An Asian Growing Up in America Essay -- Persoanl Narrative Essays

An Asian Growing Up in America The air would always be humid and stuffy while riding the bus to school, and the slightest bump in the road would result in tossing up the kids like salad. The backseat would provide carriage for all the popular and tough kids shouting out at pedestrians on the street or flipping off a middle finger to the bus driver that would shout for them to calm down. I despised those kids in the back. They were the same people that made my life a living hell, while growing up and attending an American school. My parents sometimes got the notion that they knew everything in my life. They constantly advised me to eat my vegetables, do my homework, and put the toilet seat down after going to the bathroom. Yet, I felt as if my mother and father never understood what I went through in school due to the fact that they grew up in a totally different country. I’m sure that if I were raised in an Asian country, no one would pull their eye sockets back and start singing some gabble that didn’t even include a real character in any Asian alphabet, because we would all have the same face. My folks just moved to the â€Å"land of opportunity† in hopes of getting me a bright future; a land that has high school kids shooting up fellow students and teachers. Some future. Everyday was the same for me, having to deal with racial slurs that would otherwise imprison someone for a hate crime if we were adults. All through out freshman, sophomore, junior, and senior year, people gave me nicknames like Bruce Lee or Jackie Chan. It’s a shame that those names never really held up it’s title, due to the fact that I didn’t know anything about Kung Fu or any fancy martial arts. One cold December morning of my 7th grade year in mi... ...t out, I figured what I wanted to do. Knowing that it would be four years of relentless pestering, I knew that someday I would surpass my tormentors; I would keep under cover of my books and study hard to make my brother proud one day. It would be worth the pain to someday walk into a restaurant and see my former bully come to my table wearing an apron and a nametag and wait on me, complete with a lousy tip. To walk the halls of the hospital I work in, sporting a stethoscope and white coat while walking across the floor that was just cleaned not to long ago by the janitor, who was the same boy that tried to pick a fight with me back in middle school. To me, an Asian in an American school is picking up where my brother left off. It’s a promise to my family that I wouldn’t disappoint nor dishonor our name. It’s a battle that’s gains victory without being fought.