Personal Narrative
Sherice Gayden
September 25, 2012
UNIV 112- Personal Narrative
Never a Place to Call Home
After walking into Piccadilly’s, we were seated in the center booth against the wall where you had a view of the whole room. We were each given plates and access to the buffet after giving our drink orders. After we all sit down and are waiting we are approached by a lady and her two sons; she turns to my grandfather and says hello. This is not a unfamiliar happening to me, having random people come up and greet us, everybody in the city seems to know the famous Dr. Horn. Whether from teaching them in middle school, being their high school principal, or doing their taxes through H and R block people from all over Wichita seem to recognize him. When I looked up I see she had turned to me and was speaking. “… she called me Moncy then.”
“Um, I am sorry can you repeat that please?”
She chuckles slightly at, “I said I knew your mom in high school, actually since elementary school, but she called me Moncy back then.”
The familiar pang hits me. The feeling of missing something, but how could you miss something you never had. I missed the feeling of having a hometown. Not just a hometown, but a bind with a community, a place I can return to and see and reminisce about the past and meet up with old friends. I smile to the lady, once known as Moncy, and return to my food trying to forget the feeling of loss.
The life of a military child is not an easy; in an average career of twenty years families move about nine times leaving behind everything they know and have come to love. They have to adjust to new communities and lifestyles, and depending on the move new countries and traditions. They can never get too comfortable because at last minute notice the government can force you to move half way across the world. I was born into the life of a military child and have known no other type of life, and as a child it was a fun experience of meeting new people and going to exotic
September 25, 2012
UNIV 112- Personal Narrative
Never a Place to Call Home
After walking into Piccadilly’s, we were seated in the center booth against the wall where you had a view of the whole room. We were each given plates and access to the buffet after giving our drink orders. After we all sit down and are waiting we are approached by a lady and her two sons; she turns to my grandfather and says hello. This is not a unfamiliar happening to me, having random people come up and greet us, everybody in the city seems to know the famous Dr. Horn. Whether from teaching them in middle school, being their high school principal, or doing their taxes through H and R block people from all over Wichita seem to recognize him. When I looked up I see she had turned to me and was speaking. “… she called me Moncy then.”
“Um, I am sorry can you repeat that please?”
She chuckles slightly at, “I said I knew your mom in high school, actually since elementary school, but she called me Moncy back then.”
The familiar pang hits me. The feeling of missing something, but how could you miss something you never had. I missed the feeling of having a hometown. Not just a hometown, but a bind with a community, a place I can return to and see and reminisce about the past and meet up with old friends. I smile to the lady, once known as Moncy, and return to my food trying to forget the feeling of loss.
The life of a military child is not an easy; in an average career of twenty years families move about nine times leaving behind everything they know and have come to love. They have to adjust to new communities and lifestyles, and depending on the move new countries and traditions. They can never get too comfortable because at last minute notice the government can force you to move half way across the world. I was born into the life of a military child and have known no other type of life, and as a child it was a fun experience of meeting new people and going to exotic