American Culture
Being American doesn’t mean you’re white and live in a big city. Being American is so much more. Being American means having your own culture and adapting to everyone else’s around you. When you think of America, what do you think of? Do you think of the land of the free where everyone has a job and lives in a nice home? Or do you think of Baseball, apple pie and cars? Neither are true American cultures. It hurts me to say that Americans are much divided in many ways. We live our own lives hoping to survive and only care for a few people. Most cultures work together to care for everyone in their community. Now, Americans come together, but only when it’s truly needed. The American culture is divided, yet united. Diverse, and yet strangely connected. We’re quiet, and yet loud when someone needs to hear our voice. Were American, but were still so much more.
My culture
My mom’s side of the family is Italian. My Nona on my mom’s side came from Italy after marrying her dead sister’s husband. (It’s messed up, I know) A little while later, my Nana was born. When she was 17, she met my papa. Years later my mom was born. My mom used to tell me stories of when she was little and Nona would cook her all kinds of Italian food and how much she loved it all. When I was born, my Nana and mom would take me to my Nona’s and we would have Italian feasts, my entire family would always be there. I can remember playing around with my cousins Nicole, Pam, and Michael before the food was done. Now that my Nona is gone and my family grew up, I miss it all. I haven’t been to an Italian feast since I was six. My Nona held my family together, and now that she’s gone, all I can do is remember and hope that I’ll see her again someday. I can remember the last time I saw my Nona, even though everyone tells me I was too young to remember. It was November, 2 days after my birthday, I had just turn seven and I remember I was so excited to see her. I walked into the dull yellow room. I saw her, lying on the ugly green bed. She was so sick; her skin had a yellow tint that would make almost anyone tear up. I had a feeling I wouldn’t be seeing her too much anymore. That’s a lot to take in for a seven year old; especially when the person is one of your best friends. Honestly, I don’t remember too much of our conversation after that. The last thing I remember, Is the look on her face when I told her I was leaving. It wasn’t a sad look; it was more of a “you’re going to do great kid” look that your dad gives you before a big game. I guess we both knew, we wouldn’t be together for very much longer. I went home that night and sat on my floor and sobbed praying to god that he would take my friend away. I found out the next morning that my Nona was dead. She was one of my best friends. She’s my guardian angel and everyone’s best friend in the family. She held us together, she was our life. She crated my culture.
Being American doesn’t mean you’re white and live in a big city. Being American is so much more. Being American means having your own culture and adapting to everyone else’s around you. When you think of America, what do you think of? Do you think of the land of the free where everyone has a job and lives in a nice home? Or do you think of Baseball, apple pie and cars? Neither are true American cultures. It hurts me to say that Americans are much divided in many ways. We live our own lives hoping to survive and only care for a few people. Most cultures work together to care for everyone in their community. Now, Americans come together, but only when it’s truly needed. The American culture is divided, yet united. Diverse, and yet strangely connected. We’re quiet, and yet loud when someone needs to hear our voice. Were American, but were still so much more.
My culture
My mom’s side of the family is Italian. My Nona on my mom’s side came from Italy after marrying her dead sister’s husband. (It’s messed up, I know) A little while later, my Nana was born. When she was 17, she met my papa. Years later my mom was born. My mom used to tell me stories of when she was little and Nona would cook her all kinds of Italian food and how much she loved it all. When I was born, my Nana and mom would take me to my Nona’s and we would have Italian feasts, my entire family would always be there. I can remember playing around with my cousins Nicole, Pam, and Michael before the food was done. Now that my Nona is gone and my family grew up, I miss it all. I haven’t been to an Italian feast since I was six. My Nona held my family together, and now that she’s gone, all I can do is remember and hope that I’ll see her again someday. I can remember the last time I saw my Nona, even though everyone tells me I was too young to remember. It was November, 2 days after my birthday, I had just turn seven and I remember I was so excited to see her. I walked into the dull yellow room. I saw her, lying on the ugly green bed. She was so sick; her skin had a yellow tint that would make almost anyone tear up. I had a feeling I wouldn’t be seeing her too much anymore. That’s a lot to take in for a seven year old; especially when the person is one of your best friends. Honestly, I don’t remember too much of our conversation after that. The last thing I remember, Is the look on her face when I told her I was leaving. It wasn’t a sad look; it was more of a “you’re going to do great kid” look that your dad gives you before a big game. I guess we both knew, we wouldn’t be together for very much longer. I went home that night and sat on my floor and sobbed praying to god that he would take my friend away. I found out the next morning that my Nona was dead. She was one of my best friends. She’s my guardian angel and everyone’s best friend in the family. She held us together, she was our life. She crated my culture.
nice job decribing your friends!! funny! lol =D
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