My Grandmother Essay

My Grandmother Essay-57
He would talk about her four older brothers and younger sister, Carmen, about their impoverished lives on the streets of San Miguel barrio, and how they would wait each day for the rain to fall so they could wash the dirt from their skin.He spoke of my grandmother’s stern intellect, which she attributed to the nuns who helped raise her, and of the school she attended as a girl, and how she watched the Japanese chain its doors and burn it and everyone inside.

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The streets were lined with motorcyclists, the houses were supported by large pieces of scrap metal, and nobody spoke my grandmother’s native tongue, Spanish, anymore. It was one of the few places significant to my grandmother’s life that was still intact.

The orphanage still functions to this day, and also now serves as a welfare house for the homeless and the elderly.

“Those were left in the window with the children,” she told me.

“Letters, from their mothers.”As I wandered around the room, I noticed a stack of registers in a bookcase and pulled out one from the time my grandmother was at the orphange.

But my almond-shaped eyes with a slight tilt at the edges say something different.

I suppose if eyes can be the window to one’s soul, mine also are the window to my heritage. My grandmother, Belén, was born in 1923 in Manila, Philippines.I could almost feel the dust multiplying around me, collecting on old books, photographs and chipped statues of patron saints, the way winter’s first snow blankets the grass.In the far corner of the room stood something that looked like a round mailbox with a doll inside. “Where mothers would leave their children for us.” To the right was a stack of papers filled with scribbled writing.Every summer vacation, my parents and I go to visit my grandmother. She not only showed me my father’s pictures when he was young but also narrated many funny incidents about my father and his friends. Her house is very beautiful and it is located in the middle of the town. This time when we went to meet her, I found her lovely garden full of beautiful flowers. We stayed with her for a week, and each day she cooked something special for us. At night I slept in my grandmother’s room, and she told me lovely stories. I always thought my eyes looked strange on my face.Nothing else about me appears characteristically Asian; my thin brown hair, my Mediterranean nose and my olive skin tone could fool anyone into thinking I am some form of Southern European.She shook my hand and led me past a bright green courtyard where a statue of the Virgin Mary stood, dressed in light blue with her hands held out, as if offering help to those who walked toward her.“Come in here,” the woman said, opening a small door with a key. My grandmother is slim and short and wears spectacles. When I come back from school I have my lunch with her. People in our locality revere and love her very much. My father told me that she used to work as a teacher when she was young like my mother. At times when my mother is busy with other work, she cooks food for the family.


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