I elect to stay on the soil of which I was born and on the plot of ground which I have fairly bought and honestly paid for. Don’t advise me to leave, and don’t add insult to injury by telling me it’s for my own good; of that I am to be the judge.
I was born in New York City in 1926, four years after my parents and my brother migrated to the United States from the city of Odessa in Russia.
Although they arrived in New York penniless, my parents scraped together enough savings to establish the first of several small businesses just after I was born.
My name is Natasha Trethewey, and I was born in Gulfport, Mississippi, in 1966, exactly 100 years to the day that Mississippi celebrated the first Confederate Memorial Day, April 26, 1866.
I was born in a slum, but the slum wasn’t born in me.
When I was born, some of our relatives came to our house and told my mother, ‘Don’t worry, next time you will have a son.’
I was born a proud daughter of Pakistan, though like all Swatis I thought of myself first as a Swati and Pashtun, before Pakistani.
I am a coolie and the son of a coolie. I was born with the poor, and I am still poor. My sympathies have always been with the struggling mass.
My parents were mourning the death of my sister. She was killed in a car accident before I was born, and I didn’t know she existed until I was 13 or 14 years old. I knew I was growing up in a house where people were angry and sad.
I was born in Cincinnati, Ohio. My family was not nationally known as being a literary family, though my mother and my mother’s side of the family in general were interested in literature.