Personal Narrative: My Journey To America

My parents always wanted to give their children the life they never had. I am Mexican-American, both of my parents immigrated from Mexico to the U.S. before I was born. I have numerous relatives, including my older sister, who do not have the same opportunities I have to achieve success because they are undocumented. For them, college was only a dream that could never be attained. Being the first U.S. citizen out of my entire family affected the way I thought about life. It was expected that I would attend college because I was the only one who had access to all the resources granted to American citizens. Although, I agreed with my family, the pressure to succeed and be a role model to my younger siblings was overwhelming.

An american story is a story revolving around his or her lifestyle, culture and everyday habits. This is about past experiences, accomplishments, and biggest downfalls. I will be discussing not only my biggest accomplishments, but also my biggest failures that I have occurred in life. What will my american story be? Keep reading to find out.

The year of 2014 late summer I came to America with dreams and hopes, expecting the better for me and my family. I have family that had came before me; however they weren't that respectful for someone that had been living in Mexico their whole life. I used to get put down by the way I looked, talked or how I acted. I recall that they would talk in english about me , and make fun of me , so I wouldn’t understand what they were saying. I have cousins that don't even appreciate all the sacrifices that one as a parent has to make , so they are able to give a better life for their kids. On the good side of the story I would always keep in mind how I came here? thanks to who?and why?. So I realize that I fitted in the Hispanic community by attending to Hispanic events, playing soccer, and cooking hispanic food.

Coming to America about six years ago and adapting to the new world proved to be a real challenge for me. Aside from the cultural shock, I had to adapt to the usage of a foreign language in almost everything, which in turn forced me to work harder in my studies than in the previous years. My parents sacrificed a lot for their family. They left their country, their own business, and their family behind so that my sisters and I could have a better future. I came to America when I was in the eighth grade. I did not speak English fluently or understood it very well. When I got the admission in middle school my counselor gave the course selection sheet. I did not even know what courses to pick because the courses were almost alien in nature, or

I never had a favorite childhood memory,I never had a very imaginative mindset, all I remember is all the terrible things that has ever happened, may I ask this of you reader have you ever felt alone in a world that simply doesn't understand or why look or do things a certain way? I know I have, we live in a judgmental world we all judge people on how they look and act. Let me ask another question have you ever been put up on a pedestal and when you make mistakes people starts questioning why you didn't succeed or if you did why didn't you do things a certain way? Well enough of the questions, My family has always been the ostentatious gregarious type, they are like a diamond in a coal mine. My story begins around 2007 the year I came to America.

I recall the day I first came to United States of America. I was in New York airport, looking everywhere and felt like I was in a totally strange place, which was complete with strangers. All I could understand was people’s ' buzzing. At that time, I digested that I was finally in America, then my heart started to beat fast. Until December the 9th, 2015 I had never been that far away from my country, Rwanda. For ages, I grew up up being surrounded by people who used the same dialect or language as me. Overhead all, language barrier was the major concern. First a few days, I was like a breathing sculpture who could not hold a conversation for 1 min in English. It wasn’t just for my poor English but also because I didn’t have the confidence I

It was cold November afternoon when I dragged myself out of the plane and took my first step on the American soil. Moving to America was my greatest adventure and my biggest fear. Having never traveled to a foreign country before I was intrigued about the culture, religion and style of living, It was an exciting experience for me, yet at the same time, I was terrified. I was curious to learn about the culture and the country itself which I heard in abundance on television. What will it be like? Will I be able to fit in the American lifestyle? Will I be able to make friends? The questions were unanswered until I had to experience it on my own.

I was born in Havana, Cuba and lived there for ten years. If I am honest I cannot remember much about Cuba unlike my mother; however even though I cannot remember much I always used to think that Cuba was home regardless of how long we stayed in America. Similar to most children I took after the actions of my parents while growing up. If my mother and grandmother spoke about Cuba or any topic related to it I would listen to them and then I tried to have the same conversation with my uncle as if to let them know that I was thinking about Cuba as well. I used to believe that when we flew over to America we brought Cuba with us and that was a normal thing; however my thinking was changed over the course of only one year in America.

For the past sixteen years, my father had always told me and my family that we were going to be relocated to the United States of America, but for some reason it never really happened. At this point, moving had become second nature to me but it was always in India. As my dad moved up the corporate ladder, I had moved to five different states in India before I moved to Maryland. But when my dad told us again that we were going to move to America, no one believed him.

When we moved to america we didn't know where to start or where to go. It took us a while to settle in our little town. But after a while we were just doing what we normally did, until this man named michael gladwell. He asked us stuff like “What do you eat on a normal basis”, or “How often do you exercise. We answered honestly.

“Times of transition are strenuous, but I love them. They are an opportunity to purge, rethink priorities, and be intentional about new habits. We can make our new normal any way we want”. -Kristin Armstrong. When I heard this quote it reminds me of a specific time in my life when I moved to another country. There are a couple of events that helped me become who I am now.

When I first came to Boulder, I lived in the dorm of our university, and I have this roommate who comes from Britain. She was really mean to me all the time and didn’t respect me at all, while I’ve tried my best to be as nice as I could. Since we shared one bedroom and of course the bathroom, she always went home really late in midnight and sometimes even brought her friends directly into the bedroom and woke me up from sleeping.

Headed down County Line Road in pure darkness. We cannot see one hundred feet in front of us, and the roads are completely abandoned. Snow is falling from the sky at a steady pace, and the temperature is rapidly dropping. My life rests in my brother’s hands as he attempts to drive us to safety on this frigid winter night. He assures me everything will be fine, and I shall not worry. All I can do is sit back and pray.

In the bitter cold of Canada’s winter, my father and I traveled through the woods on a task. This Christmas our task was to put a little change in the world, so we made supply bags to give to the needy. These bags comprised of blankets, canned food, water, and an inflatable pillow. My father woke me up before dawn to start the trip to the town. This trip took ½ a day on a cart behind a horse, but since the snow fell early it would take us twice as much time. We followed the elongated dirt road deep into the night. Here we came upon our first trial.

up the phone and rang my Tom’s father to thank him, and for me and Tom