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Brenda Tyler—

Looking back at when I was a little girl, the first memory I can recall (that is the moment in which I knew that I was alive) is one that foreshadowed the rest of my life. I was about four-and-a-half years old and I remember waking up on the cold cement floor of my mother's room. I was covered with a thin sheet that one of the 13 people in our small, three-room house must have graciously placed upon me. I remember my mother's room being very familiar to me, but considering this was my first memory, I only sensed familiarity and not the true reality.

I remember it being very cold on that cement floor. The sheet I was wrapped in provided no comfort from the bare, chilly floor that just a few months before had been stripped of its carpet. I remember waking up with a jolt, as though I had a bad dream, but I do not recall being afraid or even shaken. When I woke up, my hair was still partly pulled back in our family’s traditionally long braid, a braid that I would wear until I was eight years old. I recall waking up next to my mother's bed, the place l usually slept in everyday, along with one of my sisters and my aunt. But for some reason that day, I was on the floor. I also remember there being an empty pizza box next to me. The box was most likely from dinner the previous night. It smelled of pepperoni and old cheese.

When I woke up, I surveyed my surroundings. Fifteen was the age that I first recalled having this memory. It was also the first time that I really saw the room for what it was: poor—the room had nothing of value or interest in it. For the most part, it was simple to the point of emptiness. Taking up the majority of the room was our king size mattress that lay upon two other torn and tattered ones. Even though the mattress was pushed firmly against the far wall, it still took up more than three-fourths of the room. Opposite the mattress was a terribly scratched and beaten clothes drawer that held the only television set that my family would own for a while. My sister was sleeping next to my mom and my aunt; all of them where covered in the thick, warm, dark blue blankets from Mexico. None of them felt the cold wind rushing in from the broken window that was right next to them, but I did.

When I was four-and-a-half years old, I remember waking up on the cold cement floor of my mother's room, covered with nothing but a thin, stained sheet, next to three torn mattresses and an old pizza box. Now I am twenty years old, a sophomore in college and one of the few people in my family to graduate from high school and have the privilege and honor of studying at a university. When I was four-and-a-half years old, I remember waking up on a cold and dirty cement floor, but I also remember getting off of the floor, dusting myself off, and climbing back into the snuggly warm bed. I had to push some people in order to make room for myself in the bed, but I was able claim a nice and comfy spot next to my mom. The last thing I remember of that day, right before I fell back to sleep, was my mommy putting her arms around me. She kissed my forehead and unconsciously said, "I'm proud of you."

This I believe: my past does not determine my future; it merely serves as motivation to keep going.