Category: Childhood Memories

In the 7th grade during cultural week, I vividly remember being asked to explain my cultural background in a paragraph. The teacher specified that we should talk about what makes our heritage special and what we are most proud of in terms of our cultural identity. I thought my answer to this question would be simple. I’ve always told people that I’m half Peruvian and half Bolivian. It was quite a different response from my peers who proudly answered that they were 100% Colombian or Venezuelan, born and raised. When asked to talk about what my heritage means to me and how I embrace my cultural identity, I began to feel stuck. Although I’ve occasionally gone on family trips to each of my parents’ home countries, I have lived in Florida my entire life. English is my primary language and my Spanish, as Melissa Lozada-Oliva beautifully explained in a poem, “is an itchy phantom limb: reaching for a word and only finding air.”

When I reflect on how I grew up, the primary language I speak at school and home, friends, neighbors, and classmates I’ve been surrounded with, I feel as though my life story closely resembles that of any other American. The only difference is in the background details. I can speak and understand Spanish, I have been to places most of my peers have never been to, and in these places, I have people that I can call family.

Being born and raised in South America, my parents had an incredibly different lifestyle. My mom grew up in Bolivia, and my dad in Peru. Since I was born, we’d travel as a family with my sister to visit their hometowns at least once a year. One thing that always stood out to me was how mirrored my mom and dad’s families were. They each had the Hispanic, stereotypical, sizeable families consisting of my grandparents, and many aunts, uncles, and cousins which I perceived as a great contrast to my small four-membered family. Staying in Peru and Bolivia, two impoverished countries in South America, I was astonished by the difference in their traditional lifestyles compared to mine at home.

At my mom’s childhood home where everyone got together, my two aunts would spend most of the day in the kitchen preparing full-course meals for the bunch of us gathered together close by. In Peru it was no different, my grandmother basically lived in the kitchen, making sure every family member had their preferred plate, from ceviche to lomo saltado, to my personal favorite, aji de gallina. I’ve never witnessed such a chaotic household as my family, and I thought to myself how different is at home. I noticed how much families from both sides give special importance to family values and cherish family gatherings. In Peru and Bolivia, Sunday is the dedicated family day where everyone comes together for lunch, with no uncle, great-aunt, or distant cousin ever being a stranger.

What I learned from seeing them engage in these traditions and values firsthand was how energetic and passionate I can be about everything in life. My perspective of viewing the world changed as I felt connected to such a vibrant way of life. Family is my motivation to seek

I had Living in such impoverished places, they make up the Hispanic community which I hear so much about from my parents. 

If further down in my school career I get asked about my cultural identity, I would know. I would reflect the Peruvian-Bolivian heritage that makes up who I am through my family who live in faraway countries. My cultural experience has driven me I be proud to be of Peruvian-Bolivian heritage. My cultural identity is a huge part of who I am today.  

I could see the beaches, stretching for miles. Rocks, broken down by the almighty sea for millions of years to form the very dunes that were situated before me. Precision crafting used to form the beautiful agricultural landscape that spans the entirety of the island. The tall, emerald-colored grass greeted me as it waved in the strong ocean breeze. The blazing sun, beaming down and reflecting off the majestic, turquoise sea. It blinded me. The unmistakable scent of peat, carried in the wind. In the distance, broad white-colored buildings. The distilleries are situated around the island and contain the beverage that the island is most famous for – whisky. These are the fundamental foundations of the Isle of Islay, my second home.

Islay is a compact island within the Hebrides in West Scotland. I would take a miniature, ramshackle boat, that was used to transport both pedestrians and cargo to the island. As we began driving, I rolled down the window and was welcomed with the invigorating, yet distinct smell of nature, which alleviated the nausea that was constantly building up in me as we drove through the badly conditioned roads that snaked through the island. I remember reading my retro Marvel comics, depicting the life of my favorite superhero, Spiderman, as I sat with my neck craned in the car. The neck-ache slowly dawned over me as I flipped through the pages. Subsequently, we drove through a historic town called Port Charlotte on the west coast of the island. There was a church, obtaining an angular frame, with large stain glass windows, illuminated from the other side, creating a collage of vibrant color. Like that of a kaleidoscope. On my right-hand side, through the tinted glass windows of my family transporter, was a dilapidated lighthouse, huge in size and hexagonal in shape, emitting a strong yellow tinted light which was filtered through the hazy fog coating the bay. As we neared my grandparents’ house, butterflies would flutter in my stomach as my anticipation would sharply escalate. When the car came to a halt, we would leap out of the car, collect our luggage, and inhale the finest fresh air, peat still lingering within it. My grandparents lived in a small village called Bowmore. It keeps its part in my heart since it reminds me of my younger and more excitable self. My grandparents would greet me, my grandmother’s soothing voice brightening my mood as the exhaustion from travelling took its toll on me. It gave me a sense of reassurance and security. My grandmother had a short stance, she had light grey-colored hair, with white streaks running through it. She had incredibly unique, bright blue-colored eyes and wore natural-colored knitted jumpers that she crafted in her spare time. My grandfather was average height, he had thin, white-colored hair, a medium build, and pale, wrinkled skin. He always wore a beige patterned shirt, fastened to the top with a tidy looking bowtie. Complimenting this, he wore deep brown cord trousers, topped off with a leather belt. With the shiniest oxfords, freshly polished, on his feet. The light reflecting off the toe.

My grandparents lived in a miniature cottage, overlooking the rolling sea that escaped into the horizon. The terraced building was cased in white painted sandstone, The interior had a very warm feeling, the toasty fire emitting a warm flame warming up the spring weather. Accompanied by the mahogany wood floor, the sun beaming upon it and projecting onto the olive-green painted wall. The roof was held up by five thick stained beams and acted as the main structural support for the miniature Edwardian cottage. The village was always quiet, there were very few pedestrians, all I could hear was the beautiful sound of birdsong which complimented the connection with nature that I endured.

When I was there, there was no sound, no traffic noise, no commuters making their way to work. Instead, you find yourself in a polar-opposite atmosphere, with an eternity of peace and tranquility, all you can hear is the soft rhythmic sounds of the waves rolling in the horizon. The scorching red sun emitting orange-colored light that blanketed the daytime sky behind it. The undulating water was whipped up to form the frothy wake that flowed towards the bay. The sheer strength of the sea creates the texture of the water, making a unique pattern, like a mosaic.

Looking back, I can almost feel the fresh air, the wind is comforting. I was walking among the numerous grand trees and admired the colored leaves scattered along the gravel footpath. I miss that feeling of calmness and stability of the world around. I wish I could return to the reality of those feelings once more. I will never forget about the happiness of staying in my grandparents’ house. This ultimately made Islay the place it was. I have a natural connection with the place, and it will always be a part of me.

Traveling is a very crucial part of every human being’s life because people travel from one place to another for different purposes. For example, it can be related to exploring the new place, work, and so on. I have traveled to certain places in my life and I enjoyed it a lot. But I would like to write about a zoo which is located near my hometown in India. That zoo is very popular because of numerous animals and its bigger size with a lot of greenery. When I was in the 8th standard, I went there with my family and it was a great experience for me. The memories of that place are very close to my heart. I and my family did so much fun there. I saw the gift of nature.

Furthermore, If I talk about the landscape, it is very interesting and even it was the first time when I went there. The area of that place is very huge because it covers many acres. The first and foremost part of the zoo which was innocent and cute animals. They looked very beautiful. The other most fascinating point of that zoo is that there are so many trees, plants. There is also one lake which enhances the beauty of the area. The different types of plants were grown in the gardens of the zoo. It was such a good place. Moreover, that place is far away from crowded cities. At that place, I was feeling very happy because I was exploring different things and I came to know about the numerous animals. The place was very calm and peaceful. I was hearing only the voice of animals such as lion, elephant. The volume of that sound was very high, but it was good. Besides this, I also heard that the birds were chirping.

When I remember these childhood memories, I feel happy. In addition, my early experiences in this place shaped my adult career preferences in some way, one of which is my memories. This is because by growing the age these have stored in my heart and my mind. Moreover, I will not forget it for the rest of my life, and if I have the opportunity to work for animals, I will also remember my early memories.

In last, my experience at that place was very good. I think that nature has given many things in which experience, explore to new places, memories, happiness and peace and diversity are included. Furthermore, I also want to say that every person has his/her own experience for different places so, I think they should remember such beautiful experiences because with the help of that they can get happiness, innovation, and other things.

I love music. I come from a line of musicians. My father has a mariachi, his dad did also and so do a few of my uncles. While I was always too thick-headed to learn how to play an instrument (not for the lack of trying I spent 4 unsuccessful years in Band class), I have always appreciated their sound. I am listening to piano music as I write this, funny.

Because of my love for music, my dreams are often filled with sound. On many occasions, I have woken up humming a familiar tune while having completely forgotten the content of the dream. While as an adult these tend to often be songs I have been listening to too much of, when I was a kid, they would be completely original pieces that I had never heard before. Part of why I wanted to learn an instrument was to recreate the songs from my childhood dreams.

Because music is powerful.

It can be a time machine.

When I listen to Breaking Benjamin’s Evil Angel I am immediately transported to my teenage years when I would spend sleepless nights reading One Piece chapters. I can see the fight between Luffy and the Thunder God, despite no longer being able to remember his name.

When I was ten or so, I heard a song I had never heard before. It was played by a violin and it was beautiful. It was a sound that I can only describe as melancholic, almost feudal. For the next week, I was obsessed with it. I would hum it constantly, fearful that if I didn’t I would forget it. Every night I hummed it to sleep hoping to hear it again, unbastardized by my 10-year-old pipes.

I soon understood that I had no control over the music box in my dreams. Defeated, I let it go. I would still hum it every once in a while, but I realized that I would never dream it again.

Years passed, I grew up, failed at learning to play the violin, and graduated high school, but I still loved music. But I loved other things too; namely, psychedelics. While I was blazing through grad school, on my off time my high school buddies thought it was the funniest thing in the world to get together and do shrooms or LSD. A break from the fast-paced life of graduate papers. I remember one time getting so messed up that I sat in the corner for all of 5 minutes thinking I had been there millennia traveling through the universe.

On one special occasion, a week before graduation, and two months before the beginning of my career, I decided to go out with a bang. My friends and I loaded up on dabs, shrooms, and LSD and took off to the middle of the woods for a crazy camping trip.

It started wonderfully from what I can remember, one guy had never taken dabs before and ended up stoned enough to try imitating the way the fire moved for a good 15 minutes. I started with weed, then ate a few mushrooms, then decided I felt fine enough to mix LSD in.

That is when I heard a gunshot.

In retrospect, it was probably some jerk illegally hunting in the higher parts of the mountain, but my ass was so high that it sent me into a panic. I was jumping around screaming and freaking everyone out. I was later told that I was yelling unintelligible nonsense about police brutality and a secret death squad. Jesus. The two friends who had pulled the sober straw had to hold me down to prevent me from hurting myself or anyone else, eventually calming me down enough for me to fall asleep.

I remember dreaming of blackness. I felt nothing, and I could see nothing.

But I could hear, ever so softly, a tune. I struggled to focus on it, like switching to a radio station while it is in the middle of a song you know but takes you a second to recognize. It began to get louder, closer, and then there it was. The long-forgotten song from my childhood dream was perfectly replicated as if it were the first time. I couldn’t even think. I felt like a tool created by the song for appreciation.

As it got louder though, my vision began to return. At this point, the sound was so loud it was all I could hear, but my focus was perfect.

Normally in dreams, I cannot focus on small details, someone’s eyes, or a coin in my hand; but this was clear, I could see everything. To my surprise, I was in my parent’s house. But it was different, it was…. taller. I began to walk around and realized how close I was to the ground. I was a child! I began to feel that familiar panic of my mind wanting to suck me out of a lucid dream while I struggled against it, but this dream was strong enough to keep me anchored and that feeling quickly went away. I realized that I could pick things up. I was in my old toy room, seeing toys I had not thought about in over fifteen years in vivid detail. I picked up an old The Flash action figure and ran my fingers down the side of his left leg. I had once stuck him between the back tire of my bike and the chain to make a cool motorcycle sound, only to realize afterward that the sound was a result of the chain grinding away at the plastic, leaving groves on his left leg. Groves I could feel as if I was wide awake.

I was so focused on The Flash that I did not notice a pair of eyes looking at me from outside the room; it was my younger brother. Oh my god. He was a child. No older than four.

My younger brother began doing drugs at a much younger age than I did and with less reputable people. By the time he was 14 he had already been expelled from school numerous times, by 16 he got his first DUI (he got high, took my dad’s truck without asking without knowing how to drive stick, and crashed it two blocks down the road into two different parked cars then zigzagged his way back leaving a trail of oil that was too easy to follow). After that arrest, he was in and out of jail, taking money from me, my parents, and my sister. Finally landing in state prison when he stole a state vehicle. While I understand that I ultimately cannot control the actions of others, I always felt like we had been just a little too hard on him, and that I had failed him as an older brother.

But there he was, innocent and pure as an untouched grove. I had forgotten how much bigger his head was from his tiny body when he was a kid, I used to tease him a lot about that. I used to tease him about a lot of things. He was giving me that half-pleading look that meant he wanted to ask me something he knew I would say no to. I slowly walked toward him, trying to stay composed. The last thing I wanted was for him to see me burst into tears. He said something, but I couldn’t hear him. I realized that the music was still playing, loud as ever, it had just blended into the background when I realized where I was.

I woke up to my friends shaking me. The ride home was quiet. I told no one what happened. They didn’t ask many questions.

I don’t do drugs anymore. I got high a few more times after that night and as soon as I would I could see his eyes. As silly as this sounds, I am convinced that I traveled in time. I have had lucid dreams before and it is like comparing pong to 4k definition. More accurately, it is like comparing TV to real life. I could feel my brother’s hair on my cheek when I hugged him. I could see the shade of yellow our old washing machine was outside of the toy room. I tasted my tears.