Advanced Essay #1 Spork

SPORK

The mystical blue fire dances beneath the large metal pot. It’s filled with old familiar smells that can only be bought at the local West African market. I watch as large red bubbles rise and pop. The house is still. The little ones are sound asleep. The men have long since joined them. So here we sit. Round the grey marble island in the middle of the kitchen. My aunt standing tall over the pot, with a pink robe and a wide smile. We sit, skin glowing from the candle light and I listen, to stories thousands of miles off shore. They speak in soothing Liberian accents describing childhoods spent under mango trees in colorful lapa suites.

When the meal is done we all get a bowl. Everyone fills it with rice and soup. My aunt pours us each a glass of juice. I eat the soup and feel the heat trickle down my throat and into my chest. I try to hold my composure while my tongue pulses and sweat builds up on my forehead. For nothing brings out my American more than pepper can. I glance around the table and watch everyone easily take bite after bite. They continue on with conversation.I slowly go for the drink, attempting to appear thirsty rather than ablaze. The fire extinguishing sip would not be enough. Neither would downing the whole glass. I filled up another quiety as the conversation stirred. On my way back to the table I noticed the fork in my bowl and saw everyone carrying the rice and soup on spoons. I had forgotten to use spoons! My mom glances over and smiles. Shaking her head.

I feel this country on my skin, American in West African households is not something to be proud of. In fact most of my friends with families from other countries adhere to the same response. They laugh at the forks, obsession with time, and capitalism. They teach their American born children that their first country is where the family is from. I grew up saying I was Liberian not American.  I took pride in the one lapa suite sitting in the back of my closet and in my beautiful mother’s accent and values. Yet I also grew up with a southern father.

In Rutledge Georgia off of exit 32 down a long winding gravel road sits Cha CHa’s house. I spent most of my summers and Christmases chasing my cousins around the large green field surrounding the house. We would go on adventures in the woods nearby and return caked in rich red clay and thick southern sweat. My grandmother would have the a plate of collards and fried chicken ready for us. Every once and awhile my grandfather would come in and give us a long lecture on common sense. I loved how his accent drew out each sound with purpose. He was country with a small straw hat and toothpick embedded in his gapped smile.  I payed attention to his stories and laughed at his satire. My cousins often tuned him out. “Zoey here knows..knows what I’m talkin about!” he would chuckle with those sagging hazel eyes.

“Right that came on the news yesterday!” I would excitedly respond.MY cousins would roll their eyes disapprovingly. When he and I finished discussing the current news and had ended our political spiral he’d leave the room. I would then be  confronted with lingering questions. “Why you talk so white?” One would ask. “Isn’t your mom white?” another would say. I would feel the weight of my tongue in those moments. I would hate it for betraying me. Just as I had traded time for tom and Atlanta for atlanta it was never enough. Here I had to prove my blackness and hide whatever constituted as white to not be other. Ironically often the conversations that brought out my “whiteness” concerned how to combat white systems. I rarely found the courage after those conversations to meet their rolled eyes with a proud response. I cringe at my fork at the table with southern spoons.

I am a spork. Not fork enough for southern ham hocks not spoon enough for LIberian peanut soup. MY tongue cannot hold pepper the way my grandfather’s does every morning. I can translate but not converse. My tongue trips over the words i once so confidently spoke because at the african table i am the american. The laughing stock. At the southern table i am the city girl, the philly girl, with the west african mom-“So that’s why she says ashe”-and white grandma- “no wonder she talks so proper”.

I'm told i'm inconsistent by some and they ask… “How do you do that.” Speak Philly to my friends and southern when I'm passionate and a hint of palm butter in my tone at home or amongst other africans...code switching to proper english once around my superiors. I grew up learning this quickly. Saw my mom do it in the blink of an eye without stuttering with the answer of a phone call conversing with those back home. Watched as PuertoRican poured from dad’s lips amongst family friends, said Sunday when in atlanta and spoke precociously around his whiter baby. Aaah maybe this is what it is to be me. Black. Well read...taught and practiced being well spoken. Liberian. In west philadelphia born and raised. And yes I’ve mastered the merengue too! Woops. Remind me again though...why that bothers you. I’ll admit at times it bother me too. I cringe and hear myself speak and wonder. If it's really me. sInce at the end of the day no matter which word I end with when I pray or with whichever company I share the meal with. I still stick out. Never fully mastered one I am the jack of all tongues.


Advanced Essay 1: The Experience Puzzle

Introduction

My goal in this essay is to understand what having experiences can do to shape a person and their passions. I am most proud of my analyzation to my scene, since I actually found this most difficult to create. An area for improvement is possibly more expansion and making more connections to themes.

The Essay

While looking through my bookshelf in my bedroom, I spotted a subtle shining object behind the generations of old, dusty books. It was a trophy, which read "UYRS (Urban Youth Racing School) 2010 Participation." And on top, there was a depiction of a racing driver driving a go-kart. The day when I first boarded the tired-looking yellow school bus with a broken head gasket was when I experienced first-hand what it would be like to think and drive like the racing drivers you see on the television. In the weeks leading up to this first day, we attended classes, where we learned about the most important aspects of racing, like finding the best driving line, ultimately leading to faster and more efficient driving.

Now, just four classes of sitting at a table, we would convert those lessons to reality. I went through the doorway to the briefing room, where we put on our neck braces and racing helmets. We were then given a run-down of the first lessons, where a "pace kart" would drive around the track so we could learn the track. We were led out to the cold warehouse-like building where the track was located, and though it was a relatively small space for the job, there were still tight chicanes, fast bends, and everything in between. Finally, we were sent out on our own. The first race came, and I started in the fifth position out of about seven or eight other drivers. The noisy lawn-mower engines echoed wildly on the walls of the warehouse when the green lights lit up. My kart's wheels struggled to get traction on the slippery, polished concrete floor, but I eventually adjusted to the driving characteristics. One by one, I overtook one driver, then the next. I held a steady second place as I started to pass the first place driver on the fast left. Then, all of the sudden, the back wheels lost all grip, the kart spun around, and I found myself facing the drivers coming up from behind. The back of my kart finally hit the tire wall with a thud. The yellow flag waved in the air, and one of the instructors rushed out to check on me. I sat in complete confusion. It all happened in a blink of an eye. It wasn't until after the race that I realized I was pushed by the driver behind me, fighting through to get to first place as well.

In my first actual experience in go-kart racing, I faced both the highs and the lows of motorsport. Sometimes you enjoy these first experiences, and other times you wonder how you even decided to take the risk. In my case, I enjoyed the go-karting experience. The thrill of high speed, wheel to wheel driving still resonates with me now. Even after having the crash, despite the fact that it disrupted my race, I knew that I could refine my driving in the future races. When you get to say, "I did this thing for the first time," you find something new about yourself. You may find that this experience falls right in line with your passions, or you may find a whole new passion altogether. Or, you may find that these first experiences do not fit your passions.

These unfitting puzzle pieces, however, can give you more chances to find the pieces that do fit. When you have these "unfitting" experiences or experiences that you may not have enjoyed or found interesting, you will keep searching for the experiences that fit. When solving a jigsaw puzzle, you keep looking through the pile of pieces, setting the ones aside that don't quite solve it, putting the ones in that connect seamlessly. Each experience is a new potential piece to solve your jigsaw puzzle. When you pick up a piece and it doesn't fit, you set it aside and look for the next piece. In the case of my go-kart racing experience, it was a piece that fit. This allowed me to find more pieces that connected to my passions for cars. A few of those pieces were ones that held my interest in engineering. This piece connected directly to my interest in cars, since in order to build a car, from the simplest of cars to the Formula One machines, you need engineering. When you take the opportunities to do something, you may find that in some way or another, that experience will open new doors to getting the chance to further your career.


Advanced Essay #1: From the Fiery Depths of Impatience

Introduction

To be honest, I had no idea what I was doing when I started this. After so much thinking, I decided I would compare the bond between patience and impatience to fire and marshmallows. I think I worked pretty well. This essay is one of the most descriptive one I wrote, and I'm proud of that. However, I feel weird that I almost hit 1000 words. For the future, I'm going to try to be as descriptive as possible and not go overboard.

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From the Fiery Depths of Impatience

As a kid in elementary school, dismissal time was always something to look forward. I could never wait to go home, make a snack, and play on my phone or sleep before doing my homework. Well, maybe not the homework, but everything else was enough to keep me anxiously waiting for the clock to strike 4. However, there was always one thing I had to go through before I could enjoy my afternoon.

My friends and I would always stand outside the door to the school as we waited for our rides to come pick us up. Until then, we’d always talk about simple things, Pokemon, games, how mean our teachers were, whatever what was on our minds. One by one my friends waved their goodbyes as they got into their parents’ cars and drove off. I’d always have to wait a little longer to get picked up. My dad was always either upstairs talking with teachers or on his way here. He was usually upstairs. He collected my two brothers and I and we walked out to Cubit (One of the cars we had was a Nissan Cube).

The car ride ride home was always something I truly dreaded. It was the time where my dad took the opportunity to ask me about my day. He always wanted to know everything about everything! “How was your day?” “Did you say hi to John?” “Did you see Mr. Sheehan today?” “Do you do your homework?” “Did you turn it in?” “When?” “Did you eat your lunch?” “What was it?” “Did you like it?” It drove me crazy. My impatience kicked in immediately.

I wanted to get these questions over with as soon as possible; the car ride home was valuable sleeping time. Quickly, I answered yes or no to every question my dad bombarded me with. “Yes. No. No. Yes. Yes. Yes.” The fire of impatience was burning inside me. Rage was building and I tried my best to hide it, only hinting at it through my tone. I wanted desperately to get the questions over with. When my dad was finally done, I was too annoyed to hide it. “Stop asking me questions,” I said, and turned over in my seat. My impatience always go the best of me.  

I see patience as a fluffy little marshmallow. Sweet and innocent, not trying to hurt anyone. However, right below it is a huge fire. A big, roaring flame. This flame gets stronger whenever my impatience begins to grow. Soon, it gets stronger and begins to singe and burn the cute little marshmallow on top. And when that marshmallow finally melts, I lose it, as I did on the drive home.

That fire is impatience.

On one hand, my impatience has a negative effect on me, but on the other hand, it can be slightly helpful. Ever since I was a kid, I always felt the need to complete things quickly. As one of my favorite video game characters put it, you always “gotta go fast.” So an upside to being impatient as that it helps you do things quicker, which in a way benefits me. It really makes you think about the final product. It’s kinda like a “I gotta hurry up and finish this so the final part looks nice” situation. Though “fast” and “neat” don’t always go hand in hand.

“Marshmallows!” my little brother cried, smiling with glee. My dad grabbed the bag of marshmallows from the kitchen pantry. My brothers and I look on with glee and excitement as he walked back to the stone fireplace where we sat. He removed the metal grid from in front of the fireplace. “Light the wood.” He handed his match to me. I slowly moved my trembling hand into the gap where the old but only slightly charred wood lay. I remember it taking many attempts for me to successfully scratch the wood.

I pulled back as a roaring orange flame rose from the wood, almost burning my hand. Heat and the smell of smoke filled the area. I shrieked a little at the sight, but my father reassured me, congratulating me for lighting the fire. He then motioned my brother to open up the bag of marshmallows. Being the young hungry kids we were, we immediately grabbed a few and quickly ate them up. “Stop! I told you not to eat them!” Dad snatched the bag away. “Y’all some hungry kids. You can wait until we cook the marshmallows.”

We ran and got got the wooden skewers from the back; the fire was slowly dying. I quickly grabbed a skewer and shoved two marshmallows onto it, then put it over the fire. “Let it sit above the fire and turn it. Wait until it’s brown,” my dad guided me. I waited five seconds. Then ten. Then fifteen. Then thirty. Nothing happened. I was getting very impatient, the fire inside me only getting stronger. My marshmallows fell victim to it, both literally and figuratively.

So I was stuck with two burnt marshmallows, looking in sadness as my brothers happily enjoyed their semi-cooked treats. I need to try again, I thought, this isn’t fair. I crawled over to the marshmallow bag only to find that it was completely empty. Looks like my brothers and I ate more than we thought. I had no other choice. I moved the charred marshmallows closer to my mouth and slowly took a bite. Aside from burning my mouth, the melted marshmallows tasted weird to me. This taste was completely new to me.

So even impatience has its upsides, as I found out that day. Like fear freezes you, impatience burns you. I guess I’ll be stuck with it forever, not that I really regret it. This emotion can be good; it helps me to act fast and work faster. Sometimes the worst misfortunes in our lives can lead to our rise in the world.



Advanced Essay #1: Kaleidoscopic Art

​Introduction: 
My name is Jacobo Pastor and I come from Madrid, Spain. When it comes to writing, I am a creative thinker who looks for form and substance in my works. I consider myself a writer who seeks for an innovative point of view in regards of content, but also as an arty person who looks for beauty. While writing this essay, my focus was to describe the importance of our past in our everyday lives. I am a writer who tends to go back to memories from my childhood, family moments, pictures or old books. I am proud of letting people know about my always my personal background with the stories I write. I often find things about me when I revive these memories and look at them from another perspective. Although I am very proud of my work, I feel like my introduction could be improved.

Jacobo Pastor

English 3 Water Stream

September 20th, 2017


Kaleidoscopic Art

There I was, standing in a large room as crowded as NYC Central Station, full with people and noise. The room was filled with whispers, the irritating sounds of cameras, and the works of prodigious minds that passed throughout history. Their works were not written in paper, or recorded in stone; but represented in simple white canvas. Those strokes, those layers of multiples colors were able to teach me more than any of my Art History classes. Van Gogh’s, Leonardo’s, and Picasso’s surrounded me. I traveled from hallway to hallway, appreciating every single kind of art. Whether it was cubism or impressionism, those master pieces had a story to tell and they spoke to my senses.

Although my eyes were wide open, the only thing calling my name was  The Girl with the Ball. That wasn’t just another painting for me. That Roy Lichtenstein's painting was a family symbol, a piece of history that has traveled with us from house to house, room to room, and country to country. After many years, staring at affordable copies, I couldn’t believe that I was at the MOMA museum, standing next to it. My heart and soul were filled. I closed my eyes like if I was tasting it, and I saw my past flashing right in front of me. The painting was a reminder of where I came from and what I am now.  

Artistically this painting doesn’t mean much to me as it does in an emotional way. Many people say that a picture means more than a thousand words, well, this painting reminds me of my childhood and it is difficult to summarize what it represents using plain words. Tilting my face and holding my chin as if I was some kind of art buyer or an artistic figure, I was staring at the painting and feeling transported to my old house in Madrid. I could smell the turkish carpet in the hallway, leading to the painting’s frame. I could hear my grandfather’s wall clock ringing time. I could see the door to my sister’s bright pink room. The thousand dots of the painting dragged me into my old me like if I was looking from a kaleidoscope.  

My mind dipped into the colors of the painting. From the yellow surfaces to one of the thousand... no... millions of oval shaped yellow surfaces. I closed my eyes trying to clear my mind but I couldn’t. Those dots were making me turn and spin around, in an infinite dance to the center of myself. The smell was more than just familiar. Looking closely around me it came to my senses that those yellow oval surfaces were the rice grains of a typical Spanish paella. I could see my parents cooking over the flames, that family classic dish. The yellow background of the painting was as intense as the paella’ saffron and the girl’ skin tone looked as a pale as chicken chunks mixed with the shell food represented by her red ball. I was blown away by the realization that the whole art piece made me look back, and rekindle that moment in my life next to my family. It is thrilling how present my past was.

“Jacobo, what’s wrong? You look like you are lost in another world,” my mom said.

“I’m fine, mom. I am just remembering the good old days,” I said with a funny tone.

My mom smiled at me, probably thinking that I was making fun of her “good old days,” as she over used that saying, but she rapidly realized that I wasn’t talking about her at all. In fact, I was making a connection with our family past, our memories, everything that makes us be the way we are. That evidence hit me like a supernova leaving me with a sentimental feeling, strucking and moving me. I tried to explain myself. I tried to let her know how that artwork took me miles and years away from that winter day in New York. She looked at me in the eye and said “I know, Jacobo. It is the same for me. We carry our homeland and family in these little memories that travel with us.” At that moment I realized the importance of our past’s presence in our lives. Many choose to forget their past, trying to live a new life from scratch. For me, that is impossible because in every action I take there is a simultaneous reaction of looking back and recognizing, not only my achievements, but the opportunities that lie ahead. In that particular day, I discovered that just as the works of an artist are represented in a canvas, my past was represented in that piece of art.


The Girl with the Ball


Image result for girl with ball roy lichtenstein

The Girl with Ball by Roy Lichtenstein was drawn in 1961, making it one of his most famous pieces. This painting follows his style of cartoon-like paintings, feeling like poster’s drawings. The piece is currently at the MoMA museum, in New York City.









Advanced Essay #1: The Benefits of Travel

Introduction

The greatest year of my life was when I was in third grade. That year, I traveled the world and I was homeschooled by my parents. That year, I had many truly legendary experiences that taught me a lot about the world and myself. In this essay, I am sharing two experiences from that year that have taught me a lot. One thing that I was exceptionally proud of with my paper was that I put a lot of detail into the descriptions of the scenes. I am also proud of how much thought and depth that I put into the analysis of what the experiences taught me about the impacts of travel on my life. In the future, I hope to go more into depth into the things I learn from much smaller moments in my life.

Advanced Essay

 

When I was in third grade, I spent the year traveling with my family. One seemingly unimportant event that has stuck with me occurred when I went with my family to a waterpark near Bangalore, India, called WonderLa. After going down several different waterslides, we decided to take a break from the excitement and head over to the wave pool. When we reached the pool, I noticed that there were actually two different pools. On the left was a wave pool for men that was huge, spanning over thirty feet from left to right. Inside the pool was a sea of men jumping around in shorts and t-shirts through waves several feet high. To the right of the men’s pool was a much smaller pool for women and children. That pool was maybe a third the size of the men’s pool, and the waves were only a foot high.The women were wading in brightly colored saris. My dad, sister, and I decided to swim in the men’s pool since it seemed like more fun. We waded, swam, and jumped around in the pool until a life guard appeared. He told my twelve year old sister that she had to go over to the women’s pool. She begrudgingly left the pool and stormed over to where my mom was sitting. Though I thought it was strange and unfair that she wasn’t allowed to swim in the big pool, I just continued wading around.

In hindsight, I realize that one of the most beneficial things about traveling is the opportunity to observe different cultural and societal norms. When you live in the United States, you tend to think that the American way of doing things is the correct way. However, when you travel, you get to see that many nations have very different customs. When I was young, I sometimes perceived the customs of the places I visited as unfair, inferior, and ridiculous, and in some cases, that was certainly true. However, the same thing can be said about a lot of social rules in America. In the years following that year of travel, I would sometimes view American culture and society through the lens of a foreigner. I realized that social rules are never completely logical. Though to my nine year old self, and to many other Americans, the gender segregated wave pools may seem unjust, unnecessary, and somewhat illogical, I later came to realize that the same thing can be said about many societal rules in America, particularly those regarding gender. In addition to allowing me to view American culture from a different perspective, travel has also increased my sense of connection with and interest in the larger world and the places I visited, even years later.  

One day, when I was nine years old, I hiked up an active volcano with my family in Guatemala. We got up incredibly early and drove for an hour or two until we arrived at the base. When we got out of the van, we were swarmed by a bunch of young boys trying to sell us walking sticks. We rejected their sales pitches one by one until we reached the path up the volcano. We then started our hike up.

The path up the volcano was incredibly steep. It was a dirt path with greenery on both sides. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought that I was just hiking in the forest. After hiking up for an hour or two we finally reached the highest point that we were allowed to go. As we exited the vegetated portion of the mountain, I was hit with a sudden wave of heat.

“The sun is so hot up here,” I complained.

“It’s not the sun, it’s the volcano,” my dad answered.

The area near the top was a barren wasteland of pumice. There were rocks of many different sizes piled up everywhere. I looked to my left and saw flowing lava.

“Oh my god, that is flowing lava!” I practically shouted. I found a gap between two rocks, and my sister and I roasted some marshmallows. After hanging out at the top for a while, we descended down the volcano.

A few months after I had left Guatemala, I heard my mom shouting. “Come upstairs, you have to see this!” I ran up the stairs and hopped on my mom’s bed. Vulcan Pacaya, the volcano, had just erupted. I stared at her laptop screen as red molten lava shot up from the crater of the volcano. Though the only person who had died was a foolish reporter who got too close, the damage was devastating. In that moment I realized that the new understandings and emotional connections with the places you visit last long after you leave. I thought about all of the boys that tried to sell us sticks, who lost their homes and everything they owned. To me, the volcano was an exotic attraction, but to them the volcano had been a force of destruction that they had been living next to for years. Had I not been to the volcano, I doubt I would have cared much about its eruption. In America, when we hear about devastating events that don’t affect us, we tend to say “That’s horrible” and then continue on with our lives. However when you actually visit places you start to pay attention to events that occur in those places. You pay more attention to the news about those places and actively seek out new information.  When you travel to places you get to learn about the culture and society of that place when you are there, but, it also increases your investment in the events of the other countries in the future.


Advanced Essay #1: One Too Many Steps Ahead

Introduction:

The focus of this essay is on the idea of letting your ego get the better of you. In this essay I use a memory of this happening to me personally, and how it affected the task I was doing. I am proud of how descriptive I was when writing about the scene in my essay, as well as the fact that I could add a little bit of humor into my essay when it wasn't really a funny memory at all. I definitely feel as though I should work on strengthening my reflection in the future so that the scene isn't the only thing attracting the spotlight in my paper.

Advanced Essay:

My footsteps echoed in the hallway as I made my way towards the Engineering room. It was 9 A.M, and although my body was in the SLA hallway, my mind was still sleeping in my bed. The hallway was dark and eery this early in the morning, probably since it was the weekend and none of the lights were on. I turned the corner and saw a streak of light peeking out from one of the rooms in the hallway. That meant Mr.Kamal was here already and that I wasn’t as early as I thought. I walked up to the doors of the engineering room and grasped the cold metal handle, ready to swing it open, when I looked inside. 
I looked around to see the barren landscape that was our Engineering room. I swung open the door and stepped in. I was about to go find the nearest place to sleep, my eyes were locked on a bare table that would be suitable for the short nap I was going to take when my ears picked up a couple of faint voices coming from the armory. Mr. Kamal suddenly walked out with a group of students who looked tired, but Mr. Kamal had a happy look on his face as usual. 
“How strong is his coffee?” I asked myself quietly. 
We all sat down and got to work on coming up with ideas for our robot since today was the first official meeting for build season. We got to pick what we wanted to work on and my group got to design the mechanism that would pull up the robot. We got a whiteboard and started to brainstorm. In almost an instant everyone thought of the same idea: a winch. We were all confident that this would take like a week max and that it would be the simplest, most reliable, solution, that would solve our problem. Little did we know we were wrong. 
We got so confident in our idea that when we had to solve a few math equations, we overlooked and didn’t calculate an important part that would make or break, literally, our idea. This is the point in time when our confidence was really hurting us. We were getting so ahead of ourselves that we were skipping the principles of what a good engineer should do, and that’s double check everything. We didn’t notice any of this at the time because we were all just excited and in living in the moment, but these mistakes would surely hurt us in the future. 
When it was time to test our idea and we prepared our miscalculated winch, we had to go get weights. Maciej and I, the two “beefcakes” of the engineering squad, obviously had to be the ones to do it. As we conveyed the monstrous weights towards the winch, our confidence started to peek out from inside us, our lips started to slowly curve into a smirk. We got to the winch and let the weights down with an echoing thud, and started to strut towards the rope. I grabbed the neon orange rope and started to maneuver it making numerous knots around each weight, securing them to the winch. When the weights were secured we backed up cautiously towards the battery, where Mr. Kamal was ready to activate it with a switch. 
“Ready when you are,” we said. 
Mr. Kamal flipped the switch and the machine started. “Crankkkkkkkkkkk, pop!” The winch broke off the surface and fell onto the floor with a loud “BANG!” Everyone stared at the winch for a solid minute with faces of disappointment. A single tear rolled down Maciej’s cheek. 
Surprisingly making a bad winch actually taught me something very important. It taught me a lot about the importance of not getting ahead of yourself. While designing the winch and later building it, we got very confident and “put the wagon in front of the horse” as some people might say. If we just thought before we acted and didn’t let our egos get the best of us we would have probably caught the mistakes we made early on and successfully made a design that worked. This lesson applies to many life scenarios. Let’s say you are supposed to be studying for a test, but goof off instead because you're cocky and think you know everything, and you end up flunking it. Either one of these scenarios, whether it has to do with engineering or with a test, teach the same virtue, and that virtue is to not get ahead of yourself.

Advanced Essay #1 : Growing Up?

Introduction :


This past summer really took a toll on my writing skills and one of the goals of this paper was to get back into the groove of writing. At the beginning of the year, Mr. Block asked us to write a journal entry on how we view ourselves as a writer, and I wrote that I felt like I was a really bland writer. To combat this, another one of my goals was to try my best to be creative throughout this essay. Some parts that I am proud of are my scenes and my larger idea. I put a lot of effort into my scenes and I think I did a really good job creating a larger idea. However, I do feel like need to work on keeping a consistent idea throughout my essay.


Growing Up?


My mom, brother and I were in the car, the sun beating down on our faces, only to be relieved by the clouds that drifted past. I took a quick glance to the left, then to my phone, then to the side of my mom’s head. We had just gotten in a huge argument and her face was as red as the chilis growing in our backyard.

“Hey Mom” I whispered

“I don’t want to hear it.” My mom had made her point clear.

In the midst of silence, our car started to slightly angle right. As our car rumbled down the street, everything seemed well. Well enough to not see what was coming. At the speed of a jolt of electricity, our car suddenly veered hard right towards the side of a truck.

I shouted “ WATCH OUT!”

In a split second, all I could do was brace for impact. I shut my eyes closed, hugging my bag so hard that my knuckles turned white. All I could hear was the horrible sound of metal crunching, the terrible screeching sound of the cars sliding against each other, and the crack of my window. Opening my eyes, I turned to the left, my mother struggling to get control of the wheel, then to my right and to my feet, the window like a balloon popping, a million pieces of glass covering my body like a blanket on a cold night.

Miraculously, my mom got ahold of the wheel and managed to get our car to the nearest curb. Escaping what would’ve been the tragedy of having our car stuck in the middle of the road, the emotions finally got to us. Like a choir joining in unison, we all broke down. The morning was already tense and the car crash did nothing to help.

In that moment, I figured my mom was just going to continue crying and hopefully everything would work itself out. Boy was that not the case. She was on the phone for what it seemed like hours, phone to ear, the hot summer sun dripping down all of our faces. Adulthood wasn’t waiting for her. My mom couldn’t just sit in the car and wait for life to figure itself out. She had to take control of the chaotic situation and take responsibility.

My mom has been a great role model in my understanding of responsibility. 16 is a weird age to be. You feel you’re old, but not that old. You’re two years into high school, and only have two years left. You feel like you can make smart decisions, but then you go off and do something really dumb.

I have messed up one too many times when dealing with responsibility. Every year my friends and I run our church summer day camp. Once campers, we became counselors, directors, financiers, and whatever else was needed to run a camp. On the second to last day, we were all feeling like cars with only a half of a gallon left in the tank.

I remember one moment distinctively. Amidst the loud booming bass coming from the speakers that rattled the floors, there was one little kid who was crying in the corner of the room. Body swallowed by the superman cape he was wearing, I hesitantly peeked through the cracks of his cape and tried my best to assess the situation.

“Hey Jaden, what’s wrong”

“Me and Marlene were playing tag and she pushed me.”

“Jaden I’m sure it was an accident.” I was trying my best to calm this kid down.

“No it wasn’t! She laughed afterwards and went to play with some other kids.”

After 5 minutes of he said she said banter, I decided that the best way to handle the situation was to let the kids handle it themselves. It didn’t seem like a big deal and I had more important matters to attend to.

What I thought was a small matter, quickly escalated. Jaden’s parents got involved and my friends and I tried to resolve the situation, but nothing was working. It was only until my father got involved that he was able to apologize for our mistakes and convince the parents to let the kid still come to the camp.

Growing up, I always thought I was ready to be on my own. I could handle the big things in life. All I had to do was hit the check marks : go to college, get a job, start a family, go through a midlife crisis, and retire. It seems as if that’s not the way life works. It's not linear, not exponential, but it's chaotic. A chaos you can't really prepare for, but a chaos that requires a great deal of responsibility, in both good times and bad.


Advanced Essay #1 Facing the Storm

  Introduction:

My goal was to explore experiences of my friendships and how they've shaped me and caused me to grow. I feel that my scenes are very descriptive and strong and I am most proud of the picture they create. However, I struggled with finding a unique takeaway in my reflection. I did come to some conclusions, but I could improve on expanding those ideas to make them more prominent takeaways.

Facing the Storm

Laughter from people on the now abandoned lifeguard chair echoed across the mostly empty beach, one of the only sounds besides the lapping ocean. The full moon streamed down and lit the cold sand as we walked, and we were occasionally spooked by a passing floodlight from a house, resembling the pattern of a lighthouse. Drowsily, we sat in the sand, leaning, laughing, flicking sand onto one another. They both knew about my fear of the dark, Avery mocking, him giving me empty haunting looks as they proposed horrific tales. Still we joked as I pressed closer to him, pushing the fears away.

Soon it was almost one in the morning and previous fireworks had faded away, deepening the darkness. Avery, knowing of my new fear of some werewolf type creature, laid in the sand, feigning injury and then transformation. He and I began to run for the dunes, towards home. Falling behind in the half solid ground without shoes I called to him, "Hey, wait for me, and then we can face her together."

I started at him, sprinting with my hand outstretched. His eyes glowed with the thrill of the chase, with real fear hidden in his smile. He paused, then continued to run as she began to charge up the hill. The sand, once packed cooly under my feet, sprayed up from where he ran, causing sharp granules to shoot against my skin. I quickened my pace as he waited breathlessly at the top, slipping my sandals on and my hand into his, laughing fearfully. Avery reached us, panting and snarling with the game. We all laughed and continued down the dune, with me between them, holding hands safely as if we were children crossing a street, instead of teenagers crossing paths with our fears in the night.

We faced nothing but some darkness, some "werewolves", and other shallow mental fears. But as I tightened my grip on their hands, pretending to be afraid of their new jokes, I thought to myself:
Will those we hold closest leave us in our times of need or face the storm with us?
They didn't let go.

In that moment I began reflecting on my life, on the ups and downs and inbetweens. I realize the people who have been there for me have remained the closest to me. As I’ve grown up, those people have shifted from my parents to my close friends. It has occurred to me that part of growing up is creating your own healthy relationships and finding strong support systems for yourself. To me, becoming stronger and smarter with handling my emotions has been learning who is there to help me, instead of isolating and trying to face the storm alone.

I can remember my friends’ shrill singing clear as day.

“On three, one, two, three!”

“Chiquitita, tell me what’s wrong!”, Rose started.

‘I have never seen such sorrow

In your eyes”, Louise responded.

They belted line after line, rehearsed, but sometimes muddled with encouraging laughter. My friends already knew what was wrong, but they sang for the effect. I could see excitement mixed with concern in their faces. They had been preparing this song all summer just to cheer me up in my times of sorrow. Slowly, I felt the strength of their support lifting me and my mood. They were there at my defense, their song creating a shield around me.

“How I hate to see you like this… Wait what’s next?”

More laughter proceeded as they stumbled over their lines, realizing they were all jumbled up. Their perfect performance lasted a good three verses and began to deteriorate, but so did my sadness. The grey of the sky and the cold and the messy rain that drizzled outside faded from my mind. I felt a finalized smile on my face, it had been slowly tilting up throughout the song. I relished in the moment of calm we had uncovered, and stayed in the warm, safe tangle of limbs and blankets. Though my sorrows were to be far from over, I knew that with the help of my friends I could be “dancin' once again, and the pain will end”.

A healthy relationship requires balance, which means I owe it to my friends to help them whenever they need it as well. A friend once came to me saying he felt like a part of him was missing. I rushed to his side immediately and stuck by him even as I learned his troubles were sparked by a bad haircut. I listened and understood that his hair was an extension of his expression, and he just needed love and support to accept the change. As he was there for me in the past, I had no problem being there for him. The love and care my friends have shown me taught me to love and care for others to their extreme extent and to go that extra mile to uplift them in times of need. Before them, my friendships were meager structures that couldn't withstand a fight or a crisis. Now all of my serious relationships are based on mutual support so we can help each other through problems.


Embracing Tomorrow

Introduction:

My goal for this essay is to tell the story of me coming to SLA and to teach all readers about the importance of giving new things a chance. The issue that I face throughout this short story is changing schools. At first I don’t give the new school a chance, because I enjoyed life at my old school, but once I was able to be honest with myself I began to enjoy my new school. I am proud of my honesty throughout the story. This was a tough time for me and I haven’t shared the full story of my high school adjustment with anyone and I think that this is a step towards that. In the future I would like to work on reflecting throughout the story. I may have done a satisfactory job in this story, but it was one of the hardest things for me to do throughout this story.

The sky darkened as two of my neighbors and I walked home from the sledding hill. They babbled on about our great day of sledding and snowball fights. But I wasn’t able to enjoy reflecting on this day with them. High school acceptances were to come out in five minutes. We walked around an apartment building that created a wind tunnel, with strong gusts stringing our faces, but I hardly felt it. My only thoughts focused on whether I’d spend four more years at Masterman or whether I would be forced to go elsewhere.  
Throughout my life, things had usually gone my way. But it turned out I was only a few minutes away from the painful experiences of disappointment and adjusting to something new and unwelcome. As we reached our street, my nerves grew worse. I believed I deserved to be accepted to Masterman High School, but one less-than-stellar standardized test score threatened to change that. Masterman was my home, the school where all of my friends whom I had grown to love the previous four years went. I didn’t want to leave them and go to another school, such as Central, SLA, or even a private school. I bid my neighbors goodbye as I climbed the front steps outside my house. As I had a million times, I walked in the door, but I felt as though my whole life was about to change. I pulled off my snow boots, snow pants, and jacket waiting to hear my future. 
I walked up the stairs. My dad stood at the landing above with a laptop in his hand, his face suddenly frozen. I asked nervously, “Did I get in?”
        There was a pause.
        “No.”
        That one “no” crushed me. I grabbed the computer, hoping it would all be a bad joke, but he wasn’t lying. I stared at the Masterman slot and then I scrolled down slightly and saw that I had been accepted to SLA. This did not cheer me up. I perceived that SLA was the weird kids school. I didn’t want to go there. I knew I wouldn’t be happy there. 
That fall I arrived at SLA with a grimace on my face. The first month at the school had confirmed what I had first feared. The kids were weird and annoying. All I could look forward to was the weekend when I could see my Masterman friends again. Looking back, I hadn’t allowed myself to enjoy the school. I had replaced every moment that I actually did enjoy at SLA with how much I missed my friends at Masterman. 
One day, in October, my feelings about SLA began to change. In English, a boy had hung his bag from the back of his chair, leaving it sagging open where he couldn’t see it. A few kids quietly tossed a few pencils and paper into his bag as a joke. The boy didn’t notice. At first, I found this rather dumb. A few other kids chipped in, adding books to his bag. Just as I was starting to enjoy myself, the teacher stepped in. But much to my surprise, instead of reprimanding them she took a potted plant off of her own desk and put it into this boy’s bag. He continued to be oblivious. More things were tossed in as the new contents of the boy’s bag commanded the attention of the entire room. Finally, with an overflowing bag and the snickers of classmates he turned around.
“WHAT?” he yelled as he turned around to see the contents of his bag. 
The entire classroom burst out laughing, me included. I realized how was nice it was to be in a relaxed setting like this where the class could make a brief joke without a teacher punishing those involved. This was also a new experience for me I liked. At Masterman, the kids were so  focused and the teachers so strict that this never could have happened. 
In my first month at SLA, there had been moments when I had enjoyed myself, but all I would allow myself to think of were the bad moments. Once I opened up my mind and gave the new school and the new people a chance, I started really enjoying myself. Had I stayed at Masterman, it is possible that I would have been happier. It is also possible that the overload of work and being stuck seeing the exact same kids for eight years would not have made me as happy a person. Either way, I am very happy that I got to meet all these new people and experience a whole new type of learning at SLA.

Advanced Essay #1 Changing Perspective

I remember how the wooden floor creaks as I put my foot down, the smell of hot Chinese takeout  welcomed into my stuffed-up nostrils. The light from the last bit of the sun going down streams in, beaming off the white, black, and gray countertop, bouncing right back out the other window, but leaving an orange glow to the room. One person crowds the food while the others sit in front of the blaring TV, football storming the whole house as three people cheer and hiss at the winning and losing of their favorite sports team. Rice, splattered sauce, covers the counter, illustrating the frantic attempt to get food during the 30 second commercial breaks. Collecting a plate and utensils, I start my hunt for some food. I first find the spring rolls.  There are three spring rolls in the container, but there are four of us eating. My first thought is to ask if someone has already taken one.  Obviously, I want a full roll for myself, but I didn’t want to cheat anyone out of their portion.  I stroll into the living room, where they are all perched with their food, and stand there waiting until the commercial to ask my spring roll question. A second of silence goes by, then Dad starts screaming at me!  It is hard to understand his pointless, angry, rambling.

I tried to brush off the incident with my father, but it was harder than I anticipated. I’m sure my father has flown off the handle before, but for some reason, this time really had an impact on me.  I think that’s because it actually changed my perception of him.  Prior to that incident, I thought my father was perfect.  I mean, obviously nobody is “perfect”, but I thought he was the laid-back, patient father I had always known.  After a few days, I got over it, but it's not the moment itself that mattered, it was the change in my perspective, the moment of realization. Now that moment is cemented in my memory. When you're a little kid, everything is perfect all of the time; you don't question the boundaries of your parents’ world . The problem is that is not what the real world looks like, and the older you get, the more you understand that the world is not that perfect. That realization of imperfection starts with our parents.  Those moments that push the boundary are the moments that change you, they are the moments that shape your view of the world.

This change in perspective is constantly shifting when you're younger, as it develops. It’s similar to how your physical view changes as you get older.  When you're a baby, you're small and you see everything at your eye level. When you learn how to walk you’re obviously higher off the ground, therefore you have a different view. This continues when you're a teenager. You're taller than you were when you were a toddler, again forcing you to see things differently.  It’s the same idea, but instead of visual changes, perceptual changes occur as you get older.  The cycle is always the same: the older you get, the more your perspective changes; the more your perspective changes, the more you see things differently. I guess this is the cycle of growing into adulthood.  

The change in your perspective isn’t always a huge deal, sometimes it is just about one person who you barely know. An example of this happened to me about half way through tenth grade.  I remember sitting in math class, tapping my foot to the teacher’s endless rambling about a project, the due dates, and a bunch of other stuff that I don’t care about. My ears pique as I hear a long list of people with their partners being listed. Finally, after what feels like a millennia, the teacher gets to me.  I hear my name, Chloe Hart, followed by my partner’s name. Immediately I feel a rush of excitement, not for the project itself, but to hear and talk to my partner.  He is super popular and very smart.  I’m on the shy side, so I don’t get the opportunity to talk to people in the “in-crowd” very often.  This is going to be a fantastic opportunity for me.  Maybe this person will take a liking to me and I will be welcomed into his group of friends.  At the very least, we’ll create a great project together since this person is a straight-A student. Well, It doesn’t take long for me to lose the excitement. It feels almost like a thunder cloud lurks over him as he talks. He is not a nice person.  His words feel like a slap in the face; I couldn't have been more wrong about him. Everyday, he disappears from class, or leaves a little early, to grab a smoke outside. This small, daily action completely captures my new perception of him.

Overall, as a person’s behavior around you changes, so does your perception of the person.  These perceptual changes can be for the positive or for the negative. When someone does something that you don't agree with, or you find offensive, your opinion of the person immediately declines.  But, is the person fundamentally different than he was prior to this behavior, or did it just change your perception of him?  It’s a tricky question.  It’s like looking at someone through another person’s prescription glasses.  All of a sudden, the person looks like someone new, possibly unrecognizable, but you know that he is the same person. That’s important to keep in mind as your perception of people shifts.



Advanced Essay #1 Coin Flip

​The purpose of writing Coin flip was to represent the two sides in adventure. One side is fun and the other not so much. Coin flip focuses on the feelings of adventure and presenting a alternative emotion that not everybody realizes is a part of adventure.


Coin Flip

I was waiting at the train station on a breezy fall day. I was ready to go to a new place that I’ve only been to 2 or 3 times. My first problem was buying a ticket, seems simple at first but for a young inexperienced lad like myself it was nerve racking.

“Hi can I get a ticket uhhhh please” I said nervously

“Sure what --------” Said the train conductor.

I'm sure everyones had that moment where someone says something and you don't hear what they said but you just ask again, well imagine that happening but 10x worse because there's a two inch thick piece of glass in front of you and the workers mic doesn’t work. I did however manage to get past that hurdle by saying what I thought other people were telling the worker. After the train incident I got on regional rail and began my trip to Center city. A lot of people may look at the trip as boring but the Philadelphia scenery never fails to interest me, all along the tracks there are graffiti signs that make you wonder

“Huh how did they do that?”

In addition to that, the rising sun can be seen pleasantly casting shadows through all sorts of nooks and crannys that you don't see in everyday life. My personal favorite scene I saw along the tracks was the sun perfectly aligning with the windows of an abandoned and dilapidated factory, thus creating a scene anyone could call art. But sadly all good things must  end as I made my way into the tunnels to arrive at my stop of Suburban station and made my way through the concrete to school.

When people think of adventure people think sadness, happiness and anxiousness. In the scene I go through the emotions of excitement and anxiousness. Excitement because of the scenery i'm seeing and anxiousness to meet new people on the first day of school. However  adventure can leave the emotions of anger and regret. Throughout the majority of my scene I talk about the beauty of the scenery, and that scenery I may never see again. Some would say that is a happy feeling, but the fact that the scene is forever lost in the past makes me angry. Throughout life imagery comes and goes, and people come and go. The memories you get to share with others is an adventure as well. When loved ones pass on most people feel sadness, but is there not also anger for not being able to enjoy time with them again?

I was in a new city, I would have had the sense of adventure, if it wasn't for the fact that it was 110 degrees. The heat was so smoldering that day I could see images of water every corner I turned. After spending the whole day in that heat me, my mother, my father, and my sister needed to do something to kill the time. We were tourists in this new Texas city, and because of that we were lost. First we went to a bookstore to avoid the scorching heat. The inside was like being dipped into the arctic seas after a nice hot lava bath. But the bookstore was only one stop for the family and I planned to accomplish my own agenda, luckily something on my list was right across the street.

“Hey Mom can we go across the street for a few minutes.” I calmly said.

Of course because of my convincing tone and nature she agreed. We quickly got into our black Nissan Altima that we rented in the next town over and sped across the street. My destination was a record store that we heard about on a tour we took earlier. While inside I examined all the neatly aligned sections of vinyl records to choose from, mostly sticking to the bargain section with oldies no one's ever heard of. Seeing nothing in that small corner of the store I moved along to the more prominent sections with well known artists, and presented to me under the name of my favorite artist was my favorite album To Pimp a Butterfly.

This scene is a lot different from my first one, in this one I take a more uplifting stance on the view of adventure. The last scene describes the anxiousness and the anxiety of adventure, and this scene describes the fun involved. Adventure is like taking a quarter and flipping it, you’ll either get anxiety or you’ll get fun. But no matter which one you get, there is still a lingering sense of regret. The feeling comes from never being able to have the same experience twice, sure you might be able to revisit the same place, but will the people be the same? As I lived through my life at the end of every adventure there was something that I felt was rubbing me the wrong way, and when I realized it was the emotions of regret, I forever wanted to go on any adventure I saw for the sole reason that one day I won't be able to anymore.






Advanced Essay #1: Rigor Mortis

Introduction
My goal for this essay was to write something that evoked emotion into other people. I wanted to be able to write a piece that would be relatable on an emotional level and recreate the emotion that I felt during the time of this piece. I would say that I did really well with really describing how I felt during these experiences and how I feel about the whole situation overall, I feel like I really put my feelings on paper and made it MY essay. I am not sure if I evoked emotion into other people while they read this but hopefully I did. The part I needed more work on was the analytical side of the essay. My theme focused mainly on the understanding of death and how a lot of people today don't even accept it as an actual thing until they see it for themselves, but the little bits of reflection that I placed all throughout the essay, I feel like weren't strong as far as being analytical. However, I am satisfied with the final product and I hope it evokes the strong emotions, that I felt, into other people.

Advanced Essay

Pew, pew, pew! The lasers blasted from my futuristic laser gun. I stood on the porch and in the distance, was my friend Chris. I aimed the transparent gun at him, ready to win. “I got you now!” The shots fired from the series of noises from my mouth. We loved to play pretend as soldiers from 2239, the thrill of battle filling our minds. This was an everyday thing for us, every day was a different story with different characters and a different plot.

Agh! You killed me!” Chris shouted from the sidewalk. He proceeded to hunch over and dramatically die from being blasted with a laser.

“Oh shut up, it’s not like you’re actually dead. It isn’t like we could actually die now. Actually, I’m gonna live ‘til I am 500 years old!” I said with pride.

“Uh, no you’re not. You’ll die before then.” Chris replied.

“What do you mean?” My head was spinning. What was he talking about? I never met anyone who actually died. I thought people dying only happens in the movies or video games. I had never been so confused in my life. Was he joking?

“Yeah, everyone dies. My mom told me that.”

“Nick! Come here!” My mom called me in, looking nervous. “Nick, I have to tell you something.” Sweat formed on her forehead. “Uncle george has passed away.”

“What?”

Patter, patter, patter. It was raining. The sky was bleak and grey, the air was muggy, and I was sweating in my little suit. I traveled up the stairs, step-by-step, each time, the grip on my hand tightening. I walked in with my mother, not really knowing what to expect. The carpet was a beautiful maroon red and there was a small glass chandelier in the middle of the family room. Family members and familiar faces were all around. I stayed quiet the entire time while my mother spoke very softly with the rest of them. Then, we entered the viewing room, and the atmosphere transformed in a split second. There was a heaviness in the room. Most of the family were gathered in the seats in front of the wooden box, however, there was someone-no, something else that wasn’t accounted for in the room. My mom’s grip tightened even more, my hands turning purple. We inched closer and closer to the wooden box, the heaviness becoming thicker by each step. Half of the lid was open. I peered inside, and saw something I would never forget. My first dead body. It was my uncle. Everything in my childish mind began to fall apart. My mother had mentioned that my uncle had passed away and gone to a place called heaven. I didn’t understand it, what does it mean? I was in denial. I thought death was in video games, and even then, you came back to life. The eternal sleep that the vessel of my uncle faced in his new home. He was a phantom, so pale it made me sick. Now, he wasn’t here, just a ghost in my memories. I reached and held his hand, it was ice cold. I stared in shock, my mouth slightly gaped. I wasn’t looking at my uncle anymore, just a box within a box. Warm streams of tears ran down my cold face. I shivered in devastation, fear. This couldn’t possibly ever happen to me…

Ding! The elevator doors slid open, the muffled scratching of metal against metal emulating from the small opening on the floors. My sister, my dad, and I stepped out into the hallway. There was tension in the air and I felt as if a plastic bag was forcibly wrapped around my head. In the hallway, there were stretchers pushed against the walls, the imprint of its victim clearly visible. Nurses and doctors frantically treading from door-to-door to help any patient desperately in need of patches and painkillers. We walked towards the end of the hall, where to the left of us was the front desk. “Dr. James to the I.C.U, Dr. James to the I.C.U.” said the nurse over the loudspeaker. The hallways reeked of hand sanitizer and a mixture of various cleaning supplies. As we inched closer to our destination, the sound of small wheels frantically rolling could be heard in the distance. A horde of nurses raced down the hall with a patient that had wounds deeper than the uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. Pretty soon, we were a couple steps away. I had made the mistake of turning my head to the left. An Asian woman laid in her stationary hospital bed, her blank eyes facing the ceiling. A man sat alongside her, hunched over, sobbing. I stared directly into a room of lost hope and a lost soul. In a split second, I turned away. Out of morbid curiosity, I looked into the room next to it, and I saw a black man with bruises all over and an elderly standing next to him, praying. I did not make the same mistake again. We were right at the door, the entrance to my aunt’s deathbed. A male nurse came out and advised us to wear scrubs before we entered. We all scrambled to put on the tight, light cyan blue jumpsuits and the white caps. I walked in, scanned the room and saw familiar faces, my two uncles, my cousin, and my two great aunts all with their heads bowed in gloom. And then, I saw my aunt, her eyes wide open and blank just like the lady from before. Her mouth gaped, frozen in shock. Her body was still living, but I could already see rigor mortis taking effect on her soul. This was true death. Not the pale blue body, not the gray pupils surrounded by a green hue, not the breath that fails to leave her mouth. No, death was the lack of a soul. Her soul had long departed her body and it was evident. I felt nothing holding her hand, speaking to her. I felt absolutely nothing from her, not her lively energy nor her warmth. I learned that day, Death doesn’t reap bodies, it reaps souls.


Advanced Essay #1: Upturns


Introduction: I personally enjoyed the making of this essay, I loved writing the descriptive scenes. I feel like i'm better with writing descriptive scenes and creative writing than any other type. I'm really proud of my scenes more than anything, but I think I could improve on my reflections. Overall i'm really happy and proud of this essay.


Dating your best friend must be something different, especially when you know them so well, you know their deepest darkest secrets and they know yours. You both know you like one another but you could never admit it until you drifted apart.  

There he was standing right infront of me, giving me that “love at first sight” look. Each of his arms were in each pocket of his beige joggers, He was wearing a black floral tank top and was looking down at me. He was at least 5’11, his blondish hair was tucked into his snapback.

“You look gorgeous” he says. I smile and begin walking along his side as he holds my hand.

We walked into a pool hall called Seventy Five and found a seat all the way at the back of the hall. I begin fiddling in my purse and take out my charger to charge my phone. He lays his arm around my shoulders and we begin talking about what we’ve been doing with our lives as the waiter comes by

“What would you like to have ?”  

We both ordered drinks and he gets up to pay for two rounds of pool.

“Je ne sais pas how to play pool,” I say, and began laughing

He smiles at me and says, “C’est pas grave, doesn’t matter I’ll teach you, you won’t lose.”

I was leaning against the pool table as he was fixing everything. I was wearing a green crop top with a high waisted mini skirt from H&M with buttons running down the middle. My hair was naturally curled, loose big curls that spiraled so perfectly and evenly.

I could see him from the side of my eye staring so hard at me, it was all so crazy at the same time how close we once were and how we’re finally admitting feelings to each other but it’s like we never left.

“Salsa ready?”

He aims the cue stick at the ball and positions my arms and hands as he’s standing behind me bending over at my height, I turn around and stare into his eyes as he stares into mine.

I never forgot that moment, I never forgot him, and I never forget how it all changed. It marks a spot when lose your best friend because they hurt you. This is someone you always trusted, this is someone you grew up with. It was shocking, Shock like the shock I felt when I was told I might have had cancer. Last year I broke my ribs, dehydrated, had an inflamed liver, and a mass all at the same time. I couldn’t walk, breathe, sleep, sit, turn, stand, laugh, and 12 hour pain killers didn’t work on me. But Thank god I didn’t have cancer and I am back and healthy.  I’ve explored many different kinds of shocks in my life that really changed me as person.


Four years ago I almost died… It made me a stronger and a braver person than I was before. We were at JFK International Airport and ready to go back to Morocco like every summer. I couldn’t wait to see my family and friends and spend time with them. I was about 12 years old at the time, holding a baby blue suitcase ready to have the summer of my life. Who knew what fright was awaiting us that day.

The weather was completely different when we got to New York it was really windy and it seemed as though a storm was heading our way. I was wearing a white Nike hat, high waisted shorts, and a plain, white, cropped shirt.  

“Ladies and gentleman I am sorry for the delay, but we are now taking off,” said the woman over the intercom, thank you for choosing Royal Air Maroc,” she continued. “Please enjoy the flight,” she finally said before ending the announcement.

After getting situated I began watching Frozen with my little sister,

They gave the orders to the pilot to take off after keeping us in a plane for 2 hours because of the turbulence  

“Let it go, let it go I can’t hold it back anymore,” Elsa started to sing.

My head bannged into the ceiling, the food in the back spilled, and all I could hear were people screaming and crying. The flight attendants started running towards their seats to put on their seat belts.

“S’il vous plaît, calmez vous. S’il vous plaît! Calme toi!” said the flight attendants.

I couldn’t think, everything was going by so fast and I couldn’t register what was going on but all I could do was wait and see how it ended. If I didn’t go through this all I feel like I wouldn’t be the person I am today.


Advanced Essay #1: Why I Love Competition

Introduction
My goal for this essay was to write a really captivating narrative, and I think I achieved that goal excellently. I'm really proud of the suspense my story creates, and I hope it successfully achieves that for the reader. I would like to improve on my reflection a little bit, as I pushed it to the wayside somewhat for the story. Either way, I hope you enjoy my story!
Advanced Essay
One of our team’s first quizbowl tournaments of my sophomore year happened in November of 2016. I was super excited for it, as I am for most tournaments. That day, we were on fire. Of the 8 other teams we played against, we won 6 games, losing only 2. Our last round was a bye, and I was sure we wouldn’t be able to win the tournament, until we were greeted by a player on one of the other top teams at the end of the round.
“You guys are SLA, right?” the familiar face asked.
“Yep.”
“You’re in the playoffs.”
I was ecstatic. However, we had a tough road ahead of us. We would have to beat out both of the other teams who had ended at 6-2, then beat the best team (who went 7-1) twice. The first round went by quickly. We shut out the other team, answering questions efficiently and beating them to the buzzer. Our next opponent was easily the best team at the tournament. Of our two losses earlier in the day, one was to them. The pressure was mounting. As they took their seats, we sat in anticipation of the incoming game. My heart was pounding.
I think back on this moment, and think a lot about the feelings. I felt nervous for the sake of our team; what if we lost? It would’ve been terrible to come so far only to lost in the final moments. This, in and of itself, reveals some aspects of competitiveness as a whole. We, as humans, feel some need to compete. Our competitive drive needs to be fulfilled in some sense or another. For me, I find quizbowl to be an excellent outlet of that competitiveness. It helps me funnel that need for competition in a healthy way. 
The game was insanely back-and-forth. One of the team’s members insisted on asking for score checks as the last few questions ticked down. With three questions left: “115-135”. They were up by 20, but we rallied back and grabbed a toss-up and a couple bonuses. Two questions remained: “145-135.” The other team took the penultimate toss-up and one bonus. “145-155.” We were down by 10 points going into the final question. The moderator begins to read, and my heart was pounding. I was beginning to piece together the answer about halfway through the question, when someone on the other team buzzed. “Shirtwaist Fire,” he said. Well, I thought to myself, it’s over. We had a good run. The moderator replied, “Neg 5.”
A neg in quizbowl is when you interrupt the moderator, and get the question wrong. This nets your team a loss of 5 points. This meant the game was now one tossup away from our grasp. I listened intently as the moderator finished the question -- didn’t I learn about this in eighth grade? In the class that I didn’t really like? I just couldn’t, for the life of me, think of the name! The question ends. I looked frantically at my three teammates. They looked back, giving me an “I don’t know” look. I pressed down on the buzzer.
“Player 4.”
After buzzing, a player gets 5 seconds before they’re cut off. I watched the fingers on the moderator’s hand go down, one by one.
Five…
My mind frantically rushed through the class, trying desperately to think of the name of the fire. 
Four…
I remembered the least useful details: sitting on the middle right side of the room with a fake wall to my right, the projector set up with a PBS documentary playing, imagery of fire burning on the screen.
Three…
Suddenly, I was hyper-aware of all of the things that were going on. My team’s chances at winning depend on my right answer. This question will send us to the final round, which we can succeed in. What was the name of the fire?!
Two…
I remember more and more imagery from the documentary: women in the streets protesting, a shirtwaist factory burning down… My heart is racing, pounding at a million miles per hour. 
One…
Just as the moderator was about to cut me off, I blurted out one word: 
“Triangle!”
The incident in question was the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire. We won. My heart raced, the adrenaline was flowing, and I just laughed. It was a nervous, adrenaline-high laugh, where I just felt the need to release the stress I was feeling in the moment. We moved onto the finals, played two flawless games, and took home the trophy.

Advanced Essay #1: Time Flies

Introduction:

This paper, to me, was intended to express my fear and love of time. I wanted to demonstrate the fragility of a moment, and how something so meaningless to one person can be the result of a lifetime for another. I think that I did a good job using description and painting a picture for my audience, but I think I could do better at tying my ideas together in the future. I wish I’d done a better job of getting my message out the way I see it in my head because I think it got a bit blurred. My future writing will reflect that, but overall, I am pretty happy with what I created.


Advanced Essay:

Small cafes and restaurants line the sidewalk. It is getting dark and we are trying to pick the perfect place to eat. A street light blares down on us and illuminates the concrete. At my feet, I see a man and woman together, in love, trailed by a sea of green. Smiles like no other envelope their faces, the corners of their lips creeping to their ears as they look out of the carriage to the brand new scenery. Above them, words stretch across the tree coated sky. One yellow followed by white, alternating like the sun peaking through clouds, reading “honeymoon in manhattan.” The couple’s gaze travels up and lands on the “moon,” awaiting their adventure. I reach down to get a better look, and realize that what I thought was a newspaper was really a stack of record covers. Beautiful colors and fonts and patterns lay abandoned on the street with their musical partners sitting neatly beside them. I let out a shriek of joy and stop my family.

“Look!” I say. “There’s tons of them!”

They follow to where I’m squatting and leaf through the antique records on the curb. We grab as many as we can hold, and carry them with us to dinner.

Back in Philadelphia, I pin up each record cover with care. They line the wall below my window and each one brought a little magic to my bedroom. Antiques are special in that way. They are from a different time, were used by different people, and bring their stories with them wherever they go. Who knows where these records started, but they ended up on the streets of New York, and now they’ve come to bring their stories to Philadelphia.

Time blows my mind whenever I think about it. There are different time zones, which means while I’m waking up, other people are fast asleep, others are eating lunch, and other people are going to bed. When I travelled this summer, I experienced this first hand. If I got up early enough in the morning, my friends might still be awake, and later in the day they would just be rising. All of this was happening at the exact same moment, but it was technically different times. How could it be two times at once? How does time stop? Why does time stop for me? Who else was wondering about this with me? I often think about the people who are doing the exact same thing I am doing but around the world, or people who have stood in the same places that I stand. Regardless of what currently covers the land, someone was there, someone came before me, and someone will come after without ever knowing I existed. These records made me think about their stories that I’d never know, and the one I will leave behind. Everything happens at the same time and people cross paths without ever realizing, and I want people to know where I’ve been. Not for my own fame, but because I helped someone. I want for someone’s life to have changed for the better because I was in it, regardless of if the world remembers my name. When I found those records, I couldn’t help but feel the connections they’d had with past owners. First kisses to the soft tunes of a musical soundtrack, angry nights spent listening to loud rock. The life events of another left behind and leaving their mark. When my time is up, I want my accomplishments to leave their mark so that I too can be remembered.


Advanced Essay #1: Don't Let Fear Speak For You

Introduction:
The goal of writing this essay is to convey a message that I strongly believe in, which is to not let the fears of others’ hold you back. Sometimes, even good things require a bit of sacrifice. Another part of my goal is to share this motto in a way that is not boring to the reader. I am proud of being able to actually capture my feelings into words. Although, an improvement for the future is to work on my transitions because allowing the two events to flow with one another was difficult for me. 

Advanced Essay:
Almost everything in life is made up of decisions. From the things you do, to the things you say. Making choices are already difficult enough doing yourself, let alone having other people disagree with you. "Be independent and do what you love" is what I try to keep in mind. 
If someone strongly doesn’t want you to do something, don’t listen to them. The problem is if that person is someone important because it’s not easy to simply put their words aside. Trying to do so is almost impossible. Take my word, I’ve tried it. Even if you don’t listen to them and continue doing what they said you shouldn’t do, their worried voices will still be echoing through your ears, weighing a ton on your shoulders. 
Please​ don’t stop me from doing the thing that I enjoy so dearly, my tiny inner voice says, trying to push the weight off my shoulders. The passions I want to explore are told to stop due to the fear and overprotectiveness sent from my family. 
Starting off freshmen year, I wanted to change my lifestyle. I wanted to be more active and soon after heard about Students Run Philly Style. My body filled with excitement seeing that they train students to run the ten mile Broad Street Run.
Thinking that my family would be just as excited as I was is where I went wrong. When I told my uncle, he let out a large laugh as if I was saying a hilarious joke. 
“You can't run ten miles, Mey. Come on, you could barely run half a mile,” he said immediately. 
“That’s because I need to train, but I can in the future, really!” I dragged out.
“Okay, whatever you say,” he replied sarcastically, just to get the conversation over with.
Aside from my confident answer, what he said was true. I was not fit, I could barely run a block without gasping for air. It's almost like seeing a fish out of water. When he said that, there was something that struck in my mind. I need to make a choice. One, I could easily take this to heart and feel bad about myself, ending up in not joining. Second, I could follow my heart and show him that people can change. 
That was the beginning of my running life, so yes, option two won. During our first practice, which was a mile, I was extremely nervous. As I felt myself getting tired, I was tempted to stop, remembering my uncle’s words that maybe running just isn’t for me. Instead, I decided that there’s no going back and continued to run. 
As weeks passed, the miles slowly progressed. In the span of three months, the Broad Street Run was coming up. Hearing the two words “ten miles” put ten pounds on my legs. Luckily, I have an amazing team and coaches who supported me throughout the way. I finished with my best friend, and we both sprinted seeing the large, gorgeous finish line. While running through, medals were given to us.
Wearing that medal proudly, I walked to my uncle’s house. Right when he laid his eyes upon my medal, a big smile spread through his face. He told me he was proud of me and that I did good. Suddenly, all the weight lifted off my shoulders as if it weren’t there to begin with. To be honest, that was not the reaction I was expecting. I don’t know what I was expecting, maybe another chuckle. I guess I haven’t heard the words “I’m proud of you” in a while.
After this, I realized not to let the expectations of others set a limit for myself. I was so thrilled and a couple months later I applied and got accepted to work in the Live Animal Center at the Academy of Natural Sciences. 
When I got accepted, I told my mom and she extremely happy for me because this is something that she knew I really wanted. Although, she then asked me what I will exactly be doing, which is the part I was most thrilled to talk about. Pulling up the Academy’s Instagram, I showed her some of the animals I will be working with, such as snakes, armadillos, hawks, and more. 
Instead of her reaction reflecting my own, she was terrified and wanted me to quit my job. With my bad luck, my doctor disapproved and wanted me to quit because I am allergic to all of the animals. Finding something you are passionate about is not easy, so I was not letting this go. I decided to just drink allergy pills, use eye drops and nasal spray everyday. Even with that, I still have a daily constant cough that I try to hide. 
As her daughter, my mom did not want to see me cough everyday, but luckily, I was able to persuade that I could live with it. I proved to her that these animals have made me more brave and showed me different branches of the work field that I never had the knowledge of. With a lot more persuading, I was able to keep the job, and I can say that I am content. 

Advanced Essay #1: Adjusting

Introduction: When I started drafting this my original theme had to do with compatibility. I realized that it wasn't just compatibility that I was writing about so then I changed it to adaptability and flexibility. I realized that those two themes are essentially change, so it turned into an essay on change for me. I felt like I explained my experiences clearly and that people will understand my scenes. However, I also want to get better on elaborating and I want to be able to give a better analysis of my theme, than what I did here.

My dog is wild. I never had a pet so unwilling to cooperate with anyone before. She’s still a puppy though, so it's fine…That is what I would say if she was still here. My dad had gave away my dog and I didn't know how to feel about it when she left. My dad did this with my last dog, my cat, my other cat, and my fish. I guess I should've been really used to it by then but, I wasn't. I guess it was just her time to go. Should I have been happy? I mean, I wouldn't have to take her on walks or clean up after her anymore. But, at the same time I was really gonna miss that innocent pitter-patter of paws running towards me when I came home. All I did was sit in my basement and stare at where she would've been. I would be staring at that empty spot wondering about all the loud barking she'd be making if she were here.


“This sucks,” I thought quietly to myself as I stared at her giant dog pen that she used to play in. I was sitting on the couch, holding a pillow instead of a dog. This specific pillow has been in my house for about three years now. In all honesty it’s jumped around the house quite a bit. It feels like a home I’ve never been in yet, but at the same time it feels like I’ve been there so many times. The back of the pillow is plain and boring, but the other side gives more to the story. There are flowers and vines that encase it, the plain brown side looks dull, but feels smooth much like silky sand on California beaches. It radiates Las Vegas and encompases something beautiful, while at the same time distracting you from something that feels uncomfortable.


I felt uncomfortable and out of place. I felt like a pillow, indecisive, confused, and my thoughts were really counterintuitive at the time. Why couldn't I get over it like everyone else?

“This really sucks.” I stared blankly at the red wall in my warm basement for a couple seconds and I decided to think about all the reasons why I don’t have a dog anymore. I had originally thought that this was because we weren’t well equipped with everything to take care of her, but, that wasn’t true. My family could afford everything, it’s just that we as a unit couldn’t give her the attention she needed. We weren’t compatible. I didn’t like the feeling of change, I still don’t like the feeling of change, even if change has happened in my life so many times before. Accepting something different with no compromise is a hard thing to do. But I did, I realized that keeping this dog would only be damaging to her. My family couldn’t handle the stress of having a dog and our flexibility played a big part in that.


Why is it that nobody can swim directly up in a very deep body of water without being crushed? Well, because of adaptability and water pressure. Nitrogen gas bubbles would expand and kill you, or at least leave you paralyzed. Just as swimming directly up in deep water is dangerous, so is not being flexible enough to handle change. By slowly swimming up and allowing your body to adjust, you have a better chance at surviving. On my first day of fifth grade I was put in a new school. This was the third time I had transferred schools and I knew shouldn't have gotten attached to my old friends because I had anticipated switching schools again. All my old friends were ripped out of my life and I was pushed into this whirlpool of stress and confusion. My first day consisted of me not really saying much. I was unknowingly seated next to my future best friends, but all of my conversations weren't exactly great.

“Hi, what's your name?”

“My names Tylier.”

“Oh, that's cool, my name is…”

“Oh cool.”

I could never hold good conversations, but these strangers gave me a chance. Soon, I had slowly adjusted to this new school, I had found better friends, and I had found myself doing much better in this new school. At first glance change into the unknown is scary. However, I found that embracing the unknown works best. For me, sudden changes have dictated my life, and I was happy that even with these unexpected changes I was able to adjust, move on, and stop lingering in the past.


Advanced Essay #1: Our Fears and Treasures

Introduction

“Our Fears and Treasures” was written for the purpose of showing what it felt like to overcome the anxiety and fear each and everyone has. I wrote the memories of my point of view to describe what loyalty felt like in a way that friendship can still bond. I tried to accomplish the idea that memories can still be descriptive after so many years. It is within ourselves that memories aren’t very detailed but the emotions are. Though, writing to an estimated limit was a challenge, detailed emotion are worth more than gold.


Our Fears and Treasures


Everyone acquires something and treasures it for a lifetime. In some cases, people are born with a treasure. That treasure is within ourselves and it is what makes us who we are. Blood. We are made out of water and colored with pigments from the red blood cells. When the time comes, we lose the treasures. We were born to die. In some cases, treasure can mean something totally different to others.

Everything seemed to suit me well. Nothing bothered me. Prioritizing my education over socializing, I was alone until there was a new student that came into middle school. His name was Omar. He approached me first. During recess, I always sat at the benches to keep myself from playing any sports or getting anywhere near a group of people, especially the teachers.

A couple of years later, Omar and I are still loyal friends. We have stood by each other’s sides, but happiness wasn’t the only emotion I felt. My grandfather on my mother’s side lived with me for the past several years. After he recovered from a serious cold, he decided to move with my uncle in August of 2015. A couple of weeks later, my mother whimpered, “Your grandpa passed away.”  I couldn’t say anything. I didn’t know what to say. I spent the rest of the day in silence.

The school year began a few weeks after my grandfather passed. Omar came over to me noticing that I have been ignoring him. He noticed my mood change and my isolation. I explained my situation and he felt sorry for me. As a friend, he changed subjects until he found a way for me to smile again.

“Oh by the way, happy late birthday!”

I didn’t cry, I stared at him and smiled instead.

“Thank you buddy,” I said softly.

October came fast. My class had to write an essay. I wrote my name and the date in the corner, “October 15, 2015” and underlined it in red. I looked out the window. The clouds grew grey and dark, fogging up the windows. Looking at my blank sheet of lined paper, I sighed and started my assignment. After the day had passed, my father drove to pick me up with a surprise.

My father addressed me. “Liang, my dad passed away.” Tears flowed beneath his specs.

The next day, I came to school early as usual and was Omar waiting for me. A tear dropped down my face slowly. Instead of walking to Omar sitting in the cafeteria, I ran to the restroom. Omar watched me and then followed.

“You can cry on me. I’m here for you,” his soft voice helped calm me down as he hugged me tightly. I thought deeply on how to repay him back for all the emotional support he has been giving me.  

A couple of years have passed again. The third year of high school began. On Saturday, I took a morning shower and came back to my room to get dressed. I checked my phone and at the same time, I received a text from Omar. It was a group text. There were four other unknown numbers that I have never seen before.

“Hey, I really need someone to talk to right now.”

“I’m here.” I first replied.

Suddenly in a split second, my phone started vibrating and Omar’s contact picture appeared. I quickly swiped to answer the call.

“Hey! What’s up buddy?” I said playfully.

“Ben! Help me!” Omar cried. I froze in time for a second. Hearing Omar cry for the first time shattered my heart.

“Bro, speak to me.” I demanded, trying to get every information out as possible.

“My aunt passed away.” Omar whimpered. He bursted into tears, hearing him shaking, body curled, creating a tight echo in his voice. “She was my grandmother. My grandma is literally going insane. I don’t know what to do!”

I sighed. The only way I could calm a friend I hadn’t seen in so long was to give a lecture. He was lost for words and his depression took over him.

“Look man, I’m sorry for your loss. I know it’s hard for you to take in the message that you have lost a loved one but my suggestion is for you to cry. There is no other way to resolve your situation at the moment. Forget manhood! Humans are designed to cry when they are stressed. Think of this, imagine how happy your aunt would be if she, in the heavens, knew that you were crying for her. You didn’t forget her, okay? There will be times that she will cross your mind again and you will cry. Go in a bathroom and cry if you feel embarrassed. How do you think I felt when I lost both of my grandfathers? No teacher was there to help me. It was you that helped me, so I’m here to help you back.”

“I understand” Omar said breathing heavily. “Thank you. Thank you, Ben.”

“Yeah, no problem. If you need me call me, I’m here.” I said confidently.

“I can’t thank you enough.” Omar was finally lightened up. He stopped shaking and his voice became light as a feather. I was able to still hear him crying softly as he sniffed while breathing.

“Okay, I have to go for now, but I’m always available to talk.”

Omar thanked me again and hung up over the phone. As for me, it was a treasure for me to help out a sincere friend. I was finally able to repay what he had done for me in the past to conquer my depression. It made me feel like I was able to unlock my safe and take some of my gold for Omar’s treasure chest. We both lost someone we loved. That was our treasure. It felt like a phoenix emerging from the flames as this long battle. We both burned our past for new ones.


Advanced Essay #1: What's Bad Is Good

The goal of my paper is to show that bad things that happen in life can become benefits or good thing in the future. In my paper, I have things that happened to me while I was little and as I grow up it becomes something that will help me and others. Parts I am proud of is how I added certain stereotypes to my race, and show the truth behind things or how a certain thing came to be. Area for improvement would probably be more reflection throughout the start to the end of the paper.

What's bad Is Good
I remember long ago those days when I would panic because it was a day until my report card conference. I wouldn't consider myself to be the brightest when I was younger. It was my third-grade year, I was heading to my school report conference and my blood was boiling with fear of what my parents would do to me. I had no idea what my grades were but I knew it wasn’t going to be good. I didn’t really find school important. When my parents and I saw my report card, and my heart stopped.
In disbelief, my mother gave me the death stare and stated in Chinese, “You’re not coming home with these grades!” 
I used to beg and cry to my parents for another chance. The same thing would repeat every report card cycle.
I wasn’t really sure how I fit into the stereotype of Asians being nerds. But I knew the Asian grading scale was pretty accurate for me at the time. A for average, B for bad, C for catastrophic, D for disowned, and F for forgotten forever. I was essentially a goofball who only really liked to go to school to play fight my friends and have fun. I hated everything else. I hated the class work, the homework, and especially the tests. I simply ignored the importance of school altogether, but I was still forced into learning. 
Each day school was still like torture to me. It was a day at recess, my friends and I were all running around play fighting. I was usually always the dominant one in those play fights. Some people even said that because I’m Chinese and I know Kung fu, but that isn’t true. We usually have recess with kids many grades higher than us. There was a day where the older kids didn't like the fact I was dominant in one of the play fights with a friend whose skin tone was dark. So they decided to bully me. They would shove me around and call me names like Ching Chong, which made my days at school even worse. At my old school, a lot of people struggle with bullies, especially during the time where bullies were a huge thing.
My only interaction with older kids was the bullies, so I questioned if all the older kids are like that. The only things I knew was that I wasn’t going to do when I get older is stand by and watch as my friends get pushed around by some bully. I never understood why my friend didn't tell them to stop, but I knew there were going to people who are not always going to like me. 
I was soon one of the older kids, my parents started to get more lenient, mainly with the discipline. I figure that was because at a certain age some parents expect you to mature and know what's right or wrong. School started to become way more serious for me because I realized that I’ll be stuck doing this for a while. I knew that I have to go through processes in order to be successful in life. I ended up really enjoying math my 7th and 8th-grade year, even to the point where I would get one hundred on all of my tests. 
This one day, a friend of my asked me, “Why are Asians so good at math?” I told him,“When I was younger, my mom would keep me up all night to make me remember my multiplication. Each time I get it wrong, I would get hit.” There was even a point where my mother tested me and if I get one problem wrong, she threatens of kicking me out the house. My friend had no words! In the end, it benefited me in many ways, such as making me enjoy math.
The bad things that happened to me in the past helped me in some type of way in the future. Around 7th grade, I grew up to be pretty big and tall mainly because my parents stuffed food in me a lot. No one would mess with me because of it. There was a bully who likes to pick on my friends all the time. And I had experience of being bullied, and because of that, I stood up for my friends resulting in getting the bully to back off.
Not everything will go your way in life. There are both good and bad things that will happen. I was always stuck in the moment of the bad things that have happened to me, but soon I realize that bad moments can turn into good moments. Now when I look at life, I wouldn’t consider things to be the end of the world for me. Instead, I look at it as something that can help or benefit me for something in the future. It’s like when you make a mistake, you learn from it and move on to make better things happen.

Advanced Essay #1: "It's Just A Phase, You'll Grow Out Of It"

Intro

“It’s Just A Phase, You’ll Grow Out Of It” - something that most of us have heard in our childhood. I’m sure I can speak for many people when I say that we have had numerous interests growing up. One of the main purposes of this piece is to provoke thoughts about the phases that we, as children have gone through. I want the reader to think back on their phases, and how they’ve influenced them as people. I’m proud of my analysis because I was able to take a random scene that I felt like writing, and turned it into a stronger idea. To improve for next time, I would try to add an expert’s opinion to strengthen my points.





It’s Just A Phase, You’ll Grow Out Of It


The development of a person’s interests starts at a really young age. In some cases, at or even before the extremely young age of only 3 months old. At that age, I spent my time either sleeping or watching my grandmother, the family’s iron chef in action. I would always be fascinated by the aromas of spice, the crackling of boiling water, and the unpleasant smell of burnt food.


Those sensations inspired me to want to try to make something to eat. As soon as I could reach the lowest cupboards, I decided to give cooking a shot. I tiptoed into her kitchen and gathered anything and everything I could find in the cupboards. Pots, check, pans, check, wooden spoon, check. I arranged them in a neat manner and started banging away. CRASH! CLINK! BANG! Stir, stir, stir! My young, silly brain thought that if I would do that for enough time, I would make some delicious food. Although I wasn’t really cooking anything, the satisfaction of marinating a beautiful steak still radiated within my brain.


“What’s for dinner tonight, Chef Majd?” my aunt asked me, returning from a protracted day of work.


“Something really delicious,” I replied in toddler gibberish.


“That sounds fantastic. I can’t wait to eat!”, she answered cheerfully.


Excitedly, she sprung over and picked some “food” up with a spoon, and sniffed around to catch some pleasant aroma in her nose.


“This needs a bit more salt, Majd.”


I filled my wooden stirring spoon with salt, in my attempt to satisfy her imaginary taste buds.


“Woah, woah, woah. That’s too much. Maybe dump half out, Chef.”


Annoyed, I opened the shaker and slammed half of the salt into it. I then dumped the remainder of the salt onto the table, which I thought was food. But then, I heard a loud bang - I had elbowed the salt container. My mind went from happiness to worry. I thought my grandmother was going to kill me. I made a mess of the kitchen floor that she loves so much!


My aunt smiled at me, and reassured me, “even Grandma still does that.” Hearing that eradicated all of the anxiety and worry of upsetting my grandmother and replaced it with hysterical laughter.


Eventually, the interest in cooking died out for me. Later on, I started finding tall buildings interesting. Then I moved on to sports, then sneakers, and most recently photography. I still ponder why some interests are prominent in your brain one day, but then the next day, they feel like they were never there. My theory is that with exposure to new things come new and more diverse interests. I reminisce about first discovering aviation. My father took me to the Philadelphia International Airport for the first time when I was about 4 years old.


All of a sudden, a large object appears on the horizon. It looks like a large, metallic bird. It has four circles arranged symmetrically, two under each wing. The face appears to not have any movement. While gliding towards us, it appears that this thing is huge. The engines purred and deafened my young ears. My father thrusts me on top of his shoulders, and fear intensifies.


“Oh my god, this plane is going to hit me!” I exclaim to my father.


My father chuckles as the large Boeing 747 jetliner passes above us. The expression on our faces resembled matching game pieces. We both were blown away (figuratively, that is) by the majesty of that airplane. Being the stereotypical toddler that I was, I barrage my father with questions about the airplane.


“How does that thing fly?


“Why is it so fast?”


“How many people can it hold?”


“Can we stay here for longer?”


It was at that moment that I knew that I was obsessed with airplanes. It’s been a phase that I’ve gone through for almost twelve years. I’m actually still going through this phase, and I don’t see an end to it anytime soon. It’s sure a challenging phase to go through, but that’s a good thing. The aviation universe is already astronomical and is still expanding. I don’t think I’ll ever come out of this phase. It has taken control of my life.

Eureka - that is how phases are born, and sometimes die. Phases are an important aspect of the childhood of the average person. They are born by exposure to really cool objects and die as a result of boredom. Sometimes a really interesting phase can take control of your life. I completed my first solo flight in an airplane at the age of sixteen, and am planning on continuing on with my passion for aviation. Therefore, I believe that going through phases is an important aspect of a childhood. As annoying as they could be for parents, they are essential to help build interests.


Advanced Essay #1: The Next Chapter

Introduction

In this essay I hoped the show that the past does not define who we are and even though we do remember where we had come from, it doesn't make up our present self. Everyone has a past which they define themselves with but that needs to be let go in order for people to find out who they can become. Something that I am really proud of is my metaphor used in the essay about my book of memories. Something that I hope to improve on is to make shorter, more concise scenes. I think that I need to work on writing less and saying more.


The Next Chapter

My mom walked over to me and sat down. She looked at me with that we need to talk face and asked, “Have you decided yet?”

“No, I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow’s the last day, you won’t have any more time than that.”

“I know,” I said while getting up and going to my room.

I can remember in only fifth grade, my mom had taken me out of Catholic school and put me into a charter school. I had to start my life over, make new friends, get to know new teachers. Eventually, I did it, but in the back of mind, I can still remember my Catholic school friends. I love these new friends of mine, and I hope to always remember them.  I don’t want for them to turn into memories of good times. I want to make more of those good times, but can I do that on my own?

I have the choice to stay with my friends but I’m being drawn to another high school. Science Leadership Academy didn’t even exist in mind until my friend told me about.  He seemed to be on top of everything with open houses and applications for schools but I didn’t care that much about it. I’ll still be able to talk to him, even if we're in different schools. We may not see each other as much but we’ll still remember each other. I said the same things to my friends in fifth grade and that didn’t happen. Everything I am is because of my friends and going to high school, people will see me but in myself, I can only see my friends.

It was hard but I did what I thought was best for myself. Looking back on my decision as a junior, I still question myself what it would have been like if I decided to do something else. This summer when I had visited my family all the way in Poland I thought the same thing.

I had got to get to know my cousins, I’d spent time with my grandparents and, I had even had the chance to experience a Polish wedding. It was such an incredible time for me to be able to experience a different life that I could have lived. I can still picture it in my head, the beautifully trimmed grass, the rows of raspberry bushes next to a field of strawberries, all right outside our house. At night we would light bonfires six feet high and cook polish sausages, but the thing I remember the most and will miss the most was the stars. Every night I would lay down in the peace and quiet, and look at every bright star in the sky. This was something I could never do at home. My parents grew up here yet they left it all behind to come to the US.

   Chapter after chapter was written in their book of memories but before it could be finished, they stopped writing it and began another. After years of work, editing, and perfecting it was all left behind. A life project changed in an instant.

The very first time I had visited my family in Poland, I was able to see a glimpse of the forgotten book. I had the chance to pick cherries for the first time and learned how to start a fire but my most vivid memory was that of my great-grandmother. She was what you would expect an old lady to be, shriveled up, fragile, with snowy white hair. I remember sitting there in the log house, and I couldn’t stop thinking about how she could live here for so long. No running water. No heating. No cooling. I sat there on this old wooden chair in front of her while she talked about how lucky she was to see her great-grandchildren.

After a while, we had to leave and we began to say our goodbyes but what she said to me I can still clearly remember to this day, “I’m so happy I had the chance to meet my great grandkids, even if it was only once.” When she said that last statement I froze in shock. I was at a loss for words.

I told her, “We’ll come back and visit you, we’ll see each other again.”

I couldn’t live up to my words.

It is only after our greatest losses that we can truly understand their worth. My great-grandmother will always be remembered, my friends will always be remembered, and my parents will always remember where they came from. The past does not decide who we will become, but it does help us remember what we have been through. I see now that we never stop writing our book of memories. Unless our first chapters are only the beginning, we will never be able to clearly write the next one.



Advanced Essay #1: satisfactory

My essay

​Introduction: this essay was written to show the acceptance of oneself and that the story is playing with the ideals of being told some and how you talk what was told to you. The story also plays with the Ideas of limits and if they could be reached or surpassed. Thought out the essay it is about how something that told of you affect you and how limits affect your ideals.


Advanced Essay:

As I walk through the hall to put my stuff away, I then went to talking to my friend from advisory. We were talking about what we were feeling, and I explained that I was upset about my easy but annoying math benchmark. As we continued to talk about the benchmark she said that she was wasn't upset about anything in life and that she was alway happy with herself. I was, of course, shocked, telling her that ¨Before SLA I went to a school where everyone was dyslexic and had ADHD and that we were told that we could not be satisfied with ourselves and that we should try to improve ourselves for the better at all time. I was taught not to be happy with myself when it come to certain aspect of myself. I know it seem crazy for a school to basically tell you that you're not good but it not, if it went your grew up being that.¨ With a shocked expression, She told me how terrible it was for my to feel that way. She said

¨Oh, are you like upset with them for doing that to you because that like tourable that they made you feel bad about yourself.¨

¨ Why should I be mad at them? If I was happy and satisfied with myself with some like reading level it won't push me to be better. If I didn't push myself to be better with my weakness I couldn't grow as a learner and an all around just better person in general.¨

¨  Just because the told you that you suck at reading and writing  doesn't mean you're happy with your work and  I hoped that you could be happy with your work one day. I went and looked at her with a tilt in my head to look at her eyes and said,

¨ I am usually happy with my final product work. Because  when I am upset with myself gives me the ability allows my to appreciate the work that I done. it allow me to push through my perceived limit to do something that I am proud in because it something that I want to get better at.  

As we get to are first class with the teacher telling use to right down in are journal about the weekend for ten minutes then to share. As we finish the table started to talk and when it was my turn I end and said ¨nothing really happen to me this weekend I just went and did homework and just practice some skill I have forgotten.¨ when I finished I saw the confusion on there face so I went and tried to expand. ¨I went and practice spelling and typing, I don't really like it but my parents made me type the dialogue that was said on the t.v.¨

¨It can't be that bad it's just like one of two episodes of a 30 minute show.¨

¨ It was 3 season of Grey's Anatomy,  do you know how many episodes is in this season. Over 60 episodes.¨

As we finished talking and finished the warm up we sat there doing the classwork. As we talked about the problem as a group as we looked at the equation x=2+3/2 -2/454 10+5 we looked at the word problem that went went with the equation. As we talk the problem made less and less sense with the problem asking about the perpendicular slope plus 22. As we work on solving the rigorous problem one of the group member said ¨I can't do it, the problem make no sense and that it was set up for us to fail.¨

¨this problem is solvable it just we need to work more on it¨

¨ No it's not my thing and that i just can´t¨

¨ well even tho math isn't your thing doesn't mean you can't be better at it and that you even tho you don like the math you still have to do it.¨

As she rolled her eyes and pulled out her phone we gave each other the look getting yourself ready to help her push through her barriers but also know that she was probably not ready to get help that she would need and the group future needs. I went and stood at her and said ¨I know you won't like practicing math, everyone in this room can relate by you are apart of this benchmark group and we need you to reach your potential and we're here to help you with it.¨

Advanced Essay #1: No Frustration Without Representation

Introduction:
In this paper, I tried my very best to create a relatable experience for the reader and speak to some thoughts they may have had at some point in their lives. Another goal I had in mind was to share an experience from SLA that exposes some of the hardships staff can make you go through. I believe I did both of these things very well. In terms of what I could be doing better, I think I could have stayed closer to the word limit but I couldn't without taking away some great parts of the story I was trying to tell.

Advanced Essay:

Sophomore year was already the hardest, most frustrating year of school I ever had to endure. Beginning the year a relative unknown to my stream and going through the year with strong acrimony for the unnecessary subject matter in every course had both been difficult enough. But imagine going through all that and then having to struggle to do something you’re actually passionate about. That creates an almost unimaginable anger. But I managed to put the animosity I felt for the courses and my ill will about not being a prominent figure in Iron Stream to the side because today was the day I’d meet with Mr. Gerwer… for the fourth time.

I had to begin to advance my agenda somehow. This was my moment to speak up and not let my idea go, nor let my anger go either. Letting go any frustration would be a complete disaster and had to be avoided at all costs. School was over and I walked out of class. Then, down the steps. Then, to stop on the second floor. Mr. Gerwer would always stand outside of Mr. Lehmann’s office to say goodbye to students. I struggled toward him. Something didn’t want me to say anything. But something more identifiable (seemingly my inner annoyance) needed me to talk to him.

“Hey, Mr. Gerwer,” I tried to say confidently.

“Hey, Kwan. What’s up?” he replied.

“I wanted to speak with you quickly about student government.”

The look on his face changed almost immediately. It went from one of genuine happiness from saying goodbye to his students, to one of clear annoyance.

“Actually, do you mind moving over here? I’ll be with you in a minute,” he deflected.

I agreed and moved more toward the window to the left of the main office. Gerwer seemingly wanted to continue his waving routine. Him deeming the future of democracy in our school less important than goodbyes struck a chord. As I waited, I thought and thought of what I was going to say. Finally, my thinking would come to a halt as fewer and fewer students began to walk by.

“Alright,” Gerwer sighed. “What’s up?”

“I wanted to ask you for another opportunity to speak about student government.”

“I actually think we’ve had plenty of opportunity to speak,” he replied.

“I’d have to disagree with you. I don’t believe we’ve ever had a thorough conversation.”

“Well, I do,” he said with a bit of laughter.

“All I’m asking is that you meet with my one more time. Let me share with you why this can work.”

“There’s no point,” he said, this time with more pronounced laughter. “You’ve had plenty of chances,” Gerwer continued.

“No I haven’t. I met with you once and I’ve met with the history department three times. Never have we had the opportunity to actually debate why this is necessary,” I asserted.

At this point, we both showed clear frustration.

“Look, it’s not gonna happen. We’ve talked about it. There’s no need to go any further.”

“I haven’t talked to anyone! Why can’t this work?”

“Staff doesn’t think it’s necessary. I don’t think it’s a good idea,” he huffed.

Everything came crashing down in my mind. I snapped; the one thing I didn’t want to do, nor did I think was going to happen.

“What members of staff? I’d be happy to speak to them too,” I retorted.

“That’s NOT happening.”

“Why not? Because it seems like you’re the only one who has a problem! I mean no disrespect but, it seems a bit selfish to me,” I said with my hands in the air.

There was no turning back now. I decided to call him out. I couldn’t determine whether or not I made a mistake and I didn’t care.

He laughed and said “Alright, I’m done.”

“You’re telling me to give up because of what YOU think. That’s selfish.” I suggested.

“Oh, I’m the selfish one?” he asked as he walked into the office.

I followed and screamed “You’re the selfish one. It’s selfish.”

A few more words were exchanged in clear view of the silent teachers in the room and I decided to storm off. Mr. Gerwer called me back and told me everything was uncalled for and that I crossed a line. He told me to go home.

Anger is interesting. It can come from just about anything or any emotion. Pain, heartbreak, passion-- all of these things can lead to anger under the right circumstances. But passion-- that’s what this speaks to most. To be passionate is to be committed. Commitment to a cause can get anyone to do just about anything. Passion caused my anger to just build and build until I lashed out on whatever was in the way of my goal. My goal was to get a student government at SLA. Mr. Gerwer was now in the way. I had gone into the conversation thinking that letting go all the frustration from the school year, from seating, and from my many efforts to get student government would cause me to lose everything. I ended up doing it anyway and hating myself for it. It was only when I realized that letting go brought forth the truth from me and the person in the way of my goal, that I began to heal and work harder than ever before.


Advanced Essay #1: Movement

Introduction: My goal for this essay was to explain how I overcame a change in my life by connecting several memories and relating them to the present. I am proud of my descriptive memory scenes. I feel as if I was able to convey the important details without going on forever. I need to improve on explaining ideas within my reflection concisely. I tend to get caught up on how to express exactly what I am trying to say and it doesn’t work out.


We walked through the lush green garden to the small wooden back house, situated away from the street, behind the larger blue house in which my best friend lives. I walked beside her and another best friend, laughing and joking. We stepped inside. There were only two rooms, one with a bed in the corner and bookshelves with hand sewn dolls on them, and a little bathroom.

My friend walked over to the bed and plugged her phone into a speaker sitting there, and began to play music as we talked. She played some songs I didn’t know as the two of them sang to the music. I stood and laughed along as they made screeching sounds and jerked around as poor imitations of melody and dancing. As one song came to a close, she reached over and turned out the lights. The afternoon sun streamed through into the semi darkness, creating contrasting patches of bright spots on the floor as we held our own carefree party within the miniature house. The opening notes to the next song played, bright bouncing chords that were familiar.

“Ooooh I love this song”, my one friend exclaimed.

“I know, it’s such a throwback!” the other yelled over the start of the pounding beat. We continued to flounce around the room as the song went on into the catchy chorus, “no matter what you say or what you do, when I'm alone I'd rather be with you…” The way we felt was reflected in the way we moved; careless, free, nothing held back. We were comfortable in this oddly lit room, with each other, and the music. It was peaceful and chaotic, a physical catastrophe of swinging arms, a mental meditation free of worries. I was content sharing the happiness with my closest friends.

This juxtaposition of peace and chaos is something that I have experienced numerous times in my daily, social or school life. I used to be a very active person, as activity would calm me down. When I was in a chaotic situation, I would feel very relaxed. Another example of this is in the calm that I have felt while practicing or performing circus arts. I remember the thoughts that went through my mind while wrapping myself in fabric before spinning through the air.

A particularly hard trick I once learned was the triple star drop, during summer circus camp. I was so tired. My muscles had been aching for weeks and I could practically feel the pain I would endure in the future. I had lost track of my oxygen intake, didn’t know if I was breathing too fast or not at all. My body had been pushed past its limit, every muscle stretched loose and flexed taut, contorted in impossible movements. My skin was covered in stinging rashes and burns, the results of silken fabric that clung too tightly as it slid against my legs. Angry red scrapes lined my armpits and ankles from the rough rope. My hipbones were purple with bruises from the unforgiving metal of the trapeze bar.

Maybe I was so calm because my brain was flushed with blood. Maybe I had no space in my mind for worry because it was filled with the list of every move to make, every transition into the next position to be executed flawlessly. I had no time to think about what would happen if I fell because I was reviewing my checklist, going down the lines one by one, making sure everything was in place. But I did it automatically anyway; the right side invert, right leg hook, left arm reaches down, loops around the left leg, lift up and out, scoop fabric up and invert again, now do it all again, and again, right leg, left arm, left leg, now wrap around, once, twice, okay. I had done it. My mind was clear as I readied myself for the drop. My body was upside down 30 feet in the air and I’d never felt safer. This calmness is what led me to become so passionate about circus arts. It was an escape, an opportunity to clear my mind. Circus was being in the moment.

A year ago when these activities were taken away from me, everything was reversed. For a time I spent my days sedentary. I was not allowed to walk or even wheel my own wheelchair. My unexpended energy bottled up inside my head since I could not let it out through movement. It rattled around in there, sending my thoughts everywhere in disarray.

Now, I sit at the front of the fitness room and watch thirty kids jump and stretch and sweat. They come into the room solemn from other classes, systematically filing in, a sense of refinement around the way they move. Throughout the next hour, they begin to smile more, laughing as they complain of sore muscles and how the class is “killing” them, and it seems that as they move they let off steam. This is not to say that I am sad now. This is to say that upon reflecting over these memories of movement, I have realized how I have adapted over the past year. I have learned that discontent and restrained resentment need to be released somehow. I have developed new ways to let my energy out, most commonly through writing, drawing, reading, or working. Nostalgically analyzing my past has shown me how different it is from the present, but not that it is better either way, simply different. Change has come, and phases have gone. Maybe I will soon be able to return to circus as I have to dancing with my friends and simply walking. If I don’t, I can still remember the serenity of hanging upside down preparing for my favorite trick.