my aunt essay

Essay-Paragraph on “My Aunt” English Composition in 200 words for kids and Students of Classes 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, College and Competitive Exams.

Aunt Janet is my mother’s youngest sister. She lives in America. Last week, she came to visit us.

Aunt Janet arrived in the small hours of the morning. My brother, Daniel, and I were jolted from our sleep by Aunt Janet’s thunderous voice. Although she travelled for a long time, she was not tired. In fact, she was so chirpy that she could not wait to talk to everyone. It was the school holidays so Daniel and I did not have to go to school. We went for breakfast with Aunt Janet at the coffee shop downstairs. She had not come to Singapore for a long time so she missed the local food. She ordered a lot of food. After breakfast, Daniel and I showed Aunt Janet where the nearest shopping centre was. We were delighted when Aunt Janet bought us our favourite PSP games. After that, she even went rollerblading with us. She was very skillful. She taught us a few tricks.

Aunt Janet left a week later. Daniel and I were exhausted as we had to keep her company the whole week. However, we missed her energetic self. We kept in contact with her through email.

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My Top Inspirations

I think everyone knows that one person in their family that somehow manages to keep the entire rest of the family afloat. Whether it be dispelling tension or making sure everyone has what they need, that family member always remains calm and warm towards all. In my case, my aunt is the anchor of our extended family. My aunt, who I call Vinda Pachi, is one of the most calmest, stoic, and considerate people that I know. Over the years, she has taught me the importance of being humble and always doing the right thing not for the intention of getting attention but rather for the sake of being honorable. Like my grandmother, my aunt lives in India, so I only get to see her, at the most, every other year. However, every time I go to India, I talk to her as if I see her every day. Since I can remember, I have many memories of me telling her all my “problems”, worries, and dreams while she made breakfast and lunch for everyone. As she cooked, she would always lend excellent advice, comfort, and helpful criticism when needed. I knew I could tell her anything, even if it was extremely embarrassing or something she would disapprove of. Sometimes, I would even confide in her about things I hadn’t even told my parents. My aunt was always the ultimate guidance counselor and mom for me, and I hope that one day I can lend such sage to advice to a younger family member or friend.

I feel I really began to appreciate my aunt when I saw how gracefully and diligently she took care of my grandmother, not the same grandmother I spoke of last week. My grandmother was an extremely compassionate and loyal person to our family, but as she had gotten older, she had become more difficult to take care of. Unfortunately, my grandmother, who I called Pappama, was not always the most patient or understanding person, and when frustrated, she would often take her anger out on my aunt. While many other family members often got frustrated with my grandmother or talked back to her, my aunt always remained calm and never held a grudge against her. I have never seen someone be so understanding towards someone who treated them badly at times. When my grandmother became terminally ill, the need for my aunt’s constant care and love for my Pappama increased exponentially. My aunt had to travel long distances to see my grandmother in the hospital, cook her mashed food, and make sure my grandmother had everything she needed. Even though the experience was draining for the entire family, especially for my aunt and uncle, my aunt never complained, and continued to exhaust herself taking care of my grandmother until my grandmother took her last breath. After hearing all that my aunt and uncle went through in ensuring my grandma lived her last few months peacefully, I had a newfound respect for my aunt. She had handled a horrible and depressing situation with dignity and perseverance, and I will always admire her for that.

3 thoughts on “ My Aunt ”

Your aunt reminds me so much of my aunt! My aunt lives in Connecticut, and while that is definitely not as far as India, I do not get to see her as often as I would like too. It is really great that your aunt took care of your grandma as she was getting older. That is a hard job and one that requires love and patience. I hope your aunt is doing well and you get to see her again soon. Great post.

Your aunt seems like a really great women and it was inspirational to read about how she took care of your grandmother with no complaints even when she wasn’t very nice. It takes a special kind of person to take care of someone that is terminally ill. I don’t really talk to any of my aunts very much so I don’t quite know what it’s like to have someone other than my parents to talk to, but, from reading your blog, it sounds great and I’m glad you have someone like that. It must’ve been so scary when she had the stroke and heart attack but like you said, she probably pulled through because of all the great deeds she has done.

Your aunt seems like a she has such a beautiful soul. To have the ability to be so compassionate and understanding despite all that she has been through speaks greatly to her character. I believe that everyone needs someone like that in their lives. You should always have someone who can be there for you no matter what. As I get older, I truly strive to be a person like your aunt. I am glad that she made it through the stroke and heart attack, because to lose someone like her would be truly tragic.

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by Braiden from Campobello

A hero to me is not a guy in a costume, or someone with super powers of something. A hero is someone that you can always look up to, or someone that has helped you get over something. Someone that you can call a hero.

My hero would be my aunt. There are a few reasons why I choose my aunt. One of them would be because of school. She has helped with many things to do with school. If I needed help with school work or a project, I would go to her house. If I had a question I would ask her. One time I was assigned a social studies project, I had no idea what to do and I needed some pictures. I didn't have a printer. I thought I was bound to fail. I called my aunt, she said come over and I went. She gave me an idea of what I was supposed to do, she let me use her printer, and in the end I got a 94% on the project.Not too shabby for an estimated 0%.

Another reason she is my hero is because she spends a lot of time with me. She teaches me a lot of skills that I use every day like tying my shoes. She always took me on trips or vacations; mostly on holidays like every 4th of July we go some place, we watch parades, buy stuff, and watch fire works, which is my favourite part. She does lots of things with me and for me that I wouldn't get to do without her. She is a person that I look up to and that has helped me. That's why I call my aunt hero.

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Home — Essay Samples — Life — Aunt — My Aunt is Here Short Story

My Aunt is Here Short Story

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Published: May 7, 2019

Words: 1096 | Pages: 2 | 6 min read

My Aunt is Here

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My aunty’s name is Duleesha. She has long wavy hair and a fine ponytail. She is a slim young lady. She wears a pair of glasses. She wears fashionable sarees and blouses. She looks very beautiful in them. She smiles sweetly and walks smartly.

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Perspective

Grief made me lose my balance. here's how i learned to walk forward again.

Lauren DePino

The writer in Amalfi, Italy, where her grandfather is from. Alan Martín Caudillo hide caption

The writer in Amalfi, Italy, where her grandfather is from.

Last March, grief tripped me.

Days before I would leave for the Amalfi Coast, I tumbled down my patio stairs. My partner heard the crash of glass and found me on the ground in the fervid New Mexico sun, my fingers clenching a mug's handle, the only part intact. My right hand bled. My left knee throbbed.

For certain, I was giddy with anticipation to return to a beloved writing conference in Positano and to spend a few days in nearby Amalfi, where my father's father was from. But lodged within the seams of my excitement also lived anxiety-ridden grief, stubborn and taut.

At the same time the year before, I was saying goodbye to my vivacious aunt Theresa, who was dying of a rare cancer. The ending came quicker than any of us expected. She and I had schemed about meeting in Italy after last year's conference; instead, she passed weeks before. Ever since, my mother and two older sisters and I have felt the persistent sting and lingering dimness of her absence. Theresa was our glue. She hosted holidays, initiated getaways, phoned us to hear about our lives.

When I told my sisters and mother about my fall, which happened close to Theresa's one-year deathiversary, I was surprised to learn all of them had fallen recently, too.

In therapy, I determined it was grief, sly and upending, that had robbed us of our balance. As a way of dodging grief's latest takeover of our lives, we had disassociated ourselves from our minds, and in effect our bodies, enough to harm ourselves.

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How your brain copes with grief, and why it takes time to heal.

But I sensed something more was at play.

I reached out to Meghan Riordan Jarvis , a trauma-informed grief expert who specializes in how grief affects the body. Riordan Jarvis told me that because the death of a loved one is a completely novel experience, it is "very energetically expensive." She confirmed that grief can impair our balance as well as memory and our ability to do multistep functions.

Riordan Jarvis suggested I contact neuroscientist and psychologist Mary-Frances O'Connor . I already knew of O'Connor, having previously devoured her book, The Grieving Brain . What had struck me most from it was that, after we lose someone, our brain undergoes a lengthy rewiring process that monopolizes our mental capacity and can be accompanied by brain fog.

Our implicit knowledge that our loved one will "always" be with us conflicts with our episodic memories, which include their death, so we are left contending with conflicting streams of information, which O'Connor calls the "gone-but-also-everlasting theory." Our loved one is always here, at least in our virtual world. But in the physical world, they are gone, gone, gone.

Lauren and her beloved Aunt Theresa in Kauai in 2021. Melissa DePino hide caption

Lauren and her beloved Aunt Theresa in Kauai in 2021.

O'Connor told me she'd been working on a chapter in her next book about what I experienced, but what no one else seems to talk about — accidents that happen during bereavement. She shared that a study of over a million widows found that the bereaved are more likely to die from accidents than those still married. She said other studies are being conducted on suicide and cardiovascular disease during acute grief.

"Our capacity for balance is a necessary component of moving safely through the world," she told me. "And it is reduced in many bereaved, as so much of the world has shifted from the normal granite that has always worked for them."

After discussing my incident, she told me that she had biked into a parked car when she was experiencing what was likely the most difficult social stress of her life.

"I didn't get hit by a car. I ran into the back of a parked car. It is clear my brain's attention was not anywhere in my body ..."

From a fall to a climb

I had forgotten about my fall until I boarded my flight to Italy and bumped my left knee on the seat in front of me. I winced. It was still tender.

The second my partner and I set foot at the central Piazza Duomo in Amalfi, I lifted my gaze to the trappings of a once-medieval town carved into the stony hillside overlooking the Tyrrhenian Sea: the lemon groves, viridescent with vegetation; the windows and balconies impossibly stacked over one another; and the laundry, draped and swaying, underwear offering welcome shade to people chattering over electric-orange Aperol spritzes.

I exhaled, remembering something O'Connor had written. If grief is a way of coaxing your brain to create new meaning in this physical world without our loved one, we must learn from all we have now — the present moment.

O'Connor writes, "I think of this present-moment awareness as wholeheartedness, engaging in what you are doing now in all aspects."

I envisioned my whole heart hollowed and hallowed, not cumbersome and defective, as it had been feeling.

Anna and Maurizio, our Airbnb hosts, greeted us. Maurizio, who was in his late 60s, hoisted my 50-pound suitcase onto his back with a groan and started climbing, outpacing us. We struggled to trail him for the duration of 80 stairs, because these weren't stairs like those you might go up and down in your home, every day, without thinking.

I had to muster all my energy to pay attention to every step. I felt a dull throb in my left knee, but carried on. Maurizio swerved left, up past the stand that sells lemon sorbetto in hollowed out lemons. The stairs were wide enough but uneven, and a handrail stretched on part of the way. Still. He made a sharp right to a narrower corridor, then veered up more stairs, walled by tall houses. We moved into single file.

Teal and navy shirts hung upside down from the windows, their arms reaching for us. A banister appeared and disappeared. Gates swung open and closed. All the while, I focused on each step so intently I could hear the echo of my breath.

If I raised my eyes, I saw how elevated we were. My stomach plunged. I had to kneel to regain my footing; one misstep could send me toppling six stories down to beach level.

Finally, we reached what resembled a houseboat with three compact rooms respectively on three floors, accessible only by more precipitous stairs.

During my stay, I began to see these challenging climbs throughout the town's labyrinthic structure as an antidote to my fall, as a clearing after wading my way through grief's brain fog.

The stairway up to Lauren's accommodations in Amalfi. Alan Martín Caudillo hide caption

Forward, painstaking step after step

On my last day in Amalfi, my partner and I took yet another climb. We trekked to the cemetery that sits toward the top of the hill to see my ancestors' graves. In awe I saw my last name in its original spelling (DiPino) on roughly every third grave. Visages from memorial portraits of someone's famiglia, maybe mine, looked back at me, their large, dark eyes, familiar and comforting.

The stairs that took us there were numerous, rocky and unlevel. Back home, I had fallen down my patio stairs, stairs I had memorized, but I made it to the top of this town without as much as catching my foot.

When I lagged back down the hill navigating those craggy stairs with a painstaking finesse, I understood that when I fell on my patio, I was living in a daze. The same close attention that kept me from toppling into the cerulean sea that my grandfather stared at as a boy is the same intentionality I must apply to my own forward motion. To take one literal step at a time means seeing what's burrowing in the cracks, noticing the moss and mildew that's accumulated.

Grief can creep into our lives, months — even years — after our loved one has died. It can besiege our most joyfully anticipated experiences until we no longer see them as joyful. Not until we pay grief the attention it seeks can we live again.

I didn't fathom the fierce concentration and the gaping vulnerability it takes to both climb inconstant stairs and brave the latest face of grief until I visited my grandfather's hometown. I didn't know I had disconnected from myself until my body hit the ground.

I fell. My sisters and my mother fell. Amalfi has fallen, too. Once the seat of a maritime republic, an earthquake, cholera, a plague and pirate raids threatened its longevity. But the town, sunny, whimsical and ever susceptible, survived, too. When I left for Italy, I saw myself as broken. But when I connected again with O'Connor, she reassured me.

"Often when people talk with me about having brain fog when they're bereaved, it's like they think they're damaged. You're not damaged. Your brain is simply busy trying to help you. But you need to help it as well by giving it awareness and self-compassion."

While I found my counter-fall in Italy, I cannot know that I'll never topple again, just as no one can say whether Amalfi or any city will. And when I feel myself spacing out, I will picture what it felt like to ascend toward Amalfi's lapis sky, when it was me versus gravity. It took immense strength to balance on one foot, strength I had, even for the briefest moment, before I had to put the other foot down.

For now, I am paying intense attention — to every move, to every sting, to every rush of love.

Lauren DePino is a freelance writer, essay-writing coach, and songwriter. She is working on a memoir titled Funeral Singer: A Memoir of Holding on and Letting Go . Find more of her work at www.laurendepino.com .

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Good Essay About Travels With My Aunt Summary With Reflection

Type of paper: Essay

Topic: Literature , Women , Family , Life , Aunt , Novel , Thinking , Tourism

Words: 3000

Published: 03/31/2020

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This novel is written by Graham Greene in the year 1969. Greene was an English playwright, literacy critic and a writer. His writings usually highlighted ambivalent political and moral issues and problems of the world. He was widely renowned for his ability to amalgamate widespread popularity with literary acclaim. Many of his writings reflect his Roman Catholic background, although he strongly objected to the idea of being called as a Catholic writer rather than a writer with a catholic background. However, he never received a Nobel Prize in the literature category but he was runner-up in the year 1962 to Ivo Andrić. Major novels and write-ups by him were based on different moral and religious themes. He had a realistic, functional, non-sensuous and independent style of writing

Chapter 1 and 2 – I Met my Aunt Augusta and I was Quite Right

Summary This novel highlights the story of a banker, who has taken an early retirement from in his fifties. After his retirement, he is mostly engaged in gardening and looking after his dahlias. During his entire life, he has spent somewhat boring life without any interesting thing to do. He had no social gathering or friends. The general people that he knew were his bank customers. He even had no women in his life and the only woman that he knew was the daughter of one of his customers that he failed to convince for the marriage. The simple and routine life of Henry takes a complete turn and transformation as he meets the next character, Aunt Augusta. She was an old woman in her mid 70s. She comes in the story as the most interesting and appealing character. Henry had his first introduction with Aunt Augusta on the funeral ceremony of his mother. Although, he was meeting Aunt Augusta after many years but this meeting had a great mark on his character. During the funeral, Aunt Augusta informs Henry that his mother was not his mother and his father had died around 40 years ago.

During the course of reading this novel, myriad stories reflected in my mind that is somewhat similar to the characters of the story. One of my cousins who is very close to me, reflects the same attitude, which has been portrayed by Henry in this novel. My cousin keeps himself isolated from the social gathering that we all family members of our age tend to enjoy. As Henry, my cousin also experienced very different events in his life that completely changed his views and the way he used to behave before. During his college days, she met a woman, who was like an elder sister to her. Unlike my cousin, she was outspoken and bold. Both of them were of entire different personalities.

Chapter 3 & 4 – Crown & Anchor and I was Weeding the Dahlias

Summary Aunt Augusta invites Henry to his home for a drink. As Henry reaches her house, he is amazed by her different world and her stories. Henry came in her home with a packet that contained the ashes of her mother. As he leaves the house, he recalls that he has forgotten the packet of ashes and rushes to Aunt Augusta’s house to collect it. On his way to upstairs he meets the lover of Augusta, Wordsworth, who gives him the packet that he was going to collect. On the next day, he receives a call from Aunt. She informs him that might be contacted by police, as Mr.Worthsworth was drug dealer and police is suspecting that the packet he gave him yesterday contained marijuana. Police takes the ashes from Henry for examination as they suspected that the drugs were concealed in the ashes. After this, Wordsworth leaves the country and later it Henry was cleared by police, as the drugs were not found in the ashes. Throughout the novel, Wordsworth represents a comparatively better his lover, Aunt Augusta, who is an amoral character of the novel. He was very loyal to Augusta, who had a complete different view about the lovers she had in her entire life. He was able to do anything for her, as he loved her without any material benefit.

When I was in my school, one of my colleagues at school gave me his cell phone as he was had to go somewhere. During that same period, there was an announcement in my class that one of my class fellows has loss his cell phone. During that time, I was much surprised and thought that perhaps the phone given by my friend is the one, which he has stolen. Later, it was found that my friend did not steal it. I underwent the same feeling, which Henry felt when he was suspected by the police

Chapter 5 and 6 – Brighton and we had Dinner that Night

Summary Aunt Augusta and Henry forged a strong bond between each other and they subsequently planned a trip to Brighton. Aunt Augusta planned to keep low luggage, Henry on the contrary intended to keep at least a bag of woolens and clothes. They reach Brighton and this journey highlights the past life of Aunt Augusta. She was full of stories and had some amazing worthwhile experiences. The story then highlights the presence of circus performers and fortunetellers there. She tells the stories of her life and his former lovers. Although, Henry is a bit bemused by all such stories and the things, which were happening around him but he tried to be pragmatic and non-judgmental. This seaside trip of Henry with his Aunt turns out to be the beginning of his journey. Reflection As in the story, my cousin also began his journey. His college had planned an educational trip to Rome. He along with his sisters went together for that journey, which had a great impact on their lives; especially it was life changing for my cousin. Like Henry and Aunt Augusta, this journey also made a strong bond between my cousin and his friend that taught them many things of life.

Chapter 7 and 8 – The Affair & It was my Aunt Herself

Summary The story in the novel takes another turn, when Aunt Augusta suggests Henry to go for a trip to Istanbul with her. She expounds him that she had lived there for quite some time and of course, he had many stories of her lovers there as well. She tells him that she worked there for a travelling theatre. She insists Henry to accompany to this adventurous trip with her. After this scene, Henry meets the police and during this encounter, he talks to them in a more robust style then before. Finally, Henry agrees to the suggestion of Aunt Augusta and they plan their journey. She tells him that he had his lover named Abdul there and she was interested to there in just one day. She also highlights a story full of curiosity, which was regarding the uncle of Henry. Although, Henry did not hear of that uncle before but Aunt explains him that that uncle of him was almost bed ridden, but he preferred to change his room every week inside his large home to perceive it like a travelling journey. Although, all of these stories and incidences told by the Aunt seemed obscure and different to him but he develops a sort of bonding with her. It also remains unclear why she wanted to take Henry to Istanbul if she was going there to meet her lover. They start their journey by taking flight from London to Paris. At this point, Henry was curious why Aunt Augusta preferred to start the journey by air, as she hated flying. Aunt expounds her that she has always been doing it for many years and it is due to the laxity of the luggage that she carries. She tells him that its due to the fact luggage is taken from the passengers at Heathrow, which is considered the smuggling capital of the world. Initially, Buenos Aires as the main place then it was Havana and finally Castro stopped it. She told him that he has been a banker in most of the part of his life; on the contrary, she has all the experience that was much needed at that time. Reflection Like Henry, my cousin also seemed to be more depended on his friend in all the major travel decisions. Until now, Henry presents himself as if he is male equivalent of ingénue, which is a woman who is very innocent and has little idea about the world. It goes same with my cousin. Although, he is in his mid 50s but he presents himself as a very inexperienced and immature person because he apparently believes in all the things told by Aunt Augusta. Perhaps, this is the basic reason why Augusta considers him an interesting person and shares all the details of her life to him. Both the characters of the novel portray a picture of mysterious people with intriguing stories around them.

Chapter 9 & 10 – I had no Clear Idea and I Found Aunt Augusta

Summary After their arrival in Paris, Henry discovers the red suitcase in which Aunt Augusta smuggled the money. She carried four thousand pounds in the suitcase during the time when there was a limit of £50 that can be taken out of the country. There was hidden lesson for Henry as they stayed in Paris for a day; a lesson of sex and commerce. As he reaches the suite of Aunt, he discovers Wordsworth, who insists him to go for in a topless bar with him. Seeing this situation on that time, Henry felt shocked and left the scene. On the other hand, his aunt seemed upset for the entire thing, which happened. She explains him about the story of a man who was seeing Augusta in afternoons but was having fun with other women in evenings. She explains him the material aspect of the world but she seemed to press all the wrong buttons. Henry, on the contrary, was more interested in love, rather than crude sex. Reflection When I was Dubai last years, one of my friends there also inclined me to go to few unethical places there, which I declined to go. Although, he tried to convince me as if this is all fine and it is normally most of the people do here but his explanations had no affect on me like Henry, which is the central character of this novel.

Chapter 11 and 12: The Orient Express and We Were

Summary As they start their journey on Orient Express from Paris, he travels through Switzerland and became much attracted towards its tidy streets. Seeing this, he develops a thought about his dahlias and the tidy life he has spent. Pondering over it, he decides to leave the train at its next stop but this idea changes as he meets a young hippie girl. Henry seemed interested in him as she was looking for a friendly shoulder. The hippie girl offers a handmade cigarette to him that contained marijuana. That hippie girl tells him the stories about his past life. The father of the hippie girl, who travels around the world, worked for Central Investigation Agency (CIA). She tells him about his boyfriend who was an Englishman. He left her after she became pregnant. She even shares with him different kind of orgasm she has experienced from different men in her life. The girl was much interested in sharing her past life and Henry seemed interested as well, in listening to the things that she was telling him. The young hippie likes the way Henry explained his things and she tells him that he is ironic in his own unique English style. Reflection When I was in the last years of my school, I took coaching classes to prepare for my final examinations. In that class, I found a somewhat same sort of character, a woman who started to share her life with me although I was a stranger to him. When the character of this girl was explained in the novel, I instantly thought about the same girl, who shared all the major experiences of her life to me.

Chapter 13 and 14 – When the Train & I Felt Glad

Summary The entire situation, the vulnerability and the attractiveness of the girl takes him into a different experience. He starts to thing about his life and his proposal to the girl that he loved. A mix of emotion and drama pours in the story as the girl starts her conversation with Henry. It was entirely a new experience for Henry, who never thought such things would ever happen in his life. In the novel, this story intelligently unfolds the the kinds of events that have been surrounded by the characters in the story. Until now, the story highlights the things that have been missing in the life of Henry that makes his life as an interesting life. Not only he missed the exciting world that he has seen now by travelling through Europe but he has also missed the beautiful and appealing human interactions as well. The story also somehow highlights the unkind attitude of Aunt for the lack of experience of Henry. Reflection As in the story, the friend of my cousin (whom she called as his sister) told him different stories about her life and what things she has faced in her life. She belonged to a poor family and during her schooling, she started working at various clubs, which introduced her to several people who she considered were amoral. She got herself involved in different sort of cons and she managed to earn some handsome amount of money out of it.

Chapter 15 – For Some Reason

Summary The most interesting part of the story happens in Istanbul as they leave Milan to reach there. Their journey in Istanbul turns out to be like an Evelyn Waugh novel. During their stay in Istanbul, Henry sees his aunt reading a lurid detective novel. The detective in the novel was Abdul, which is also the name of the person, whom the aunt is intending to meet in Istanbul. After this scene, they encounter Abdul – the same person, whom aunt was planning to meet. Abdul was wounded as he was shot while trying to escape. Another officer and he search the entire hotel that can connect her with the investment swindle Abdul was planning to execute. He fails to identify the gold ingot and mistakes it as the candle because Aunt insists it to be the only light source they had in the room. After few scenes in the story, a factor of morality comes in and it highlights the religious backgrounds of both the characters. Aunt Augusta was a convert to Catholicism, which was more related to her convenience as she lived in Italy. On the contrary, Henry did not belong to any faith. Aunt Augusta did not give any though to the idea of morality, which was completely opposite as far as Henry was concern. This was clarified as they started the conversation about the young hippie girl. Henry disgusted about the parents of the hippie for leaving her, without considering any sort of duty towards her. He also showed his bitter feelings towards his boy friend, which left her, as well. These conversations displayed their religious backgrounds and the value they gave to morality. As they travel throughout the Kent, she showed his troubles in other ways. He eulogized the places he was visiting with blinking of insularity, which shows his frequent lapses. In Istanbul, he was interested to visit the city and see different places there. He called a taxi driver and asked him to take him to some interesting places of the city. In one of the place, he saw a group of Turkish man dancing a communal dance. These dancers completely excluded him from the dance that also highlights a metaphor. The plot of Aunt Augusta was further uncovered as they reaches the Turkish border and the officials deports Henry and her back to Paris. She also intended to get the money from her former lover, Achille Dambreuse, who was a wealthy and famous Frenchman. Before Augusta could succeed in her goals, the Frenchman dies due to a heart attack in the suite of her hotel. She even fails to get money worth $100,000 from the Achille’s widow, as she demanded would take to break her silence and to tell his death circumstances. After most of his plots failed, she endeavored to raise money by selling her portraits, which she claimed was painted by Amedeo Modigliani. Reflection The entire novel was like a roller coaster ride for me, which was full of amazing experience that I was able to connect well with the story of my cousin. Unlike, Aunt Augusta, who was still an amoral personality, the friend of my cousin was a complete changed person, who have learnt multitude of things from her experiences. During the time, when she was sharing these stories and the things which were happening in its backdrop had a great impact on the personality of my cousin, who turns out to be a more vocal and social person us, a transformation that can be compared with Henry.

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My Family’s United Farm Workers History Comes Alive in University Library Archives

Here at CSUN, the community has a unique opportunity to explore the history of the United Farm Workers and the Chicano Rights Movement with the archives at the University Library and the Tom and Ethel Bradley Center , which has the Farmworker Movement Collection.

CSUN graduate student (mass communication) and CSUN Today contributor Analisa Venolia’s grandparents were founding members of the United Farm Workers union, and their personal recollections are part of the Tom and Ethel Bradley Center’s archives and the University Library’s archives. The following first-person essay on her efforts to learn more about their work was written for CSUN Newsroom.

Growing up, I heard many stories about my grandparents, Irene Ramos Chandler and Bill Chandler, and their work to help establish the United Farm Workers. I heard about their arrests in Texas for organizing strikes and protests, their meetings with politicians, like Ted Kennedy, Tom Hayden and former President Lyndon B. Johnson, and their experiences with Chicana/o labor activist legends, like Dolores Huerta and Cesar Chavez.

My grandfather had worked as an orderly in a hospital before joining the UFW with my grandmother. She was a farmworker, who had labored in fields picking everything from lettuce to strawberries. Grapes were the worst to pick, she said, because the vines were so “mean” due to their thorns. I’ve spent many hours talking with my grandfather, who currently lives in Mississippi and heads a nonprofit that advocates for immigrant rights , about his time with the UFW. My grandmother passed away when I was in the first grade, so I was not able to hear many stories directly from her and instead heard them from my mother, who made sure to honor her memory.

I knew that my grandparents’ records of their involvement with the UFW were stored in the University Library, but it wasn’t until I began pursuing a graduate degree here at CSUN that I truly understood what that meant. For some reason, as silly as it sounds, I had an image in my head of the records locked away in boxes in the basement of the library, unable to be accessed by the public.

After a recent class about research methods, during which my professor used my family archives as an example of how to access archival records, I realized that the public– and I– can easily explore this material.

I went to the Special Collections room on the second floor of the library and requested to see both my grandparents’ collections. Due to some technical issues, I wasn’t able to view my grandfather’s collection but I received multiple boxes from my grandmother’s. I saw my grandmother’s union earrings with the UFW eagle— which were much larger than the pendant that was passed down to me. I leafed through photos I had never seen, and various union paraphernalia, including a songbook of UFW tunes sung during marches and meetings. I noticed that I had only received five of the six boxes in my grandmother’s collection, and when I asked about the missing box, I was informed that the shawl my grandmother made for Dolores Huerta was in the University Library Exhibit Gallery. It is currently displayed as part of the “Eating the Archives” exhibit about the complexities of food.

Seeing my grandmother’s collection was bittersweet. I was both proud of her and sorry that I didn’t have the opportunity to get to know her well. I would have loved to speak to her about the items in the collection and her memories of working as an activist across the United States. Overwhelmingly, however, I was thankful that her contributions to history were being preserved.

Viewing the items in my family’s archives has sparked new conversations for me and my mother about our family history. I asked questions about the items in the archives and she shared stories from her childhood that I hadn’t heard before, like that my grandmother couldn’t sew well and that she made the shawl for Delores Huerta out of produce sacks that she had on hand. We’re also planning a family visit to the archives with my aunts, uncles, and cousins so they can see what is there.

To know that the records of my family’s contributions to the Chicano Movement and labor history will be used to further understand and appreciate the powerful historical moment that was UFW activism in the 1960s and 70s makes me deeply proud.

To me, my grandmother is the woman I hear about from my mother’s and aunt’s stories and my grandfather is the man who talks for hours about politics. There are people involved with the  la causa  who are more famous than my grandparents, but when I saw my grandparents’ archives, it reminded me that my grandparents made valuable contributions to history and influenced the lives of people outside of my family, and will continue to do so, thanks to the Bradley Center and the University Library.

Cesar Chavez Day, which celebrates the birth of the first President of the United Farm Workers takes place this year on Monday, April 1. The day is also about recognizing the work of the UFW members and their supporters to create better working conditions for the people who harvest our food. Californians are encouraged to spend the day in acts of service and education about past and present issues facing farm workers, including health, safety, pay and immigration.

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I knew exactly when my aunt was going to die with medical assistance. That didn't ease my heartache

Our final goodbye was akin to a funeral, but my aunt was alive.

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This First Person column is written by Mary Gellner, who lives in Ottawa. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see  the FAQ .

The day before her meticulously scheduled death, my aunt greeted me in her pink tracksuit, which read "Great things to come."

She opened the door to my mom and I who arrived in Sutton, Ont., after a nearly four-hour drive from Ottawa, and when I saw her, I didn't know whether to laugh or cry, so I settled in the middle with a smile and tears. My aunt was blind, and I figured she wouldn't notice.

"Did you choose the shirt intentionally?" I asked, leaning toward her for a hug.

"Yes," my aunt said with a smile. "It's funny."

It was funny. 

"Are you sniffling?" my aunt asked, finally noticing my tears. "Don't cry. I only cried once. People keep calling me and crying. I'm not sad," she said. 

In less than 24 hours, my aunt would be gone.

My aunt's sense of humour had helped her cope with the unexpected death of her daughter, a painful ostomy surgery, and managing life with vision loss and a colostomy bag.

My uncle said her severe osteoporosis and arthritis had left her in bed with chronic pain most days. 

Her pain wasn't terminal, but it consumed her life.

My aunt said she had cycled through every kind of pain management plan — from medications to lifestyle changes, but nothing had eased her suffering. So finally, my aunt told her doctor she wanted a medically assisted death and began the approval process.

She said didn't want a big crowd on the day of her death, so we planned to say our goodbye the day before. 

My mom and I wanted to support her decision, but selfishly we had hoped she might change her mind. My uncle also told me he was afraid of losing her. They met in their teens, married young, built a business together, had three kids and many grandchildren. 

It was hard to know how to feel. Isn't death supposed to be a terrible surprise? This was akin to a funeral, with sad cards, photos and loved ones but my soon-to-be-deceased-aunt was alive and in good spirits. 

It was like a strange party for red-eyed people. 

I looked around the dining room table at the faces of my mom, my aunt, her husband, some of their children and their grandchildren. 

My mom had brought homemade fudge, and told us a story about how as a child, she had burned herself on the fudge under the "watchful" care of her big sister.

I listened to my mom and my aunt chat. My heart broke knowing that this was their last conversation.

In between laughter and reminiscing, distress from her illness would flash across my aunt's face, and she would gasp quietly from pain. 

While sitting at the table, I thought back to an earlier visit with my aunt. I remembered the sound of her shrieking in bed from horrendous pain. Her bones sounded like they were literally cracking.

After years of surviving, she courageously said, enough.

WATCH | Artist chose medically assisted death and wanted Canadians to witness the entire process: 

Artist chose medically-assisted death and wanted Canadians to witness the entire process

I could tell today was a better day, because she knew it would be over soon. 

"Are you afraid?" I asked.

"I am not afraid of the procedure," she said calmly. "They explained it all to me. They will put two needles in each arm — one for backup."

But then, she added, "I am afraid of what comes next. I am afraid of not existing."

Then, it was time to say our final goodbye.

I had held myself together during the visit, but when it came time for my last hug, my tears welled up fast. 

I wanted to say, "Don't do it," but I held back and said instead, "I hope you get your peace tomorrow." 

"Are you crying?" my aunt demanded with a smile. "I can tell."

As my mom and I got into my car, my aunt called out, "Do you want some tablecloths, clothes or bathrobes? I won't need them."

On the drive back to Ottawa, my mom turned to me and mused, "Maybe she will change her mind?" 

Along our journey we witnessed the biggest and brightest rainbow appear in the sky and then fade away. All those colours on earth for a finite amount of time reminded me to be grateful for the loved ones in your life, even if they cannot stay as long as you would like.

The next day, my aunt died, as she had planned, with humour and with dignity. She had one last pyjama party with her granddaughters before waking up to the last morning of her life.

My uncle said she made jokes right until the end. She even teased the medical professional inserting the IV lines.

"Is this your first time doing this," she laughed.

Since medically assisted death is a choice, I naively thought that it would be easier to handle my grief over my aunt's death. But a loved one dying by choice still leaves the same size hole in your heart. 

I am grateful that my aunt was at peace by her own choice and in awe of her courage and humour in the face of death, but also felt immense grief that she was gone from my life forever.

Do you have a compelling personal story that can bring understanding or help others? We want to hear from you. Write to us at  [email protected] .

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Freelance Contributor

Mary Gellner works full time for the federal government as a project manager and spends her evenings playing the drums in Ottawa.

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• First Person We let our 94-year-old father die, and I'm haunted by our choice

How Beyoncé Fits Into the Storied Legacy of Black Country

Randall is an award-winning professor, songwriter, and author of My Black Country: A Journey Through Country Music's Black Past, Present, and Future

O n March 16, 1983, the Country Music Association (CMA) celebrated its 25th anniversary, and I was invited. Buddy Killen, the song publisher who pitched “Heartbreak Hotel” to Elvis Presley, thought “the Black girl from Harvard” might just be the second coming of that hit’s songwriter, Mae Boren Axton. He put me on the guest list and paid for the tickets.

It was a complicated night. The event was held at the DAR Constitution Hall, built by the Daughters of the American Revolution, an infamous venue whose management had refused to allow Black opera star Marian Anderson to perform on its stage in 1939. I took special pleasure in seeing guitarist and singer Charley Pride stride onto that stage—in a building named to honor the U.S. Constitution, but run to exclude Black artists—and stake his claim as part of that “We the People” that document claims to represent.

At one point in the ceremony, singer Roy Acuff announced that “country music is a family.” Then he proclaimed Jimmie Rodgers “the father” of that family. But he did not mention Lil Hardin Armstrong, the pianist who played on Rodgers’ hit “Blue Yodel No. 9.” Acuff nodded to Will Rogers, the comedian, but shamelessly omitted DeFord Bailey , the Grand Ole Opry’s first superstar.

My idea to name and spotlight the First Family of Black Country was conceived in that moment. It was nurtured in the silence of missing names. Quiet as it was being kept, country had Black founders. I knew it; Buddy Killen, who arrived in Nashville playing bass for a blackface comedy act on the Grand Ole Opry, knew it; Roy Acuff, who had played on stages with Bailey, Ray Charles, and Pride, knew it. And more than four decades later, Beyoncé knew it when she broke the internet on Super Bowl Sunday by surprise—releasing two country songs and announcing an album, Cowboy Carter , which has her devoted fans in the Beyhive buzzing about line-dancing into the summer of country.

Read More: Beyoncé Has Always Been Country

That evening back in 1983 was constructed to be country’s coming-out party as a musical genre worthy of exceptional respect because it was a reflection and celebration of America at its best. And that best was being defined as a family having only white founders—and not a single Black woman in sight. It was a fallacy that could only last so long.  

The way I see it, modern Black country was born on Dec. 10, 1927, when Bailey, descended from enslaved Tennesseans, lifted his harmonica to play “Pan American Blues” on the Nashville radio show Barn Dance. Fast forward to July 16, 1930, in Los Angeles, where Armstrong made country music history as the first Black woman to play on a hillbilly record that sold a million copies. And Lil didn’t just play on the session—her piano drove the session.

Country is not as many have posited: a genre with Black influence but without Black presence. Black women have been present since the earliest days of country’s existence as a recorded and commercially marketed music form. But a custom of cultural redlining has not only kept Black women out of country writing rooms, off country airwaves, off rodeo stages, off the country charts; it has also worked to keep the few Black women who managed to evade the gatekeepers off the entertainment pages, and out of the history books.

This would change. Nobody sitting in the room that night knew it, but there was a little girl toddling around a two-story house in Houston who would bring the long era of -erasing Black country sounds and stories to an abrupt end. The calculated erasure that began at one large public party with expensive tickets in 1983 ended during another, Super Bowl LVIII, when Beyoncé released “Texas Hold ’Em” and “16 Carriages.”

Along with “Daddy Lessons” off of 2016’s Lemonade, these songs have established Beyoncé as heir to a Black country musical tradition that dates back to the 17th century, when the first banjo was strummed by Black hands on American soil. Like DeFord Bailey’s, Beyoncé’s country songs are grounded in aural rural realities: the screech of the passing train, the sound from the local bar where folk are dancing. Like Lil, she understands the power of a costume and a trumpet. Like Ray Charles she brings a whiff of the Black cosmopolitan. Like Charley Pride she exudes a radiant Old Testament Song of Songs sexuality that is at once hot and holy. Like Herb Jeffries she embodies the cowboy who stays close to nature and guns.

The erasure did not end just because Beyoncé Knowles Carter became the first Black female artist to top the country charts, though she did that, on Feb. 24. And there are many others who have laid the groundwork for this catalytic moment: Linda Martell, the Pointer Sisters, Rissi Palmer, Rhiannon Giddens, Mickey Guyton, Brittney Spencer, Reyna Roberts, and O.N.E the Duo, to name just a few.

The erasure ended when she started a sustained national conversation, getting America to talk about and celebrate neglected Black country legacy. The question of “Who can be in country music?” often masks a deeper query about “Who can be a real American?” Beyoncé’s was a loud announcement of a reality long denied, that she was “We the People.” And so were people who looked like her.

I’ve often said that country music is three chords and four truths: life is hard, God is real, whiskey and roads and family provide worthy compensations, and the past is better than the present. That last truth is one of the places where country often experiences a racial split. In much of white country, the past that is better than the present exists in a longed-for and lost mythical Dixie. In Black country, the past that is better than the present exists in a longed-for and lost Africa before colonization.

Country music is commonly defined as American folk music with Celtic, African, and evangelical Christian influences. My ancestors come from Cameroon, Nigeria, and Mali, from Scotland, England, and Ireland. I am country music, embodied. I started songwriting sitting under a Motown cherry tree, about the age of 5, in 1964. I would eat candied cherries, watching a sea of cars flow by on the John C. Lodge Freeway, and let country songs—from my grandmother’s lips, my mother’s radio, my aunt’s -stereo—roll ’round my head. I started off singing other people’s words then one day I started singing my own, the auspicious beginnings of a career that would land me in the top spot on the country charts.

Read More: Black Artists Helped Build Country Music—And Then It Left Them Behind

My daddy hipped me to the fact that it was Lil Hardin on Jimmie Rodgers’ biggest hit, and that there were probably a lot more Black folks passing for white on country records. He would look at some sheet music or hymnal, then ask, “What you bet Traditional was a colored girl?” 

I write country music because it is a way to make what is too hard to bear somehow bearable. Beyoncé in “Texas Hold ’Em” does this same work, squaring off against tornadoes, heat waves, and lovers losing courage, as DeFord had squared off against a sense of being relentlessly pursued in “Fox Chase.” Both songs transform hardship into a particular flavor of playful and hopeful joy I recognize as country.   

To close out the CMA anniversary show, Ray Charles sang “America the Beautiful.” Listening to the man behind what has been called the greatest country album, 1962’s Modern Sounds in Country and Western Music, it struck me how entwined he was in the legacy of Black country. This was Armstrong and Bailey’s genius child. Next to him was country-as-corn-bread Pride, a spiritual love child to Bailey. On the other side of the family tree, Herb Jeffries, who wasn’t present in the auditorium but should have been, was Armstrong’s stepchild. 

Among a sea of white people, including the President and Vice President of the U.S. and the presidents of every major country-music label, I had an inkling I was the only person in that room worried about singing Black cowboys, worried about Jeffries, wondering why he wasn’t there.

Now Beyoncé has changed that room entirely. Cowboy Carter is poised to be a brilliant new beginning and a culmination. As I see it, Beyoncé is the genius child of Ray Charles. The daughter who eclipses the father. The reflected light of her triumph makes visible both the lineage from which she aesthetically descends and the reality that Black country is a big tent with many entry points: from banjos, harmonicas, and cowboy songs to movies and Motown cherry trees. Beyoncé raises this question: If country owes a significant debt to Black culture, what in America doesn’t?

Adapted from My Black Country: A Journey Through Country Music’s Black Past, Present, and Future . Copyright © 2024 by Alice Randall. Reprinted by permission of Black Privilege Publishing, an imprint of Simon & Schuster, LLC.

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Louis Gossett Jr., 87, Dies; ‘An Officer and a Gentleman’ and ‘Roots’ Actor

His portrayal of a drill instructor earned him the Oscar for best supporting actor. He was the first Black performer to win in that category.

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By Anita Gates

Louis Gossett Jr., who took home an Academy Award for “An Officer and a Gentleman” and an Emmy for “Roots,” both times playing a mature man who guides a younger one taking on a new role — but in drastically different circumstances — died early Friday in Santa Monica, Calif. He was 87.

Mr. Gossett’s first cousin Neal L. Gossett confirmed the death. He did not specify a cause.

Mr. Gossett was 46 when he played Emil Foley, the Marine drill instructor from hell who ultimately shapes the humanity of an emotionally damaged young Naval aviation recruit (Richard Gere) in “ An Officer and a Gentleman ” (1982). Reviewing the movie in The New York Times, Vincent Canby described Sergeant Foley as a cruel taskmaster “recycled as a man of recognizable cunning, dedication and humor” revealed in “the kind of performance that wins awards.”

Mr. Gossett told The Times that he had recognized the role’s worth immediately. “The words just tasted good,” he recalled.

When he accepted the Oscar for best supporting actor in 1983, he was the first Black performer to win in that category — and only the third (after Hattie McDaniel and Sidney Poitier) to win an Academy Award for acting.

Mr. Gossett, a versatile actor, played a range of parts in his long career. But he was best known for playing decent, plain-spoken men, often authority figures.

By the time he won his Oscar, he had already won an Emmy as Fiddler, the mentor of the lead character, Kunta Kinte (LeVar Burton), in the blockbuster 1977 mini-series “ Roots .”

Fiddler was, as the name suggested, a musician, an enslaved man on an 18th-century Virginia plantation. Mr. Gossett was not thrilled about the role at first. “Why choose me to play the Uncle Tom?” he remembered thinking in a 2018 Television Academy video interview . But he came to admire the survival skills of forebears like Fiddler, he said, and based the character on his grandparents and a great-grandmother.

That portrayal, he said, became “a tribute to all those people who taught me how to behave.”

Louis Cameron Gossett Jr. was born on May 27, 1936, in Brooklyn, the only child of Louis Gossett, a porter, and Helen (Wray) Gossett, a nurse. He made his Broadway debut when he was 17 and still a student at Abraham Lincoln High School on Ocean Parkway.

While healing after a basketball injury, he appeared in a school play, just to occupy his time. Impressed, a teacher suggested that he audition for “ Take a Giant Step ,” a play by Louis Peterson that was opening at the Lyceum Theater in the fall of 1953. He won the lead role, that of Spencer Scott, a troubled adolescent. Brooks Atkinson of The Times praised his “admirable and winning performance,” one that conveyed “the whole range of Spencer’s turbulence.”

Sidney Fields devoted a column in The Sunday Mirror to the young man, who shared his career plans. “I always wanted to study pharmacy,” Mr. Gossett said. “But now after college I’ll try acting. I know it’s a tough business, but if I fail, I’ll have the pharmacy degree to fall back on.”

He ended up majoring in drama (and minoring in pharmacy) while on a basketball scholarship at New York University. In 1955, he returned to Broadway, in William Marchant’s comedy “The Desk Set.” By the time he graduated, acting was paying him more than any basketball team would.

He made his film debut as an annoying college man in “ A Raisin in the Sun ” (1961), an adaptation of the Lorraine Hansberry play that starred Sidney Poitier and Ruby Dee. He had appeared onscreen only twice before — in two episodes of “The Big Story,” an NBC drama series, in 1957 and 1958.

Before becoming a film star, Mr. Gossett had a thriving theater career. In less than a decade he landed six Broadway roles, including that of a Harlem hustler in “Tambourines to Glory” (1963), a South African grandfather’s servant in “The Zulu and the Zayda” (1965), a lawyer who had killed a white man in a civil rights demonstration in “My Sweet Charlie” (1966) and the Congolese leader Patrice Lumumba in “Dangerous Angels” (1971).

In the mid-1960s, he replaced the actor playing the big-time boxing promoter Eddie Satin in the musical “Golden Boy,” starring Sammy Davis Jr. His most unfortunate role may have been as a Black man with a white slave in “Carry Me Back to Morningside Heights” (1968), a comedy written by Robert Alan Aurthur and directed by Sidney Poitier. The play, which Clive Barnes of The Times called racist, closed after a week.

Mr. Gossett never committed to another Broadway role. But he appeared for four nights as the flashy lawyer Billy Flynn in the musical “Chicago” in 2002.

In the 1960s, he also performed as a folk singer in Greenwich Village coffee houses. He and Richie Havens co-wrote the antiwar song “Handsome Johnny,” which Mr. Havens recorded in 1966 and later sang at Woodstock.

His dozens of feature films included “The Landlord” (1970), in which he played a man on the brink of insanity; “Travels With My Aunt” (1972); and “The Deep” (1977), as a Bahamian drug dealer. His later films included “ Diggstown ” (1992), in which he played a boxer, and the movie version of Sam Shepard’s “Curse of the Starving Class” (1994), in which he played a bar owner.

Mr. Gossett made more than 100 television appearances, ranging from lighthearted comedies like “The Partridge Family” to dramas like “Madam Secretary.” He played the title role, a Columbia anthropology professor who investigates crimes, on the short-lived 1989 series “Gideon Oliver.”

He also appeared in numerous television movies, among them “The Lazarus Syndrome” (1978), about a cardiologist; “ A Gathering of Old Men ” (1987), about a Black man who kills in self-defense; “Strange Justice” (1999), about the Clarence Thomas Supreme Court confirmation process (he played the presidential adviser Vernon Jordan); and “Lackawanna Blues” (2005), based on Ruben Santiago-Hudson’s play. His other TV-movie roles included the Egyptian leader Anwar Sadat and the baseball star Satchel Paige.

He continued to act until last year, when he was seen in the film version of the Broadway musical “The Color Purple.”

Mr. Gossett’s marriage to Hattie Glascoe in 1964 lasted only five months. He and Christina Mangosing married in 1973, had one child and divorced after two years. His 1987 marriage to Cyndi James Reese ended in divorce in 1992.

Mr. Gossett is survived by his sons, Satie and Sharron Gossett, and several grandchildren.

In the Television Academy interview, Mr. Gossett urged fellow actors to help effect political and social change in a disturbing world. “The arts can achieve it overnight,” he said. “Millions of people are watching.” He added, “We can get to them quicker than anybody else.”

Michael S. Rosenwald contributed reporting.