Category: Personal Narrative

Every New Beginning Comes From Some Other Beginning’s End.

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Personal Narrative                                                                   
                                                                                                        
Every New Beginning Comes From Some Other Beginning’s End.

I was born in the capital city of the Dominican Republic, Santo Domingo. It’s the biggest city in the country, with a population just over 2 million. The Dominican Republic is a tropical country, where the sun is always up and shining till the night (except in the rainy season). I used to be a typical Dominican girl with a busy schedule, full of social activities and very involved in my school activities. I used to be my teacher’s assistant; I helped grading exams, organizing classes, etc. I was also my class President, so I had a lot of responsibilities on my shoulders. I had to plan all the social activities and also the fund raisers. Being the Class President is not as fun as you might imagine, as I had to play many roles, needing to be democratic and participatory, but also authoritarian or bossy- but always fair.

I loved my life; I had the greatest feeling, when you know that you have all that you need: love, family and friends that become like family. I used to love going to school, every day would bring a new lesson or adventure. Sometimes it seemed hard, especially when we had to have our monthly meeting to schedule our activities as a classroom, but at the end of the day, it turned into happiness. When I got back home my grandmother was always there waiting for me to set the table. We used to have lunch together while we watched a show called “Caso Cerrado” (Case Closed) which was a part of the day we couldn’t miss. Every day always ended up with homework. Finally, though, the most expected day of the week: Friday would arrive, which were always fun and exciting. My friends and I used to do a variety of things, going to an ice cream parlor or we could end up partying till “sunrise” which was really till midnight.

I am pretty sure that I will never forget these moments that have become  memories that will last forever. I especially miss my girlfriends and hope that even though they are far we can still keep the connection between us.  

My life new life begins with a new culture, new challenges, and new goals. This is what life is based on, changes.  We all have experienced an unwanted change, in my case it was for my own benefit. It all started when I moved to Virginia; at first, I wasn’t excited, I barely talked about it, as long days were passing by, the sadder I would be. In the meantime, I was enjoying my last months with all my friends, partying, hanging out and eating brunches. The day “finally” arrived; packing, letters, tears and sadness surrounded my room.  When I first arrived, it felt like I was on summer vacation, just like another usual summer, going out and having fun. As the days passed by and the “Back to School” date got closer, I didn’t realize it was really going to happen until I bought my school supplies.

In my opinion, everything happens for a reason. Sure, everybody says that, but do they believe it? I do. Everything has a purpose, which I still need to find – it will be a journey, not always amusing one, but uplifting nonetheless. Finally, as my grandmother says, “At the end of the journey everything will take its place.” Caso Cerrado.
                                                                                          

A Rude Awakening

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A Rude Awakening


As a child, everyone grows up with this fantasized view of the world where everyone and everything is nice and perfect. Parents love their children, bad people go to jail, and anyone who misbehaves gets in trouble. Many children wake up from this sugar-coated dream at a young age, including me. When I found out that my family wasn’t as perfect as I thought, it altered my view of the world completely.

It was a pretty average day for a five year old, with my dad driving me from my mom’s house back to his house. We were driving down that winding road that has all of those lush green trees that can take your breath away with one look. With the windows cracked open, you could smell autumn making its way throught the air, with the warm colors close behind. I was struggling to regain control of my hair as gusts of wind blew it into a mess; silence filled the car. Our conversation about school that day had just ended when, in that silence, I recalled a televison show episode I had watched earlier, That’s So Raven. In the episode I wathced, Raven goes through a situation where she thinks her parents might get a divorce. I had no idea what the word divorce could possibly mean at the time, so I continued to watch the show. By curiously watching the show, I eventually guessed that divorce was when the mom and dad seperated. Something abou that term was bothering me since I left my mom’s house, but I just couldn’t put my finger on it. I then started to connect the dots and notice the similarities to my life. A million thoughts raced through my head all at once. Could my parents be divorced? Am I adopted? If they’re divorced, why do I have four parents? Are my parents kidnappers? I couldn’t imagine my mom and dad ever being happy together. I then realized that it must be true because I knew I looked too much like them to have been kidnapped or adopted. I then asked the dreaded question, “Are you and Mommy divorced?”

My dad showed no surprise towards the question and calmly answered, “Yes”, explaining the details about how and why they had seperated. He also confirmed that I was indeed not adopted or kidnapped at any point in life. Initially, I wasn’t as shocked as expected because everything fit like a puzzle. It explained why I traveled between houses, why I had more than two parents, and why my parents didn’t get along. This moment gave me the rude awakening that no one and no family is as perfect as it’s thought to be. I also learned that just because a family isn’t picture perfect, doesn’t mean they aren’t a family.

Lakes Can Be Amazing

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Lakes Can Be Amazing


After weeks of preparation and logistics, as well as hours of travel, my father and I, along with 7 other members in our Boy Scout troop, arrived at the Charles L. Sommers canoe base in Ely, Minnesota for a 7-day canoe trip in the boundary waters between Canada and the United states. This base is part of the Northern Tier High Adventure Program. We had watched the movies, and seen the wallpapers, but now it was time to experience nature for real. Charles L. Sommers was in the middle of nowhere; there was nothing but crisp pine trees and lakes for miles around. After we checked in, the staff members handed us our gear, gave us a short orientation, and showed us our cabins for the night. We would leave early in the morning.

My dad said the packs we were taking were heavy, but I never thought how heavy. Each crew of 9 people get around 6 large packs to carry all the personal gear, food, supplies, and cooking utensils needed for the trip. Everything was carried with you, including the canoes. This worried me a lot, especially since the 90-pound burden almost made me fall over immediately. By the time we launched our canoes into the lake, our whole crews’ backs were already aching. We would be experiencing that feeling a lot throughout our trip.

Paddling on a crystal clear lake is probably one of the most peaceful things to do on the Earth. The water stretches for miles, and the only sound you can hear is your paddle dipping in, then out. Bald eagles skim the surface of the lake, hunting for the large fish swimming in the shallows. However, the land approaches as the water ends, and the weak of heart go back to the canoe base. Our crew had other ideas…

There is an opening in the evergreen forest, with a narrow, rough trail lying inside it. If we wanted to get the miles on this trip, it all started at this portage. Taking up our packs, and lifting the canoes over our heads, we trekked past the point of no return and struggled to the next lake. I came to dread these “portages”, carrying all our heavy gear and canoes on land, but it was necessary to get to the places we wanted to go to. Step by step, I carried my pack down halfway through the trail before I stumbled, slipped on a rock and fell backwards. Dazed, yet determined, I used all my strength to get back on my feet and continue onwards. The only driving motivation in a portage is the water you can see at the other side.

Since these lakes are hard to reach, and isolated, the fishing there was probably the best you can get this side of the Western Hemisphere. We caught 20-30 inch Pike, Bass, and Lake Trout as easily as those fishing toy games. On the second day, my friend Seth had a 31-inch Northern Pike on the line as soon as he had reeled in another fish! I was surprised, because the lakes are so vast and deep you would think the fish would be spread out far and few in between. There were no complaints, though, as fried fish was the best remedy for an aching body.

The third day was one of the longest and hardest days of the trip, especially for my dad. While doing a rough, steep portage, my dad, who was carrying the canoe, stumbles and shouts in pain. He had torn one of his upper groin muscles! This didn’t injure him to the point of calling off the trip, but he had to take ibuprofen every day after. It would take a good month after the incident for him to fully recover.

On reaching our fourth day of the trip, we paddled to Lake MacIntyre, the halfway point in our canoe route. By then, our crew had travelled over 40 miles and portaged around 13 times. To make it back to the canoe base in time, we took a route around one of the large lakes and started heading home. The weather was perfect for five days straight, until a huge storm hit us early in the morning. As soon as the first drop fell, I woke up my tent mates and rushed to put the rainfly over our shelter. Lightning flashed over the lake at around 100 times a minute. It was like someone was shining a strobe light over the whole world! Not to mention the pouring rain and screaming wind. None of us slept well that night.

Finally, we found our way back to the lake where we started and I reflected on everything I accomplished throughout the trip. Our crew travelled over 75 miles by canoe, caught countless fish, and bonded well together in only 7 days. We woke up every one of those days and paddled, rain or shine, and really experienced what it’s like to be with nature. Not only that, I got to test my limits and see my potential. After this trip, I went home and knew how hard work and effort really do pay off.

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Jordan Zapp
Process writing 2- Draft 1
September 29, 2014
Bl 6
Death by Pigeon
            “Can we have some breadsticks?” My little sister asks a man standing outside a restaurant.   He chuckles and nods.  Without hesitation, Anna bolts into the restaurant and then runs back out, her hand full of packaged breadsticks.  She runs toward the square like it’s Christmas. 
            “We have to go!  Hurry!” she yells back at us.  My brother takes off after her. My dad rolls his eyes.  My mom suppresses a laugh.  I just look up.  The buildings that line the narrow streets are brilliant, the bright colors practically shimmering in the July heat.  The black box windows contrasting every building make me wonder what may lie on the other side.  As we cross a small stone bridge, a long, black gondola passes beneath us, complete with a tall man in a red beret.  He sings a beautiful song in Italian and rows lazily down the canal.  Small artisan shops selling colorful glass pieces are stacked like blocks along the cobblestone street, their creations catching and scattering the light. Ah, Venice.
            We had been waiting all day to get to the square.  After touring a million museums and churches (which I enjoyed, while my siblings loudly complained) and stopping for gelato three times (which we all enjoyed), we could not hold in our excitement any longer.   We spilled onto the square and each took in a sharp breath of anticipation.  St. Mark’s Square, or Piazza San Marco, is the buzzing center of Venice, Italy.  Artisan shops, fancy restaurants, gelaterias, and a huge church surround the square.   Vendors set up shop anywhere they please, and yell out to tourists, boasting the best prices.  That is all well and good, but my siblings and I have our eye on one attraction in particular: pigeons. 
            Hundreds of these flying fiends flock the center of the square.    These pigeons are unlike the ordinary birds you might find in New York City.  Around us, other tourists have the right idea.  They hold breadcrumbs in their palms, arms out, and if luck is with them, a few pigeons may land on their arms and feast on the bread.   It is an honor to have a St. Mark’s pigeon land on your arms, or at least it makes for a good story.  Anyway, my siblings and I get right to it, crushing the breadsticks in our hands and holding them out for the pigeons to snack on.    Much to our delight, several birds land on our arms, their small talons digging into the sleeves of our shirts.  They peck away at our palms, snatching up breadcrumbs as fast as lightning. 
            At first, there were two pigeons on either of my arms, then came another, and another, and another, until birds were stacked up to my shoulders.  I laughed nervously, but hey, they were just pigeons, right?  Suddenly, I feel something land on my back, something sharp scratching my skin.  Something else lands squarely on my head, tangling itself in the only nest-like thing in all of Venice: my hair.  I am overcome with them.  I cannot see, and I am convinced they will lift me off the ground and fly away.  These somethings, of course, are pigeons, but that does not stop me.  They have crossed the line from adorable pigeons to evil, I am sure of it.    
            “AAAAAAAAAGH!” I let out a shriek and whip my arms around violently.  All I can see are gray and white wings, in the air, in my eyes and mouth.  In a flurry of feathers and obnoxious squawking, every vicious pigeon takes off, hovering in the air for only a moment, before swooping down onto some other innocent victim.  I take a deep breath, they are all gone, I think.  I am so wrong, so hopelessly and foolishly wrong. 
            I feel an aggressive tug on my scalp.  I yell some profanity and make another helicopter motion with my arms.  The bird will not let go.  It whips around, its left leg wrapped up in a sun-stained mane of brown hair that belongs to me.  Some part of me knows it is stuck, but I am in panic mode, seeing red, and hitting at the poor thing with everything I’ve got.  By now, people are staring, laughing, and taking pictures with their phones.  My life flashes before my eyes.  This is how it ends, I think to myself, death by pigeon. 
            Fortunately for me, that is not how it ends.  My mother contains her laughter long enough to step in and attempt to extricate this stupid pigeon from my hair.  When she is successful, the deadly winged creature flies away, all too eager to find a nice rooftop to sit on for a while. 
            Anna laughs and laughs, her rambunctious shrieking echoing through the square.  “Maybe,” she spits out between breaths, “you’ll learn to brush your hair someday.” I inhale deeply, trying to recover from the aerial attack.  I slowly open my eyes, and catch the glint of something white and glistening on top of her head.  Immediately, an evil grin spreads across my face like a disease.  I point to her hair, smooth, shiny and super straight. 

            “Better a nest than a landing strip for poop,” I smirk.