Personal Narrative

Personal Narrative Yet another Thanksgiving, and I was stuck in my uncle’s basement watching the Redskins face off the Dallas Cowboys. Michael Jordan, Serena Williams, and various other famous athletes all grinned at me from their respective Wheaties boxes, seemingly mocking my pain. My uncle collected them and, for some reason, had decided the bright orange boxes would be a great decorative addition to the basement wall behind the television. I remember once, when I was younger, I was searching for a movie to watch and I accidentally brushed against a limited edition Michael Jordan box. The box began to teeter, and I immediately knew that I was doomed. All the boxes began to fall like dominos to the floor. My uncle, needless to say, was furious. Thus, it was seemingly fitting that the offended boxes, now realigned on the wall, would have the privilege to witness my torture by football.
I shift uncomfortably on the couch, trying unsuccessfully to reposition myself so my brother’s elbow isn’t jabbing into my side. The basement is much too small to accommodate my entire extended family, and we are packed tightly together on the L-shaped couch in front of the television.
“Do you want to come with me upstairs?” I whisper to my cousin, who is sitting to my left.
“Nah, I wanna watch the game,” Natasha responds, keeping her eyes glued to the television. I sigh and get up from my seat to go upstairs.
“Where are you going, Gracie?” my aunt coos after me in her annoyingly nasally voice.
“Upstairs,” I respond curtly, leaving the room and ascending the stairs to the first floor. My parents, the only two people not watching the game, sit upstairs, conspiring over a bottle of Pinot Noir.
“Aren’t you going to watch the game with the others?” my mom asks me as I plop down in the chair adjacent to her.
“No. Football is stupid.”
“Why don’t you ask Natasha if she’d like to do something else with you?” she suggests.
“Already did.” She nods sympathetically in