Question

My mother, along with all of my godparents, began planning my quinceañera after I turned fourteen. My mother and aunts took me to a bridal shop where I was fitted for a long, white gown, which I would wear at the celebration. I felt my cheeks grow red with embarrassment as the women fawned and fussed over me in the store. I desperately wished that I could just find a hole to crawl into and hide, but there was no way out. My mother, who was in her glory, naturally assumed that the redness in my face was a glow of happiness. I let her go right on thinking that. It was her day, I kept telling myself. I was doing this for her.
At last, the big day came. My father cooked up a special breakfast for my brothers and me first thing that morning. I had a queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach, but I was somewhat comforted by my father's easygoing manner and his apparent anticipation of the celebration ahead.

After breakfast, my mother helped me dress for the quinceañera. While she was styling my hair, she paused every so often to wipe away a tear of joy that had trickled down her face. I couldn't recall ever having seen my mother quite this happy, and suddenly my heart swelled with affection for her.

Two hours later, I found myself standing in the front of a church while all of my dearest friends and family members gazed up at me from the pews. As I looked out on the smiling, supportive faces of all the people I loved, I had an unexpected realization. This day wasn't for my mother after all; it was for me.

The church ceremony was followed by a fiesta that lasted all day and into the night. My parents served food that they had worked for days to prepare. A disc jockey played all of the music I loved, and I was showered with beautiful gifts, practical advice, and good wishes from everyone important to me.

As I watched my family members celebrate in my honor, I realized that my Mexican heritage was not something intangible, like a bunch of old stories about long-gone relatives. My heritage, I realized, was very real. It was with me at all times, and I was proud of it.

What type of essay is this, primarily?
persuasive
descriptive
expository
narrative

Answer 1

The story would be a narrative because it is a story about something that happened to the girl.