People

2024-2025 Personal Narratives

There are special people in our lives who stand out amongst the rest.

This page is dedicated to those individuals.

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From Struggles to Strength: The Legacy of My Immigrant Parents

Personal Narrative by Carlos Delgado, WHS Junior, AP English Language and Composition

The story of my family is one of resilience, determination, and the relentless pursuit of a better life. My parents’ journey from Mexico to the United States is a testament to their courage and tenacity, and their experiences have profoundly shaped who I am today. Their struggles and triumphs are woven into the fabric of my identity, guiding me as I navigate my own path.

My father's journey began in a small town in Mexico, where dreams were often overshadowed by the harsh realities of life. As one of the eldest sons in a large family, he learned early on the value of hard work and responsibility. Despite the limited opportunities available, my father harbored a dream of creating a better future for himself and his family. With little more than hope and determination, he made the difficult decision to leave his homeland and seek a new beginning in the United States.

Arriving in a foreign land was daunting. My father faced numerous challenges, from language barriers to cultural differences. He took on any job he could find, working long hours in construction and kitchens, driven by the vision of a brighter future. His perseverance paid off when he saved enough to open his own restaurant, Mi Fiesta in Washington, North Carolina— a place that became not only a source of livelihood but also a symbol of his hard-earned success. Through his journey, my father taught me the importance of resilience and the belief that with dedication, even the loftiest dreams can be realized.

My mother's story is equally compelling, marked by a childhood filled with adversity. Growing up in an environment overshadowed by abuse and instability, she developed a strength and resilience that would later become her greatest assets. Her decision to immigrate to the United States was fueled by the desire to escape her past and build a life defined by love and opportunity. Despite the emotional scars she carried, my mother embraced her new life with courage and determination.

In the United States, my mother found solace in the community and worked tirelessly to support our family. Her experiences taught her the importance of empathy and compassion, qualities she instilled in my brother and me. She showed us that kindness has the power to heal and transform lives, and that one's past does not define their future. Her unwavering support and encouragement became the foundation upon which we built our dreams.

Growing up, I witnessed firsthand the sacrifices my parents made to provide for our family. Their stories of struggle and perseverance became lessons in resilience, teaching me that success is born from dedication and hard work. They encouraged my brother and me to pursue and focus on our education and reminded us that our heritage was a source of strength, not limitation.

Their journey also taught me the importance of empathy and understanding. As a child, I often saw two sides of my parents, a side where they struggled and a side where they succeeded, bridging the gap between two worlds. These experiences opened my eyes to the struggles faced by many immigrant families and inspired me to advocate for those whose voices are often unheard. I learned that compassion can break down barriers and foster connections across cultures.

My parents' legacy is one of love, strength, and the unwavering belief that dreams can transcend borders. Their resilience and determination have taught me the power of hope and the importance of perseverance. As I continue to grow and forge my own path, I remain grateful for the foundation they have laid and the values they have instilled in me. My immigrant parents' struggles have been instrumental in shaping my identity and values. Their journey from hardship to success is a testament to their strength and determination, and their experiences have inspired me to strive for excellence and give back to the community that welcomed us. Their legacy is a constant reminder that with courage and perseverance, anything is possible.

My Role Model

Personal Narrative by Cheyenne Hardy, WHS Junior, AP English Language and Composition

My grandma is the glue that holds my family together. She is the strongest person I know; she has worked hard for everything that she has. She doesn't ask for anything and her hands are toughened by years of hard work. Her hands tell a story about all that she has accomplished and how hard she's worked to get there.

She built everything she has by waking up before the sun and going out in the fields and planting and taking care of the animals. Her farm is in the middle of nowhere on just a small piece of land, but it's more than just a few acres of land and a little barn. Her farm shows her persistence; she didn't grow up with much so that just made her work harder for everything that she has. She learned that constant, tireless and determined work could get her so far. She saved money from her typing job to buy her house and land with my granddaddy. When she and Granddaddy bought those first few acres they never looked back; they worked hard everyday to do well for themselves. They struggled at first and there were more failures than she would ever tell anybody but she continued, she asked other farmers questions and most were nice enough to help.

She began to watch where the sun hit the longest and in which field and if it rained which field would hold the most water. When others gave up she continued and learned more about her fields through trial and error, more than most farmers. What started with just a few rows of corn eventually turned into whole fields of cotton and soybeans. She raised chickens and harvested vegetables and eventually bought some cattle. Every fence that was built was either built with her hands or the hands of her sons and husband. She always made sure there were hot meals on the table though for her family and always made sure she didn't show she was tired. She never bragged, she was never that type of person but everyone always knew if you wanted something real and good, you went to my grandma.

Now her land still stands as proof that sweat and patience can build something lasting. It's not fancy, there is uneven ground and some of our tobacco barns have fallen, but it's still beautiful because it shows just how hard my family worked for the land. Every part of my family's farm holds memories; the fence that had to be repaired after a bad storm that the whole family came together for, the tree planted in memory of my grandaddy after he passed; and the corner of the barn where all of us grandchildren used to play kickball. She will tell us how hard it was to get here, and she always tells us to appreciate everything we have. She’ll tell us stories about when she was younger while shelling peas on the porch swing, and each of us grandchildren listens so intently.

She used to ride us around and show us the house she grew up in, in Aurora, she told us all about her family and how she misses them. She’ll tell us about the hard times, but she’ll also tell us about the good times, and she always takes pride in knowing that she built something from the ground up. Her story is a reminder that greatness doesn't always come with a pat on the back or applause. Sometimes it comes slowly, through the trials and tribulations of everyday life, and sometimes it is found in the calloused hands of a woman who never gave up. My grandma has taught me to never give up and to always work for what I want because it will never just be handed to me. I always want her to look at me and be proud of how I turned out. I want her to know that she has raised me right, and I will always work and do what I'm supposed to do. She is the most important person in my life, and I have no idea what I would do without her. She always calls me her sidekick, and I plan to be right there for her for everything that she might need.

"My Grandma"

Personal Narrative by Addison Harris, WHS Junior, AP English Language and Composition

When I was young, I was with my Grandma often. Almost every day of the week, I found a way to be with her. All it took was one call, and she would be there. As I get older, though, I've started to see her less and less… and as I have seen her less, I begin to think about her more. I think back to the days when we'd shop together and grab lunch. But, most of all, I think about just how much this woman has shaped my life and memories. I think about how, even though she isn't my blood-related grandmother, she never failed to make me feel special, and as if I were her very own.

Some of the fondest memories with my grandma were made when we would go downtown, Washington, NC, the coastal town where we live. We always went in the summer, since I was out of school. Downtown during the summer was a time like nothing else. Shops on Main Street were bustling with people, walking in and out of stores with bags in hand. The sound of soft rocking from docked boats on the water was constant, and a warm, salty summer breeze was almost always blowing from the river. My grandma always made sure that our first stop downtown was Down on Mainstreet to grab lunch, and she would order the same thing every time: a chicken Caesar wrap. I was a bit more versatile with what I ordered, though. She always let me order whatever I wanted off the menu, but my two go-to dishes were always taco salad or a hot Philly cheesesteak. Most days at lunch were spent talking about school or any kind of interests I had. She´d listen to me talk about anything, whether it was Minecraft or maybe about Roblox. Even if she had no clue what kind of crazy gamer stuff I was talking about, she would still listen.

Once we finished lunch, our next stop would be Nauti Life right across the street. It was one of my favorite stores downtown because they had a room stocked with tons of stuffed animals. I always wanted to buy stuffed animals because I loved treating them as if they were alive, and I treated them all as if they were my babies. Sometimes I would even pick some to take with me and carry around if I went somewhere. Some of my favorites were "Beanie Boos", big bug-eyed vibrant stuffed animals that came in all sorts of colors and sizes. She usually gave me a budget of around 20 dollars, and I always ended up buying the same thing. A stuffed animal… if you couldn't already guess. Every time she'd buy it, she'd whisper, ¨Don´t tell Grandaddy!¨, even though realistically he was never mad. When we had grabbed our bags, we headed out and made the walk down to Scoops, a favorite local ice cream shop. This had to be one of my favorite parts of the day because I loved getting ice cream, and usually my parents never really took me. I would always get a single scoop in a cup of my very favorite flavor: chocolate chip cookie dough. Every once in a while my grandma would order a scoop or two, but most days, we went to get ice cream just for “little old me”. After getting our ice cream, we chose to sit inside in a booth most days. We'd spend most of our time talking again, sometimes so much that our ice cream would melt by the time we had finished.

Once we had finished all of that walking around to different places, it was finally time to go home. Going to my grandma's house was always fun for me. She always had so much for me to do at the house. I could play with toys, run around in the sprinklers, maybe even have a Nerf gun fight. My grandma made sure her house was never boring. What I did most at my grandma's house, though, was play dress-up. She always had a wardrobe full of unique clothes. I'd run in there and rummage through every piece of clothing until I found the most extreme thing I could put on. One of my favorite dresses was a long, black and white striped dress with a cutout in the back.

Whenever I put it on, I felt as if I were a grown woman already. Once I had a full outfit put together, I'd strut my stuff down her hallway and to the living room as if I were a runway model. She'd always make me feel like I was one too, taking pictures of me striking different poses. I could've spent hours, maybe even days, playing dress up.

Every day with Grandma had to come to an end, though. Usually around 5 p.m. or so, my mom would finally get off work and head toward my grandma's house to pick me up. In the time she spent driving there, I'd spend every last minute savoring up the rest of the time I had with her. Even if I saw her the very next day, something always made me never want to leave. My mom would finally get there, and I'd do everything to make her come inside and stay for just a few more minutes. She would always cave in. But, after a while, once it had gotten late, she was serious about leaving. My grandma and I always had a way of saying goodbye that was pretty unusual, and to this day, we still do it. I would walk out the door, and she would say, ¨I love you!¨ and I would look and go ¨Eww!¨. I didn't do it to be mean, but my whole family knew that if there was one thing I didn't like, it was affection. Something about someone being affectionate toward me gave me a weird feeling, and for some reason, I resented it. Although whenever my grandma told me she loved me, for some reason, I didn't get that feeling. The reason we did it was more of an inside joke between us. It just became our special, unusual way of saying goodbye. Even my mom would get mad at me for it, but my grandma always knew that I was joking. I would eventually always say I love you, too, though, because I really did love my grandma, and she knew that, too.

Now, the days I spend with my grandma are pretty different from what they were. I don't see her every weekday anymore, now it's maybe once a week. I don’t go over to play games or dress up. We don't usually go out to eat anymore. Instead, I go over and we talk about how life’s been going. However, no matter how much time I spend with her, I will still always go to my grandma's house. I will still always think about how special she has made me feel, how many amazing memories she's built with me, and I will forever cherish her for being the grandma that I may have never had the chance to have.

My Angel

Personal Narrative by Carly Woolard, WHS Junior, AP English Language and Composition

He wasn't just a family member, he was my best friend and angel sent from heaven. He was my uncle, Guy (I know what a name!), Guy Anthony Woolard– was the most amazing human I ever met. And, I've had a part of me missing for nine years now.

I looked up to him more than my father at the time. I know that sounds terrible, but my dad has never really had that type of connection and relationship with me. I always had my uncle to fall back on for everything. But on January 31, 2015, that was snatched away from me in the blink of an eye, and I would have never imagined the impact it would have on me to this day.

My uncle was hard-working. He used to build boats for a company known as Fountain Powerboats located near our home in Beaufort County, North Carolina. He worked around fiberglass all day, not knowing the damage it would cause to his lungs. Years later, he was diagnosed with pulmonary fibrosis, and he needed a lung transplant because of how bad the damage from inhaling fiberglass debris over the years. We held all kinds of events to raise money for his treatment, and we even developed an organization called Guys Christmas Angels, which sponsored families in need of Christmas presents. We wrapped and delivered gifts to families before Christmas Day, as my uncle didn't want any kids waking up without anything under their tree. We continued the tradition for a while, but stopped after my uncle got sick, and we didn't have time to dedicate to the organization anymore. We had the money, and he was in the hospital for the transplant, but he got so sick they couldn't do it anymore. I was so young I didn't understand, but the memory of watching him in that bed, knowing he was going to die, was the worst feeling I've ever had.

The last time I ever spoke to him was going up to his bedside and hugging him, and him telling me that he would see me in heaven. My heart broke, and every time I think about it, my heart breaks again and again and again. My parents sent me to a friend's house that night because they didn't want me to see him pass, and I had a very hard time forgiving them for that. I don't think it was fair, but I know where their heart was when they made the decision, and I probably didn't need to see it. I was young during his time on earth, but all my childhood memories were made with him. I used to stay at his house more than I did at my own, and we would watch Spider-Man movies until I fell asleep. Afterwards, he carried me to bed, tucked me in, and woke me in the morning to enjoy a McDonald's breakfast. I will always remember his Spider-Man and black widow tattoo. I can't wait to get my own tattoo in remembrance of him.

After his passing, I never felt the same. I know it sounds dramatic, but I genuinely have a hole in my heart to this day. Writing this chronicle of such a difficult stage in my family's life made me tear up one too many times. No amount of time helps the hurt. I try to forget about it until it's January 31st again, then all the memories come flooding back. I have no choice but to sit there and let the tears flow.

I try to remember everything I can about him because all of the memories slowly seem to fade. I can barely remember that sweet voice of his, but I will always remember that smell of grizzly dip he always had in his mouth. I know it would be better for me to find a way to let it go, but I can’t. He was my "No. 1", and now the spot is empty because no one can top the wonderful man he was. I hope to see him one day, happy, healthy, and laughing like I always remember him.

I love you, Uncle Guy, more than you’ll ever know, and even though I need you so much even still, I know you're living the dream life.

My Survivor

Personal Narrative by Caylan Lilley, WHS Junior, AP English Language and Composition

In November of 2000, "My Survivor" received news that changed his life forever. His brother, best friend, and person he trusted more than anyone got into a car accident and didn't make it out alive. For my family, this led to many years of struggling with regret from arguments, grief, depression, thinking of the what-ifs, and for my dad, alcoholism.

My dad has struggled and made it through many, many low points in his life. I don't know the full backstory, but I believe it started the night he lost his brother, Clay Reid Lilley. My uncle Clay was alone in his car driving down Slatestone Road one evening. From the stories I've been told, there was a dead deer in the road that he was unable to see because the person coming the other way had their bright lights on. When he ran over the deer, the antlers caught under the car, causing him to steer into the other lane and be hit by the other truck. The wreck itself isn't what killed him, but it was from hitting his head on the metal bars under the headrest. He was only 17. My dad was greatly impacted by the loss of his brother and the trauma he incurred. I never got to meet my uncle Clay, but I've seen how much his life and the loss of his life impacted others.

I have almost lost my dad a few times. The first time, I was only around 5, but I remember what happened so clearly. At the time, we were all enjoying the summer weather, and friends from the neighborhood were over. People were driving our family four-wheeler through the neighborhood, and my dad decided to join them. With my dad, one of my neighborhood friends joined him. We thought nothing of it initially because they ride all the time, but my dad had been drinking. Within the next 10 minutes, my friend comes running back screaming, only to find out they tipped the four-wheeler and it landed on my dad. When they fell, my dad hit his head on a pole, which caused him to bust his head open. When we got there, he was unconscious. We called the ambulance, and he had to be transported by a helicopter to the nearby hospital in Greenville, North Carolina. Luckily, my dad was okay. He received seven stitches in his head, and to this day, you can still see the scar along with another scar from a separate accident caused by the same bad habits.

When I was about nine, my dad had moved down to Morehead City and was living alone. When this happened, he had already been to rehab and was doing well, but one night of hanging around the wrong people caused him to go down the wrong path again. He was coming home, walked through the door, and tripped. He hit his head on the dresser by the door, causing his head to split open in a different spot, and knocked him unconscious. A neighbor found him, woke him up, and called an ambulance. The next day, my grandparents and I went down to the beach to check on him and clean up the apartment. Walking in the door, I saw a puddle of dried-up blood that led to the corner of the dresser. All I could do was thank God that he got the help when he did. After this, my dad realized what was going on and noticed he needed help. He fought for many years with alcoholism, through countless rehabs, setbacks, failures, and restarts, until finally he saw how it affected the ones he loved.

This year marks four years sober for him, and I have never been more proud of someone. He's accomplished so much so far. He is one of my biggest supporters and inspirations to continue working hard even through the hardest moments in life. Uncle Clay's name is still brought up, but now in a cherished way. Small things remind all of us of him all the time, from passing the spot where we lost him to me walking the same halls he used to walk with my dad at Washington High School.

During the holidays, my family feels his loss the most due to losing him around that time. They sit around the table on Thanksgiving, laughing at stories about him, tearing up on Christmas morning because I opened a pair of shoes that looked like the ones he was wearing the night of the accident, the same ones my grandma just had to throw away a few weeks ago because they were falling apart. Now, when I turn 18, I'll forever be older than him. If that tells me anything, it's to never take anything for granted, always cherish the good, the bad, and "live in the moment", not the past. My dad and I are working together to fix up my uncle's old truck, the one we wish he had driven the night of his wreck.

To my dad, thank you for everything you've done for me, given me, and taught me. You are my inspiration to never give up on my dreams and to always work hard.

"Boo-Boo! Yes, That’s Me."

by Lydia Smith, WHS Junior, AP English Language and Composition

The burning fresh cut grass in my lungs, the hot sun beating down, the heavy breathing and footsteps of the person in front of me, the pain in my legs. Suddenly, all I hear is “Go Boo-Boo, catch her, faster Boo-Boo.” In that moment, all the pain fades away, and I gain a renewed sense of focus and determination. Most know the power of words, but I believe who they come from is even more powerful.

Most people receive a nickname at some point in their lives; some stick around, and others fade with time. I have been called many things throughout my life, but Boo-Boo has grown to hold a special place in my heart. My dad gave me this name when I was learning to walk, simply because I always ran into things. Boo-Boo isn’t the most flattering name, and it annoyed me for the longest time. Hearing him say that name now reminds me of the bond that developed between my dad and me.

I would say we are closer than most fathers and daughters, as we have been on many trips just the two of us, and have spent more time together since he has retired from full-time work. I have memories of him calling me Boo-Boo for as long as I can remember. I associate most of them with my accomplishments. He has always been there to support me; every little league game, every running race, every swim meet, every awards ceremony, every performance, everything I have wanted him there for, and even things I didn’t. My father’s voice carries, never being hard to hear. When other parents are yelling out their kids' names in support, no matter how loud, "Boo-Boo" tends to stand out. My earliest memory was when I was up to bat in a Little League game. I was a skinny kid, and I remember the wind, the dirt blowing, and the pitching machine in front of me. I was so nervous, almost shaking, then I heard “Keep your eyes on the ball, Boo-Boo”. Immediately, I felt my nerves subside and was truly able to focus on the ball. It wasn’t until I grew older that I realized how much the silly little kid nickname meant to me; it gave me a sense of security and peace simply by hearing those words from my dad.

I could list memory after memory of hearing my beloved nickname, but hearing it never means more to me than during a running race. Both my dad and I ran cross country in high school, truly, it’s one of the few things that was the same in our high school experiences. Due to a back injury, he can’t run alongside me anymore. Yet, his voice is always present with tough love, support, encouragement, and yelling something along the lines of “They are right behind you, Boo-Boo, you gotta push now, Go Boo-Boo Go!” When I am racing the pain will take over, my legs will harden, and I want to give up. At that moment when I hear my dad yell "Boo-Boo!" I always seem to find a second wind. That simple name lights a fire in me, his support bleeds through his voice, and I know at the moment he is only focused on me and my race. Recently, I ran a half marathon, and I was in constant pain and struggled with the extreme heat. I never even had to look up, because I heard “Go Boo-Boo, you can do it!”, and I knew exactly who was supporting and who was proud of me in that moment.

Since my dad has called me Boo-Boo for so long, other people use the nickname too. My mom does, people at church do, my dad’s friends all do, and some of my friends do jokingly. In my dad’s phone, my name is Boo-Boo, something that now, when I see it, makes me smile. I’ve grown to embrace my nickname, thinking of it almost as a fourth name. The name no longer embarrasses me, but makes me smile and feel special no matter the occasion. No matter who calls me the treasured nickname, I never cherish it more than when I hear it from my dad.

In compliance with Federal Law, Beaufort County Schools administers all education programs, employment activities and admissions without discrimination against any person on the basis of gender, race, color, religion, national origin, age or disability. Any website concerns may be brought via the following: aklakowicz@beaufort.k12.nc.us

Washington High School 400 Slatestone Road Washington, NC 27889

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