Personal Narrative: Pixar's Up

I hit my forehead on the bottom protruding edge of my dark brown leather couch. Out of all the places to hit my head, I clumsily managed to hit it on a piece of furniture so close to the ground. This unusual accident was only possible because I was lying completely flat on my stomach on the cold hardwood floor, reaching out for a black, unidentifiable object under the couch. I was sprawled out on the floor reaching for random objects for one reason only: to clean.
When I was a Sophomore in High School, my mom forced me to clean the living room and dining room every Sunday afternoon by myself as a weekly chore. This day was no different. Here I was on a warm, sunny day during the beginning of spring stuck inside reaching for items underneath
My mother also never displayed her tiredness or anger. As an immigrant from South Korea, my mom had to sacrifice her friends, family, job, and familiarity at the age of forty for a future in the United States. She had difficulty learning the language and culture, but she was always strong, outgoing, responsible, and warm. Yet here, she sounded like any lost, tired, depressed person did. This was not the mother that I knew, or thought I knew. I had to continue reading; I wanted to understand the complex thought processes in my mother’s brain that was trapped behind her smiling face and crescent
What they look like on the outside and not what they are on the inside. The librarian behind the counter scanning books was always bored and strict. The friend who always smiled and was outgoing never had insecurities or difficulties to deal with. Never did I think that the librarian may have been adventure seeking hiker or that my friend experienced anxiety in every social setting with more than two people. A child’s mental capacity for thinking only took me to analyze the first layer of the person’s character. My mother’s diary changed everything for me. Although I came to realize that people did not have one characteristic as I grew, my mother’s words threw this understanding at me and forced it down my throat. It caused me to experience firsthand how ignorant I was, how uncaring I was of my own family. Here I was, sitting on the comfortable, plush couch complaining about cleaning, when my mother suffered every day at the nursing home cleaning after the