Personal Narrative: The Immigrant

Looking back to the past, before I was born, I never really knew where my ancestors came from or why they even came here in the first place. It was never made a big deal in my family to talk about our history and the reasons why they came to American. So, I decided to do a little research and find out a little bit about myself, my culture, and my communication styles. I asked for a little bit of help from my grandmothers from each side of my family. I got an abundance of information that opened my eyes to a new past that I didn’t even know about.

I interviewed a beautiful and courageous woman, of African descent. Born and raised in Monrovia, Liberia on May 20, 1969. In addition, she has one biological brother and three step siblings. Currently she resides in Loganville, Georgia, where she lives with her two children. By the same token, she and her husband been married for twenty-one years to her loving high school sweetheart husband. Due to unfortunate circumstances, she lost her husband in the line of duty. Causing her to become a widow, continuing to survive life without her husband. When I conducted this interview, had one topic in mind that I wanted to learn more about her life as an immigrant and how did influence her life.

We started off with a bang. We started with me thinking of what to do how to do it and what were my ideas. Then, a little later we actually started it and not gonna lie, it was scary. I didn’t know that much about my family, yeah i've heard stories but they're stories. Later on we went home i didn’t tell my family anything just unsuspiciously getting all the information and I learned a lot yes. I learned about my names and why they're my names, I learned about my dad getting lost a lot, I learned about my mom moving here to america when she was 14 and how her life was before she moved and why she moved. I learned about my uncle going to jail for crossing the border illegally which is kinda funny. All those I learned but i couldn’t find anything

Growing up as an immigrant I view the world in a much more different light than most people do. Whenever an opportunity presents itself to me I am willing to put in the effort if I know it will better my life. This trait of resourcefulness originates from my family who, over the years have created a life for themselves out of virtually nothing. I moved to America at the young age of two years old with my father. Though he didn’t have much to begin with, my father decided to move to this country in hopes to lead a better life and follow on the path of the American dream. I vividly recall being in the backseat of our car while my father trained me on the importance of remaining perceptive and hardworking in school and abroad, I remember he would

At the age of fifteen, I could barely speak an English word. As I sat on the plane with a blank head flying across from Vietnam to the United States, I knew completely nothing what’s going to happen in my life. After almost twenty-four hours sitting on an intolerable chair, I arrived, as I looked above my head “Welcome to the United States”. And yes, welcome to my story, and undoubtedly my experience is the author.

A year and a half ago I moved from Venezuela to the US with my family; since then I have tried my best to make this sacrifice worth it and make my family proud. Leaving everything that you own behind and moving somewhere new with only a couple of luggage with you is extremely difficult economically, which is why my family is currently experiencing financial difficulties that make it more difficult for me to be able to afford the costs of a good college education. I currently work 3 jobs cleaning houses to help my family, however, it is still not enough to afford a college education. Being an immigrant is a part of my identity and it has shaped my character into what I believe is a hard-working student and person. At West Marshall high school

This is a very interesting story. I am glad that she got to experience how the real life for most of us is, and how sometimes we only work to pay rent and bills. I myself can relate to that with my family. We came here in 2006, and my as an immigrant my mom had to work in whatever she could find, just to be able to pay rent and give me food. This is the reason why I go to school, to better myself, and to be able to get a job that I enjoy doing, and that it will give me a good paycheck. Honestly I feel bad for many people because, it is very hard to live in this country while getting paid minimum wage, but this is why we have to sacrifice ourselves and go to school to become someone.

They say the winter is a metaphor for solitude; however, my winter was everything but solitary. I longed for Christmas Carols and holiday cheer, instead I got the sound of doors slamming and children fighting. I expected normal; my mom, my dad, and my brother. Instead I received my mom, my dad, my brother, aunt, and three cousins in a sardine packed house.

I’m juror number eleven I immigrated from Europe to the US I work as a watchmaker.I believe in the justice system in America and will see that it gets carried out fairly and properly. I’m quite, polite, honest, educated, and I’m observant to all the facts, I will take everything into consideration before making a decision on a verdict.As I said before Im quiet and poliet I keep to myself untill I am asked to speak or when details need to be remembered and I treat everyone one with respect. At first I believed that the defendant was guilty but as we deliberated I came to see that there was a reasonable doubt that the defendant was innocent.

It all started on one sunny day on the month of July, I was done with my service to protect my country the United States of America. Man it was nice to experience the smell of freedom once again. Due to my deployments in many countries I never had the opportunity to step forth in the land of the free, my home, it felt nostalgic to experience it all again. During my time in the military I was twenty-one and was first a designated marksman or Scout Sniper in the Marine Corp for a year or two, then I decided to join a special operations team and joined the 75th Ranger Regiment and continued my role as a sniper. Then finally through months of hard work and combat deployments my skills as a sniper was finally recognized. I was hand selected to

Imagine going to a new country, knowing nobody, not even the language. How would you feel? What would you do? My family and I were in this situation thirteen years ago. It was difficult to completely start our lives over and build our family again piece by piece. Recently, people have deemed immigrants as ‘drug mules’ or ‘evil rapists’ and more and more frequently I see on the news the hate unleashed towards them. They are the ‘other’ and it is easy to say these things about people you don’t know. It is easy to generalize a group when you only know the crimes of one person. This country that was built on the hard work of immigrants has begun to hate them. As humans, we want to protect our family and those we love, even it it means saying horrible

I was born in a third-world country. Though my family and I came to the United States when I was 8 months old, there is no disputing the fact that I am an immigrant. By definition, this word “immigrant” only means a person who migrates to another country to live there permanently. However, there is an apparent stigma in this country marking those with such a title like myself. To be looked down upon as an immigrant in a country founded by immigrants either shows the inherent negative stereotypes forced on those from several regions around the world, or the widespread belief that nationalism here is weakening. Both statements are confusing and lacking rationale.

I was following the heartbreaking news of Immigration crisis in Europe and watching that how these desperate people struggling to save their lives and find a better life in nearby countries, that the photo of my parents and I in a hand curved frame right next to my computer caught my attention and reminded me of my own journey as a refugee.

I am a first-generation immigrant, a DACA recipient, a DREAMer. I was brought into the United States as a child and since then have struggled to become a part of our society. Growing up, there was just enough for my family. The extra we had came at the cost of not being around the parents much and with the thought that they might not come back after work in the back of our minds. No matter how busy my parents were to provide for my brothers and I, they always made sure the little time they had was focus on us, our studies, and to raise us to be good citizens of the world.

We approached the dark brown desk, holding anxiety that it had waiting for us, we told the lady what our names were and why we were there, she walked us to his room in the ICU where 2 of our other family members were waiting. The first person I saw was my uncle’s girlfriend, Cathy, her long, jet black usually smooth hair was tousled as if she had been pulling at it for hours, which looking back now.. She probably was. Across the cold, dark, and depressing hospital room that had a strong odar of sadness and clorox, I saw my sister, Karen who had a flushed face and mascara down her face which held a sad smile towards us. Finally, I directed my attention towards the cold, uncomfortable, bleached bed that held my bruised, and struggling uncle.