Bumpy Car Research Paper

Reading Enrique’s Journey, When the Emperor was Divine, and “Please Hear What I’m Not Saying” this semester has taught me there is more to the world than what is seen on the surface, which, in turn, has bettered my sense of global empathy. Sonia Nazario’s fictional novel Enrique’s Journey, sheds light on the truth behind the reason people migrate and the journey. Many of the people making this journey are children trying to locate their mothers in America because, in Enrique’s words, “My mom told me she loves me. No one else ever told me that” (143). The bond between a mother and child is not something that can be easily replaced.

She then would deliver papers at one in the morning to help my father give my brother and I the best life we could have. She gave up her free time to pay for school, out of school activities, and Disney Vacations every year. I remember overhearing my mother crying because she was so

On weekends I would help out my brother, Panchito, and Papa. We would listen to Braceros and Papa would tell us stories that happened to him in Mexico during our half hour of lunch we had. Papa told us once that he joined the Cristero Revolt in 1926, and unfortunately he had been shot in the knee and was in jail for 6 months. Papa sometimes said that he wanted to be a strawberry sharecropper, and when the opportunity came, he felt torn. He could not deice whether or not to become a strawberry sharecropper or still work for Ito.

I swam back to shore like I was competing for a gold medal. The saltiness of the water splashed on my face with every stroke. A few yards behind me, Claire and Janie rushed towards that warm sand. The sun was beaming on my back as I was gliding to safety. Finally, we all reached that point were all the waves start crashing and sighed with relief.

I always watched from the same spot on the porch, entertained from her laughter and seeing her body shake with joy. “Julie,” Paul said from behind me. “I need to talk to you.” My heart, so distant, sped up that second. I thought of the light I had turned on when Travis kissed me months before.

There were rice plants on my left and farm animals on my right. I grew up in New York City, so you can imagine the millions of questions that were running through my head. I’d never been to the countryside of the Dominican Republic before, but when I finally did, I couldn’t be more ecstatic, despite the scorching Caribbean sun burning down on my brown skin. I hadn’t visited the Dominican Republic since I was four years old. All I had was vague memories of my grandmother’s boisterous laugh and the chickens in the backyard I loved chasing after.

Crossing the street, I could feel Texas in the air, it was a cool spring April day, the air was dry, and sweet with new spring foliage. Spring in Texas was favorite time of year. As we are saying our goodbyes, my nieces, Crista seven, and Carrie six are crying so hard it makes my heart ache. Sandra eyes filled with tears, gives me a big hug "I love you Ronda," she says, "I am so proud of you," as she reaches up, and brushes the hair from my eyes, like she had done so many times before.

Not so Overseas When crossing the border of Mexico to the United States, I feel most think of the adults that find their way crossing what can be very dangerous parts of the border. I want to tell a story about a little girl, Lupe Guerra found herself in the same dangerous situation with her family without really knowing what was going on at the time. Being so young thinking that her and her family are just “moving”. After several years of severe poverty in Mexico City, Mexico, the Guerra family was at a cross road.

Fernando began to say good-bye to his friends before he headed up the hill to his house. He typically stayed out until midnight on a regular day playing with friends from his small town, but tomorrow he had to be up early. His older brothers had gotten married a few months ago, so now at the age of 16 it was his turn to go over to the United States or to him “El Norte” to work and support the rest of the family. He woke to a sudden sound of the door opening, it was his dad, Jose, telling him it was time to get up and hurry because they were leaving in a few minutes.

The issue of migration from Central and South America is a problem that is rooted in both poverty and the hardships that come in the journey to the United States. This dilemma is emphasized in “Enrique’s Journey”, by Sonia Nazario. In the book, we follow the story and journey of Enrique, whose course from Honduras to the United States is filled with peril. Growing up without his mother, Enrique grew up in poverty and was unable to find the means to support both himself and his future family. He later continues the cycle of turmoil and regret that his mother had started.

My sisters and I have all had our problems dealing with mental health, and even substance abuse. She has always stayed by our side and was there to help when we couldn’t help

In Central America, some parents leave their children, and set out a journey to the United States in hopes of making a better life for them. In the book by Sonia Nazario titled Enrique’s Journey, author Nazario writes about how a young Honduran boy goes on a journey to find his mother, Lourdes, who had left him when he was just a child. As Enrique is growing up, he assumes that she went to the U.S to make her life better, but in reality, she is working extremely hard to make a life for her two children she left behind. Enrique feels a sense of loneliness, and believes that no one truly loves him. He spent most of his time living with his grandma, until he started to do drugs and come home late.

The moment I step from the scratchy green grass in my yard to the cool smooth leather of my boat, I feel as though I am in a completely different universe. Out on the open water, with the wind caressing her fingers through my hair, white spray shooting up from underneath, I can relax. I look backwards at the wake cutting through an otherwise tranquil surface with the ease and fluidity of a hot knife through butter. The water is a cool blue, save for the orange buoys dotting the shoreline like freckles.

The glass from the corona yellow 1995 Suzuki Sierra rippled and shattered, there was a pressure against his throat that made him sputter, gurgling from laceration; instinctively Alex clawed a hand against the side of his neck, numbly touching the glass shard which embedded into the pulse of his skin, his eyes glistening in terror. Alex could still recall looking down and seeing the ground begin to lap and ripple beneath his feet, his eyes rolling back into your skull. The last thing Alex could remember thinking was the word ‘yellow’, before his head began moving in reverse through blackness; rapidly going through an endless tunnel towards a dimension of

Even without our monocular we could see dark ominous clouds hovering like grim reapers above the humongous mountain of waves and swirling hurricanes. The chaotic scenery that was both dreadful and incomprehensible took away the romanticism in me. Curiosity turned into terror. The sense of dread crept like a whole host of insects down my spine. My mind could no longer hold back the swell of emotions, so I began to drift distancing myself from the tangible horror before me.