Personal Narrative: My Ideal American Childhood

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What is Ideal?
Imagine the ideal American childhood. Now, consider my story. My childhood home, settled at the foot of the Blue Ridge Mountains, was equipped with a basketball hoop in the backyard and a minivan in the driveway. I grew up in a two-parent middle-class home with evenings spent at the dinner table waiting for Jeopardy to start; then, I would read my older brother’s comics or The Magic Tree House series until I couldn’t hold my eyes open. I was a tomboy for lack of a better word; a shy, reserved kid who had trouble expressing herself. As a result, my parents took my love of sports and enrolled me in as many leagues as possible. Playing basketball, softball, volleyball, and gymnastics gave me a bevy of teammates and, to my parents’ approval, a few close female friends. I graduated with honors from my small-town high school and enrolled in a top college surrounded by
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I spent four years in career limbo desperately seeking a lightbulb moment—when my professional passion would rear its head—but that moment was long gone. It was buried in the challenges I faced as an undergrad student. Through no small amount of introspection, I grew to understand that writing is my passion. I have a gift and combined with my otherness, I have a unique perspective on the world that reveals itself when I write. That perspective has afforded me the ability to create complex stories that are not exclusively told through blue-eyed and blonde-haired lenses. So, I create stories that examine how mental illnesses can affect those in communities of color. I create stories that show a kinky-haired, awkward girl nerding out to Avengers #1. I create stories with readily identifiable characters for the most vulnerable of observers. Professionally, I want nothing more than the opportunity to share my stories of triumph, my stories of struggle, stories sprinkled with humor, and my stories of great

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