I come from a background of divorce and grit. My young mother, with dreams bigger than her reality, married a much older man. He was an airline pilot in Cuba, his third marriage, and I’d be the last of his many kids. He was 64 when I was born, my mother in her early thirties. The man was tired, worn out. They divorced when I was three, in New Jersey. Immigrants, scraping by with hard work and blue-collar jobs. My father took whatever work he could find, mostly driving trucks. The communists in Cuba had torpedoed any real chances for future success in the United States. My two brothers and I ended up on public assistance. Then my mother started dating another man, and that’s when the real chaos began. Drugs and alcohol stormed into our lives, ushering in years of domestic violence, drama, and constant moving. New schools, new roach-infested apartments every six months. One day, a neighbor had a garage sale. We couldn’t afford much, but my eyes lit up when I saw a trunk full of draw...
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This is what part of I wrote for my lst home work. It is long, but I just wanted to share with you.
"Lately I often wonder where my home is. I lived in Japan for 18 years and lived in America for 6 years. Every year I go home, but the home I grow up is no longer there. I was already an outsider when I first came home. Now there are buildings that I never saw, there was music that I never heard, and there was no longer my house that I grew up in. Home is a safe place for every person. For some people it is in front of TV or inside of bed. I now have my safe place with my husband, but it is still missing some part of home. Because of leaving my hometown, I’m now able to understand what home really is. "