Personal Narrative: Struggle for the American Dream

My Saturday NightWhen I grow up, I want to have a big, big house with stairs and lots of kinds, and a big, big room, and, and As a child, I believe that was my biggest dream and goal in life. To be, as the saying says, barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen was what I wanted out of life. Living the perfect life—The American Dream.

I remember Saturdays with my family. During the day, my mom and I would head out to the mall to go shopping, and make that one phone call home at about five in the afternoon.

Calling in to check up on the plans for the night. Oh how I loved those Saturday nights. Usually, Ben, my dads best friend would call and let us know the arrangements.

My dad had a group of friends from when he was in high school, which we would always get together with on a weekly basis. How I loved them so much—as if they were my own uncles.

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Most commonly, we would go to one of my dads friends houses for a get together and order some pizza.

Those were my favorite nights, only because most often we would go to Bens house, which was 2 stories and about 6,000 sq.ft. The adults would hang around in the living room, dinning room, or the kitchen as the masses of children, of all ages, ran around the house playing, screaming, and occasionally crying. I was among the older kids leading the group and watching over the younger ones.

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Growing up with these kinds meant a lot to me. I loved the authority of being able to direct the children, or being the mediator when they would fight. I even remember when some of them were born. One in particular, which I remember so vividly, was when Nicole was born. I was about six or seven. We went to Cedar Sinai in Beverly Hills to visit her parents, Mariam and Joseph, as well as to see her for the very first time. I loved children so much that these kids werent just family friends to me, they were like my own brothers and sisters looking up to me as their role model.

As I was growing older, my parents friends families were growing bigger. That subjected them into moving from their condominiums on the prestigious Wilshire Corridor, to enormous two sometimes three-story houses in the heart of Beverly Hills. Each of the Saturday nights wed go to a different friends house. As I slowly became familiar with each of their houses, I picked my favorite. It was the house with the steps that went straight up to the second floor and split in two just before it got to its destination. It had a total of six bedrooms and eight baths, a formal dining room, living room, family room and my personal favorites the his and her baths and closets, the toy room and the pool.

The very first time we went to Mariams house was when she was pregnant with her third of four children. Mariam and her family hadnt yet moved in, but we came over for a swim on a lovely Sunday afternoon. My little brother, Nathan, was the same age as Mariams second child, Brian. Nicole and I would play in the gorgeous pool that had a bridge crossing over it. Joseph had tied a rope from the top of one gate surrounding the pool to the other side. He also had another that hung from that rope.

Nathan, Nicole and Brian would hang from the rope and push themselves off the gate just like George of the Jungle. Nicole and I would be teasing our brothers, throwing them around—laughing and playing tricks. One time, when Brian was swinging on the rope howling like George, and singing George, George, George of the Jungle George, George, George of the Jungle George, George, George of the Junglewatch out for that—ahhhhhhh! and drop into the pool. Just before Brian could get to his finale, Nicole and I pantsed him. We started to laugh and giggle, as our moms became angry with us.

As the years went by, we went to Mariams home more often. Dinner on Friday nights, get togethers Saturday nights, Sunday afternoon swims. I even spent a few weekends with Mariam helping out with the kids when Joseph was out of town on business. Gradually it reached the point where I am now tutoring the kids.

Now, I am so glad to be able to go to a home that I have so many fond memories in. I get to tutor for my dream family, the same family that I used to wish I could be apart of. Everyday when I approach the green front gate and wait to be buzzed in, I look up high at the roof of the house and I say, wow—I wish that was my house. When the large front door opens with the surrounding stain glass windows, and Mariam opens the door with a big smile on her face greeting me in the door, I think to myself Im so lucky to be able to have what some might call, a second home.

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Personal Narrative: Struggle for the American Dream. (2016, Jul 09). Retrieved from

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