Personal Narrative Analysis

When I was six my blood was 92% Hawaiian Punch, 7.5% Slim Jim proteins, and .5% trace amounts of assorted Pringles flavorings. Every summer I underwent a similar transformation when my mother dropped my sisters and me off at my grandparent’s San Francisco apartment while she worked as a waitress on Market Street. Caramelized corn and sugar coated treats cleansed my sisters and me of my mother’s oven-baked broccoli and kale catastrophes. Words such as saturated fat, 5% real fruit juice, and high fructose corn syrup will forever define my childhood. Fast forward a decade and, while I vaguely recall marathoning the Powerpuff Girls and smuggling truffles from a closet, I remember two facts of life my grandmother taught me as clearly as I remember my own name.

After witnessing her sacrificially decapitate a plucked chicken with a butcher knife on Chinese New Year, I was constantly on the lookout for suspicious activity to confirm my accusation. My grandmother had two defining traits; the skin of her hands was chronically cracked and irritated, and she drank a glass of amber colored tea on the hour, every hour. This evidence was proof that my grandmother was a potion-making shaman, albeit an untalented one, and I wanted to aid her in her quest for miraculous healing. I was, and still am, fascinated by healing potions, but my interest has since developed into a desire to create them. Becoming a laboratory technician for the school’s chemistry department has given me the opportunity to make solutions of sodium hydroxide, yet soon I desire to take part in the discovery of the evasive solution to aging. While potions can’t fix everything, perhaps I can fix something; but even if I can’t fix anything, at least I can say that I take after my grandmother who discovered nothing and unknowingly inspired