Mini-Immigration Narrative

Being an African-American, a descendant of slaves brought from who-knows-where in who-knows-what year, there isn’t much I can say about my ancestors and their journey to the country America. For the family I can trace, though (as far back as my great-great-great grandmother), migration seems to be a common theme, almost as if it passed through my relatives’ genetics to move from place to place. Migration has left my family dispersed around the country. Migration has become a constant in my life; It has shaped my childhood. In fact, before the age of 10, I had never lived in the same house for more than a year. Perhaps it was restlessness, or prospects of new opportunity that drove my parents, my mother in particular, to stage her own mini-migrations
I was commuting to and from school on my own, learning more about the city, and going out on my own. I no longer felt like my house or neighborhood defined me. This city as a whole was my home. Tenth grade brought an end to that temporary comfort. My mother and stepfather decided to move us all to Georgia. Reluctance was most of what if felt. I was being asked to leave the friends and progress I was just beginning to make, but at that point there were no options but to follow. We moved just a day after my 16th birthday. It took me 2 ½ years, a downtown campus, and a writing assignment to come to this conclusion, but at the end of everything, despite the inconvenience I insisted moving caused, these migrations have guided the development of my outlook on life and my broad sense of identity. I may get anxious, or angry, or unsure, but I know that so long as I can cope, things can and probably will improve. I learned that endings make room for beginnings, and no matter how I perceive a situation, everything is a learning experience. Migration has taught me that I must depend on myself to know who I am and make my life