The YOU narrative can achieve a lot of things, and really grab your reader and put them in YOUR shoes. You might have a number of reasons for doing this. You may want to educate them, or simply make them feel what you felt as strongly as possible.
As writers, you have to make decisions to best suit what you are writing and WHAT you are writing it for. Think about it before you write. Third or Second person -- both have clear advantages in particular instances.
As I mentioned in class, I found this "Letter to an Expectant Father" in Esquire Magazine to be really well written. You may want to consider this kind of approach - writing a letter to a "soon-to-be" KMLAian.
Here it is:
http://www.esquire.com/fatherhood-0612/
And here is where the "You" really works effectively in a personal anecdote:
You will occasionally fail at something very simple — probably because the honking has given you the yips. Awake at 3:00 A.M. with nothing else to do but watch the Concerned Mother/Crying Baby Subunit in full symbiosis, you will, say, decide to sterilize a new pacifier and you will, say, put the pacifier in a saucepan with some water and you will turn the burner up to high and you will come back to the sofa and you will sit down next to the mother and the baby, who is now feeding and thus quiet, and you will fall asleep. And after the water has all turned to steam, the pacifier will begin to melt and then burn in the saucepan. You will wake to the sounds of the mother freaking out. This is bumbling. Technically, it's a kitchen fire. But you will extinguish the flames. The important part is: Somehow, against incredible odds, and only because you were trying to help, you will set a pacifier on fire. Metaphorically, at least. But you will handle the crisis. Because there's too much at stake.
What's at stake is best contemplated when you are alone with the baby. And being alone with the baby is best done a few days in and very late at night — because you want to allow the baby's mother to get some sleep. And being alone with the baby late at night — watching it fall asleep in your arms and then wake up over the course of two or three hours — is as unfamiliar as it gets. Heat will radiate from its tiny body into your stomach. There will be squirming. There will be shitting, the sluicing sound of which is louder than you'd think. Its eyes might open a little, even while it's sleeping. And at some point there will be staring. Having a staring contest with a newborn is one of the weirdest things you will ever do. And it is highly recommended. Because the baby is a stranger, and you need to get to know it. It is a tiny stranger that has come into your home, demanding to be fed, demanding to be cleaned, and then staring at you for long periods of time without smiling — or blinking. You might not feel love for this stranger at first. You might feel mostly gravity. But the gravity begins to get replaced by love over the next few days or weeks. And the staring seems to accelerate things. The baby becomes more familiar.
Very early fatherhood is a kind of greatness, but it isn't heroism. You don't have to learn as much as you think. You don't have to do as much as you think. It's more amusing than you think it will be. It's more absurd. And it can all be reckoned with, if only task by task and despite your inexperience. Very early fatherhood is aided by skills, which you will master, and instinct, which you come equipped with, and love, which you will be engulfed by. The newborn baby requires just a little of all of that, and you will provide.
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