Martin Seeger Personal Narrative
A blast of frigid air sent shivers down the course of my body, the shock of which opened my eyes to the surroundings of downtown Rochester. None of the nearby buildings seemed to hold their original colors, giving an odd feel to the surrounding area. I walked with my mother to a nearby apartment building and realized how sharply we contrast. At least a foot of height separates us, and I have barely and resemblance to her. She handed me a bag, full of toys for the young children living in these buildings. As we walked I asked her if any of them spoke English. She responded with a shake of her head.
The door took some force to open, although it was not even closed. The walls were completely barren, undecorated, and had bleak off-white from a lack of maintenance. In a sudden flash the bag was forcibly removed from my hands, carried off with ecstatic screams until it disappeared through a door. I followed my mother up the stairs and found my self in the home of a Burundian refugee family my mother had met through her job as a social worker. The bag had been ripped open, and its contents littered the floor behind a wall of children. I watched my mother, Lieve, grab her throat in an effort to explain the choking hazards of these toys. I couldn’t help but smile seeing how happy this family was. I would never have any idea of what they experienced in the genocides and refugee camps of Burundi, but I could find solace in that I could help these people move past it, if only slightly.
I had never truly experienced poverty before, not like this. However, these people were happy, especially the children who rummaged through my old collection of Legos. I achieved a sense of accomplishment, knowing I had helped these people, if only very slightly. After an exchange of salutations, I found myself opening the door of another refugee family home’s, this one from Burma. Again, I was quickly relieved of the second bag of toys I had...