility that I thought I had. This summer I quickly realized that becoming an adult is not as easy as a person may think. I had to travel to Oxford for a day by myself, and I learned several lessons such as: always pay attention while driving, make sure to park in appropriate places, and be very cautious while driving in the rain.

I'm going to be twenty-three in February, and only one more left I'm until twenty-four and then my brain will be completely developed, I can go into high-end strip clubs and be able to insure a Lamborghini plus my insurance should be at its lowest. Not that I plan on ever going into a strip-club or wanting a Lamborghini I have other things on my mind. Today I've decided to talk about adulthood and growing up in general. I don't see myself by any stretch as an adult because all my life I've envisioned adults as super intelligent human beings. A transformation that would allow foresight, judgement, decision-making, multi-tasking, and the end to assholes everywhere. What a fantasy I was living in, instead you're thrown, cradled or never make

Growing up as a kid, I noticed a reasonable difference in my life where my mind grew up faster than my physical body. Maybe it was the strict rules that matured me or the high expectations instilled in me that formed my personal character. Remembering those lonely walks on my way to elementary school through the heart of a developing Desoto neighborhood and those short friendships formed on the rusted playground detailed the beginnings of my childhood. The constant dreams of becoming a successful man in the footsteps of my father clouded my head as I laid in the bunk bed of my hopes that shadowed the doubts of my developing mind. Through the ticks of time, it truthfully told the struggle of confidence and purpose as I searched for a safe haven

Identity. Who we are. How we define ourselves. Imagine taking away something that defines you. You’re left feeling “who am I?”

The years seem to fly by as you get older. Blending together the years only possibly highlighting the day you turn one year older. That moment for me was, in fact, my birthday and I could finally drive and four days later going to London. But the months leading up to that were chaos. Many people are busy throughout the year from start to finish such as sports, school work, looking at colleges, or even jobs. I was one of them; having plenty of things that would keep me busy - (most of what I liked to do like soccer, basketball, and spending time with my family and cousins, but some not so much like having the burden of housework chores).

Early experiences are important because they can change a person’s future. Depending on the child’s family and the people around him/her, their teachings, language, and behavior around the child are very important. My identity was established as a child when my parents gave birth to me and raised me, taught me, and became a role model for me. They helped me create my beliefs, and shape my identity to become a good person in society. My parents taught me what is right and wrong, and helped show me the right path to take in life. For example, they taught me how to tie my shoes, how to clean up after myself, some home remedies for illnesses and injuries, etc… During my childhood when I was young, my parents read to me stories every night, sang, talked to me about Buddhism, and taught me morals and all the good things I should do. My mom kept talking to me in Vietnamese and English so when I was 2 years old, I could talk in Vietnamese and understand English pretty well. My parents had not talked to me about Buddha and spoke to me in Vietnamese and English, I might have not been the bilingual teenager that I am today.

I felt like some of you know me one way, others in a different way. Many of you don’t know my full story. So here it is. Growing up I was always bullied and yeah it hurt, but I got through it. I was just taking what life was throwing at me. I had anxiety growing up that led to depression in about the 7th grade. I just tried my best to deal with it. Growing up I always felt out-of-place, always wishing I was older and more independent. Once I got to high school I knew things would change. But never in the way that they did. It was an instant success, well the social part at least. Everyone wanted to know what I was doing and where I was going. And oh let me tell you I’m going places. Things were different in high school I had tons of friends. All my good ones

It was December 27th 1997, as the mother looked into her handsome baby’s eyes. A tear ran down her face as she realizes this is the first and last time she sees the baby’s face, the last time she will be able to strokes her baby boys face, the last time she gets to see those eyes open. As she realizes that she won’t be able to watch him take his first steps and hear him say his first words, dress him for his first day of school, never see him grow up into a powerful young man just like his father.

​ As I began senior year, I embarked on a journey of transitioning from childhood to adulthood. Even though i was about to turn 18 and on the verge of applying for college, I still felt like a kid. I wanted nothing more than to become and feel like an adult. I was tired of being a kid. I wanted all the perks and respect that an adult had. I wanted to sign my own legal documents . I wanted to be able to live on my own. I wanted to buy and place a car under my own name not my parents. I was tired of relying on my parents .

“Whether your pregnancy was meticulously planned, medically coaxed, or happened by surprise, one thing is certain-your life will never be the same”(Catherine Jones). Multiple women have experienced the wonders of pregnancy, for some the labor process may have been the worst time of their lives, and for others it may have been all smiles and rainbows. Both way after the long hours and constant pain a child is born and the parent’s lives are changed forever. In this article I will focus on the birth of my younger brother for which I was present. I chose to focus on my younger brother Junior Frederick because three months before my birth my mother had just arrived form Saint Marcs, Haiti. She did not understand much of America and when I questioned

I've "known" I was transgender a lot of my life but at the same time I didn't know until I was 14. I grew up in a house with at least eleven people. Sometimes we would have up to fifteen people living in that house and of those eleven to fifteen people, seven of them were children. Four of them were my cousins, three of which were boys, and the other three were my sisters and I. I remember as far back as the age of seven asking myself,"well what if I was a boy?". Unfortunately I wasn't allowed to explore that option until much later because my dad is a very conservative man and so is his family; which is who we lived with at the time. For years I kept trying to make myself more feminine and feigned excitement when I had my first period shortly after I turned eleven, when in reality I was absolutely disgusted. I continued with my life for a year before telling my mom that I think I might be transgender.

I believe from past performances my voice has become accustomed to holding deep tone notes. My voice is comfortable hitting any low notes making it great for operatic pieces, pieces that require a strong voice to get an emotion across, or generally any theatric role that requires the large, stoic kind of character. Past instructors have also said I have a natural talent to sing along without getting caught up in the melody of other instruments. My understanding is that beginners tend to sing at the same tone as of the instruments in the accompaniment when they should be singing at a different key, but my previous teachers and peers have said they’ve never seen me have this issue. Hearing their praise made me happy, but I would like to expand my vocal range so I could hit higher notes perhaps fitting an alto or maybe a soprano and give them something even more