Personal Narrative: Immigrants To America

When I reached America, I started to remember my childhood. I was the youngest of 4 children. I had a sister and two brothers. We were all crammed into a small hut. We all slept on one blanket on the floors made of cow poop. The roof was not very good either. It was made of palm leaves and when it rained, water dripped into the hut. Our house was only lit by a candle light. My mother always fed the other children who were just like me. They were poor and hungry. She is the most generous person I have ever met. My father has always motivated me to be the best. I was the best in the college I attended. I was the first in the rankings and everyone praised me. I thought that the Americans were better educated and smarter than me. I was not very confident

“That is my bag.”
“I is sorry,” I say quietly.
“That is not very good English sir,” the woman says.
It was not my fault. I was just an immigrant. I just gave her the suitcase and waited for my bag. Then, I saw it and grabbed it from the conveyor belt. After that, I walked out of the room and I saw some moving stairs.
“What kind of stairs are these?” I think.
I have never seen anything like it. I later learned that it was an escalator. I looked for any other option. There was nothing else. Then, I walked up to the moving stairs and tried to step on. They looked like they were moving very rapidly. I stood there for around five minutes, but it felt like an hour. A big line piled behind me. People were yelling and shouting at me too.
“ Can you please move?” shouted a man.
“Why are you scared?” asks someone else.
I decide to go down the moving stairs. I started to stumble, but I kept my balance. It was so scary. My heart was beating rapidly. Finally, I reached the bottom and ran away. I didn’t want anyone to see me. When I got outside, I looked for auto rickshaw to take me to my apartment. I could not find one though. I saw a yellow car that was labeled taxi.
“I wonder what a taxi is,” I