I feel different. Why do I say this you may ask? From the time I was merely seven years and my parents had lost their jobs, I learned to see everything greater than it really was. I learned to find pure happiness in the simplest and most compact things. The wall of my room all splattered in my favorite shade of lavender. The fresh gold and bold red mangos from the old guy with the Fidel Castro beard but the Obama personality down the street. The fact that I still had a roof to protect my head. A fridge to keep my edible food cool. A bed and blanket to rest my body in one place to keep me warm on dark winter nights. These are solely some factors that have delivered jubilance to my daily life. Something I will surely never delete from my memory was the time one of my peers at my elementary school, Emma, asked me a defining question on a scorching hot day during recess.
“Why are you always so happy when you don’t even have cool toys or anything special like us? Emma asked in a condescending tone.
“I am always so happy because even though I don’t have all of your Barbie and Bratz dolls, I will never be a real-life brat.”
Although my young-self did not word it in the most elegant fashion, I have carried that same reasoning till this day. Growing up with so little to hold is not a topic of embarrassment, it is a gift. It brought me gratitude in all sense of the word. When others saw my glass empty I saw it as having so much that it simply could not fit in the glass. My name is Elizabeth Carter and I am content.
Leslie I really do love your piece. it has voice and originality. something that is really vital when scoring a autobiographical piece. The ending is really powerful and what makes it so potent is the short and straight to the point sentence structure towards the ending of your autobiography.
Leslie I really do love your piece. it has voice and originality. something that is really vital when scoring a autobiographical piece. The ending is really powerful and what makes it so dominant is the short and straight to the point sentence structure towards the ending of your autobiography.
Understanding (Mood and Character)
I am unique, one of a kind. I realized this ever since I was a goober. Relatives tried to make me feel better by telling me that there “is no one in this world like [me]”. I am fortunate enough to have a roof under which I can sleep at night, parents who love me to the moon and back, and almost a nearly perfect life. That portion that was missing from my nearly perfect life, was my feelings towards myself. I am not unique, I am an alien. I was born semi-paralyzed on the left side of my body. As a baby I had a stroke, which usually occurs in older people.
As a toddler, I would sit in the sidelines, watching my friends have the time of their lives playing jump rope, perform cart wheels, or play basketball. I was not able to perform most activities because of my disability.
One day everything changed. This year I realized that I should not view myself as an alien. I should not feel sorry for myself. There are children in this world that have it worse than me. My disability helps me see things in a different light. It makes me appreciate the little things in life. I have worked so hard to be where I am now. I’ve put sweat, tears, and countless hours of therapy to go back now. I will continue to work harder in life.
I could smell the beer in his breath each time he came home and said hi to me. Every night I had to tuck him into bed. At the age of 9 years old I was the responsible adult in our household. My father was an alcoholic and I had to pay the consequences for his unwise choices. He was a nice person except for when he was under the influence. He wasn’t himself and that was the problem; he was never himself.
I am a victim of domestic abuse. I have been punched, slapped, kicked and whooped to the point that I have lost consciousness by my very own father. For years, I kept this to myself. Until one day I couldn’t take it anymore and I called the cops. Cop lights flashed through my windows and little did my dad know that they were here to take him. I watched my father being shoved into a cop car by two aggressive cops and sent off to prison. I was taken into a foster care and I was now a ward of the state. I suffered with depression for 3 years because of my father. I could not understand how a parent could mistreat their child like they’re nothing. I could not understand how a parent could be so careless about their child.
Growing as a kid in Atlanta, GA was definitely rough. Crime, drugs, gangs, and all the stereotypical things you’d expect to find in a poor neighborhood, or ghetto. All I had to pass the time was music. I’d sit in the car with my brother, rolling down the street, music on, and stereo booming. We wanted to get away from that place, the music was our escape. We were trapped in the ghetto, forced to live the life of the impoverished. I always carried my scratch pad to write down any rhymes when they came to me. After a little while I had my mixtape put together, hoping maybe if I sent it out to some labels I could get signed and get out of Georgia. I wanted to bring my brother and my mom out of there with me, like so many other rappers do. A week after I sent in my record, gun shots went off in the dead of night, some bangers drove by my house, their bullets riddled the porch.
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