Friday, February 15, 2008
Thursday, February 7, 2008
This I Believe
I believe in making the best of what life gives you. I believe we’ve all had “trying times”, traumatic stories, and periods of depression. Some may have suffered more than others, but I believe, no matter the degree of these pivotal moments in our lives, we can overcome any obstacle just by being optimistic.
I was born and raised in Paterson, NJ until the age of five. This was the beginning of a series of moves throughout my life. It began with Paterson , then to Lodi , and Hardyston, ultimately leading me to West Virginia. I was 11 when my parents took me away from the only home I’d ever known. Sure the cities and towns had changed but the one constant in my life was about to change, and this devastated me.
I remember the day my parents sat my sisters and me down in the dining room and told us we were moving to West Virginia . All three of us burst into tears at once while our parents sat there. “We thought you’d be happy!” my father had yelled, not said. All I could think was “WHY! What on Earth would ever make you think we'd be happy about this! Why would you do this to us!!!” I couldn’t understand, I didn’t want to understand.
We moved the following August to be there in time for the new school year, and lived in a hotel for about two months while our house being finished. Two months of six people in a small hotel room only fueled my resentment. All I wanted was to go home, more than anything in the world. I wanted to be alone and miserable, as if this would make my parents give up and move back to New Jersey.
Deep down I knew that plan would never work. After a while, I got pretty sick of feeling lonely and started talking to more people. I got into a new rhythm, made new friends, new routines, I made a new life. I wouldn’t admit it then, but I loved West Virginia; I still love West Virginia. I loved the people I met and the wonderful life I had created once I let go of my self pity. By the time I was 15 I had fully assimilated into my new world and then it was time to move, again.
My mother had told me there was a possibility of us moving back to New Jersey early my freshmen year and by December it was set in stone that we'd be going back. I had never been so angry in my life. For weeks I stayed locked in my room with my music blaring to annoy my mother, and to make sure she knew how angry I was at her. I cried all the time; I didn't even want to hear the WORD New Jersey or anything relating to it.
If I could erase one year from my life it'd be my sophomore year of high school, my first year back in New Jersey. It was a repetition of my first year in West Virginia only much more advanced. I felt like it had been a lifetime since I was in NJ, everything I once knew had changed, and everything else I didn't know at all. I found myself alone and depressed again, I slept all the time, everyone annoyed me, I didn’t want to talk to people; I felt there was no point in trying because just when I got comfortable, I’d have to leave again.
Than, towards the end of the year I realized something: West Virginia was supposed to be the worst thing that could happen to me, instead it turned out being one of the best. It was the best because I made it that way, and I wasn’t going to let another move bring me down. Since then, I’ve joined clubs at school, I go to school events, I talk to classmates, I’m trying to make things better.
I can’t say that I feel at home here, but over time, West Virginia has become less of a home to me too. Regardless of where I end up in the future, though, I know I’ll be okay. I know this because I believe life is what we make it, so if I make it good, it will be good. I could have easily chosen to continue with my depression instead of trying to work with what I have. I believe in never losing your optimism in life, especially when that seems the easiest thing to do.
I was born and raised in Paterson, NJ until the age of five. This was the beginning of a series of moves throughout my life. It began with Paterson , then to Lodi , and Hardyston, ultimately leading me to West Virginia. I was 11 when my parents took me away from the only home I’d ever known. Sure the cities and towns had changed but the one constant in my life was about to change, and this devastated me.
I remember the day my parents sat my sisters and me down in the dining room and told us we were moving to West Virginia . All three of us burst into tears at once while our parents sat there. “We thought you’d be happy!” my father had yelled, not said. All I could think was “WHY! What on Earth would ever make you think we'd be happy about this! Why would you do this to us!!!” I couldn’t understand, I didn’t want to understand.
We moved the following August to be there in time for the new school year, and lived in a hotel for about two months while our house being finished. Two months of six people in a small hotel room only fueled my resentment. All I wanted was to go home, more than anything in the world. I wanted to be alone and miserable, as if this would make my parents give up and move back to New Jersey.
Deep down I knew that plan would never work. After a while, I got pretty sick of feeling lonely and started talking to more people. I got into a new rhythm, made new friends, new routines, I made a new life. I wouldn’t admit it then, but I loved West Virginia; I still love West Virginia. I loved the people I met and the wonderful life I had created once I let go of my self pity. By the time I was 15 I had fully assimilated into my new world and then it was time to move, again.
My mother had told me there was a possibility of us moving back to New Jersey early my freshmen year and by December it was set in stone that we'd be going back. I had never been so angry in my life. For weeks I stayed locked in my room with my music blaring to annoy my mother, and to make sure she knew how angry I was at her. I cried all the time; I didn't even want to hear the WORD New Jersey or anything relating to it.
If I could erase one year from my life it'd be my sophomore year of high school, my first year back in New Jersey. It was a repetition of my first year in West Virginia only much more advanced. I felt like it had been a lifetime since I was in NJ, everything I once knew had changed, and everything else I didn't know at all. I found myself alone and depressed again, I slept all the time, everyone annoyed me, I didn’t want to talk to people; I felt there was no point in trying because just when I got comfortable, I’d have to leave again.
Than, towards the end of the year I realized something: West Virginia was supposed to be the worst thing that could happen to me, instead it turned out being one of the best. It was the best because I made it that way, and I wasn’t going to let another move bring me down. Since then, I’ve joined clubs at school, I go to school events, I talk to classmates, I’m trying to make things better.
I can’t say that I feel at home here, but over time, West Virginia has become less of a home to me too. Regardless of where I end up in the future, though, I know I’ll be okay. I know this because I believe life is what we make it, so if I make it good, it will be good. I could have easily chosen to continue with my depression instead of trying to work with what I have. I believe in never losing your optimism in life, especially when that seems the easiest thing to do.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
How to Be ColOmbian (note it is NOT ColUmbia)
How is one Colombian, you wonder? It's not an easy process I assure you, but one everyone is dying to know. (Or not?) Being Colombian is not as simple as it seems one must analyze all aspects of your life from food to clothing to the vapor rub your abuela (grandmother) makes you put on your chest every night.
Food
First step to being Colombian is of course: the food. There is nothing more important to a Colombian (or any hispanic, now that I think about it) than filling your tummy with the best of your country's cuisine, even when not in your own country.
Believe it or not, there are a number of Colombian restaurants and grocery stores called "bodegas" scattered around our very own New Jersey state. Not all places are equal in there taste, however, and finding the best fit is up to the seeker. We are all humans of differet shapes, sizes and taste buds.
A full course meal must, MUST, include the following at all times: rice and beans, or frijoles. No lunch or dinner, somtimes even breakfast, is complete without these two essential ingredients. The rice and beans are normally accompanied by some type of polstry. Steak, chicken, fish, or even eggs whatever your heart so desires. And don't you dare worry about carbs, you're Colombian now, what's life witout a little fat?
If you're looking for something lighter, the rice and beans are not required. I suggest a freshly made arepa or the famous empananda. If you're not familiar with such delicious names let me explain. The empanada, more commonly known in the U.S., is described as a meat pie. Shaped as a half moon, and stuffed with meat or cheese, nothing beats the taste of an empanada in the morning. Arepa is a little different, in that it's flat and plain, but fantastic with anything you'd like it with. Butter, steak, eggs, cheese the arepa is a flexible snack.
Do not eat sparingly.
Parties/Celebrations
Parties will be your favorite part about being Colombian. True they are typically with your family, but what teenager doesn't love a party beginning at 7 PM and ending whenever the last person leaves (normally 6 AM, the earliest). When attending parties it is imperative that you dance to no less than every song they play not including slow dances. If you are caught sitting at any point of the night I guarantee you will be dragged back out to the dance floor if necessary. It's a sad day when the adults are bigger partiers than that children, but this is what normally happens at a Colombian party.
The most common celebration you will attend is the annual Colombian festivals in the month of July. If you miss the Colombian festival, don't panic there will most likely be another the next weekend. Suprisingly there is no requirement of being Colombian when you attend these festivals, really you just need to be wear you're favorite Colombian colors: gold, blue and red and POOF, you're invited to the Colombian festival. Dancing is also not a requirement, although you will be eating about a hundred pounds of the best food you've ever encountered. You will also get the opportunity to buy various Colombian flags, shirts, bracelets, necklaces, CDs, ponchos, underwear, bathing suits, EVERYTHING. You will also enjoy the performances of small children dancing traditional Colombain dances. Awww...
Family
Language is said to be the cornerstone of culture, but family is the cornerstone of Colombian culture. Thousands of miles away, but your cousins are still your siblings, your siblings are still your bestfriend, your aunts and uncles have the right to smack you upside the head and your parents have sole control of your life. And still you wouldn't have it any other way.
When visiting your family, which you will be seeing your family frequently (as I said before, family= LIFE) there is one rule to keep in mind: there is no such thing as over eating. In fact, if you DON'T eat, you're prone to hearing the endless nag of your mother, aunts, and grandmothers of how skinny or how unhealthy you are. I suggest you arrive with a three-day empty stomach, because as soon as your abuela knows your coming she will be cooking for hours prier to your arrival. It's time to embrace the lovehandles.
Pride
Ah, national pride. Once you are a Colombain, your new favorite color IS gold,blue, and red. Never blue, never red, heaven FORBID your favorite color is green! (akk) This will be the color scheme of your life. From now on your clothes will be gold, blue and red to match your purse (or wallet, boys), to match your earrings, to match your necklace. The walls in your room? Gold, blue and red, your jewelry, your birthday cake, your car, your whole life!
The Colombian flag should be everwhere, have at least three or one really big one in your room (or for special occasions like a cousins's graduation or a festival). For your car there are various little trinkets available at your local Bergen line. Some examples are: a gold, blue, and red CD, a small bag, a mini flag or even a bandana. As mentioned before your clothing must show some sort of Colombian pride. This can be expressed with buttons, patches, T-shirts, necklaces, but most popular are bracelets as these can be used by both women AND men.
There so much to consider when bieng Colombian, keeping up can be a difficult task. But don't you worry, with time, it'll be as simple as riding a bike. Good luck with your journey fellow Colombian.
Food
First step to being Colombian is of course: the food. There is nothing more important to a Colombian (or any hispanic, now that I think about it) than filling your tummy with the best of your country's cuisine, even when not in your own country.
Believe it or not, there are a number of Colombian restaurants and grocery stores called "bodegas" scattered around our very own New Jersey state. Not all places are equal in there taste, however, and finding the best fit is up to the seeker. We are all humans of differet shapes, sizes and taste buds.
A full course meal must, MUST, include the following at all times: rice and beans, or frijoles. No lunch or dinner, somtimes even breakfast, is complete without these two essential ingredients. The rice and beans are normally accompanied by some type of polstry. Steak, chicken, fish, or even eggs whatever your heart so desires. And don't you dare worry about carbs, you're Colombian now, what's life witout a little fat?
If you're looking for something lighter, the rice and beans are not required. I suggest a freshly made arepa or the famous empananda. If you're not familiar with such delicious names let me explain. The empanada, more commonly known in the U.S., is described as a meat pie. Shaped as a half moon, and stuffed with meat or cheese, nothing beats the taste of an empanada in the morning. Arepa is a little different, in that it's flat and plain, but fantastic with anything you'd like it with. Butter, steak, eggs, cheese the arepa is a flexible snack.
Do not eat sparingly.
Parties/Celebrations
Parties will be your favorite part about being Colombian. True they are typically with your family, but what teenager doesn't love a party beginning at 7 PM and ending whenever the last person leaves (normally 6 AM, the earliest). When attending parties it is imperative that you dance to no less than every song they play not including slow dances. If you are caught sitting at any point of the night I guarantee you will be dragged back out to the dance floor if necessary. It's a sad day when the adults are bigger partiers than that children, but this is what normally happens at a Colombian party.
The most common celebration you will attend is the annual Colombian festivals in the month of July. If you miss the Colombian festival, don't panic there will most likely be another the next weekend. Suprisingly there is no requirement of being Colombian when you attend these festivals, really you just need to be wear you're favorite Colombian colors: gold, blue and red and POOF, you're invited to the Colombian festival. Dancing is also not a requirement, although you will be eating about a hundred pounds of the best food you've ever encountered. You will also get the opportunity to buy various Colombian flags, shirts, bracelets, necklaces, CDs, ponchos, underwear, bathing suits, EVERYTHING. You will also enjoy the performances of small children dancing traditional Colombain dances. Awww...
Family
Language is said to be the cornerstone of culture, but family is the cornerstone of Colombian culture. Thousands of miles away, but your cousins are still your siblings, your siblings are still your bestfriend, your aunts and uncles have the right to smack you upside the head and your parents have sole control of your life. And still you wouldn't have it any other way.
When visiting your family, which you will be seeing your family frequently (as I said before, family= LIFE) there is one rule to keep in mind: there is no such thing as over eating. In fact, if you DON'T eat, you're prone to hearing the endless nag of your mother, aunts, and grandmothers of how skinny or how unhealthy you are. I suggest you arrive with a three-day empty stomach, because as soon as your abuela knows your coming she will be cooking for hours prier to your arrival. It's time to embrace the lovehandles.
Pride
Ah, national pride. Once you are a Colombain, your new favorite color IS gold,blue, and red. Never blue, never red, heaven FORBID your favorite color is green! (akk) This will be the color scheme of your life. From now on your clothes will be gold, blue and red to match your purse (or wallet, boys), to match your earrings, to match your necklace. The walls in your room? Gold, blue and red, your jewelry, your birthday cake, your car, your whole life!
The Colombian flag should be everwhere, have at least three or one really big one in your room (or for special occasions like a cousins's graduation or a festival). For your car there are various little trinkets available at your local Bergen line. Some examples are: a gold, blue, and red CD, a small bag, a mini flag or even a bandana. As mentioned before your clothing must show some sort of Colombian pride. This can be expressed with buttons, patches, T-shirts, necklaces, but most popular are bracelets as these can be used by both women AND men.
There so much to consider when bieng Colombian, keeping up can be a difficult task. But don't you worry, with time, it'll be as simple as riding a bike. Good luck with your journey fellow Colombian.
Monday, December 31, 2007
Response to "The Importance of the Work"
I have to say that I've been opposed to banning of books for quite some time. To ban a book like The Catcher in the Rye based on cursing and morality is ridiculous. I didn't learn curse words from The Catcher in the Rye and I, certainly, didn't build my morals according to Holdens. I agree with the author of this article, on page 12 they state "Talk about novels belongs in all sort of places- classrooms, living rooms, dormitories, coffeehouses, neighborhood taverns, community centers, even in the pages of studies such as this one- but not in courts of law..." I also agree with the author in later saying that J.D. Salinger is not accountable for misreadings of his novel. I understand we all have different minds and interpret things in different ways, but that is no reason for banning a book.
I think my favorite part of the this article was the first full paragraph on page thirteen, where the author discribes Holden's character as a real person and as a mirror image of our faces. I think that idea is what makes The Catcher in the Rye such a success, how many of us go through the day thinking like Holden? We don't always say it out loud, but we think like him, all of us.
Over all, I rather enjoyed reading this article. Happy holidays everyone =-)
I think my favorite part of the this article was the first full paragraph on page thirteen, where the author discribes Holden's character as a real person and as a mirror image of our faces. I think that idea is what makes The Catcher in the Rye such a success, how many of us go through the day thinking like Holden? We don't always say it out loud, but we think like him, all of us.
Over all, I rather enjoyed reading this article. Happy holidays everyone =-)
Monday, December 17, 2007
Brown; It's More Than a Color
I’m a simple girl,
With simple needs.
I don’t require
Extravagant gifts
Or a lavish lifestyle
In order to be
Happy.
Just a warm cup
Of coffee.
My comfort lies
In nature.
Whether I’m sitting within
Or observing from afar.
Watching the dirt
Blow this way
Then that.
Calming,
Like the
Strumming
Of a wooden guitar.
Sounding out
The neutrality
In my soul.
As the bark
Of a cherry weeping willow,
Nothing will penetrate
My spirit.
Though my
Innocence may come and go
With the seasons,
My endurance
Will stay rooted
To the ground.
With simple needs.
I don’t require
Extravagant gifts
Or a lavish lifestyle
In order to be
Happy.
Just a warm cup
Of coffee.
My comfort lies
In nature.
Whether I’m sitting within
Or observing from afar.
Watching the dirt
Blow this way
Then that.
Calming,
Like the
Strumming
Of a wooden guitar.
Sounding out
The neutrality
In my soul.
As the bark
Of a cherry weeping willow,
Nothing will penetrate
My spirit.
Though my
Innocence may come and go
With the seasons,
My endurance
Will stay rooted
To the ground.
Thursday, December 6, 2007
My Ring
I have this ring I wear on my pinky. Not many people notice it, they tend to stray to my other six rings, but it's my favorite. I'ts gold and in the shape of a crucifix. People think it's part of me being the "super religious" person I am, and it is to a point, but that's not the real reason it's there.
It used to belong to my mom. She got it from Colombia about 30 years ago when she was 16 in a market place, I believe. I always loved her rings, I loved the way they looked on her hands when I was a kid and your mom's hands were just the prettiest things. One day when I was around 12 years old we were in the kitchen getting ready to go out; my older sister, my mother, and I were standing by the island when she put the ring down and said, "Who wants it?"
I snatched that ring up so fast my sister didn't even have time to think.
When I first got the ring, I used to debate with myself back and forth on whether I wanted to be burried with it when I died and keep it forever, or pass it on. Eventually I decided I wanted to pass it on. I created this whole plan to give it to my second daughter, because I am the second daughter and my mother is too. I also would name her Aura Lucia, becuase that's my mother's name and my grandmother's name and it was supposed to be mine too. I always felt kind of gyped for that. I thought I'd make it a family hairloom of some sort; pass it from Aura Lucia to Aura Lucia. I thought it was a fitting plan to keep it going that way, considering my mom took after her mom and I take after my mom; I hoped this cycle would continue and create this neverending circle. I still like the idea of connecting the generations and if it all pans out that way I'd invisioned that'd just make life ten times sweeter. Regardless of who it is, though, I'm plan on passing the ring on.
Now every time I look at my hand, I think of my mom. I think about everything she's given me besides my favorite ring. She's given me independence and taught me how to look after myself, make decisions wisely and on my own. She's given me a good home, a good family, someone to talk to even when I don't feel like talking much. My mother's given me a good life and some one to look up to, and I love her dearly for everything she's ever given me.
It used to belong to my mom. She got it from Colombia about 30 years ago when she was 16 in a market place, I believe. I always loved her rings, I loved the way they looked on her hands when I was a kid and your mom's hands were just the prettiest things. One day when I was around 12 years old we were in the kitchen getting ready to go out; my older sister, my mother, and I were standing by the island when she put the ring down and said, "Who wants it?"
I snatched that ring up so fast my sister didn't even have time to think.
When I first got the ring, I used to debate with myself back and forth on whether I wanted to be burried with it when I died and keep it forever, or pass it on. Eventually I decided I wanted to pass it on. I created this whole plan to give it to my second daughter, because I am the second daughter and my mother is too. I also would name her Aura Lucia, becuase that's my mother's name and my grandmother's name and it was supposed to be mine too. I always felt kind of gyped for that. I thought I'd make it a family hairloom of some sort; pass it from Aura Lucia to Aura Lucia. I thought it was a fitting plan to keep it going that way, considering my mom took after her mom and I take after my mom; I hoped this cycle would continue and create this neverending circle. I still like the idea of connecting the generations and if it all pans out that way I'd invisioned that'd just make life ten times sweeter. Regardless of who it is, though, I'm plan on passing the ring on.
Now every time I look at my hand, I think of my mom. I think about everything she's given me besides my favorite ring. She's given me independence and taught me how to look after myself, make decisions wisely and on my own. She's given me a good home, a good family, someone to talk to even when I don't feel like talking much. My mother's given me a good life and some one to look up to, and I love her dearly for everything she's ever given me.
Friday, November 23, 2007
In My Hands Review
We all know the gruesome story of the Jews between the years of 1939-1944. The heroism the survivors of the Holocaust exhibited is undeniable, but rarely do people acknowledge the role of the rescuer. In My Hands by Iren GutOpdyke is the perfect place to start when looking for the side of the Holocaust.
This book, in short, is beautiful. Through Irene's memories the reader begins to understand the lives of the people during World War II. When the war began Irene was still a child, barely 17-years-old, she was studying to be a nurse and it seemed she had her whole life ahead of her. Irene did not "become a resistance fighter; a smuggler of jews, a defier of the SS and the Nazis all at once". Her life came to a hault with the invasion of her beloved Poland, from there she had lost her not just her home but her family and her innocence.
In My Hands was not a difficult book to read as far as her style of writing. She's clear in all her discriptions, to the point where I can see the coldness of officer Rokita's eyes, or feel the Irene as she's smuggling her friends to safety. The difficult part of the book was her story itself. Which of course is expected when discussing the Holocaust.
There is a great sense of nationalism in Irene, one that is uncommon in today's standards. Post 9/11 there red, white, and blue could be seen everywhere, but 6 years later that number flags has dwindled. Irene's love for Poland never ceased; it seemed that half her fight was for the hope that her country will one day return. Over and over again Irene expresses her longing for her country which fueled her hatred for the Russians and Germans and desire to aide the resistance.
Irene's feminism played a large part in her story. I'm amazed at the things "just a girl" could do. Women in the 1940s were not as respected as they are today. There were many that overlooked and underestimated Irene for the gender she is. At times even Irene herself doubted her abilities as a result of peoples beliefs in girls and what they can and can't do. Soon she realized, who would ever guess a girl could hide 12 Jews? And in the basement of a Nazi major, and who would question a girl carrying a basket of supplies for her employer? She's inspiration to girls of any time period, that "female" is not a handicap.
Irene writes her memoir in a feeling of indifference. There are points in her story where the lasting scars of the war are evident, but when praised by people and compared to Moses she quickly disagreed. Perhaps she is modest, or perhaps she simply believed she had no other option. When faced with the truth of the life of Jews in the ghettos, and her fears of what God would think of her standing by and doing nothing kick in. Helping her Jewish friends only seemed the natural thing to do.
To say the war had put many lives on hold is an understatement. A seventeen year old today is going to highschool, preparing for college, going out with friends, falling in love, learning about life. By 1944, Irene had had one kind of life: resisting. After her friends were gone and safe, after the war was over, she was in her 20s, it felt like not only a life time to her, but to me reading her story. It seemed impossible a young woman had gone through all that she had, and rather unfair that she after all she had done, she still needed to find herself in the world. One would assume that after the war, she could find her family, live in a free Poland once more, and live happily ever after.
Irene's story left me with images of her own memory, as if they were my own. I was completely engulfed from start to finish by the bravery a young woman could have.
This book, in short, is beautiful. Through Irene's memories the reader begins to understand the lives of the people during World War II. When the war began Irene was still a child, barely 17-years-old, she was studying to be a nurse and it seemed she had her whole life ahead of her. Irene did not "become a resistance fighter; a smuggler of jews, a defier of the SS and the Nazis all at once". Her life came to a hault with the invasion of her beloved Poland, from there she had lost her not just her home but her family and her innocence.
In My Hands was not a difficult book to read as far as her style of writing. She's clear in all her discriptions, to the point where I can see the coldness of officer Rokita's eyes, or feel the Irene as she's smuggling her friends to safety. The difficult part of the book was her story itself. Which of course is expected when discussing the Holocaust.
There is a great sense of nationalism in Irene, one that is uncommon in today's standards. Post 9/11 there red, white, and blue could be seen everywhere, but 6 years later that number flags has dwindled. Irene's love for Poland never ceased; it seemed that half her fight was for the hope that her country will one day return. Over and over again Irene expresses her longing for her country which fueled her hatred for the Russians and Germans and desire to aide the resistance.
Irene's feminism played a large part in her story. I'm amazed at the things "just a girl" could do. Women in the 1940s were not as respected as they are today. There were many that overlooked and underestimated Irene for the gender she is. At times even Irene herself doubted her abilities as a result of peoples beliefs in girls and what they can and can't do. Soon she realized, who would ever guess a girl could hide 12 Jews? And in the basement of a Nazi major, and who would question a girl carrying a basket of supplies for her employer? She's inspiration to girls of any time period, that "female" is not a handicap.
Irene writes her memoir in a feeling of indifference. There are points in her story where the lasting scars of the war are evident, but when praised by people and compared to Moses she quickly disagreed. Perhaps she is modest, or perhaps she simply believed she had no other option. When faced with the truth of the life of Jews in the ghettos, and her fears of what God would think of her standing by and doing nothing kick in. Helping her Jewish friends only seemed the natural thing to do.
To say the war had put many lives on hold is an understatement. A seventeen year old today is going to highschool, preparing for college, going out with friends, falling in love, learning about life. By 1944, Irene had had one kind of life: resisting. After her friends were gone and safe, after the war was over, she was in her 20s, it felt like not only a life time to her, but to me reading her story. It seemed impossible a young woman had gone through all that she had, and rather unfair that she after all she had done, she still needed to find herself in the world. One would assume that after the war, she could find her family, live in a free Poland once more, and live happily ever after.
Irene's story left me with images of her own memory, as if they were my own. I was completely engulfed from start to finish by the bravery a young woman could have.
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