Losing Everything on One Moment

My room's perimeter was lined with 200 Hot Wheels automobiles, each measuring two by five inches and adorned with flames and spoilers. My mother always told me to put them away and play outside, but I never did. I drove the cars all around the house. As a six-year-old, they attracted my interest. I was completely enamored with the collection I had put together on my own. I owned each and every one of those 99-cent autos. But I never expected the collection to vanish in a fraction of the time it took to accumulate. After July 6, 2006, I never saw my collection again.

I squinted that day to catch one more glance at the front entrance of my house. A charming two-story home in a quiet Rockland County neighborhood, 50 Greenridge Way was a charming two-story residence. In 1997, my mother was six months pregnant with me when my parents signed the documents. They were happy because they had something that was theirs. My parents were hell-bent on realizing the American Dream. They worked very hard to save money for their baby grand piano, and they worked even harder to paint my sister's and my bedroom pink and blue like the ones on the cover of PB Teen. They had no clue, though, how fast all they had won could be lost. The unforeseeable has left my parents distraught.

My family was evicted for the following five years. In many of our family members' homes, doors were shut in our faces, and we were issued the 'one-night maximum' deal. However, it was what I learned about character that I took away from this experience, not what I learned about other people's behavior. My experience, resilience, and faith, values that cannot be touched, uilt more character in me than any two-by-five-inch automobile or baby grand piano could ever do. My family learned that the intangible things that got us through difficult times, such as my 202 automobiles, are everlasting after losing every single one of our goods to thievery and storage unit auctions. It felt like six hours had passed since we had left our house.

It's been six hours since I woke up. Six hours to pack up our lives and relocate them, six hours to get out of something that had taken nine years of work, a lot of money, and an unimaginable amount of emotion. Day laborers ordered our employees to be thrown into the front yard. Family and neighbors rushed to the scene, offering to save everything they could. I looked for the goods that were most important to me in a hurried manner. I packed my blankie, Gameboy, and Build-A-Bear in a little duffle bag. As I raced into my aunt's car, I was nervous, my attention riveted on the movers flinging my mother's favorite Diego Rivera painting onto the pavement. As a child, I should have had a lot of questions on my mind.

My family has had brief spells of homelessness since the incident, and we may be facing another in the coming days. Despite my concerns about our financial status, an overwhelming sensation of faith creeps up my spine and soothes my anxiety. Unlike our possessions, our faith and perseverance will never be taken. My seemingly insurmountable fear of losing 'everything' has decreased over time because I know I won't lose 'everything' if I misplace my belongings again. Despite the uncertainty and worry, the next chapter of my life will usher in newer, and most likely more challenging, difficulties, I will heave a sigh of relief. None of our options are viable.