Personal Narrative-The Ravences

The Ravences
When I was a young boy in the 3000s, my mother was so kind to me and caring. she always said it would change. The world would change. That this world would become kind and open to our class. I believed her optimistic words for most of my childhood and a small portion of my teenage years. She kept me moving forward with my life. Every insult, threat, or outburst thrown at me was deflected by my gentle mother’s soft voice playing in my head; things would change soon, they had to.
I used to watch the news and see the warzone of a city we used to inhabit. Fighting, muggings, and robberies littered the screen every night from five to nine before I fell asleep to the sirens that hummed over the reporter's words. But, I didn't let it
I wish I could have used some of those expensive sleep pills my mother used to take before bed for insomnia but I had run out. I had been taking them since she passed to make myself sleep. The night felt so long, especially with the small amount of sleep I received. The sunrise started me wide awake through my stainless glimmering glass window. I had been keeping the house clean, very clean for a while. I don’t know why, but the house felt dirty. I rolled out of bed quickly, got dressed in some blue jeans and an orange shirt with my mother's reading glasses in my pocket. I then walk out of my room into the small claustrophobic space that anyone else without claustrophobia would call a hallway and made my way out into the kitchen. My father sat there listening to our old radio that was passed down to me by my grandparents. “I didn't know that thing still got reception,” I stated in a purposefully interrupting manner. Then my father, shocked, spun around as fast as a cheetah and gasped “You scared me, and of course, it still works!” “Sorry,” I replied in a sarcastic tone. “So, if I recall, your birthday is in a week right?” My father asked, quickly changing the subject. “Yes,” I blurted. “How did you remember?” I can't imagine the crackle in my surprised voice sounded in that moment. “How could I forget your birthday? And I was wondering once you do turn 18. would you like to go to L.A. and protest with me? It will get you out of
We ended up taking public transportation including buses, trains, and taxis. The rides were almost silent. Of course nobody there was upper class and the middle classmen didn’t dare waste their words on us. Then it wasn’t a big deal, I was used to it. Being rude was uncommon otherwise but it was just normal for people to avoid talking to anyone in a higher class if they weren’t your employer or manager at work if you had a job. When we eventually made our way to L.A. my father stepped off of the nearly overcrowded bus and gestured for me to follow him through the vacant intersections leading to a medium sized square building with a shining LED panel reading “The Ravinces Hotel”. As we approached the building the smell of the stew my father had made for me on my birthday and on his first night home, came rushing into my senses. I then knew where he had gotten the recipe. “Huh this is the Ravinces”, I thought as we entered the building. The hotel lobby was filled with people of all different classes, some people were wearing baggy clothes that barely hung onto their thin bony bodies and others were wearing suits with the checkered badge symbolizing their service in the nation’s government and or great wealth. A few men were playing poker and pool while some men and women wearing casual sweats gossiped about the city news and who had won the lottery of the week. In the background, there was