Cross-Cultural Contest
2024 Family & Home Contest Winners
PCCU is happy to announce the winners from the 2024 Cross-Cultural Contest: Family and Home. After careful review, we selected 3 winners (Prize: 1st-place winner - a $300 Amazon gift card, 2nd-place winner - a $200 Amazon gift card, 3rd place winner - a $100 Amazon gift card) . Thank you everyone for your inspiring submissions! Please celebrate with us and view their creative works. Also, look out for 2025's contest coming soon!
First Place Winner
AJ Holmes
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It hurts like winter.
Cold and painful blisters;
the fingers numb and
the eyes freeze shut.
family so distant
and hate breezes the air
it’s hard to love when
you live with strangers.
It fogs like spring.
Creates dew-like tears
Home-sick, love.
Missing what once was.
Just my mom and I,
together but alone.
longing for more but
not enough for the other.
It warms like summer
The fuzzy heat is there,
sometimes so much it burns.
or it’s hot just enough.
My mother learns
sometimes applies.
The world is made and
I say I love her.
It changes like autumn.
The warmth flees and
change entangles;
Shrinks and falls.
The numbers of family
grow small – split.
Father is gone and
second father will be too.
It is inconsistent like seasons
once it was ignorance and
Next it was growth.
Love, albeit painful;
home be what strengths.
To my mother, who we’ve
balanced along a tightrope,
No matter the season; I love you.
Second Place Winner
Ethan Gomolla
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A House that Wasn't A Home
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My house is not a home, or at least it wasn’t. For the past few years, I’ve been begging for a new room, one without my little brother and all of his trophies; I needed a room where I could be me and have my decor sprawled out around the room. My parents promised me at the beginning of high school that one day I’d have my room before I moved out, and as time went on it seemed less and less likely.
Then, out of nowhere, they start looking at new houses at the start of my junior year. With one of my sisters at work, one at daycare, and my brother at baseball practice, my parents take me to this beautiful, grandiose house with an upstairs, two garages, and, of course, my own bedroom.
I made sure to contain myself, and not let out too much joy because I didn’t want to jinx it. I really wanted this house to be ours. I knew right away what room I wanted: the big, secluded room atop a set of stairs, two windows pointing out the front where I could see a well-kept neighborhood thrive.
When we got the house a few months later, I was overjoyed, yet overwhelmed. I wanted it to be perfect. No matter what I did to the room to make it my own, it didn’t feel like my room. For some reason, I couldn’t sleep.
I stayed up night after night just thinking. There was nothing in particular that was bothering me, I just couldn’t sleep. I would occasionally take naps on the couch after school, but that would be shortly adjourned after my little sister came home from daycare a few hours later.
One night, some random night, I was talking to my sister on the floor of her bedroom. I would never go to her with my problems or burden her with my stories, but for some reason, I wanted to talk to her. Hours flew by and midnight surpassed us. Then, my sister took out a dinky portable mattress from under her bed, as well as a blanket and two pillows.
As my sister unfolded the mattress and laid it out on the floor next to her bed, a sense of warmth enveloped me. It was a simple gesture, but it spoke volumes. At that moment, I realized that home wasn’t about the size of my room or the decor on the walls; it was about the people who filled it with love and laughter.
As I lay down on the makeshift bed next to my sister’s, I felt a sense of peace wash over me. The worries that had kept me up at night seemed to melt away in the comfort of her room. I glanced around the room, noticing the small touches that made it uniquely hers–the posters on the walls, the stack of books on her nightstand, the stuffed animals scattered across her bed. It wasn’t a room I would have chosen for myself, but it was undeniably home because she was there.
In the quiet of the night, with only the soft hum of the house and subtle rustling of trees from her window settling around us, I finally found myself drifting off to sleep. For the first time since we moved in, I felt truly at ease knowing that no matter what happened or where I went, family was always there with me, making anywhere we go a home.
The next morning, I woke up to the smell of breakfast wafting through the house; my mom's apple-oatmeal pancakes sizzling on the griddle. My brother was already at the table, recounting a story from baseball practice, and my sister was beside him, calling out his bluffs and over-exaggeration. I joined them, and as we sat around the table, I finally felt that sense of belonging I longed for.
In that moment, I realized that a house becomes a home when it’s filled with the love and presence of family. My parents’ unwavering support, my brother’s contagious enthusiasm, and my sister’s quiet companionship were the threads that wove our lives together, creating this tapestry of family and memories. This house, with its rooms and walls, was merely the backdrop to the real essence of home–our family.
Second Place Winner
Jaylen Varner
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Sounds of Memories
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Home is the soft hum of a distant conversation, barely comprehensible through the walls. It’s the clink of silverware as someone sets the table, signaling that dinner is almost done. The front door creaks open–a familiar sound, as if the hinges themselves are saying “Welcome back.” I know each sound as if they’re old friends.
The kitchen is always alive. Pots clatter, oil sizzles in the pan, and the fridge hums steadily in the corner. I can hear my mom’s voice, warm and safe, as she stirs another perfect meal on the stove. The distant thud-thud of my brother’s shoes on the stairs echoes through the house, a constant rhythm that is part of everyday life. Even the dog’s paws tapping on the floor add to the symphony of home.
When night falls, the house quiets. There’s the occasional creak from the wooden floors, a sign that the house itself is ready for bed. In these moments, the stillness wraps around me, reminding me that I belong here.
But the silence doesn’t last forever. Just as I sink into the quiet, a whisper of wind brushing against the window, like a distant lullaby. The house never truly sleeps, and neither do its memories. A car door slams outside, and I’m pulled back to those long summer nights when we’d sit out on the patio, laughter rising with the fireflies. The smell of freshly mowed grass and the distant rattle of a lawnmower replay in my mind like a well-loved song.
Even in the stillness, I can hear it all–the echoes of footsteps long since faded, the chatter of conversations from long ago. The walls hold onto every word, every sound, like an old record playing the soundtrack of our lives.
As I drift off to sleep, I realize that home is not just a place. It’s a collection of sounds, a melody of moments, each one telling its own story. And in the quiet, I can hear them all, playing in the background–a never-ending symphony of home.
Third Place Winner
Gabriella Hoffman
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My Architect Super Dad
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In the intricate journey of life, parents stand as architects, sculpting the character of their little ones with every interaction and shared experience. For me, the architect that has profoundly sculpted my worldview and molded my values is my dad, an unsung hero dedicating his life to securing our community. As a proud member of the public safety community, his unwavering commitment to safeguarding others has not only defined his professional identity but has also left a permanent mark on the person I am
today. My dad has sculpted my character in numerous ways, with the most memorable moments embodied in his dedication to our community, the demanding 24-hour shifts, the significant milestone of his promotion to Assistant Chief, and the Waukesha Christmas Parade.
For the first 10 years of my life, my dad would work 24 hour shifts as a dedicated battalion chief. Although I don't remember much from these years of my life, I do remember what it was like when he came home from the shifts. Picture this: after the challenging long hours, he would come through the door like a superhero (cape not included), with a bag of donuts for his kids. This would make my entire day because would always be so excited for my dad to come home with my long john. As I have now grown older and my dad no longer works these types of shifts, my perspective has shifted on the true dedication my dad had to his community. The moments following the long shifts highlighted the sacrifices he made to his community, missing out on valuable time with his children who were growing up. There is no time machine to get that time back with his children, not any sweet gestures to soften the impact, and no gift to give to his wife for being like a single mother at times while he was away. Now that I am almost 18 years old, I can recognize that in those moments, the depth of his dedication and the lengths he went to balance his professional responsibilities and desire to be with his family. These early experiences in my childhood sculpted the foundation of my understanding of commitment, resilience, responsibility, and the intricate balance between work and family life.
On October 24, 2016 I got to witness my dad be promoted to Assistant Fire Chief for the City of Waukesha. This pivotal moment not only was a significant milestone in his career but also served as a profound inspiration to me. His promotion symbolized the culmination of years of hard work, leadership, and an unwavering commitment to public service. As he stood tall with my mom pinning on his new badge, I couldn't help but feel an overwhelming sense of pride and admiration. His journey to becoming Assistant Chief became a beacon of possibility to me, illustrating the reward of dedication, resilience and passion for service can yield. This experience ignited in me a desire to be like my dad in my own pursuits, understanding that leadership is not just about a title but about the positive impact one can make on others lives and the community.
When you look on Life360 and see your dad going abnormally fast after being called into work, you know something isn't right. The Waukesha Christmas Parade tragedy, on November 21, 2021, unfolded as a surreal nightmare for the community of Waukesha, and my dad’s rapid response was a stark reminder of the unpredictable challenges faced by those in public safety. In that moment when he was responding with due regard, his commitment to duty suppressed personal considerations, his response and commitment to the safety of the community highlights the selflessness and bravery inherent in his role. Although I wasn't physically at the parade scene with him, I was struck by the gravity of responsibilities given to those in public safety. This incident left an unforgettable mark on our family and reinforced the significance of my dad’s sacrifices in ensuring the safety and well being of our community, even in unforeseen tragedies.
Through my childhood to now, my dad has been an architect, sculpting my character by the actions and values he exemplifies in his dedication to public service. The sacrifices my dad has made through the 20 years of serving the City of Waukesha, as well as the consistent example set have not only crafted an appreciation for my community, but also has instilled a strong work ethic, and fostered a sense of responsibility to help others. As I begin a new chapter of my life in college and continue to navigate life's complexities, I carry with me all the invaluable lessons I have learned from my dad’s example. Understanding that true character is not just made in personal achievements but in the selfless dedication of making a positive impact for the community and in other people's lives.
Third Place Winner
Riley McKay
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Homemade Trails
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“Your story isn’t about how it started, but how you choose to write it along the way.” Words of reassurance I tell myself trying not to look back. A product of the environment I was brought up in, being forced to grow up too quickly. Using this acquired, unnatural wisdom as my guide.
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We were too young to understand the promise you made to be our ‘father’. Too young to know the difference, so we proudly called you dad and loved you just the same. We were so happy when you gave us a sister, but such joy didn’t last long. I noticed the favoritism, the unfair love to your own blood; you thought a seven year old could never notice, but I did. Your words of care to your ‘sons’ were beginning to feel sour.
But that wasn’t what did it.
Eight years old, a birthday I won’t forget. We took a trip, a long drive to a place of our choosing. The fun and laughter only lasted as long as the bright sun, because at the end when the sky was dark I could feel your anger. Vicious, raging words leaving mom on the ground crying, before slamming the hotel door taking our sister with you. Only able to watch it all unfold, I tried to offer her comfort; so mature for my age I was told.
But that wasn’t what did it.
Eleven years old, in a family holding on by a thread. You should have never taken my silence as compliance, because I wasn’t the ‘model’ son you thought. I grew to be reserved and quiet, always thinking to myself what I could have done to mess up, to be the target of your anger. Because in truth I was afraid, afraid to speak out, afraid to be punished for saying what you didn’t want to hear. I ignored your calls and demands, that the trust was waning thin. And with every test set by this child, you only proved me right.
But that wasn’t what did it.
Fourteen years old, I saw the strings, thinly wired between each of everyone in the family. Each one finely tuned for the puppet master’s favorite instrument. The reality of it made me sick to the core. Finding our mother broken after so long of not noticing, covered in wounds of her own making, because she was the first victim.
That was what did it.
The easiest part was cutting out the cancer, leaving it to rot and fester. For all that I care I took the vow to protect those around me from people like you. Though the damage is already done; that I now shake in fear and anxiety because of you. That I hold my lips tight without a word because of you. That I watch silently, letting nothing pass unnoticed because of you. I won’t let them feel the same pain, and won't stand by while they ache. Because such lack of action isn’t what family is about.
The divorce felt so long ago, and yet I am forced to still see you. Dropping off our sister after spending a day with her because she still cares for her father. But it hurts to see her believe your lies in her innocence. You preach of change, that you are a different person, but your actions deceive you. You walk to the same familiar tune, and play the same old now broken instrument, holding its last string. I know you will hurt her again, and maybe for the last time. But when that does happen, whether she knows it or not I’ll be by her side so she doesn’t have to feel alone or feel rejected by her father. Be there to comfort her in her sorrow, as I have done before.
Because that is what family is for.