The Stolen Generation Story This is a story about a girl called Kya and how she doesnt belong Essay Example For Students

The Stolen Generation: Story This is a story about a girl called Kya and how she doesnt belong Essay This is a story about a girl called Kya and how she doesnt belong. Hey Im Kya. I live in Australia at a settlement in kalgoorlle where I have lived for four years. I am now eight and I want to know everything that happened in the first four years of my life. I know I didnt live here all my life I lived out in the bush with my REAL family. I remember when I first arrived here a very pale lady came and took me by the hand and lead me to my bed. And I have never left ever since. We will write a custom essay on The Stolen Generation: Story This is a story about a girl called Kya and how she doesnt belong specifically for you for only $16.38 $13.9/page Order now Everyday me and the other girls at this settlement get up go to breakfast, say our prayers, eat breakfast, clean ourselves, sew bags for the market, eat lunch, clean up around the settlement, have dinner and go to bed. But today was different Mr. Neville was coming for a visit. All the children called him Mr. Devil because he made us live here and he controls everything in our lives. We all sat out in the courtyard of the morning of Mr. Devils visit and some of the children sang one of his favorite songs. After the song Mr. Devil called out childrens names to check if they had light skin. He had just checked a very jumpy girl when he called Kya Sumby I looked up Kya Sumby I stumbled forward. He lifted my shirt to see my back. Shes good to go he said in a careless voice. But it was a big deal to me. A week later I was told to pack up my things and say goodbye to my friends. I didnt have any friends in this place and I didnt like to talk much if I could help it. After four years I still dont fell comfortable here. I was going to my new home I thought I must be better of there that I am here. When it was time I couldnt get away fast enough. I grabbed my bag and jumped in the back of the truck and looked at the sad faces of the children who had to stay. I felt bad but what could I do to help. William Stouts was a guard at the settlement he was driving me to my new home in Broome. Ill drive you to Wiluna and then you will catch a train to Broome said William theyll be expecting ya so dont try anything funny he said and then he started mumbling angrily at me because of the inconvenience of driving me all that way. Most of the trip I slept and ate stale sandwiches when we finally got to Wiluna. Ok your train comes at noon Ill wait with you till the train comes but I wont be coming with you William said. Oh know I didnt know this. What if something goes wrong? What if I lose my luggage or something? William  must have seen the look on my face and said there will be attendants on the train to keep everything in order. He couldnt blame me for getting scared this was after all my first time on a train. The train finally arrived and William said a gruff goodbye still muttering while I got on the train. An attendant offered to put my bag up on the rack but I refused and I held it close to me. I dropped into an uneasy sleep. A dark woman who was my mother held me close and told me she would find me, but thats when I woke up an attendant was nudging me 5 minutes to Broome he murmured. I sat bolt upright. I was very anxious about meeting my new family even though I deeply miss my old one. .uc7e518eb40b92d4a6ca35c451f9b6eaa , .uc7e518eb40b92d4a6ca35c451f9b6eaa .postImageUrl , .uc7e518eb40b92d4a6ca35c451f9b6eaa .centered-text-area { min-height: 80px; position: relative; } .uc7e518eb40b92d4a6ca35c451f9b6eaa , .uc7e518eb40b92d4a6ca35c451f9b6eaa:hover , .uc7e518eb40b92d4a6ca35c451f9b6eaa:visited , .uc7e518eb40b92d4a6ca35c451f9b6eaa:active { border:0!important; } .uc7e518eb40b92d4a6ca35c451f9b6eaa .clearfix:after { content: ""; display: table; clear: both; } .uc7e518eb40b92d4a6ca35c451f9b6eaa { display: block; transition: background-color 250ms; webkit-transition: background-color 250ms; width: 100%; opacity: 1; transition: opacity 250ms; webkit-transition: opacity 250ms; background-color: #95A5A6; } .uc7e518eb40b92d4a6ca35c451f9b6eaa:active , .uc7e518eb40b92d4a6ca35c451f9b6eaa:hover { opacity: 1; transition: opacity 250ms; webkit-transition: opacity 250ms; background-color: #2C3E50; } .uc7e518eb40b92d4a6ca35c451f9b6eaa .centered-text-area { width: 100%; position: relative ; } .uc7e518eb40b92d4a6ca35c451f9b6eaa .ctaText { border-bottom: 0 solid #fff; color: #2980B9; font-size: 16px; font-weight: bold; margin: 0; padding: 0; text-decoration: underline; } .uc7e518eb40b92d4a6ca35c451f9b6eaa .postTitle { color: #FFFFFF; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600; margin: 0; padding: 0; width: 100%; } .uc7e518eb40b92d4a6ca35c451f9b6eaa .ctaButton { background-color: #7F8C8D!important; color: #2980B9; border: none; border-radius: 3px; box-shadow: none; font-size: 14px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 26px; moz-border-radius: 3px; text-align: center; text-decoration: none; text-shadow: none; width: 80px; min-height: 80px; background: url(https://artscolumbia.org/wp-content/plugins/intelly-related-posts/assets/images/simple-arrow.png)no-repeat; position: absolute; right: 0; top: 0; } .uc7e518eb40b92d4a6ca35c451f9b6eaa:hover .ctaButton { background-color: #34495E!important; } .uc7e518eb40b92d4a6ca35c451f9b6eaa .centered-text { display: table; height: 80px; padding-left : 18px; top: 0; } .uc7e518eb40b92d4a6ca35c451f9b6eaa .uc7e518eb40b92d4a6ca35c451f9b6eaa-content { display: table-cell; margin: 0; padding: 0; padding-right: 108px; position: relative; vertical-align: middle; width: 100%; } .uc7e518eb40b92d4a6ca35c451f9b6eaa:after { content: ""; display: block; clear: both; } READ: The struggle for personal identity EssayAs I got of the train I started to picnic. What was I suppose to do now William didnt tell me what I was to do after I got on the train. After five stressed out minutes elderly woman approached me. Are you Kya Sumby she asked in a stern voice yes I replied wearily. I was exhausted. Well you are to come with me to your new home. After a short drive we got to a simple house with dead grass out the front. I was hoping to live near a forest, it would be great waking up to the sound of kookaburras laughing in the morning, but there was no sign of a forest not even a tree. There was a pathetic little shrub in the backyard. Inside the house it was spotless I even had to take my shoes of before entering the house. Mrs. Staples husband was at war and she was very worried about him but she was very proud at the same time. Mrs. staple talked of him often. She loved him a lot. I remember wishing that someone would love me that much. Mrs. staple was hard to understand. One moment she would be sneaking me a cake or a lolly and the next moment she would be stern. I think she was just lonely. It was the year of 1917 when we got the very sad news that Mrs. Staples husband had died while at war. He died of typhoid .she wouldnt talk to me for days she spent her days crying over the loss. The last letter he wrote her was saying that he was happy and feeling well, that was about 3 weeks ago. Mrs. Staple was very distressed, but a year later when the war was over she had soon come to terms with her loss. As years passed I got older and I was engaged to a man called Joe plight and he was the blacksmith of the town. But even though I was happy there I had to find my family. Joe had a friend who knew the name Sumby and said there was a  family of aborigines living in Walgun. Not much after Joe and I went to see if it was really they, my family who I had been missing all these years. à ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦It was I was so happy I recognized my mother straight away she hadnt changed except for her hair. Once a wavy black now a pale white. That made me realize. I have been without my mother for at least 20 years. I have missed out on so much. I now have 2 half sisters and a half brother. They had no right. I had always wished someone would love me as much as Mrs. Staple loved her husband, but now all along I knew somebody did. My mother.