Personal Narrative-Canadian Customs

Through all the disturbance, brights lights, and traffic, a bus drove past and stopped. She looks at it and seems to have recognized those numbers before. She quickly scrambles in her purse and reaches for the receipt that she was given at the airport. It seemed to have been the same exact number that appeared on the bus. The doors of the bus creaked open and the bus driver motioned for her to go onto the bus.

Being a first-generation Canadian and when Canada is as diverse as it is, I never got the opportunity to truly connect with my own religion. I realized early on that having that knowledge of diversity provides a competitive advantage in the business environment, as communication and connections are easily built. To accomplish this, I decided to join the International Languages Program in grade 6; however, even with the four years I spent in the program, I never truly built the connection that I had so desired. It was not until grade 12 when I had that opportunity, as David Suzuki Secondary School (D.S.S.S.) introduced its first ever Sikh Student Association (S.S.A.), a collection of numerous Sikhs throughout D.S.S.S. Upon joining this club,

Natashia Apangchan Canadian Identity As an immigrant, and of the 7 years that I’ve stayed here in Canada, I’ve come to know some of the Canadian identity. I have lots on mind but the things that stand out the most is that Canadians are so patriotic and generous, and diverse. To me, I see the Canadians as patriotic because their love for their country is very strong. I have seen the pride in their eyes when they say that they are Canadian.

For my first diversity event I decided to attend the 43rd annual Mankato wacipi (Powwow). I chose this event because I attended some like it when I was younger. I always have admired Native Americans and their deep connection with their spirituality. I remember in fifth grade my elementary school hosted a Powwow that my mother and I attended. This was the first time I have ever been exposed to the Native American culture and the memory has stuck with me till now.

Both of my parents are Vietnamese but I was born here in Canada at Trillium Hospital, Mississauga, Ontario. Yes, I am proud to be a Canadian. Since my parents are Vietnamese, I can speak fluent English and Vietnamese. I can understand Vietnamese a lot better than I can speak it.

How are you? I have been doing great! Just being busy around Towson’s campus as usual. I actually just came back from my class’s bake sale and pie a professor event that I told you about a couple weeks ago. We successfully raised about $130 today for the refugee children’s education in Darfur, Sudan!

“Ma 'am, I 'm gonna try my hardest ta keep myself straight. I might’ve fell off the wagon, but I’s got back up, didn 't I?” “Yes, sir, you sure did! “ “And, I’s a keep pickin’ myself up as long as I has y’all ta lean on…” “I talked with Henry last night and we have decided to move up to Cherokee County.

My Cultural Hat The cultural hat that represents me and that is deeply significant to me would be a mother to my four children. Some of the artifacts from my past as being a mother would be sleepless nights, baby bottles and lots of diapers. As my children have grown older and more independent. Some of the artifacts in the present would be their homework, sporting events. In the future some of the artifacts that I have to look forward to would be buying them their fist car, high school graduations and paying college tuition.

Port Renfrew, Vancouver Island, where the fog rises before your eyes. In the summer between the tenth and eleventh grade, my family decided that Vancouver Island would be lovely to visit. I agreed; I would have a chance to photograph what I never have before. Although it was summer, the temperature was significantly lower, with the sun straying close to the clouds. I remember the open sea, in all its unrestrained glory, the way it nipped at me as I strayed near the edge of the cliffs, I did that often.

Native American Ceremonies’ When I was ten years old I learned of my Indian culture. I learned I was of the Cherokee tribe. My dad had always hung Indian decorations in our home, but I have never given much thought of why he has done so. This peaked my interest, so I started asking questions. He told me we were part Cherokee and part Choctaw native American.

Life as a Native American sucks. I realized this when I was a little kid. I’ve come to accept that what other people label or describes us as are true. I’m not happy to admit this they are right. My people don’t do anything to prove these people’s claims, or better known as stereotypes, about Native Americans wrong.

I was following my father, trying to keep up. With each step my foot sank into the snow up to my knee. The snow wasn’t really that deep, but it was for an eight-year-old boy. We had gone out to collect zinc buckets, filled with clear, odorless and tasteless liquid, which we had set up a few days before. The liquid was sap from maple trees that would eventually be boiled down to become syrup.

I got so dirty! So we stopped at a hotel for the night,so i could take a shower,and so we could also get some sleep. The next day was okay except for the part when my mom got pulled over. When we pulled up to my dad’s driveway the next door neighbor started freaking out. Because, she saw a black guy in a white neighborhood, she called the cops.

January 11, 2013, I wake up to yelling, prayers, and crying. I walked into the kitchen where all the noises were coming from and I found my mother on the floor crying, talking on the phone with my godmother. My father was there by her side, trying hard not to cry while supporting his wife. I didn’t know what was happening, this was the first time I’ve seen my mom so vulnerable and broken. My parents didn’t tell me anything other than my grandmother was in critical condition at the hospital, but with god's help she would overcome this hard time.

He put on his headphone silencers and strapped on his small case that protects his Boogie Board (don’t leave home without it). His jacket is on, and he is ready for the bus, impatiently pacing from the front door to the kitchen and back again. I continue standing by the front door even though the storm door is locked; safety has to be foremost on my mind. Bobby could unlock the storm door and be outside in a heartbeat. The dead end subdivision is no comfort considering the flow of traffic on the street is like a runaway train on a downhill course.