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Jalen decided we should have the layout in Keynote. We all figured it would look better and represent America. Plus it would be easily accessible to present.

Finding the facts was quite a challenge especially the push and pull factors for each exact decade. 

I would focus on a specific country's immigration and not just a trafficking of random facts.
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Descriptive Essay: The Blind Eye

“What was the reason for me to buy a fresh hoagie when yet nothing was really wrong with the other one? How could I be so foolish?”

So there I was in my room on my bed, doing nothing. Just sitting there, thinking, trying to finish my homework. Right next to me sat the book “No Fear Shakespeare” on my inexpensive desktop table. In front of the book stood three weird characters. Their eyes were dotted and looked like a period while their noses looked like triangles, sharp, pointy, and simple. They all had four knives each stabbed in their backs on the same places. I thought it was pretty funny because there wasn’t any blood or gash and the characters failed to show pain. They all looked as if they were satisfied just to be with each other despite the stabbings.

My brother was yelling my name. When he yells for me, its either because he needs help with something or he believes he did a good deed. “Adam!” He yells. “Come get your hoagie! Hurry up! Get it before I eat it.” I rushed downstairs as if there was a special gift waiting for me and stormed into the kitchen. My brother begins to smile like a gremlin. I started to search for my hoagie but I couldn’t find it.

“Where is it?”

“Adam it’s next to the microwave.”

“Oh hey, you added extra mayo for me. Thanks bro!”

“No problem!” He replied full with joy.

Before I was even able to get a bit out of it, my mom yells, “ Take out that trash out first boy! What you forgot?” I then go and take out the huge bags full of old ingredients, sauces, and leftovers. As I returned back to the kitchen I saw my hoagie, but this time an object stood on top of it. It was small, black, and walking across my hoagie. I was disgusted, I began to imagine all types of images in my head, of maggots squirming around. I grabbed my hoagie and tossed it out, poof! It hit the inside of my trash can. I was still hungry and my insides were forming knots. So off I went, back to the store, and ordered another hoagie.

On my way back to the house I came across an alleyway. In that alleyway stood a homeless man who had fixed himself a very special dinner meal. He had a chicken patty, fries, soda, and a cigarette hanging on the side of his ear. Everything he had seemed to be fresh but it wasn’t, they were leftovers. On the chicken patty was two slices of bread, one was half gone, while the other had spaghetti sauce on it. The fries were wrinkled and there wasn’t much of it in the McDonald’s box. The soda had to be old and most likely was flat and the cigarette, although it was a whole cigarette, was stale. Despite the condition of his meal, he seemed to love it. Why? I was confused. I would never even eat something that may have had critters on it. I walked back into the house and sat on my table and thought, “How could I be so foolish?”

That homeless man was happy and grateful for what he had found to eat and yet I sat here with a fresh hoagie that costs four crumbly dollars. Was it really that deep for me to throw out the other fresh hoagie?

I use to think that I didn’t have anything, but I realized that what I have is what a lot of people out in the world don’t have. Like the time on a rainy wet day home from school. I was running full sprint to my house. My clothes were twice the size it they originally were suppose to be and my sneakers felt like gallons full of water. I rushed up the stairs were underneath the door stood that very special doormat that my mom had owned for so long. Instead of me using it for its purpose I decided to move it from its original position and hang it on the old rusty rail. I walked into my house without the slightest sense to take off my sneakers. As I walked into the kitchen, I left behind me huge blobs of dirt, little did I know that my mother had mopped the entire floor with pine-sol. My mom is a very hard working mom. She basically has two jobs. The first job is at work, the second job is cleaning the house and taking care of my younger siblings, so she is often tired. At the time I entered the house, I failed to notice that the floor was freshly scrubbed and that my mom was in the shower. My little sister comes running down stairs and before she took that last step down from the crackling stairs, her eyes widen and her eyebrows rose so far up her head that it looked as if it had touched her hair line.

“Ooo! You are gonna be in big trouble. Mommy just got done scrubbing and mopping the floors.”
“It’s no biggy Cassidy! I’ll just mop it up real quick” I replied.
I went and grabbed the mop and wiped the blobs of dirt. Turns out that was a big mistake. All I did was smear the dirt around the entire floor and I began to panic. That wasn’t the worst part, my mom was on her way downstairs and I didn’t know what to do. Each step she took down those crackling stairs just made my heart drop even more. When she got to that last step she was in disbelief.
“What the hell is this! My floor looks like a pig’s play pen. Adam! Why didn’t you wipe your feet before you came into the house?”
“Mom I forgot, I was in a huge rush to get inside the house.”
“Adam, I just got done mopping and scrubbing the entire floor do you not realize how tired I am? You kids don’t appreciate what I do. I wish you guys where in my shoes so you could see how hard it is to live in reality.”
“Mom, I can just mop it up.”
“Mop it up?” My mom replied. “Since you think everything is easy and you fail to realize how hard it is cleaning up after you guys, you’ll be cleaning the house from top to bottom!”
“Top to bottom? Mom, that’s a lot of work!”

I began to feel very guilty about how ignorant and careless I was and how stupid it was of me not to use my common sense.

“Always appreciate what people and things do for you!” She said.
Her last quote simmered in my head. She was right. I failed to realized that the little things make a big impact on my daily life. I never thought that what seemed to be so easy was yet very hard like scrubbing the floor or even washing laundry. I guess that in life you have to learn to appreciate things while it’s there and accept what’s in front of you because sometimes being so blind could hurt you in ways you’ll truly regret.

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Oh come on this can't be happening, this is suppose to be my moment. I'm suppose to be winning. Am I dreaming or is this real? How in the world did I even end up here?

I got my racquet and hopped on to a Squash court. I started to hit the ball, with my racquet, straight down the right wall and got myself ready to play squash. The ball when across the court, as I went to get it I saw my best friend. He didn’t notice that I had smiled at him. I got the ball and began to practice again. I heard the door open, I looked to see who it was, and it was him. My heart started to beat fast as I started blushing, I wondered if he noticed. He asked if he could join me, I said "Yeah". So he stepped in and closed the door.

I gave him the ball and watched as he, with great power, began to hit the ball with his left hand. He hits the ball back to me. I asked if he wants to sever, he didn’t, so I served. He hits the ball back with a great volley and ends up getting the point. Just like always I was amazed but not ready to lose. I started getting more into the game, then him, and did a few hard shots and began to get his shots.

He opened his mouth and said the words “You got way better”.

While running to hit the squash ball, I said “I know I did but I could do better”

We kept score, he was way ahead but I began to catch up. Although it wasn’t an actual game I treated it like one, we kept playing. I mistakenly took my eyes off the ball and he made his comeback, for a second I thought I was dreaming. He did his amazing power serve and I just stood there thinking, why did I do that. The game was almost finished but he was still in the lead. The game ends with me losing, we leave the court and sat down on the bench.

I was out of breath and got some water. I looked as the sweats from his hair slowly moved down his forehead, to his cheeks and then one by one dripped down to the carpet floor. “I want a rematch”.

He took a deep breath and said “Fine let's go”. I thought about how much more experienced he was and that’s probably why he won. That moment reminded me of when I won against someone less experienced than me.

We arrive to the courts, rushed to get out and get our bags.

“You're squash game starts in just a few minutes hurry up and change” my coach told me.

“Are you serious?” I dashed past my friends and others to the bathroom and got changed right away. Then I rushed to the court and found out who my opponent was. I walked into the court, as I did I felt my heart beating so fast. I didn't know if the beating was from me running or me being nervous. I mostly got nervous during match’s because I’m mostly less experienced than other squash players. I started warming up to get set on what I want to do on the match. My heart started to slow down.

My opponent walked in and we both began to warm up. We spun the racquet to see who goes first; I get the serve. All eyes were on me as they waited for my first serve, I could the pressure building up again, I missed. NO! What did i do, how could I miss the first serve? The ball goes to her and then I get the point. Okay, now its all working out, I’m back in the game and we keep playing. As we played she won the first game, I made a comeback and win the second and third.

The fourth game kicked in and we both got more serious. I could feel my heart beating fast as I took a deep breath and made a great serve. Everything was going great but then out of nowhere she won the game. With her winning this causes us to go to the fifth game.

It was about 8:45 PM and I was up since 8 AM getting things together. I was so exhausted and could really use a nap. But I had to forget about that and focus on my game and win. The game starts, she does an amazing serve but I end up getting it and win the point. The game speeds up, ties up, and then I am at the lead with the score 10, 9.

Last point, this is when my every move and shot were at risk, if I made a mistake this whole match could be hers. I got the ball, taking a deep breath I looked at where I wanted the ball to hit then at my friend, letting me know that I can do this. I looked at the ball and it felt like I was speaking to it and saying how important this point was to me. I served, she hits and on the last shot I did a drop shot and she didn’t get it.

I got the point and won the whole match. My heart wanted to scream but I waited for the right moment. In the court I shook her hand.

"Great game," I told her.

Outside the court I was welcomed with a lot of hugs from friends and coaches.

My brother said “Good job but you could have done way better”. I sat down and thought about how I was more experienced than her, which kind of gave me an advantage. Working for what you really want is better than letting it get out of reach.

After a match I always look back at the court and thought of all that happened in there. I try not to let the thought of others being more experienced than me put me down. I believe the more experienced you are in something the much better you do in it. If you really want something put your mind and everything into it and it will be yours.
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Descriptive Essay: A Childhood Problem

I’ll never forget the times I had in the Hospital during Kindergarden. I layed there not moving at all. I heard tons of monitors and sensors going off,  doctors and nurses in and out of the rooms. You can smell the sterile in the air as a needle pumps fluids into my veins. I am getting worried as I wondered what’s going on.

My mother is staring down at me tears in her eyes saying, “Your going to be fine.” The room is all light blue including the walls, curtains, and even the sheets, but there’s a sense of dull that you can see. The door swings open and a large group of doctors and nurses grabbed my bed I’m on and pulled me out of the room. Before I leave I see that my mom is no full of tears as I’m just laying there oblivious to what is going on. There is flash after flash as the doctors drag my bed under the lights. The doctors but a strange mask around my mouth and tolled me to count to ten. I breathe in the air from the mask and everything went black.

I woke up confused. Wondering what was going on. I looked around a lot of things were blurry, but I could tell I was in a different room. It wasn’t the same cliché room I was in before the curtains were green. There was a pull-out bed with brown sheets on it that I assumed was for parents. I kept glancing around until I feel arms around me and realize they are my mother’s. Thats when it finally hits me. I survived, and now I could live my life how ever I see fit. A feeling of warmth spread throughout my body splashing me with a sense of happyness and relief.

I reflect on that day and constantly see it as a completly different thing now. As a kid there was a sense of accomplishment that I would get everyday I would wake, But now instead of a sense of accomplishment I feel nothing anymore. That scenario changed my life forever and now I look at it as if  it was a simple childhood problem as if every kid went through it. I compare it like the problem with the clay pot I had when I was younger.

You can smell the burnt clay as all around children are laughing and having fun. While I’m nervous and worried. I sit there motionless staring at a blob of clay not knowing what to do.Time is speeding up as my brain seems to slow down thinking of ideas for the clay before me. Then in the nick of time I decided something simple, yet practical a pot to hold things that I may lose. I quickly grab the clay taking a small piece and putting it to the side, the idea already taking place in my head. I start rolling the clay in total focus as the loud sound of kids were slowly fading away as I build my sculpture.  The clay feeling smoother and smoother as my desired shape was formed. I grabbed a cutting tool and carved a hole with little resistance in the now completed round piece of pale clay. I look around and saw that I was  the only one with the idea of making a item to hold stuff in. I saw kids being excited as they add the their final touches.  I decide thats what I need to do so I grab the little piece thats left and begin to roll it thinner and thinner. I combine both ends of the thin clay and putting them on the opposite of the top of the pot allowing it to now have an area for carrying. As time is running out i use my last minutes just carveing anything I could think of into the pot and then finally put my initials at the bottom claiming the  art as mine and mine alone. The feeling or nervousness and worry has completly into happiness  as I was finally done. I join the kids now with smiles on all of our faces as we had all finished are sculptures. Time runs out as my pot is taking away with me knowing that in a few days I see how my work payed off.  

This was a such a simple problem that I made a big deal that shouldn’t even compare to what I’ve been through. Yet I treat it just the same. My mom is haunted everyday because I what i have to do yet I treat it as all in the past never to bring it up yet I’m typeing about it right now.
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Descriptive Essay: Indefinite Diction

The creaking steps whined under the weight of my uncertainty. My shallow breath squeezed in between the beating of my pounding heart. The ambient lighting of the stage did nothing to calm me. My stomach was shivering as I burned alive under a hundred eyes.

“Yeah Mani!”

“You better go girl!”

“You got it Poet!”

“I like that skirt child!”, I looked down at my tie-dyed turquoise peasant skirt and I smiled. There was a folded parchment of paper with my poem on it. I looked into the audience and saw Rasheem's teeth, in the back row, big and glorious, smiling at me.

I didn’t think the words were good enough to let everyone hear them. I had the type of fearlessness that stayed inside closed doors. My tenacity was as ruthless as Old Lady Muriel's chihuahua— Yapping at everyone through the glass window, but hiding under the couch when company dared to make its way into the house.

This is it, this is your chance to show something the world something, don’t mess it up.

But I don’t even like this poem.

What if they don’t like it? What if they don’t understand it?

Its too late now,

The mic hiccuped as I lowered the stand to meet my 5 foot stature. I was stiff, but here was nothing, I was letting go.

“I can't say that sometimes....”

These were my words, I let them out into the world.

I remember learning about a girl in matter of seconds based on words that weren't hers. I was waiting for a lecture to start, so I opened my computer and went to my favorite website.

After a couple of clicks, I heard, “You have a Tumblr?”. I looked behind me to where the voice was coming from and was greeted by a smile.

32 brilliant,white teeth,were accompanied by frantic and hungry eyes. “You should follow me.”

“What’s your name?”

“Zip zip hooray.”

With a couple of clicks, I entered her world. Pictures of relationships, people wearing tank tops lined with crazy prints, cartoons, gifs, and quotes. Everything in her blog, including the layout ,spoke for what she liked or was fascinated by.

Then and there, I realized that Tumblr is an I.D. of who you are, or rather who want to be. There is something magical about it. Even when words and thoughts aren’t your own, they say so much about you. So what happens when they're your own?

Every tap-tap around me gnawed at my insides, the pitter-pattering of 32 sets of fingers on keyboards drove me crazy, this topic was too broad. My water bottle broke the monotonous daze with a loud crack as I nervously sipped. My thoughts were as dry as my throat.

The cursor on the screen was the only eye on me. Everyone else was too intent on their work to care what anyone else was doing. They were bent over, eyes focused, backs hunched as if they were unloading the heavy words from their backs onto their fingers.

My mind was blank. Okay, it was swarming with ideas, but none of them were good enough. They whizzed by as if on a conveyor belt. My brain picked through every detail of every topic, always finding something wrong with the thesis; nothing was good enough. They were all either too generic, too obvious, or too personal. My hands remained dormant on my keyboard, waiting for a command.

I stared at the closed window blinds and rested my head on the clammy wooden desk. My heart pounded along with the click clacking of the ideas flowing around me. I looked up and the poster-plastered walls showed no sympathy. The warm air in the room wrapped around my shoulders, urging me to give up and doze off for the remainder of class.

“Five more minutes for writing”, his voice tinged with expectation called out and retrieved me from my stupor.

Why was I trying so hard to reach inside of myself? It was only an English paper that my class would see. Not a poem on the stage, not a song to sing. There was hardly any room for judgement, but I sat there, racking my brain for something I cared about. This was my piece and it wasn’t that I cared what anyone thought of me, I just wanted them to have an accurate reference of which to base their judgements. I was a good good enough writer to churn out what this man was asking for in a day. It would be quality work, but it wouldn’t have been a clear representation of me.

The self-scrutinization of my work is partly because I'm OCD, but we live in a society where it isn't hard to guess what will happen next. I've always felt the pressure to push myself in writing because my words, even when I do not necessarily care where they end up, need to be my best. I want them to stand out and mean something to me because there's no need to

I always want to be ahead of the curb and make everything my own. We live in a population where with the click of a button, we can judge one another's deepest or shallow thoughts. Make what you say count.

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Descriptive Essay: "24 Pairs of Eyes"

Final Draft.

I could feel the eyes on me, the browns, the blues, the hazels, the greens and even the grays. They watched me, all 24 pairs, all 48 individual eyeballs. They watched me as i fiddled with my paper, dog ear folding the ends, then smoothing it out, then folding the paper back again, I continued like that, looking out into the crowd of 3rd graders. Their bored tired gazes lingered on me. My oversized pants and my powder blue uniform shirt suddenly felt 4 sizes too small. The room seemed to be closing in, everybody looked as if they were getting closer.
“Whenever, you’re ready” my third grade teacher Ms. O’rourke coached, her kind smile was the only thing that reassured me. I held the paper up high so that it blocked my view of the now impatient 3rd grade class.
“..T-hh-e b-b-b-ook,I read, fff-oor summer reading, w-wass.” I began, nervously picking at the edges of the paper.
“Naihema,” Ms. Chi my now fourth grade teachers sharp voice interrupted, startling me.
“That is not how 4th graders present, lower your paper, so the audience can see your face. Take a deep breath, slow down, and for goodness sakes stop mumbling.” My face felt hot, I lowered my paper as instructed, and tried my best to ignored my classmates giggling.
“The, book, I read for ssssu..ssummmer, reading, was Charlie and The Chhhocolate Fffactory.” I had only begun to read the first sentence of the passage in our reading textbook before Ms. Lacy my 5th grade reading teacher stopped me,
“Naihema, slow down, take a deep breath... hold it.. hold it.. now let it out. It’s okay, there’s no rush.” I sunk down in my chair, ashamed to still be getting told the same thing i was getting told in 4th grade. “
Slow Down, take a deep breath. theres no rush.” Nobody else in the 5th grade had this problem, this stutter, nobody but me. I reluctantly did as I was instructed, inhale and exhaling, trying my best to ignored to whispers and giggles of everybody in the now 6th grade classroom.
“Naihema, did you want to pick up where Deion left off?” Mr. Snyder my 6th grade reading teacher asked, I shook my head, and averted my gaze so that he wouldn’t ask any other questions. He nodded understanding, and simply turned to the next person to read. When Sierra was done reading her part of the passage, Ms. Conkey my now 7th grade writing teacher had instructed her to pick somebody else to read their summer essay. I was the only person who hadn’t read, so it’s not like Sierra had much of a selection. The whole 7th grade class turned my way, there they were, all 24 sets of eyes, staring into my soul, waiting for me to begin my essay. I racked my brain for any possible out. Soon resulting to having a “
coughing fit” and claiming to just be coming off of a cold.
I never actually had a speech impediment according to my mother, she would always say, my brain worked faster than my mouth. I had too many thoughts and not a fluent way of communicating them. That I simply talked to fast. But I always thought otherwise. All my life, throughout middle school, there was always this feeling of being less than the average student. I couldn’t raise my hand in class because, of the other kids constant giggles, whispers, and snide comments. I couldn’t read any of the papers I’d written, and the reports I’d spent sometimes days on. I couldn’t ask questions, or share with the class that the answer to number 4 section A was actually 56 instead of 57. Not like all the other kids. I eventually stopped trying to voice my opinion, get involved in class discussions, and volunteer to read my paper, by the time I realized that my stutter was a burden. I was a burden. Class had to be put on hold for about 15 minutes as I struggled through my paper. If i talked too fast, as my mother liked to think, shouldn’t i be finished reading my paper in half the time it took my classmates to read aloud?
I remember in reading Mango Shaped Space by Wendy Mass in the 6th grade, then having to write a report on the book, I remember loving the book so much, I read it twice. I remember the excitement I felt as I finished the report after spending all weekend plus the extra monday we had off to work on it. Bouncing excitedly on my tiptoes as the printer in the school library spat what i thought was the best thing in the word. Shoving it into my backpack, then walking swiftly to Ms. Conkey’s reading class. I went through the first 20 minutes of class, doing daily routines. Copying down the sentences on the board and picking out grammatical errors in them, going up to the handwriting bin, picking out the handwriting sheet, and tracing the cursive letters then rewriting them over. Then listening to the whines of my teacher as she complained about our inability to get finished our daily routines in a reasonable amount of time. All of that leading up to the moment where Ms. Conkey looked at her clipboard and began to read off names of the people she had preselected to read their presentation today. My heart rate sped as I patiently listened to the names she called out, hoping that one would be mine.

“Amirah, Kyleel, Andrew, Deion, Inayah, Naihema, Shannon, Jeffrey..” My heart skipped at the sound of my name. I sat patiently as the other 5 students before me, went up and read their reports. I began to get impatient as Inayah lingered on her last paragraph. She came to her last sentence, and i jumped up out of my seat with my paper. I went to the head of the classroom and stood on the presenting stool.
“Lets make this switft” Ms. Conkey said not bothering to look up from her notepad. I stepped on the presenting stool, it was suppose to act as if it was a stage. All eyes were on me, those same 48 that had been on me in 3rd, then again in 4th, alittle in 5th, not so much in 6th, and now as i stood here in front of the class for the first time in 7th.
“The book i read was, Mango Shaped Space” I started being sure to take a deep breath before i started, i read slowly, to make sure i didn’t tangle my words. I hadn’t even gotten through the 2nd paragraph  of my paper before Ms. Conkey interrupted, “Thank you Naihema, you can sit down now.” I stood there in awe, my face felt hot, the familiar sound of my classmates giggles filled my ears. My grip on the paper tightened crinkling, i just looked at her, unsure of what to say, unsure of what to do. Everyone else had gotten a chance to finish their essay, why not me? How was I any different. I looked down at the ground, standing there on the presenting stool. i remember feeling like i wasn’t good enough, feeling like i was incompetent. I began to doubt myself, and my ability to excel, how was i ever going to if i couldn’t get through my paper? That was the last time, i spoke in front of a crowd willingly, there was always times where the teacher had forced my to share or to read aloud. I never wanted to feel such humiliation, such disappointment in myself, i didn’t want to ever feel like i was anything less than normal. I learned to keep to myself and lay low, in the classroom. Knowing the correct moments to “sneeze”, to go in the hallways for a drink of water and when to that a quick bathroom break.
Although my mom was right, i did talk too fast, i never stuttered and i eventually grew out of it. But I could never erase the emotional toll it took on me, or the sounds of the familiar giggling of my classmates, or the feeling of having all those eyes on my, all 24 pairs of the browns, blues, greys, hazels and the greens.

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Descriptive Essay: Shades of Imagination

Walking down the hallways of Science Leadership Academy, as a sophomore, identity is not a day to day question. At SLA there are kids who want to be artist and some who want to be astronauts. Filling the stairwells are different shades of browns and whites and every culture imaginable. It has a constant sense of acceptance and understandings. I walk down the hallways with blue walls and white tiled floors with the slight reflection of the lights shining down, talking to my friends, going on about the latest gossip, “ Omg, are you serious!” Is usually followed by a comment from a friend saying, “You are so white”, and faint giggles. I laugh along, ignoring the fact that this comment is only somewhat true. Introducing myself, the next question out of most people’s mouths are generally “Are you puerto rican? Are you white?” I stare down at my skin wondering how anyone can think these things, I then sigh I saying them my race, biracial. These questions are nothing compared to the things I’ve gone through by assumptions that people have made about the color of my skin.  

I look down seeing the pools filled with people, a sea of white, yet I feel so alone. I turn to see my dad sitting behind me, eyes red filled with shame. Looking out the top of the water slide and notice the heads of the people standing behind us meer seconds ago. Now instead of impatience on their face  there are smiles. To the middle of the water slide where we now sit people’s laughter carries down the slide. I look down at my now dry hands with the only water being seen is the slow drip from my hair on to the waterless slide. The vague noise of the two people before us splashing into the water. The reassuring sound of my dad’s voice saying go ahead he will meet me down there. I slowly push myself down the slide, what felt like hours turned out to be seconds as I fell into the pool of water four feet deep barely able to stand. While my dad comes up behind me carries me out of the pool as we exit the water park of people eyes on us like we are a person walking on water. We quickly picked up our blue and pink flowered towels and holding them around us as tightly as we could. My face turned red with embarrassment and confusion, but my dad’s with anger.

I am a biracial girl my mom white, my dad black,  who is usually guarded by the ignorance of the world by living in Philadelphia; where people have naked bike races and tattoo’s covering their bodies. Acceptance has always given, but once taken out of my comfort zone to a place like Ireland where a water slide was turned off on my dad and I, was a whole new concept to wrap my head around. Growing up I heard stories of how my dad was not always accepted because of the fact he was African American. Never would I have thought that fifty years later there would still be this argument in our society. It is now not shown as a head on thing that people openly say, but rather expressed with snide remarks and rude comments.

However, after being a five year old and coming face to face with racism I began to notice things even more. Some hitting close to home and more often than I would like, such as at my grandmother’s beach house. As I walk down the beach with my mom, her two sisters, my brother, two uncles, two cousins and brothers I begin to feel them, the stares. I put my head down in shame as I am meant to feel like I did not belong there. I was still confused as to why I was looked at differently than my cousin with long blonde hair and fair skin.

Now it’s become part of going to the beach with my mom’s side of the family, and made a joke in my family. My brother and I constantly make smart remarks holding up a fist for “black power” every time we see an African American person at their beach house, because this has come to be such a rare occasion.  My cousin smirks hesitantly, not quite understanding our small joke in order to brush off the unfamiliarity of such lack of diversity. She looks at me as if I am the same as her, she doesn’t see the difference in our skin color or hair I wonder if her ignorance is a good thing or bad. The fact that she does not notice how our differences affect our everyday lives.

Through all of this I no longer look to race to identify who I am.  I look at it as a very important part of me. I realize I am blessed to be able to have these two different cultures be a part of me. Defining a person is a very difficult thing to do, so let them do it themselves.

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Descriptive Essay- Ride of My Life.

AHHHHHHH!!!!! There’s people screaming everywhere. In front, in back and on both sides of me. Our ride just started and people are already screaming their lungs out. I tried to keep my mind calm as we began to slowly rise up. Higher and higher. From my point, I could see most of the park. People are as tiny as ants from here. As we reach the peak, I shut my eyes and refuse to look down. WHOOOOOOSHHH!!!!!

“Are you sure it isn’t scary?” I asked with a shaky voice. My heart is pounding rapidly and I start to feel uneasy. “Lisa, just trust me. Okay? It’s nothing. Go and sit down. I’ll sit right next to you. Do you remember what you said earlier,” said my cousin, David. I look over at my aunt, who was just getting off of the ride. I sigh. I recalled what I said earlier, “I’ll go on whatever your mom goes on!” Why did I have to act so confident? Well my aunt went on it so I have no choice.

I walked slowly over to a row of four seats and sat in one of the middle chairs. These chairs did not comfort me. They were black with yellow seatbelts that goes around our shoulders. David sits on the left side of me and my other cousin, Peng sits on my right side. As one of the workers fasten all of us into our seats, I know that it’s too late to change my mind. I looked over at David. He smiled widely and said, “I lied. This is the scariest roller coaster here.” My mouth dropped open as our ride began. I should have known better than to trust him especially when he says “trust me.” I always fall for this trick.

The strong wind pushed my small head against the rubber black seat. My head bangs into the back of my seat multiple times giving me a headache. I could feel every sharp turn and twist because with each turn my head would sway along also. I was scared but at the same time I loved the feeling. This isn’t so bad. Why was I even afraid in the beginning? I’m starting to like this. I opened my eyes slowly. We went up, down, left, right, upside down and all around. Roller coasters aren’t horrible, they just seem frightening from the outside. This was my first major roller coaster ride and now all I want to do is go on more amazing roller coasters.

After I got off of the roller coaster, I realized that this was one of the best days of my life. I had such an extraordinary time. Of course everyone has a great time at an amusement park but I have been to Dorney Park many times before. Every other time, I only went on what my family called the “baby rides”. There was a time about a couple years ago where I tried something totally crazy and at this time I loved all sorts of rides. This is how I remember it.

Oh no! We’re going to fast. We’re going to crash. Suddenly our ride came to quick stop. I wasn’t prepared for this. I shot right out of my seat and was falling....

“If you guys are bored, why don’t we try something fun,” said our baby sitter, Randall. At once, the word fun caught mine and my brothers’ attention. “Okay,” we all said with so much excitement. “We’ll make our very own ride right here,” said Randall’s twin brother, Ryan. My heart was beating faster. I loved rides and the thought of having our in right here in our house made me full of energy.

1....2....3.... Randall gives the carpet a little push and then we are sliding down the stairs. I didn’t want to admit it, I was scared. It was going too fast. My heart is beating so rapid that I think it would burst out. Kerry is screaming loudly behind me with his arms hugging me firmly. Next thing you know, we suddenly stopped halfway through. It was too sudden. I flew over Johnny’s head and was starting to drop. Bang. I hit my head on the television and landed on the hardwood floor beneath it. I look up and saw Kerry screaming and kicking. Uh oh. This couldn’t be good. His hands out in front of him and landed right on top of me, pushing against my stomach. Ouch. I should have felt hurt or sick but I didn’t because I had such a great time and it was the most funny thing ever.

Now that I have gone on another roller coaster and I have became more mature, I realized that all of the horrible things that happened to me when I was younger was because I was never informed on how I should sit or where I should put my arms. Since I was older and learned about what to do and what not to do, I had more fun and I actually enjoyed the experience. When I gave things a second chance, I overcame my fears and I’m more willing try something else.

Sometimes people are more scared to try new things or are too scared to learn from their mistakes that they will not be able to enjoy themselves as much as they could have. You can’t always let your nerves take over you just like I did. If you give things a second chance then maybe you will see things differently. I think that everyone should just enjoyed their life to the fullest without holding back.
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Descriptive Essay - Thoughts Of The Heart

“Hurry Up!” My sister yelled.

Full of excitement I ran down my stairs almost tripping into our christmas tree. It stood tall and green with plastic strips that acted as leaves. The red and yellow feathery streamers were draped around it like a scarf. There were little bulbs that light up only on the top, left middle, and bottom right. Large delicate ornaments dangled on the branches by little silver hooks.

Perched on the top of the tree were 4 cards with all our names printed on them. Underneath were the presents for this year and a neck pillow I bought for myself that looked like a light purple racoon. There was also a pair of socks from my godfather as well as a bike my mom got me for 50 dollars.

“I’m going to ride this bike everywhere!!” Shouted my sister as she gets the same exact presents as me.
“Have fun. I probably won’t ride mine as much though.” I said touching my bike.

Every year we get less and less. Our family stops visiting to say hi, excuses roll off their tongues on the phone. There’s the “Oh, we’re full of plans today”, the “Sorry but we have things to do”, and the “I don’t think we can make it over in time.” The amount of money in our wallets gets smaller and smaller. I wonder what will happen when there’s none left. I sit on my sofa with a sigh and look around my livingroom. Something red catches my eye and I see this little picture.

In the picture, there is a bulky grass green chair in the middle of the floor. Behind it stands a large Christmas tree with ornaments, bulbs, and woolly streamers everywhere. This tree is fabulous, but only a small portion can be seen as the chair takes up almost all of the picture. In this big green chair is a man dressed up as Santa Claus. That red and white outfit with the bushy cotton on the edges of his coat with those white gloves. A beard, mustache, and long white hair covers most of his face.

Behind his small glasses are squinted eyes; the eyes that are so nearly closed that the color can’t be seen. A floppy hat sits slanted on his head, tilted to the left. In his lap sits a little baby girl not even one. She is held at the hip by his large hands with her on his left leg. Her face is all scrunched up as she cries loudly wanting her daddy. Her dark brown eyes are watery and leaking tears down her face. Her hands are raised in front of her chest with those tiny fingers stretching out as she begins to motion for her daddy to come pick her up.

“Smile for daddy! Smile big for your picture!”  Says the women holding the camera with the flash off.


That’s the picture of my niece’s first Christmas. Then I start to think. Will my niece have to grow up in a family that can barely buy gifts or new clothes or even pay their bills? What will she be like when she’s older? What people will influence her? How do I help keep the horrible world we’re in from hurting her? Why can’t our world be a better place for the sake of our future generations?

I guess I can’t answer all of these questions now, but I feel that I have to. I want to be a happy family. A home that’s nice with people who love each other and won’t end up hurting or betraying them. And parent who can pay the bills, instead of buying action figures. Another person who will try to support me more instead of constantly trying to lower my confidence. Maybe siblings who will actually try to listen to me. Thing is, no one who isn’t in my family ever sees this. No one ever knows what goes on. The problems of a household stay within the walls but never go through. Some might say secrets of a family make them strong, but I never understood it. I think I’m starting to though.

One example was when I was home for New Year’s break. I was celebrating casually with my family like we do every year, watching random shows on Nickelodeon and Cartoon Network. My dad was sleeping and my mom was cooking some food. Laughing with my sister as we pull out 3 glasses to drink from until I get a call from my boyfriend. Things never go right if a person you’re with says; “We need to talk.” It can only get worse from there.

“I don’t think we should be together for awhile.” He said calmly like it was no big deal.
“Why??” I asked upset.
“I need a break from you. From us. Just go date some other guy for now. Night, my love.”
“No, wait...”


How could he just end it like that? Why now? Why is he always walking out on me? Why did it have to be tonight? What am I doing wrong?

I flopped down onto the sofa and tried to calm myself quickly. I wiped my eyes so the tears wouldn’t spill over down my cheeks. My heart was racing and aching in my chest repeatedly as the sound rung in my ears loudly. Trying to wrap my brain around what just happened my hands started shaking more than usual.

“Hey, come finish pouring the drinks!”  My sister yelled from the kitchen.
“I...I’ll be there in a minute!” I shouted trying to make my voice sound normal.

I got up off the sofa wiping away the last of my tears and clearing my throat. I was trying to make my face look calm, as I walked into the kitchen to fill up three glasses with apple cider. I couldn’t let anyone notice how upset I was. I didn’t want to ruin this event for my family.

I stood with my sister and mother in the living room, we were holding our glasses. We turned up the volume on the television and smiled happily at each other.

“5! 4! 3! 2! 1! Happy New Years!!!!” We shouted in sync and drank from our glasses.

Maybe a family can be strong without secrets. Maybe a family can bond if there’s no lies between them. A break up, a fight, a stressful project, or a hard day at work. Instead of keeping it in maybe we should just sit down and share it. If you smile no one knows your sadness and there’s always a frown behind a smile. Maybe I’ll try to communicate. Sometimes communication is the key.

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Descriptive Essays Time To Face My Fears

The thought of leaving of leaving them behind never crossed my mind. “Alisha Rothwell”, my teacher said as I walked up to the stage to get my 8th grade graduation  award. The time was here, I finally graduated just as my sister and cousin did, one and two years before I had. This is the day that everyone that was in the grade under me and everyone who watched the show “degrassi” dream for. High school was coming in fall! I could already see it, me walking into SLA the happiest kid alive. My hopes and dreams were ready for whatever high school had in store. But anyway, my middle school wasn’t like any other school. We went on trips, overnight trips, we traveled to big places. I went to college settlement camp for three days in the 5th grade, Canada three days in 6th grade, Virginia beach for 3 days in the 8th grade, and also Paris and London in the 8th grade for two weeks.

Paris and London were thus far the best places I have visited. Fourteen days away from my house my friends and my cell phone. Just me and kids that I have been going to school with for about 8 to 9 years. At the age of 14 the only thing that was going through my head was what could happen to a young child going away to somewhere far. I don’t think it was a good idea to watch the movie Taken the day before I left ... or was it? “Alisha, come on!!! the bus with not wait for anyone”, my mom yelled up the stairs as I gathered my last little bit of things for my trip. “Here I come I have to say goodbye to my things”. “But you don’t have time,the bus waits for no one” she said again, “ok here I come”. The time was finally here. A foreign country here Alisha Monet Rothwell comes. I hope they are ready for me! I can already see and hear it. French pizza, fish and chips, people saying things to me in french that I couldn’t even spell or begin to think about what It means.

“1,2,3,4,5,6,7......, So we have everyone here are you ready”? My 7th grade science teacher said out loud to herself. “I’m ready” I yelled in the back of the bus. As we drove down the 96, I kept thinking about how scared I were going to be on the plane. “P-L-A-N-E” I think I spelled it about a good million times to myself. I have never flew anywhere. I knew people did it before,that’s show my cousin came down every year of christmas. I never thought about how she felt when she were on the plane. “Take your shoes off and your belt, you can not have anything on you” the security yelled to the people in the line with me. My heart was pounding really fast, for some reason I got nerves.

It was about time face my biggest fears. This was a day I couldn't even think about without crawling up in the corner and crying.  It was my time though, my time to finally get over my fear. I feel like most people who have not yet came face to face with their fears,  will never feel the true feeling of success. Now the type of success you can drink a nice cold glass of ice-tea after. That kind you wanna kick your feet up and relax after you watch kids who has had have nothing but sugar all day. Yea I know what kinda feel that it is, Because this day me and my fear where about to join the curious together.

“Passengers, please but on your seat but the check engine light is on”. The captain said of the over head over top of me. This is it, people who don’t even know me is about to see me face my biggest fears. “Up, Up, and away”, my friend who was sitting next to. She smiled ear from with to regret or remorse, she was the readiest on on the plane. “Oh my gosh can you please stop this plane and let me off”,I yelled as the front of the plane sat nice and in the air while the back side didn’t.
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Descriptive Essay Living a Fairytale.

I stepped out of the big white door onto the steps that led to the driveway that led to the yard where my sister and her friend played in front of the izales, “Mom says you have to let me play!” I was already close to whining even though my sister normally let me play.

“We’re playing with our fairies, you have to pick one out,” My older sister grabbed my arm and dragged me to the dogwood tree that was at the far left side of our yard. The pink flowers were already mostly gone but it was still a beautiful tree with branches filling in the spots that should look empty. And I saw a beautiful fairy sitting happily on each branch, each twig, but there was one in particular who smiled down at me. She made me smile inside and out. I saw her wave a pale hand. She had a blue skirt made of petals, a simple brown t-shirt and blonde hair that waved down to her shoulders. She was beautiful and she was mine.

“I want her,” I pointed up and my sister laughed at me.

“She has to fly to you,” I watched as she folded her small legs under her into a squat and lept off the tree; she landed gracefully in the palm of my left hand, “I’m Bubbles.” My heart surged with the love for a friend that I just met and the butterflies in my stomach fluttered with wings that matched my faires.

And she stayed with me for years. As my sister and her friend moved on and began playing with other things, I kept my fairy. I enjoyed all the things kids normally enjoyed, like hopscotch and jump rope and Sesame Street. But Bubbles was there with me. I didn’t really talk to her and she didn’t really talk to me but she would sit on my shoulder and assure me that I was okay, that I was doing things right.

As time wore on I slowly realized that Bubbles wasn’t there. She was just my imagination. It hurt but I let go, she no longer sits on my shoulder or makes me smile by cartwheeling in front of my face. I felt forced to let go of this friend who had lived through everything that I had lived through. I can’t remember if I cried but I know that I wanted to. Although I had discovered that this friend of mine wasn’t real I hadn’t yet discovered all the other things that were simply my imagination.

Life was full of magic when I was a child. It had everything that I could have wanted and more. I had a man who came down the chimney once a year just to give me presents. I had a teeny woman who would slide under my pillow with a shiny quarter and slide out with my tooth. I had a castle to play in with my friends. Everything was colored with bright blues and yellows, pinks and greens. It was magical, and I got to live there.

I couldn’t sleep and as time ticked on my parents were staying downstairs. It was midnight, it was 2:00 am. They weren’t giving Santa enough time to come. I started pacing. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true. I didn’t want to allow it to be true but it didn’t care if I was going to let it. It was true. Santa wasn’t real. The next hours were mixed with numb sleep and disappointment but I awoke Christmas morning like nothing was wrong and by noon that day, nothing was. Christmas hadn’t changed. I had.

By the next Christmas Eve I wondered if I had really changed as I sat in front of the computer trying to find the website on which you could track Santa. Maybe I knew it wasn’t true but that didn’t mean that I wasn’t allowed to believe that Santa would still come down the chimney that night.  So, I decided that maybe I was wrong last year, maybe I wasn’t but either way I could still picture Santa falling down my chimney and sauntering over to my christmas tree with a big black bag full of gifts all for me.

To this day I can picture these things in my mind. Sometimes I see Bubbles with another little girl, but she smiles back up at me in a way that I know means even if she isn’t real, she was there. Anyone or anything that can make you feel that happy or safe or excited is there. Maybe not physically but emotionally.

I think that’s what people don’t understand. That imagination isn’t knowing something is true, it’s believing in it even if you know it’s fake. It’s taking all the things that people say or do to prove it wrong and making them prove it right. It’s not only believing in the things that people tell you to, like Santa, but making up your own friends and being able to play or have a conversation with them.

So it’s a whole lot easier to keep your imagination. You don’t have to lose the images of these wonderful, magical, creatures just because it’s known they aren’t there. You should still be able to remember their voices and faces, and if that’s possible then they were there and they meant and probably continue to mean something. So I urge you to hold on tighter than I did because I got lucky that my images stayed close enough for me to be able to grab back on.
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Descriptive Essay: Poor Unfortunate Souls

“I’m scared”, Trisha whispered to me as we stood on the side of the mountain, looking down at her brother, Josh, who was eagerly encouraging us to ride down. It was getting late. The wind was blowing, penetrating my gloves, chilling my hands to the bone, slightly harder than it was five minutes ago. “I’ll go with you” I promised, sounding just as terrified as she did. Giving eachother a look of understanding, we pushed off of the snow covered hill.

We’re going too fast! We’re going too fast! Those were the words that ran through my head as soon as we pushed off. I felt the wind nick at my face repeatedly. It felt like my face was being stretched and pulled apart. Josh’s laughing could be heard over the wind howling in my ears. Trisha fell and lost her ski polls as she slid down the hill, her skis popping off due to an emergency default setting. I kept going, screaming at the top of my lungs. Oh no...
My eyes grew wide and my screaming grew louder and more urgent as I saw the tree line approaching sooner than I would have liked it to. “Josh!” The sound was ripped out of my mouth by some unseen force and carried backwards towards the boy I had just passed, left standing on the bottom of the hill, dumbfounded, wondering what was going on.
BAM! I felt pressure on my legs. My vision grew dark spots and the breath was shoved out of my lungs. I laid face down on the snow covered gown, mouth open, unable to breathe. My vision returned and I flipped myself onto my back. Past the tall green tree tops, that seemed so far away, I could see the beautiful sky in the distance. Terrible thoughts ran through my head. Staring at the sky, the cold dampness seeping through my clothes, I laid there unable to move, wondering what was going to happen next. I grew tired, each blink seemed drawn out. For those few minutes I was at peace.

I realized that this moment was terribly beautiful. Even though I was injured and most likely would have died, fellow skiers kept passing by, simply overlooking me as if they couldn’t see the contrast between my bright blue snow jacket and orange helmet, and the white, icy ground. But at the same time I was, in a way, forced to see the world around me. This time I couldn’t get distracted and I couldn’t overlook things anymore the way that those skiers overlooked me. I had a real chance to actually see the world for what it was. I finally understood something. Terrible things happen everyday, and no one cares. The world in all it’s beauty carries on. The sun still shines and the rain still falls and people get up and get on with their lives everyday. Everything I once knew, everything I was taught since childhood was lost. I am alone. I have always been alone. It only took me up until now to realize it because I was so blinded by the ignorance of the world.

It all spiraled out of control from there. It was like I was stuck in a never ending freefall, and every time I thought it was over I would fall again. The feeling of helplessness and hopelessness consumed me most days. Little things started to get to me. I would cry a lot and I couldn’t take a joke anymore. I think everyone has those days where they just feel like nothing. They act like nothing and live the whole day in silence, simply consumed by their own thoughts. Terrible thoughts that eat away at your mind, telling you how worthless you are. You can’t escape. How do you outrun something that’s a part of you, something that you can’t control?
Each day is a struggle. Like a war between you and, well, yourself. Memories that you thought you had forgotten or never gave a second thought to suddenly flood back, and you become mortified even though you try and convince yourself that no one remembers. People go on with their lives and seem to forget you. It’s like you’re only here to be here. You’re here as a rock for other people, but as they become strong, they leave. It’s like waking up from a spell, cast by the world and people and influences around you. You don’t see things the way you were taught. There is no one answer anymore. Things become less clear, less ignorant, less narrow-minded. Unlike the people around you. They don’t see the way you do. You’re different now. An outcast. A simple organism in a vast sea of conformity. Everyone talks the same and acts the same and looks the same and pretends like they know what they’re talking about. But if you ever dare say something different, you are shunned and perceived from that day on as “rude” and “stupid” and my personal favorite, a “freak”.
We live in a world where “children don’t own opinions”. Where people are looked down on and bullied because they don’t “look right”, because someone’s idea of beauty weighs more than someone elses. Where you have to be skinny and wear the right clothes and have the right things, just like everyone else. People wonder why children kill themselves. No one really cares unless you’re pretty or dying. That’s just how it is, and that is sad. Very, very sad. Just the thought of someone slitting their wrists, skipping meals or even just consuming and doing things they shouldn’t feel the need to do, just to make up for the fact that they can’t “fit in” is sickening. We’re teaching kids that it’s okay to torment and attack other people because they’re different. If everyone was the same it would be a pretty boring world and even more conformed than it already is. When you tell someone that they’re ugly, fat, annoying, stupid, and/or any other type of insult, they will start to believe it. Because that doesn’t go away. If you feel the need to hurt someone, then maybe you should try and seek help of your own. That’s not a bad thing and I think both you and other people would benefit from your doing so. You can’t outrun your mind. You could try and ignore it and pretend it isn’t there, but in the end it has a way of ruining your life and reopening old wounds.
Depression can be triggered by many types of things and in many different forms. Most happen through traumatic experiences, just like the skiing accident I wasn’t so fortunate to experience. It’s like a domino effect. Once it’s triggered it never really passes. The dominos keep falling, knocking over one another as they go down. And the last domino to fall is you.
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Descriptive Essays (The Unexpected)

This school-day afternoon would be one of the memorable days of my life. Today taught me how to always expect the unexpected. It all started when my classmates and I had just walked  into our classroom from our 11:35 lunch. Still filled with energy, we are going through a tough transition from a fun intense game of good’ole american football to a quiet learning environment. Smiles were painted on everyone’s faces, laughter filled the air and the 6th grade classroom smelled of old furniture. We all stood around chatting to our friends, waiting for the teacher to instruct us to sit down. Most of us were in the corner of the room where our small library was. No one really reads there, but it was a nice place to hang out because of the couches. Not all of us were misbehaving, there were the “goodie two-shoes” the “teacher’s pets”, Jake, Annie and Jamie,  who sat diligently waiting for the teacher to arrive. We didn’t really like them much, they made everyone else in the class look terrible, even though in reality it was us who made ourselves look terrible. Our teacher June Ghondi, walked in the room. She was from Kenya and had a deep accent where she said every word deeper than normal and held on to the last syllable of the last word she said for a second too long. In her thick Kenyan accent she yelled.

 “Class! Please take your seats!” Everyone quickly sat down at our assigned desk. Now, class, please take out your creative writing pads.” 
We all did as we were told. Our “creative writing pads” are plain bright yellow note pads. Everyday we were expected to write for a hour and half. It could be a poem, short story and anything inbetween. I picked up my yellow no. 2 pencil and began writing my thoughts down. Line after line I was writing about life and how life just wasn’t fair. Some people were born rich, privileged and some, out of their control were born poor and into poverty. I began rambling about where I stand in this spectrum and realized I was extremely privileged. “What to write about now?” I asked myself. “Shhhh!” yelled some students. When people do this it makes me ponder on the fact that by them telling me to “Shh”, not only did they make more noise than I did but they are simply making noise. So should someone tell them to Shhh? If so, then there would be long never ending “shh-ing”.

“Jasir!” June yelled.


“Stop your daydreaming and get back to work!”  

“My god...”

I looked over my shoulder and you can see the other children smirking. I don’t get it though. There are 20 plus other kids in this classroom and she only picks on me. I know that I am not the best student in the world, or the most respectful, but I don’t do anything that no one else has done. From the first week I stepped in this classroom I knew that she had it out for me.  Other kids were talking, actually there are some talking right now. But of course June does nothing to them.

Ironically after I said that June began barking to some kids at the table on the west side of the room.

“You! Get out of my classroom!”

“I’m sorry I’ll-”

“No,  Get out now! I told everybody to not say a word. C’mon now, get moving.” She said sarcastically.

The whole classroom grew wide smiles, but did not dare to laugh out loud in fear they would be the next person being sent out. Three children began packing their bags. There were 5 clusters of desk in June’s room, and each cluster was made of 4 desk. This left Annie, one of the teacher’s “dolls” all alone. As they were exiting the room, you can hear all of them talking under their breath.
“If anyone wants me to give them feedback on what they have written, you can come to my desk.” June said.

Liliana, who is also apart of the teachers pet clan, quickly sprung out of her seat and ran to the stool next to June. The rest of the class began to acquire the desire to speak with her. Twelve of us had our hands raised. June knew our hands were raised , but she didn’t turn her head, trying to give us the impression that she doesn’t recognize us and no one wanted to speak because they did not want to be sent out. My question was simple. I wanted to know when our next draft of writing was due. My arm was fatigued from football so I dropped my arm and picked my pencil up after. My friend Imani was holding her hand up the longest. You can tell she was impatient because she kept saying  “Spss” and frantically waving her arms back in forth, in hope of capturing June’s attention. She began to whisper to Hoshea who was sitting on the desk across from her.

“Imani! Go outside if you want to talk to Hoshea. Hoshea you join her so you can finish your conversation.*
“I was asking her-”
“I don’t care. I said no talking. If you had a question you ask me.”
“But you-”
“I am not trying to hear it!”

This time people were not laughing or joking. I am not going to get kicked out. I told myself. Minute after minute someone was being kicked out of the classroom. Anand who was one of June’s favorites was even kicked out for saying thank you to someone who picked up his pencil for him when he dropped it. This kid named Rich, who was usually a troublemaker, and a person who talked during class was just as silent as me. Some kid next to him was talking, I couldn’t tell who, because I didn’t want to be falsely accused and get kicked out.

“Rich get out!” June yelled.


“That was me” Donavan said.

“Donavan get out too!”

Rich sat back down and continued his work.

“Rich I thought I told you to get out!”

“But Rich just admitted it was him?!”

“OUT! you’re talking now aren’t cha?”

“Oh my GOD!” Rich replied  

Rich was silent but because of his reputation, he was also thrown out. I looked up at the clock. 2:25, ten more minutes to go then I am out of here!. I looked around the room and you would not be able to tell there was a class going on in here. Only 4 kids remained in the classroom, me, Gabby, Liana, who was still hogging the teacher and Annie. At the end of class, June walked to my desk.

I thought to myself. What does this bat want now?
“Yes June” I said in an innocent voice
“I am very very proud of you...”
When she said those words to me I was astonished. She was proud of me. Those words caught me off guard. I would never bet on her to have ever said to me.  I did not only learn to expect the unexpected but I learned that I am a good student. I learned that being the cool guy is not always the “cool” thing to do. A smile arose on my face and a sense of accomplishment filled me.
"Wow” This was all I could say.  

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Descriptive Essay: Into the Hole

“Tag! You’re it!”

“No way man! You didn’t even touch me!”

“Please, I got you by the back of your shirt. Plus, I’ve been it since for - ever!”

“Fiiiiiine, I’ll be it.”

“Kennedy! I need you here for a moment.”

Hearing my name, my head turned sharply to the right and looked in front of me. There was my mom, standing in the doorway with her blue jeans and orange shirt. My breath sharpened and became quick; I wondered what I did wrong. The tone of her voice when calling me was swift and piercing. Nevertheless I quickly ran to my mother’s side, waving at my friends signaling that I was going to be back soon in order to play some more.

Once I was in the door, I followed my mom from the foyer to the living room; where the stairs were located. The sight of black carpet took me in like a hole of complete darkness. I always felt afraid when stepping on the carpet because it looked like it could suck me in at any moment. Because of that fear, I bypassed my mom and trotted quickly to the stairs on the other side of the room. My black shirt floated at the bottom while my light jean shorts stayed tight at my thighs. I hopped onto the first pale purple step and took a glance at my mom. My mom sighed at the feat and I just smiled weakly, shrugging my small shoulders. I crawled up the stairs with my mom in tow, except she walked normally. Once I reached the top of the stairs, I stood there, temporarily towering over my mother, who was still near the bottom. I felt like a king until she reached the top where I was at. Then I took a couple of steps to the left, silently questioning my mom if we were heading to her room or otherwise. She gave me a look that said ‘Duh.’ I made another weak smile and headed down the hall to her room.

Reaching the doorway, I peeked in to the right and saw my dad sitting on the side of the huge king-sized bed that covered most of the room. I slowed my pace and started to make my way through the doorway with my mom in tow. She settled into her favorite pink chair, right next to the doorway. I settled for sitting next to my dad on the bed. So I jumped up, placed my feet on the frame, and climbed up. I took a peek at each of their faces, just to see what was up. I first took a look at my dad. His face was quite solemn and very upset looking. My brows furrowed at his expression and I offered him a small smile but he just glanced away instead. I frowned and glanced at my mom who did the exact same thing. I was about to open my mouth and ask what’s wrong, but my dad suddenly interrupted me.

“Me and your mom are getting a divorce.”

Suddenly, my mom snapped back almost instantaneously “Howard! Let her down easier! She’s only ten!” My dad was about to retaliate, but he stopped himself and looked down at the carpet underneath his feet. My mom cooled herself down and then looked at me, who was shaking. Tears flooded my eyes, my vision became blurred, and my words became non-existent. I started to sob softly, which turned into a full on cry - fest. My throat felt dry and my mouth felt salty. My hands fumbled to my face to quiet my sobs, but my dad suddenly grabbed me and pulled me into a tight hug. The room was filled with silence, except for my muffled sobs against my dad’s chest. I heard a soft ‘Sorry’ from my dad, and a quiet sniff from my mom.

I never knew that one minute and eight words could affect me to the point where it changed my life forever. Just in one moment, everything can change and the worse part is feeling like you can’t do anything about it. I felt helpless and weak, like all I could do was crawl into a hole and die. Actually, that’s what I preferred to do at one point. All it took was a minute out of the millions of minutes that I’ve lived through.

What hit me the hardest was the change involved in all of this. Not only were my parents not together anymore, I had to move out my decent-sized twin house into a small row home. I wasn’t used to the tight, cramped spaces in the bathroom, or random knocking on the walls from crazy, noisy neighbors. It was a big downgrade. Money became tighter and my mom couldn’t continue the luxuries I had when I was smaller. Things became worse when my mom introduced her own  spouse, who I didn’t take a liking to. It was just too much change happening at once.

Don’t get me wrong, change can be a good thing. Like changing your normal hairstyle or hanging out with a different social group than you’re used to. But in my case, it was a bad, bad thing. It took it’s toll on me significantly. Soon, more children from each side of my ‘new’ family appeared, craving and receiving more attention than I did. I was so used to being the only child and being the only thing in my parent’s eyes. I began to seep into the hole of depression, feeling like I wasn’t wanted and I was a waste of space. My parents were so into their new, separate lives that I felt neglected. I thought that nothing good could possibly come out of this. At one point, I thought that change couldn’t bring anything good with it.

Despite what I thought, change comes with opportunities. Once I got older, I realized this. I just happened to be coming home from a long day at school. It was in the middle of last year, around the third quarter of my school year. I was on the 4:02 Norristown train on my way up to my dad’s for the weekend. I sat in the two - person seat, alone and staring out the window with my earbuds in my ear, blasting some music. My cheek was rested against my loosely curled fist, with my elbow using the window seal as support. The scene the window was giving me was quite boring. It was just trees, more trees, and even more trees. It was like a family reunion of trees. I started to drift off in thought, completely ignoring my surroundings. I started my thoughts off in what to expect when I arrived at my father’s not-so-humble abode. I thought of my little step-sister, who was ridiculously annoying for being nine. Then my attention settled on the thought of my little half-brother, who only at two was being sassy and acting like a teenager. I smiled weakly at the thought and went onto my step-mom, with her thick Dominican accent, bossing me and my siblings around. I frowned a bit at the one but nevertheless, I was content.

But then my thoughts wandered to my two families as a whole.

Despite what I’ve been through with each side, I felt like I grew to love all of them. In the beginning, it was tough getting used to all the major changes taking place at once. But in the end, I got to learn about another culture with my step-mom, meet new and wonderful people, and learned what it felt like to not be alone.
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Descriptive Essay: Grief freed me.

My mom picked me up at four thirty on September 30th, a Thursday.  Four Thirty, way earlier than usual. Dressed in blue jeans and sweater, this was not her work attire.  Perhaps she just had one of those awful migraines she gets at least once a month.  Walking through the burnt orange leaves my mom and I pass the main building, and the middle school building. My mom has not said a word.  She hits the “unlock” button twice to enter her Mercury Mountineer.  As I sit down to buckle my seatbelt, she parts her lips to speak the unfathomable.  “At around one o’clock today, Aunt Jackie died.”   Aunt Jackie, my mom’s stepsister was possibly the most angelic person I had ever met.  As my mom struggled holding back the tears to speak again a wave of numbness ran through my whole body.  “She, she had one of those attacks again. She called 911, and went out to the porch.  It was too late she collapsed face first to the ground and died shortly afterward.”  I didn’t know what to think.  My mother, already small in stature, curled up in a ball on the driver’s side and cried.  I couldn’t look at her.  I stared.

Like a car wreck that was so horrible that you couldn’t look away.  I stared at my mother.  For her to cry was so unlike her, for her to sob, life was not real.  After 30 seconds of staring, I came back down to reality.  She was gone.  Our plan to go to the library would never happen.  She couldn’t make fun of my mother for how we “organized” our Tub-a-ware anymore.  She was gone.  I broke down, I hadn’t cried so hard in all my 13 years of life.  I grabbed at my jeans, like my mother I had curled into a ball on the passenger’s side of the car. By the time the rage unraveled me from the tight ball I was in, my blouse was half stained with the eruption of anger that poured from my eyes.  I could have screamed.  My faith in God was tested that day.  How could He have let a person who had done so much good in her life, leave life in such a short, random, painful manner.  Sarcoidosis had claimed her, took over her body, and took her away in one fatal swoop.  

My mom told me she was laying in a coroner’s office.  They found her in a pool of blood on her front porch.  The time I wanted to scream, let out my anger. I was in a parked car, on Coulter Street.  With a completely inconsolable mother, and a face marked red with anger, grief and shock.  These were the worst ten minutes I have ever had in my life.  This was my first time grieving.

Death was never a fear of mine until I was thirteen years old.  The day she died.  I never ever wanted to make anyone cry and seeing what death had done to my mother, from this point on I wanted to be immortal.  I crunched through the leaves and walked up the two sets of stairs and into the house.  Throwing my bag down on the antique couch in my living room, I swiftly ran up the stairs to get to my room. I peeled off my homeroom sweatshirt, kicked off my nikes and sat down on my bed and I cried.   

The worst part of grief is from the second of notification leading up to the funeral.  No closure, no celebration, just sadness.  Nothing feels right, the next couple of days I would sit in the unshakeable feeling of death.   I walked through school with fake smiles and conversations that felt unbearably long.  I walked into the computer lab the day after she passed, to find my best friend Sarah, who coincidentally was dealing with grief as well.  We cried together in the dark computer room that friday morning, until Rhonda, our computer teacher walked into the room.  Rhonda then told my advisor and thats how word spread around and I dealt with the pity party for another good week.  Grief, grudges with God.  I couldn’t understand why my Lord took her away so soon. I could only wait for the funeral to come, and then hell would be over.

I stood there, pain stricken, trying to understand why she was gone.  I creeped into the church, slowly, timidly.  My eyes wide with fear of what I was about to see.  My aunt, adorned in white linens and lace, laid undisturbed, untroubled in a white casket.  I walked slowly down the shaggy tan carpeting, passing rows and rows of people.; to look at Jackie for one last time.

She laid there as I stood looking at her, face to corpse,  niece to aunt.  Now to be honest, for a dead person, she still had color.  She didn't have an eerie gray coloring. Perhaps that was the makeup that they put on the deceased to make sure they just look like they are sleeping.  They kept her hair short, she usually hid it behind a hair scarf.  Her skin was still the color of caramel, except for the swollen parts of her lip from when she had fell onto her patio. Those were stained with the obvious color of concealer and foundation, which when looked at thoroughly, was black, blue and blood red.  I began to feel uncomfortable in my own skin.  

My lips were locked together by the shear antipathy that this would be my last encounter with my aunt Jackie, for the rest of my life.  My MaryJanes carried me back across the old carpet as I promptly took my seat next to my mother, who had been a wreck for a week.  And my uncle, who had been a wreck for a day.  I felt frigid, numb, and cold to the touch.  I felt like I had died, my stomach dropped as I was about to be consumed with grief for the next three and a half hours of my life.

As much as funerals bring closure to loved ones, it is the most uncomfortably painful yet healing part of the grieving process.  Looking at my aunt for the last time, felt like saying goodbye to a piece of me.  My eyes attempted to avoid her, I didn’t want to come to grips with the fact that she was gone.  The funny thing about death is it brings out the sheer delusion in all of us.  The night terrors, the visions of her sitting right next to me in school.  It is something you can never escape.

For the most part I had blacked out through a majority of the funeral.  I didn’t cry, thats all I knew.  The expectations for grief is to cry, scream, break something.  Let all the pain out in one blow.  This was all I saw in the movies.  This is what I expected of myself.  I never knew I could feel so cold, numb, heartless.  The last memory I have from the day of her funeral was lowering her casket into the burial plot.  I can honestly say, as painful as that was to watch, the amount of closure I received in those few moments was incredible.  I now know that I may not get her back, I won’t ever get her back, but she is wrapped around me in every step I take.  In the words of my aunt; “In death the only thing that dies is the body, the shell.  The spirit stays around us all for ever, even as we move on to new adventures. Everyday the spirits of our ancestors look down upon us, to guide us through life.”  I was freed from grief.  Or perhaps grief freed me.
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Maleena Mel Reflection

With your blogpost, include your reflection related to:
  • What surprised you most about this information?
  •  What seemed quite obvious about explaining this data set?
  • Looking at the overall trend and incorporating what you know about the US presently, predict and defend the immigration trend for the next two decades.
  • Describe how you made a decision on how to visually represent the information.
  • What parts of group work were challenging?
  • What would you do differently if you had this project to do over?

    1. The thing that had surprise me the most in the project was learning how many people would immigrate to the united state each year, and the reason why they came. 
    2. What had seem really obvious about explaining the data was how i kept getting te same reason why people all over the would would come to America. 
    3. Looking at the overall all i can see that the U.S now is that you ca see that people from all over the world live in the U.S everywhere. People from different places are having money to some and or either running over to get here. And i believe in the next 2 decade people all over the world who has money can come to the U.S with/out a green card or their pass port. 
    4. I had to use different idea and opinion about what was the same reason and what was different. 
    5. Putting the work together when one of us is not here. 
    6. Put more work, and effort then i did here because i had less time.  

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Cameron Klales Immigration visualization project.

After reading through the history of immigration in the United states, I was really surprised by how many people sought out america as a place of refuge. If you look at all of the immigration spikes in the history of the United States of America, there is always a war, a famine, or an economic collapse within 5 years. This gave me a new perspective on how the rest of the world views us as a Country. I think that for the next two decades, we will see a dramatic rise in immigration as the world economy collapses around us. on the alternative, if the economy balances, and we are in a time of world peace, we will see less immigration. Something else to consider, is what would need to happen for us as a nation to immigrate to another country. To visually represent this information we used to posters, each on a slide. On one slide is a visualization of all of the things that push people away from their country. While this project was fun it was hard to get my group to get off of ichat and collaborate. I think if i could do this project over again i would have made more of an effort to incorporate the data into the slides.

(I can't get the media uploader to work so I emailed the project)
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Descriptive Essay: Infidelity

I have no choice but to flashback to that night every time I hear that song. It was about 1 in the morning. I was in a deep slumber on my twin bed, head in the direction of the door instead of my window when I awake to that dreaded bright yellow hallway light and every curse word ever created. It was my mother’s voice. “What is happening?”, I whisper. No church-going woman would curse like that. My eyes throbbed, light seeping in from the cracks of my bedroom door and ears ached from the extreme decibels suddenly replacing the usual silence. Still, I heard the quiet whisper of water running from the bathroom. It soon disappeared. A door slowly opens. I begin to hear my mother screaming at my father. “Is this real?”, I begin to question if I am still dreaming but I quickly accept that this is all too real. I’ve never heard them have an argument like that before, but of course it was always plausible. I was too afraid and confused to open my bedroom’s door. So my mom slammed it open for me. “Get dressed, we’re leaving!” I did as I was told. My limp arms picked up a pair of jeans and slipped them on. I pulled a hoodie over my pajama tee. I dragged my feet across the hallway, my little eight year old body stumbled down the stairs, then out the front door. It was a cold October night.  I felt spotlightted by the streetlights as I walked across the street to the little purple Subaru. My brothers accompanied me in the car. The look on my brother Jared’s face was irritated and confused, just like mine. When I looked at my oldest brother, Christian’s face, he looked very calm, sleepy, but calm. Like he knew something we didn’t know. And here is when the song comes in.

“Ordinary People” by John Legend plays when my mother turns on the radio. That sound blasted all the way to my grandmom’s house. My mom was driving so fast that the wind beat against my face making my already slender eyes close completely and my ears stuffed with the night’s air, but I could still hear every lyric and melody of the song. It was the only song that played in the car that night, the only one that had time to play. I didn’t know at the time that song would resonate and connect to that specific experience. Whenever I hear that song I go back to that night. It was the night that my blindness was snatched away from me as quick as a dark room turns bright with the flip of a switch. This was the first night I began to find out the truth about my parent’s unhealthy relationship.

4 years later and things were only going to get worse. On a night in December of 2009, my dad told my brothers and me to get ready because he was going to pick us up to spend some time with us. This seemed slightly odd because my dad very rarely took us out anywhere. But he didn’t live with us at the time so I understood. We walked to the black Lexus across the street and got in. There was a woman in the passenger’s seat. “This is my friend Terri.”, my dad says to the three of us and like the programmed-polite kids we were, we responded with a “Hello” and the car took off. I listened to the two adults make small talk and my mind wandered to be more consumed by where we were going than contemplating who this lady was. My father had hundreds of friends so I literally had no suspicion. We stopped at Little Caesar's pizza restaurant and got our dinner. Then we rode to my Aunt’s house who was a friend of Terri and we ate pizza, watched some terrible TV, overall it was boring and I just wanted to go home.

When we arrived at our house my mom asked about how our night went. My brothers and I told her that we just went over our Aunt Kesha’s house and had pizza. Then the most important detail was revealed. I don’t remember which one of us told her but I know they said “Dad’s friend Terri was with us.” In that moment, as I looked at the expression on my mother’s face, filled shock and disbelief, I knew that I underestimated my father’s “friend”. “You were with who?” my mother said as her eyes were wide open, anxiously waiting for an answer. “Dad had his friend Terri with him.” My mom preceded to go ballistic, taking all my father’s clothes and placing them on our porch. He was forced to come to pick them up to avoid his clothes being stolen by the members of the shady neighborhood. The removal of his physical items symbolized his emotional separation from his loving family, who had always been there for him.
I later found out that my father disrespected my mother’s wishes to keep his affair a secret from his children until my mother was ready to tell us. I know that is the gist of the argument. I was still in the house in a daze when all this happened. All I knew is that this was the second time my father made my mother angry because of infidelity.

My father once again was only concerned with himself in this situation. All my mother asked of him was to give her the chance to tell us what was going on when she felt the time was right. But my father’s selfish mind allowed him to do what he wanted, when he wanted. I believe he didn’t care if it would upset my mother because he wanted to have his fun, like he had been doing through all of his adulthood, and not caring who he had to disappoint to do so.

People either use their tortured past to better themselves, or they stay bitter and let everyone that comes in their path feel that hurt they feel. You have to learn who you are dealing with. If it is the ladder, you must completely separate yourself from them until they learn to be constructive, not destructive. My dad was “neglected” as a child and as an adult he chose to lavish himself with whatever his heart desired, but didn’t account for how it might affect everyone else affected by his actions. Sometimes with material luxuries, but it was always more hurtful when he emotionally lavished himself only to leave my mother out in the cold. That hurt she felt, I felt because my mother’s happiness has always been a priority in my life. I learned to lose dependence on my father for anything because he just didn’t know how to be selfless.
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Descriptive Essay: My Black Is Beautiful

“My black is beautiful” Now that I’m 15 i know that now. You think I got it easy I don't ,if you was there in second grade when they could tease me you would know exactly how I felt. This is my story.
It was 7:00 am , my mom came in my room and woke me up for the first day of school. “ Ashley , its 7 o’ clock get up its time for school!” she said. I woke up about five mins. Later walked slowly like a zombie to the bathroom. I was so sleepy ! 7 o’ clock came fast! I turned on the shower and let the water run. I grabbed my pink rag from the rack and the pink dove soap from the soap dish and hoped in the shower. After i got finshed washing up , I went to my room and started to get dress. It was the first day of second grade i was so hype and excited and of course i wanted to look nice. My mom brought my freshly ironed navy blue pants with the cress in them ,my fresh white 2 button short sleeve uniform shirt my navy blue sweater , my white uniform socks and my playless black mary janes to me. As I was getting dress I smelled this lovely aroma , it smell so good , it was my breakfast, it was about 7:45am  I went down stairs to the kitchen to eat breakfast. My mom made me some waffles. As I finshed at breakfast i grabed my bratz bookbag and walked to school with my mom. It was 8:15 and I was standing in line with the other kids , waiting for our teacher to come out.
When we finally got in the class , we had assigned seats I had to sit with Marvin KC , Aarin and Miah they made my life I living hell. Who knew that 4 little second graders where this much trouble. When I first sat down Aarin whispered and said “Why is she so black” , I guess she thought I didnt hear it. I didnt pay it no mind at first but than more mean stuff keep coming , not just from the girls but from the boys too. KC said “Ashley is black as the street” everyone laughed. At  first I was chillen , didnt pay it no mind but when mean things are keep coming at you what do you do? I thought to my self why am i so dark , why do i have a gap in my teeth , why am I so little , why am I so skinny everything negative  rushed to my head. I didn't understand why God made me this way. I always asked myself why did God create me , did he create me to be the laughing stock of the whole class.I didnt love myself for who I really was. i wanted to be light skin because majority of my class mates was , not saying i’m a follower but I justed wanted the attacks to stop! I told my mom , what they said about me she said “ Baby , dont worry you are beautiful”. I didn't feel like it though. I felt hurt , I was confused. I use to get teased everyday , but now I know who I am. I know why god put me on this earth.  I’m me ! Nobody can take it anyway from me. I live in the centry where being dark is not ugly but its beautiful! I dont have to feel like i dont belong. I feel comfortable in my own skin. Im fine how i am. So what if I’m darkskin , I rather have color than none at all! I learned alot from what Miah , Marvin ,KC and Aarin told me , back than it hurted but know I can just sit back and laugh , because I know my black is

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Descriptive Essay; The Matter of Truth

I thought about this for many times about what I can improve on my problems but, it had swollen me instantly. I tried to act like nothing has happened to me so no one can bug me. Day after day, there has to be a misfortune of moments when there’s a lot of tossing and fussing. I never thought I could be so disturbed with so many things going on. I should have known better than this;  it builds up more and more where I became outraged. Being the oldest child can be difficult because I have to work my ways up as being a brother to support my family.  So here it begins.

The long afternoon had finally dragged on, it was a sticky humid summer day blazing above the sky. I was in the van, while my mom was driving, my cousin in the passenger seat with my siblings in the back. I was also in the back of the car next to my youngest sister while spacing out through the windows. I didn’t know where we were going so I looked through the blind shades. Then I turned and looked away trying to listen the soft radio music. My cousin and my mom was talking and my siblings were playing.

I was in the car for eight minutes, still wondering about moving. I remember months ago, when my  father bragged to my mom’s friends, about how he treated his family well. He said “I came here to search for a house for my family.” We’ve been  keeping his words for couple months by now. Time continued to jump forward and still there were no answers.  The disappointment on my face grew darker. I still had hope in him because he is my father and we forgive him eventually. Then the memories cut into the reality.
The air in the car was cold, where the air conditioner blasted on high. I felt squished because boxes and groceries were cramming on my foot. I wasn’t really bothered by it so I put my right arm on the seat rester and supported my head so I can close my eyes. We had a long day after working. Everything became blank when I didn’t care about anything. I just wanted to go home, getting some rest.
In the matter of seconds, my phone vibrated inside my front pocket, on the left. I took my phone, shaking. I told them it was my father and everyone was quiet while the music was turned off. My dad said, “I couldn’t buy the house because we don’t have that much money.” It was an outrage, I yelled at my dad about not keeping his words. My eyes were red and it was watering, where it felt like it was going to explode. I was yelling at him, while tears was dripping down my face. I raised my arms hitting the passenger seats, kicking the chair when my voice was furious. He kept on giving excuses so I hung up on him.
That moment I went out of control. I didn’t know what was happening because it physically just happen and I was in depression mode. Everyone in the car was just in shock because it was a long time since I did something like that. I couldn’t believe I did this horrible things in front of everyone, but at the same time I felt delighted when I yelled at my dad because he deserves it. I didn’t really bother my dad when he always talk so convincing, which he sometimes does and I need to step up on pressuring his guilt.

All this time I kept my hopes up for nothing where he brags about the wonderful things for my siblings and I. Inside of me, I was hurt. It was pain. My chest turned upside down. I thought I could believe him, but I couldn’t trust him again. The car became dull as the night sky. No one talked nor make a creek sound. I just stared through the windows, when my mind was completely emptied, trying to keep my temper low.

The relationship between my family members became worst because no one kept their words. I was acting foolish earlier but, I couldn’t keep the pain inside me.  It changed me after what just happened. Sometimes people convince me with their words and I would easily fall for them. I don’t know who I can trust. There are times when I needed someone to talk to. I would just talk to my cousins and sometimes I feel better.  Why can’t I have a better life? I can’t have a perfect life because there are ups and downs when there are full of lies happening. I just needed to be  wiser so no one can hurt my feelings again.  Since I am becoming more older, I learned to be more wiser. I will continue on the path in listening to their words and think about how I can trust their words . I will never fall into the traps again when I learned my lessons.
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Descriptive Essay: The Toe That Was Overlooked

“Oh man that doesn’t feel good.” That’s what I was thinking after making a great catch where I reached out near my foot to make what’s called a “shoestring catch.” I came off the shady baseball field, overlooked by the many trees on that dark afternoon. “Why does my foot hurt so much? It’s mostly my toe.” I was thinking. I came in limping and wincing in pain as if someone just stabbed the side of my foot multiple times. 

As I went to sit down on the bench, my grandfather asked me what was wrong and I said “My toe hurts a lot. And part of my foot.”

  He said, “Don’t give into the pain.” 

I replied, “I’m not, but my foot hurts like a mug.” 

Afterwards, I just sat there rubbing my foot hoping it would nurse it back to normal but it didn’t work. I then went into the field limping and cursing my foot under my breath. I played the entire game limping and fighting through the pain, so I could try to help my team. After the game we had lost by 5 points and I was upset because it was a very winnable game. My mind was cluttered with thoughts of how we could have won and my thought process snapped with every step I took as the pain really set in. I could barely walk now as I headed to the truck to give my teammate a ride home. I went to sleep that night trying to get ready for a full day of pain and suffering. 

This was the stupidest thing I’ve done so far in my life. That kept going through my mind as I was constantly walking and stopping to rest and massage my throbbing foot. I thought I wasn’t going to be able to make it home if my foot didn’t stop hurting. I felt like there was a 1 ton weight just sitting on my entire foot. I had a playoff baseball game in 4 days and I was in no condition to play, but I didn’t care. I wasn’t going to miss my 1st high school playoff game. Even if we lost, at least I was there. My parents said, “Soak your foot in epsom salt and you will be just fine.” But I was thinking, “Put yourself in my place, then lets see if all I need is epsom salt.” When I got home that night I slowly limped over to the bathroom to fill the blue tub with water to soak my foot in epsom salt. As I lay down on my bed my head began to throb as I wondered whether or not I would be able to play come Monday afternoon

Over that weekend I tried to stay off my foot as much as I could, but of course I couldn’t since neither my family nor I realized the excruciating pain I was going through. My parents had me doing work over the weekend; I helped clean the house and the front lawn. As I was getting the push broom out of the shed a shovel fell over and landed on my toe. I thought it was over for me. I hopped around the yard yelling and stopping myself from cursing the shovel for what it just did to me. I sat down and felt my foot which was throbbing very fast. The amount of pain I feeling was equal to someone cutting of my toe. Afterwards I hopped as fast as I could up the steps and into the house so I could ice my foot and rest up to finish cleaning the yard. I finished cleaning the yard 2 hours later with ice on my foot. I shivered the whole time and I couldn’t feel my foot after 15 min. of having it on. Later that night, I soaked my foot in epsom salt again, which didn’t help but my parents insisted. I went to bed that night ready to just give up on playing in the playoff game, but in my mind I would have seemed like a punk. So hurt foot and all, I wasn’t going to give up.

Monday finally came and I woke up. I had a slight headache and my eyes were kinda blurry. I got out of bed and stopped myself from yelling and waking everyone up as I put pressure on my foot. I tried my best to walk to the bathroom supporting myself on the walls. I thought to myself hopefully I will be able to make it through the day. I told myself that after the season I would go to the doctor to see what was wrong with me. I never complained about my injury as much as most people would think. I never even asked to stay home from school or miss a baseball game. When I got to school, I was greeted by the warm welcoming of walking up the stairs to the 3rd floor. In a few hours we would be leaving for the bus to take us to the baseball field. When 1:30 finally hit and it was time for us to leave, the moment of truth awaited me.

As we slowly walked off of the bus to see what the field was like, I sighed with relief because I noticed my limp wasn’t as bad as before. We started our routine warm ups, stretching our bodies, doing push ups, jogging and getting our throwing arms loosened by playing catch with each other. We had to do one exercise called “Frogs,” where we act like frogs without the jumping part. I still couldn’t bend my toes and when I did, a quick jolt of pain made me cringe to the point that I didn’t want to play the game at all. I knew that wasn’t an option though, and I fought through the pain. The game was starting in 5 minutes and people were trying to hype themselves up in their own way. Some people listened to music, others kept warming up or talked to teammates. I just sat on the bench by myself and prayed. The umpire then let the coaches and captains know that it was time.

Throughout the course of the game my foot felt fine, but it could have been better. I still felt the occasional shock of pain, but not as much. I had a very big hit that started a rally for us. They only gave me a double. I hit the ball so far they thought they couldn’t find it because it went into the woods. Although, soon as the umpire said go back to 2nd the kid on the other team found the ball so I got robbed of what could have been a home run. You can’t imagine the amount of disappointment I felt when the ump told me to go back to 2nd base. I think my face looked like I just lost my best friend. We hung in the game for few more innings, then the other team started to score run after run and we lost. I was happy that we had made it that far and that the captains got to go to the playoffs. After the game my toe felt like it was very overworked. I just chose to put my slides on, hop in the car and deal with the rest later.

I used to struggle with how I judged a situation and made choices, but I’ve gotten better at making those crucial decisions that could affect me for better or worse. In April, I injured my foot and toe, I found a few months later that it was broken and I had a stress fracture. I made poor choices over the course of my injury that derailed the healing process. I’m fine now but it could have been better way before.

In the end I never went to the doctors and for the next 2 months my toe still bothered me. I re-injured my foot and my foot swelled up again causing me to wear slides for the next 3 to 4 weeks. My decision making process during those few months was poor at it’s best. I have learned from the mistakes I’ve made in the past and I have strived to correct and never make them again. I believe if you realize the mistakes of your past your future can be bright!
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Descriptive Essay: Why am I This Way?

I had never looked at being tall as a problem as Idid at this very moment. I walked down my Grandmothers block, on my way home from school, back straight , head held high and a smile on my face. I couldn't feel more confident. My mom had just bought me a pair of new Algeria shoes that I had begged her for with a nice gold button and brown spots that looked like someone threw every different shade of brown paint on them. I had just received an A on my math test and had found 5 dollars. My day couldn't have been any better. I walked the same way that I walked every time I came here, but something wasn’t right. Oakdale St. was going through construction and the only way that you could cross it was by jumping over a large crack  stretching from the sidewalk, to the middle of the street to the other end of the sidewalk. I stopped, analyzing the crack. I realized the only option I had was to jump across it. I set back wondering if I should do it. When I had first approached the street there didn't seem to be a soul in sight, but as I brought my head up, there had to be more people here then there were people at the 2012 olympics. I took two steps back closed my eyes and jumped. When I opened my eyes everything seem taller,  I realized that I was actually on the ground. I heard echoes of laughter and teasing. One comment stood out to me the most,f “If She wasn't so damn tall she wouldn't have fallen like that.”  
After that, it had occurred to me that I would never be accepted for being the height that I am. It seemed that the more people I met the more people ridiculed me about being tall, comments anywhere from “You big as shit,” or “You're a giant,” or “You're taller than most men,” to “Why the fuck are you so tall?” I’ve heard it all. I always wonder will people ever accept the fact a girl can, also, be tall. That just because you past the average height of 5’6, that you're not a monster or a freak. When i  was just a kid, I never noticed how my height was different from anyone else who was my age. We all always got the same treatment. I never felt like an outcast or like i was any different from anyone else. Yea, it was brought to my attention that  i was taller than the average height but i never felt ashamed about it as i did now.
The media gives this image that the shorter the better. You never see tall females in pageants , TV shows, or movies without the press giving them a hard time. For example, I once was watching a hit series that went by the name “TMZ” when they began talking about the Kardashian family, from a reality show called “Keeping up with Kardashians”, and it stated that Khloe Kardashian didn't have the same father as her 2 other sisters because she was too tall. “She towers over her other sisters.It’s no possibly way that they are whole sisters.” one journalist said.  The media has given people the image that taller women are wrong and out of place and it is OK to throw negative remarks at them if you feel that is the right thing to do. Every time I go on my twitter home feed its always has post like this “SHORT GIRLS: 4’11 5’0 5’1 5’2 5’3 5’4 5’5 #RT (ReTweet) if you see your height,” or  “Fun Size is the best size.”When i see tweets like this a scence of rage builds inside of me. I can’t help myself but question god as to why did he make me the way i am. Why am i so different from everyone else.I true wonder how these post make females who are my  height but also have low self esteem feel. If they make me feel like an abomination no telling how they felt.
Why can’t the American society see that we as a people are going through another evolution. The average height for the first Homosapien was 5’ for women and 5’6 for men. Now, the average height for a Homosapien, that lives in America, is 5’6 for women and 5’9-5’10 for men. The average height of a human being  slowly but surely increasing.
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Descriptive Essay: Love vs. Hate

It hurts when you realize that the organ that keeps you alive can either hurt or kill you when you fall in love. Why do I keep the pain inside? Is it because of the lack of trust or because of the lies the other people might tell me? Or maybe it's because I'm scared they might have sex and produce children and name them tears and hate.

People always judge me on how I look other than how I act. In a way, it’s not what they say that makes me mad but it’s why they say it. As I get older I change. I’m only 15 years old and I’m getting judged badly. What about when I’m 25? I’m still going to be changing so does that mean I’m going to still get judged but worse?

People see me as a quiet, shy, mad girl who doesn’t talk about her feelings. But I’m more than that, I just don’t show it. But why should I? I don’t determine how I feel. The way I feel when I wake up and how my mornings turn out to be determine how I feel the rest of the day. To me that’s why I think the morning is important. It gives me time to determine whether it would be a good or bad day. Like when you wash up or take a bath before going somewhere. Do you really just wash up and get out or do you do other things while you’re in there? Most of the time I either sing or think a lot (my thought place). Having a nice, warm bubble bath can easily get you thinking and clear your mind.

The smell of apple cinnamon candles by the tub. Hot water and a naked body in the tub while a waterfall of tears is running down my face.

Love don't exist in the pool of me. But the pain from it is its number one visitor. As  the smiles that I call bodyguards of happiness try to keep the pain out, its too strong for the bodyguards who don't use weapons except the lies of a smile.

I imagine the bubbles in the water to be the people that hurt, lied, and disappointed me. As I think it over I wonder to myself, "Is there something wrong with me?" That question was answered by the silence in the bathroom. As I get out the tub, I wiped away the pain and the people. And finally the smile of lies appears on my face and I walk out the bathroom.

So I think to myself, "No one will ever know my pain until they tell me why they gave it to me."

From when I was born until now, I’ve felt different types of love. Real, fake, hard. Its all happened to me but I never let it get in the way of me loving someone else, no matter how painful it was to me. But as I got older, it was easier to keep my feelings inside me. Less tears, but now I have no emotions. But people can see how I feel by the way I look and dress. For example, if I’m wearing bright clothes and I’m laughing and smiling then that means I’m happy and I feel loved. But if I have all black on fake laughs and smiles on my face then I’m feeling pain and no love.

But for this one moment I’m not going to talk about pain and hurt. I’m going to talk about love. I’m not always sad. I have a heart and I have a few people in my life that actually show l***.

What is love? Is it something you suppose to touch, see, hear, smell, or feel? How do you know? Well no one does. But the times when I think I am l***d is when someone actually care about my feelings and show they care. I think someone is also showing l*** when they are not afraid of telling you the truth. No matter how bad and mean it is. But they also comfort you by embracing you whenever it seems like you need it, they give you good advice, and they make you feel happy whenever you’re around them. And I have people that can do that in my life. It’s very few of them but they are there.

Like I remember one day when when I think I felt l***d. We were at the park. The wind was heavy and the air smelled like fresh rain. Me and my crush, Allen was sitting on the cold, hard benches talking. As I looked at him I couldn't hear what he was saying. I know he was talking but I wasn't listening. Our eyes was stuck together like we had magnets in them. I remember this moment so well. His eyes were big and luminous. And as I my eyes strolled down I glanced at his full, lips that was moving but no sound came out.

As the sky became grey, it started to rain. It came down as fast as glass dropping to the floor and the broken pieces scatter everywhere. He began to hold me with his big, carmel hands that felt soft around my waist. The tightness of the way he held me made me feel like he was trying to protect me from the rain. Like the rain as acid and he didn't want not one drop of it on me but but he'll sacrifice his own body. The butterflies were everywhere.
But it’s hard for me to write love if I don’t know if I feel it. Will I ever feel the power of someone loving me? Or will I always live the life of disappointment, lies, and pain with the preview of the movie, Love?
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Descriptive Essay: "Welcoming a New Edition to the Family"

My mother walked into my dark room looking very serious, and said, “Bailey, I’m in labor, and we are going to leave the house in about 30 minutes.” When I found this out, it was 6 o’clock in the morning and I was in a deep slumber. I was warm and cozy in my full size comfortable bed. The night I found out, my friend, Diamond, slept over, and she was lying on the opposite side of my bed, and she was using a different blanket than I was. My blanket was a black and white zebra comforter, and it matched my sheets. Diamond’s blanket was purple and fuzzy. It smelled like my dog in my room because she was lying in bed with my friend and I. I had to wake up after my mom said that she was in labor, because my stepfather and I had to drive my friend to her dad’s house. I woke Diamond up and said, “Diamond! Wake up! My mom’s in labor and she needs to go to the hospital! Chris said he’s going to drive you home in ten to fifteen minutes.” She replied with, “Are you serious? I knew this was going to happen, but let me call my dad and let him know I have to go there because I know my mom isn’t up yet.”

Diamond and I got out of bed, our hair was frizzy, and very messy, so we just threw it up in a messy bun. I put blue Hollister sweatpants, and a blue Hollister hoodie, because I didn’t want to be cold. Diamond kept her pajamas on because she was going to her dad’s house and going back to sleep because it was too early for her to be up. When we got in my mother’s black 2006 Honda, my stepfather had to turn the air on because it was blazing hot in the car, and my nose got stuffy because it was also dry outside. I sat in the front seat with my stepfather, because I didn’t want to sit in the back and then get out of the car to get in the front seat after Diamond got out of the car. The car ride there was silent, because Diamond and I aren’t morning people, and my stepfather knows not to talk to us if it’s really early in the morning. After we dropped my friend off, we headed back to my house. The car was silent the whole ride home.
When we arrived at my house, my mom was sitting on the couch waiting patiently for us to get back so that she could call the doctor and tell her that she was in labor and going to the hospital. My mom sat on the loveseat, my stepfather sat on the couch, and I sat on the rocking chair for about another 45 minutes. My couch is brown, and so is the loveseat. The chair I was sitting on was black, and one of the most comfortable things that I have ever sat on in my entire life, and I was surprised that I didn’t fall back to sleep because I was so tired and exhausted, because Diamond and I didn’t go to sleep until three o’clock in the morning. I was running around like a chicken without a head that morning, and I had no idea what to do because I was never in a situation like that.
I walked outside my house, and it was kind of hot out that day, because my brother was born on July 22, 2012, and that’s the middle of the summer. We got into the car, and my mom took the passenger seat next to my stepfather, who was driving. I sat in the back of the car silent, because I didn’t want to be awake yet. My mom was silent too because she was in pain and didn’t want to talk because she was not only in pain, but she was tired and exhausted. We rushed to Jefferson Hospital, because that’s where my mom’s doctor that was going to deliver the baby was located. My stepfather dropped us off at the emergency room entrance, so that he could go park the car, and my mom wouldn’t have to walk from wherever the car was parked.
When we walked into the hospital, we saw a security guard wearing a blue shirt with black pants, and he asked, “What are you looking for?” My mom replied, “I’m looking for labor and delivery because I’m in labor.” He told us directions to where we needed to go, and he called a nurse to get my mom settled in the room, and to help her get up to labor and delivery.
When my mom got set up in labor and delivery, I just sat there and closed my eyes, so I couldn’t see anything that was going on, and I don’t really remember because it was so early in the morning. All I remember is my mother just lying there in pain, and waiting for my baby brother to be born. I took a nap for about three hours on the green uncomfortable chair, but i was under two blankets so i was warm, while we waited for my brother to be ready to come out and be part of this world, and all of our lives. I woke up just in time for my brother to be born. I stood at the top of the bed, holding my mom’s hand because she was in the worst pain anyone ever felt. The next thing I remember was my brother lying on my mother’s chest just staring around the room, only making a little peep here and there. I said to my mom. “He is the most beautiful thing in the world!”

When I found out my mother was in labor I was probably the happiest person in the world, and when I saw my brother’s beautiful face, I know that I was the happiest person in the universe.

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