Childhood Narrative

I remember cruising down the twisty and windy roads of the Appalachian and Smokey Mountains when I was thirteen years old.  I was sitting comfily in the passenger seat of my mom’s coffee brown Blazer listening to the radio’s top hits and imagining what it would be like to hike the tall peaks of the mountains passing by the car windows.  The winds and turns that my mom was pioneering quickly made my eyes heavy and heavier…  Then my mom violently shook my shoulder and I woke up groggily from a sleep I didn’t know I fell into.  My mom was staring at her rearview mirror, panicked and confused she shouted “Alondra, grab the cat grab the cat grab the cat!” I whipped my head around to see our pet cat, Meechos, in position to poop on the lap of my sleeping little sister, who was sat promptly in the center of the backseat.  It was obviously too late when I realized that I should have grabbed the cat sooner.  I remember yanking off my cat, and looking at my mom, and the only words I could stammer was “The damage is done.”  A few short seconds later, my mom angrily pulled into a rest area that she luckily caught just as the events were unfolding.  We shouted at my little sister, “Fabiola, wake up!” And Fabiola’s big brown eyes burst open, quickly bouncing from left to right, taking in their surroundings and then eerily looking around to see what the big deal was.  Then I remember she looked down.  I vividly remember her gasping and then screaming, looking at my mom and saying “Mom! Meecho’s pooped in my hands!” I couldn’t help but laugh but my moms quick glare forced me to stifle my giggles and additionally hold my breath, as the smell in the car was unbearable.  We quickly pulled into the rest stop and I yanked my siblings out of the backseat of our blazer, grabbing Fabiola and quickly running her to the bathroom sinks to wash her up.  I remember my mom forcing us to stick all of our comfy cozy blankets that were effected into a black trash bag and throw them away, as we still had another 8 hours to our drive.  Fabiola was a mess, crying and embarrassed, her cheeks the color of red granny apples when they’re ripe.  Fabian, Jocely, and I were having the laugh of their lives while my mom was busy washing Fabiola’s hands and arms, trying to rid her of the putrid smell that somehow came from our cats body.  We piled back into the car, all five of us, when the mess was finally cleaned up.   The rest of our trip to South Carolina was spent with the windows down, trying to rid us of any sniff of the cat poop smell that still lingered. I remember looking at my mother and seeing the vivid presence of regret on her face for not letting the cat out sooner. Fabiola stayed in a sour mood the entire trip, mortified that our cat had pooped directly into her hands yet also trying to control her laughter at the comedy of the situation.  To this day at family gatherings, when we are all around each other cozy and happy, we laugh about this funny and awful memory; we remember in fits and giggles when my mom forced me to strip a fat cat in mid-poop from my little sister’s lap and how we had to throw away our favorite lap blankets because we didn’t our cat Meecho’s out enough during this long road trip. We learned our lesson.

My Personal Writing Experience

I began writing at a very young age.  This was mostly due to my mom's book-worm nature and her job as a librarian.  Growing up, I spent a lot of time around books and I also spent a lot of time reading them. I loved how reading and writing provided me with an escape.  I remember days in the library spent reading Geronimo books, Captain Underpants, and Judy B. Jones, Eragon and Harry Potter.  I began creatively writing when I was maybe 8 or 9 years old.  I used to draw comic book pictures and caption them with my own stories.  My mom loved this and I remember her proudly bragging about my little stories to her friends.  In high school, I really found my love for writing when I began blogging and writing on my own.  I loved to write down my thoughts and creatively write without the instruction of prompt or style. I've always been an avid reader; My freshman and sophomore years of high school I spent my lunches in the library reading book sagas and novels alone.  This doesn't include the many years spent in the public library of my grandma's town checking out stacks of books and reading them to my pleasure.  My experience with reading and writing has always been positive.  I have grown so much through my passion for literature, and my love for the art of writing.  This is why my major in college has never changed and why my junior year of high school I knew that I wanted to be an English major.  This art form, or outlet in a sense, aided me in my years of adolescence and still does now into my adulthood.  My heart and mind has always benefitted from the presence of literature and its anecdotes, allusions, sonnets, plays, lyrics, pamphlets, etcetera... I think writing has always been a part of who I am.  I really think that's the best way to describe my experience and relationship with writing.  Even in college now, I don't mind writing papers and I don't ever get angry about them.  They are definitely hard and very critical but I'm often excited for the chance to tie my ideas, thoughts, opinions, and findings in different genres of literature together to create something argumentative yet enticing to the reader.