Personal Narrative: Life After Italy

Reading has impacted my life by having a creative imagination. I read books to see the world and accept opportunities that are given to me. Opening the cover has made me curious what my life will experience and go through in the future. Not only I have gotten smarter to increase my credentials throughout my life, it has made me ambitious to succeed. I feel that education is not just important to read, but to experience how others feel, and how I would express myself to the world. If my father had not pressured me to open that book, I would not be in college today to puruse a career in medicine. Every word I read, is the second I take to get closer achieving my dreams and having the capabilities to change the world by advocating for better

At this point in my life I find myself in an interesting predicament regarding my attitudes toward reading and writing; more so towards reading. Years ago I used to love reading books for pleasure but nowadays I find myself reading things that little to no effort to digest. This includes the very basic posts on facebook expressing one’s opinion on something or articles and threads on reddit discussing topics I find intriguing. Perhaps it’s the severe senioritis that has overcome me as I enter my last semester at Chapman University. As I’ve gotten lazier I can see it start to reflect in my everyday life. Deep down I still love to read but I rarely find myself getting truly invested into the action unless it relates to something I am very

My mother taught me how to read at a young age. She read to me before I could read which helped me learn new words and develop a basic understanding of literature at an early age. When it came time for me to attend elementary school, I remember heading to the library quite often. Books were organized based on what was thought to be the appropriate reading material for that grade level. I often found myself wandering down the isles with the older kids. I’m so grateful my mother encouraged reading as much as she did. If she hadn’t, it’s very possible I could have struggled with reading. If this were true, I wouldn’t have learned as much as I did, or had the desire to read, which is very important in order to become as advanced in literature as possible.

This works because no one wants to live a boring life, people like to go out and enjoy things. When people find out tht non readers are less likely to enroll in these activities, it scares them and makes them more likely to read. In the survey “reading at risk: A survey of literary reading in america” it is revealed that “business leaders consistently set imagination, creativity, and higher order at the top… and the significance of reading has become a persistent theme in the businesses world.” Gioia includes this to persuade her audience to show how reading can impact whether or not you get a job. Business owners want their employers to have traits that people gain through reading.

I am sitting at my work desk reading an autobiography called the Blood of the Lambs, and I ponder about the amount of time having passed since I have sat down to a nice personal evening with a book. Upon reflection, I realize that the path I took to learning to read wasn’t an easy one and involved time, effort, and hard work.

The author suggests that not reading has worse results that goes beyond just literature. The author persuades this argument by bringing up a real life situation such as getting a job. He quotes an author by the name of Daniel Pink, “the ability to create artistic and emotional beauty, to detect patterns and opportunities”, when asked what kind of talents he likes to see in management positions. Here, the autor does a good job persuading

The economy of Italy hadn’t made any noticeable recovery since World War I. Mussolini wanted to improve and advance the economic state of Italy.

Popular history depicts the Italians of World War II as traitors and incompetent. After all, the country did switch sides midway through the war. However, this perception does a disservice to the hundreds of thousands of Italian Military Internees who refused to join the German

“As I see it today, the ability to read awoke inside me some long dormant craving to be mentally alive,” wrote Malcolm X. As I grew up I really wasn’t a reader. Slowly as I continue to read I started to enjoy it .Today I love to sit and read a good book every now and then. Maybe someday I will write my own book.

Every person who is living and who has lived has a story and a past that makes them the individual they are or were. For Margaret Peterson, a young girl who lived on a farm with her parents and siblings started her passion for reading as a young adolescent. Margaret had grown up in an time where electronics and technology was up and coming. No families in her time and area had TV, cell phones, video games and almost anything that is found in the average home today. For entertainment and hobbies she would spend hours reading at home, in the car, and even on vacation. She lived in an densely populated area, that was not prevalent. Her father was a farmer, like most men in the community were. She lived at home with 3 siblings, 2 brothers and

Reading is a journey. Some stories span four pages, others run thousands of pages, but each type has the possibility to inform a person in any variety of ways. As a reader I have read many text, from George Orwell, Stephen King, Hayek Friedman, to even Donald Trump, I have dabbled into a bit of everything. However, to help expand my reading wanted to read text out of my norm, out of the style that I am usually familiar with, because I feel that in college, am not going to receive the same types of books, same styles, same vocabulary level. This is where my journey began.

I didn’t think much about the white that surrounded me. I didn’t say much when they loaded me into the back of the squad car to drive me to the place. I didn’t flinch when my own father told me I was pathetic. I didn’t shrink away when the guards told me to take all my clothes off and shove them in a tiny plastic bag and to leave it behind because I was now expected to live in my biodegradable scrubs. It wasn’t until I was being escorted into the actual hellhole itself that I started to freak out. There was nothing to ground me, my parents long gone, having left me to my fate as they went back home to cushy luxuries like warm clothes and a television. My hands trembled, dancing their nervous walts at my side, and I felt fear roil in my gut. My stomach felt like it was going to erupt, hot acid like lava in my throat. There was a serene quality to this place, though;

“Welcome back USA, today we have some special guests. The President’s Council. First up Michael Vendici, your sentence is, DEATH.” I pull out the gun from my pocket, load it, and shoot the man. One after the other, all of them dead. Maybe I’m going insane, maybe this is all just an elaborate game but to me, I enjoyed it. I’ve never had a rush of adrenaline like this before in my life. The vengeance fueled my blood and went straight to the brain. I began to hear voices in my head telling me what I should and shouldn’t do. In a chuckling voice I began to talk to my audience again. “You see that, do you see what I did. Aren’t you proud. Oh, there is one last thing that I request, I want the president of the United States, Vincent Poe.” At this point robot officers stormed into the the station. Motion sensor guns pointed at my direction. I knew I couldn’t move , but I saw a familiar face run through the doors, destroying all the robots. One man stood out in the crowd of metal rubble, it was Hugo.

A few years ago, I was talking to an Italian who happened to be the one that introduced me to such a “sport”.

Maybe I could start reading books regularly. I had always been told that I was a strong reader. Regaining some faith in my teacher, I let her guide me over to the bookshelves and listened to her talk about how there were so many great books to read. Once we reach the bookshelves, I stand there in awe. I have never once glanced over here before. The shelves are packed with books, each one looking a little different that another. I pick a few up, looking them over to discern what each one is about. Before I finish reading over the fourth book's summary, I make myself a promise: I will read every one of these