personal narrative

It was Friday evening. The snow was supposed to start and keep going till the next evening. Sledding. It was the only thing on my mind. The snow made my mom worry about getting stuck while driving. At school, the snow made everyone discuss the sporting events that would be cancelled. But I was only thinking about sledding. Yet, by the time I went to bed, the snow hadn’t started. I was worried. What if the forecast changed? What if the snow I’d looked forward to so much never came? When I woke up in the morning, the first thing I did was look outside. I sighed a sigh of relief when I saw that the world was blanketed in gleaming white snow. The lake was frozen and lined by evergreen trees, coated in white. Looking at it made me happy. There is something so magical about snow. I love it. Sadly, we don’t get much snow. Just three or four times a winter. And six inches like today was even more of a rare treat.  I was euphoric about my plans to go sledding with two friends and their siblings at a park that is a short walk from our house. As soon as we got there, we ran up the hill and got in our sleds. We made a train by grabbing the rope of the sled in front of us and sliding down at the same time. Half way down the hill, my friend’s sled turned one way and mine turned the other way and they were pulling in different directions. The next thing we knew, our sleds were tangled and we all fell into the snow laughing. Later we experimented with different ways to sled. We sat backwards in the sled. We lay in the sled on our stomachs. We stood up in the sled, using it like a snowboard. I tried to hold on but I kept falling into the snow. I loved the feeling of the soft white snow underneath me, my friends beside me, the view of the evergreen trees surrounding me, the cold air. Perfection.  The next day, our parents agreed to take us sledding again. Suddenly, my friend called and said she wanted to try a different place that has a bigger, steeper, hill. “Oh, no,” I thought at first. I was a little bit scared of the big hill but I had no choice. Anyway, how scary could it be? I was excited anyway, sledding is sledding, and I hurried to get ready. When we got there, it was very crowded. The snow was packed so much, it was almost like ice. As I climbed the hill, I felt the ice slipping under my feet. I tried my best to hold on, looking for parts of the snow that were still soft. My friend and I got in our sleds at the top of the hill and started slipping down before we were fully ready. The world zoomed by as we raced down the hill. We weren’t far down the hill when I felt a bump under my sled. I went flying into the air. It was terrifying but also fun and exciting all at the same time. My friend had told me in the beginning that on one side of the hill there were bumps so that you flew in the air. We intended to choose the non bumpy side, but in our rush to start sledding we hadn’t noticed the bumps. I tried doing some of the things I usually do like going on my belly. It was terrifying. I screamed the whole time but at the same time I enjoyed it. Afterwards, my friend said she had enjoyed the scarier hill more. I also enjoyed the thrill of excitement. But going on a scary hill is kind of like eating something spicy. When you put spicy pepper on something, all you are tasting is the spiciness. I would rather just enjoy the small hill and end up laughing in the snow. Of course, in the end, when it comes to convincing our parents to take us sledding, we are all happy with any hill, just as long as we get to go! 

It was a beautiful fall morning. The sun was out. The sky was clear. A perfect day to go biking. “Did they call you back yet?” I asked my mom. Ever since my two friends and I had biked to a cafe for drinks in the spring, I’d wanted to do it again. It seemed like every Saturday there was something. Either one of us was out of town, or we had some activity, but for one reason or another, since we got back from summer vacation we hadn’t had a chance to do it. I was determined to meet that day. “Did they?” I nagged my mom again. “Not yet,” my mom said patiently, “but it’s still early.” I was just beginning to give up on it, when my mom told me that it was all arranged. I didn’t have long so I hurried to get ready. As I brushed my hair, I thought about how much fun we would have. I wondered what interesting stories my friends would tell me and what they would order at the cafe. I was planning to get apple juice. It is my favorite. “Oh, wow!” my dad exclaimed from the living room sofa where he was reading the news on his computer. “What?” my mom cried out coming in to the room. “Somebody shot people in a synagogue in Pittsburgh.” my dad replied. Oh no, I thought. Why do such horrible things happen? It is so sad. Usually, I don’t like to think about sad things. They depress me. That’s why I don’t like to read sad books. But this is real life. I can’t just close it and put it back on a shelf. But as sad as it is, I was thinking, does it really affect my life? I know that there was a person there, in Pittsburgh, who hates the Jews, but I didn’t feel like it applied to me, here where I live. In my world, nobody hates me because I am Jewish. I don’t know anyone who would do something like that. Pittsburgh is far away, what happened to the Jews there, doesn’t affect my life in any way here in Illinois. I hear about anti-semitic acts in Europe a lot. How is this so different? “Are you ready, Maya?” my mom calls, her voice cutting through my thoughts. “You need to go. You don’t want to keep your friends waiting.” I went biking with my friends, and then I went to my math club. I was thinking about other things and I even forgot about the shooting. But, later in the day, it came up again. Apparently, my grandfather had called and said that I shouldn’t risk going to Sunday School at the synagogue the next day. Then the Rabbi sent an email about added security. “I don’t understand,” I thought at first. Why is everyone panicking? Like I said before, there have been similar situations in Europe and nobody panicked then. The more I thought about it, the more it became clear. The kind of people that live in Europe could be very different than the people who live in Illinois. But this happened in our country, the one that we live in. I went to Sunday School the next day. I wasn’t scared to go. When I got there, the doors were locked. Police were standing near the front. Instead of regular Sunday school, we talked about what happened in Pittsburgh for part of the time. That was when I realized that some of my friends were scared by what happened. Should I have been scared too?  The doors are now locked at our synagogue. You cannot get in unless someone opens the door for you. But it does not make you feel any less welcome. Inside, the fun, the excitement, the joy, and celebrations still go on, just like always. We celebrated Chanukah this whole week. Tonight there is a special Chanukah party for teens. I am going to meet my friends there. As I am getting ready and brushing my hair, I am thinking about how much fun we will have. I wonder what interesting stories my friends would tell me and what games we will play. I wonder who will win in dreidel.

I am an Asian-American boy, born in America, but a descendant of China. My dad was born and raised in the Northeast region of China and my mom grew up in the Southwest part of the country. They met at Beijing University, got married in 1998, and moved to America before I was born. I have only been to China twice in my life. The first time my parents took me to their home country I was only five years old, and I don’t remember much about my visit; the last time I was there I was nine, and I remember it like it was yesterday. The flight to China was long… but I remember the excitement I felt inside of me. I bounced in my seat and stared out the little window eager to see the city lights of Beijing. “Prepare for landing,” the pilot finally announced. My heart beat faster. My parents had told me so many stories about China. About the relatives who I barely knew. About what life was like growing up in the big city. And I couldn’t wait to experience it for myself. When the airplane hit the tarmac, I hopped off, eager to stretch my legs and see the country my parents loved. I followed my mom into the lobby. A sea of people who looked just like me buzzed around carrying suitcases and briefcases. I grasped my mom’s hand as she immediately pulled me along to the Starbucks. Wooden counters and bar stools sat to the left of the restaurant beckoning people to stop and rest, yet nobody was sitting down at the tables and relaxing. Customers grabbed their coffee, threw crinkled bills at the disgruntled server, and rushed off to catch their flights. Pushing our way through the crowds, we headed outside with our luggage. My dad raised his right arm to hail a taxi. We stumbled into the back seat, eyes barely open, and drove straight to a nearby hotel. I immediately sank into the couch and fell asleep to the sound of cars fighting in traffic. The next day, I woke up feeling energized. I couldn’t believe we had finally made it to China. After a delicious breakfast of warm pancakes in the hotel’s cafeteria, we took a four-hour train to Anshan – my dad’s hometown. As soon as we got there, we grabbed a taxi and headed over to Grandma’s apartment. It was pouring buckets. Our taxi driver beeped the horn several times. The car in front of us beeped back. Beep! Beep! Then a police car started howling – WOOOooooeeeEEEEE! I shut my eyes and covered my ears. “Good luck,” the old taxi driver muttered as he pulled up to a rusty old apartment building decorated with mildew. The cantankerous rain soaked us to the bone as we ran to a musty old wooden door. Shivering, we climbed up the rotting staircase and knocked on the door. Grandma squeezed me and Max. “My babies!” she cried in Chinese and gave us both a kiss on the cheek. Then, my aunt and uncle repeated the same process. I was feeling less cold after the exchange of affection. We only stayed a few hours in the dim, dingy apartment – enough for Dad and his mother to discuss current events. I lay on a bed and watched TV. A little voice in my head exclaimed, so, this is Grandma’s house? It wasn’t at all what I had envisioned. I sighed. Finally, after lunch, we had some peace and quiet. We walked to the garden behind a hotel, purchased some koi food, and tossed musky brown pellets into the dark pool. Lured by the prospect of food, the fish swam over to the pellets. Only the fastest ones made it to the brown dots of hope. I gazed at them as my brother laughed. The following day, we took a taxi to the airport to head to Chengdu in Southern China. Chengdu is Mom’s hometown. I watched as China ran past, whooshing, eating, yelling. As we pulled into the parking lot, I thought about Chengdu. How Mom kept on telling stories about her family, the weather, and the spicy food. The airplane took off. I bounced on the edge of my seat with anticipation. I couldn’t wait to be with family, taste warmer weather, and eat Kung Pao chicken. Dad handed me a book. I placed it in the seat pocket. How could I read when I could see Chengdu in the distance waiting for me? Finally, finally the airplane hit the tarmac with a whoosh and a very loud bump. My stomach touched my throat and I felt light-headed. My brother clutched an airsickness bag to his chest, groaning. Dad glanced at him with concern as we exited the plane. An old man was waiting outside the packed airport, dragging on a cigarette. “Jiu jiu!” my mother exclaimed. I wondered if he was related to us as he lovingly squeezed my brother. He threw our luggage into the backseat of a new gray car and drove us to our rental apartment. We passed by a metropolis that rivaled Beijing. Commercials blared exotic-looking products, people were again rushing around, and cars fought, honking. There was a swimming pool in front of the tall granite building. “See you at the reunion!” he called, waving. Reunion? I wondered as the elevator hummed up to floor 26. Creeaakkk… the door went. I gasped. The light blue walls! The plump bed! The bird’s-eye view of downtown Chengdu! It smelled fresh and inviting. The fridge was humming. I put my nose on the frosty glass of the window and stared at the ants marching on the roads and sidewalks. Metal candy bars peeked up at me. “Wow,” I breathed. This was modern, clean, and fresh, the antithesis of my grandma’s apartment. We hung out in the apartment for a couple hours. Then Mom looked at the clock on the wall. “It’s time to call