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For as long as I can remember I’ve struggled with my cultural identity. Both of my parents are Ethiopian, which ultimately makes me an Ethiopian. However, I live my life as an African American. Whether it be me not understanding a word of Amharic. Rarely attending Ethiopian gatherings. Or even my transparency about being Ethiopian. For some reason, I’ve always tried to hide who I am, up until now.

All of my Ethiopian friends can speak Amharic, except for me. The main difference between us is that I grew up in a single parent household. Which led to my mother having to constantly work in order to provide for my siblings, and not around enough to teach us Amharic. The language barrier has always held me back from getting more involved with my culture. I always felt discouraged because most of the time I had no idea what was being said, and I really wanted to know what was going on. Ethiopians always speak to me in a language I know nothing about, and that just makes me feel uncomfortable. At times, I even feel like an outsider even though it’s who I am. In addition to this, my non-fluency in Amharic has always held me back from visiting Ethiopia. I’ve always been a bit ashamed of myself when I’d see a family member, and they’d speak to me in Amharic. I could never respond to them because I had no idea what they were saying. This makes things awkward, and I’d have to put on a fake smile to try to ease the discomfort. In an effort to combat this, I always promised myself that I’d learn to speak Amharic one day.

On a normal year, I might go to two or maybe three Ethiopian gatherings. While the rest of the community goes to 12 events minimum. The get-togethers have always felt boring and lifeless to me. While everyone else is dancing and having a good time, I’m just in the back on my phone because no one is speaking English, thus I’m oblivious to almost every aspect of the party. I have no idea what the music is about or what’s being said. I feel isolated there. My head is in a different place. I’m not connected to anyone or anything around me. But at the same time, it feels like I’m running from my true self. Whether I’d like to admit it or not, I’m Ethiopian. My race is Black/African American, my nationality is American, but my ethnicity is Ethiopian. If I’m Ethiopian, then why should I not surround myself with other Ethiopians? On one hand, if I step outside of my comfort zone by visiting the country or learning the language I’ll be uncomfortable. But on the other hand, if I don’t immerse myself in the Ethiopian culture. I’m not being true to myself.

Lastly, I’m not very open about my ethnicity. All my friends have an Ethiopian flag emoji in their Instagram biographies, but not me. It seems like every Ethiopian besides me broadcasts their heritage to the world. I experienced an awakening recently. This Summer, I spent a lot of time with my cousin in Buffalo, and I spent a lot of time with her Ethiopian friends. When I went to an Ethiopian graduation party, I didn’t feel so left out. I knew who to talk to and everyone seemed so welcoming. I was no longer the outsider. I had deep conversations about my future with complete strangers. It didn’t feel forced. When I got back to Philly I began to look at things more clearly. And embrace who I am. I was intrigued to say the least by the idea of being an Ethiopian. My transparency is definitely something that will begin to change these next couple years. I want to hang an Ethiopian flag in my room, I want an Ethiopian flag in my Instagram biography, and I want to surround myself with more Ethiopians.

My cultural identity is always something that I’ve struggled with and will continue to be a struggle, but at least now I know who I am. I might not be able to speak Amharic yet. I know that I have trouble socializing with Ethiopians. But, now that I have clarity on who I am, I will work on those things and better myself as an Ethiopian.

There aren’t a lot of things that were passed down in our house, no engagement rings from Grandma, no fine china in glass cabinets or enchanting silver candlesticks. The few things we did have, a dining room table set or some clay Christmas figures, had to be sold to people who had the space in their house or had to be thrown away cause they broke into dozens of pieces. Instead, we have a single wooden chair that creaks when you sit on it and 23 sets of decorative salt and pepper shakers, none of which we actually use.

Before it came to live in my great-great grandmother's house, this chair was probably used so school children could practice sitting with their back straight because of how stupidly uncomfortable it is. If you slouch even a little bit the chair digs into your back, forcing your body back into awareness no matter how much you want to rest. When my great-great grandmother died, she had six of these chairs and one dining room table to go with it. She also, coincidentally, had 6 children. So instead of giving them her jewelry or her books or even her house, she gave each child a single chair. Who got the table, no one knows. My great grandmother hid it under piles of boxes in the basement, my grandmother put it in a corner and used it as a decorative piece, and now my mom uses it a in her office because she doesn’t know where else to put it.

Downstairs in our living room, we own is 23 sets of decorative salt and pepper shakers. It's 23 more than we need, seeing as we use an entirely separate pair of bland looking salt and pepper shakers from Target in the kitchen. They’re not decorative in the sense that you can’t use them, they just include lots of colors and are prettier than the shakers from Target. I didn’t even know they existed until she decided to put shelves up in our living room. I asked her what she was going to put on them, and she said her moms salt and pepper shakers. When I asked her where she had put them before, she just told me they were in a box for the past dozen or so moves, and left it at that. I never asked why she hand’t put them on display before, and she didn’t tell me.

We don’t really talk to my moms side of the family. Ever since she moved to the city and had me, there’s always been some kind of disconnect between the two of us and the rest of them that gets us uninvited from small reunions or get togethers. I think that’s why the few family heirlooms we had always were stuffed into attics or into dusty boxes, because she’s always wanted to keep her family hidden away. I think we’re both more at peace now that we have our few heirlooms out in the open of our house, now that we’re recognizing the family who has come before us.

Her eyes squint, subtly at me as if I were a Rubik's cube that she couldn’t figure out. She opens her mouth to speak but returns back to thinking. Her face was familiar, almost identical to the other strangers who’ve wondered the same thing before. I could hear her question before she even asks it. I dread it but I ease back and wait.

“So,” here it comes, “what are you?” my hairdresser asks.

I say almost automatically, “I’m Wasian. Half white, half Asian”. She opens her eyes in surprise and takes a closer look at my face.

“Wow, I thought you were Puerto Rican,” I want to roll my eyes to the back of my head. I have this mental file in my mind full of the different ethnicities that I’m mistaken for: Latina, “white mixed with something else”, Italian, and of course, Puerto Rican. Very rarely will people actually assume that I’m part Asian.

“Yeah, I’m half Korean on my mom’s side.” You’d think I’d be used to this question but after fifteen years it still stings to hear people mistake me for something else.

She pulls up a picture of her quarter Korean daughter and replies, “This is my daughter, she’s twenty-five percent Korean.” I examine her closely and her very prominent Asian features. “She looks more Asian than you,” that hurt. I look up quietly and force a smile.

When I was a baby, people would ask my mom, “Are you sure that’s your baby?” Sure, an Asian woman carrying around a blonde baby sounds pretty odd and I guess it was. Usually, people would just assume that she was my babysitter. I think about what she tells me and can’t help but feel as if she was being discounted as my mother.

As I grew older, I began to almost entirely ignore the rather obscure half of me. The fact that people couldn’t actually recognize my Asian made it hard to celebrate my ethnicity; I was surrounded by people who enjoyed representing their cultures but I felt differently about my own. I began to resent this side of me that has roused confusion since the beginning of my life. Since I didn’t look the part, why should I play it?

She brings out a curling iron from one of the drawers hidden in the counter filled with clips and combs varying in different sizes, plugs it in and waits for it to heat up. She sets her eyes back to me and asks, “Do you have any siblings?” I open my phone and go to my sister’s Instagram to show her a picture of my brother and sister posing together on prom night.

“This is Quinn,” I point to my sister. “And this is Emmet,”. I know what she’s thinking; they look more Asian. Anyone with a set of working eyes could see it.

“Oh,” she squints her eyes to get a clearer look at them, “I can see that they are Asian a little more, but none of you guys look fifty percent.” It’s true; although my siblings did have darker hair and more Asian features than me, none of us really looked like the traditional Wasian. And although it wasn’t her fault, the physical vagueness of my Korean side upset me. I mean, even quarter asians usually look more Asian than me.

It’s human nature to match a face with an assumption. Since he wears glasses he must be smart or she must be popular because she’s pretty. For me, people often believe that I identify with my white side since my face doesn’t have many Asian characteristics.

As she continues to curl my hair, thousands of thoughts roll through my mind. Some were thoughts of annoyance and others of grief but there was one that stood out from the others. It was different from the others that I’ve had in a situation like this. I look at myself in the wide set mirror ahead of me and think to myself. I can’t change and it won’t help thinking about someone else that I’ll never be.

I managed to release all my tension that I’ve held throughout the conversation. People have explained this to me over the years but I never really made anything of it. “You’re yourself and no one else, just accept it,” I’d hear their advice but never really listen. But for some reason this one visit at the hair salon made me realize that maybe I should’ve.

Once she finishes curling my hair, I get up from the chair and thank her. Although this encounter wasn’t very different from the others, I left the salon not feeling, but knowing that my ethnicity doesn’t define who I am.

“Yeah can’t talk with a gun in your mouth, huh?” I sang sternly.

“WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?!”

“It’s just a song,” I said to my mom.

She frowned, “Sing something more positive,”

“But it’s just a song!”

“Stop chanting that music, it’s brainwashing you.”

“Okay, I guess.” I chuckled.

Whenever I listen to and share my music, I am constantly criticized for what I like or who I listen to. I can be listening to one of the greats such as Biggie or Tupac and as long as it abides by my mother's rules, she’s fine. But as soon as I say something that I like, I get criticized for being myself. It doesn’t matter what genre it is, it can be pop, hip-hop, jazz, RNB, whatever it is, as long as I’m listening to it or even saying the words, I am “drawling” or “need to calm down”. It makes me feel out of place. Like I am some kind of weirdo that is obsessed with music.. But it’s not like that though. Well at least not in my eyes. Just because I like music, people think that I am now out of the place of a “Human being”: it means that I am special in my own way. Is there anything wrong with that? NO! Yes I sing lyrics but I don’t live that lifestyle and that's where my moms problem starts because she feels like if I sing the song then I will live it. I know funny right?

I have a deep connection with music. Ever since I was younger, like an infant, my dad would play his old dj tracks in his headphones and put them on my head. I even have a picture of that. I’ve loved music ever since. This may sound far fetched but my Dad is literally like the only one who understands me when I talk about my musical side of me. I have friends that I can talk with about different stuff related to music, but when I talk to my dad about music, we can relate to much. So many  different songs or albums from different time eras from the 70’s to now including tracks off of movies, tv shows or just tracks in general because we just love it that much. I love how strong of a musical connection me and my Dad have.

Don’t get me wrong, I still love my mom but the connection me and my father have on a musical level is crazy. We like the same genres and we are open to most musical content. I can talk to him for hours about music but when it comes to my mom, she’s more oldschool and likes the singers and is not really intrigued by rap like I am. We have a connection so strong sometimes it feels like rap could be a person, I have a love for rap. It's a part of me. And no, I’m not just ignorant to like rap, I like multiple genres of music but rap is my favorite genre of music.

Some of the artists that I like the most are Kur, Trippie Redd, XXXtentacion, Ski Mask the Slump God, Comethazine, The Notorious BIG, Tupac Shakur, NWA, Mos Def, Mase and Junior Mafia. I like these artists because they are popular but because they make music that speaks to me

Many people think that rap is all bad and thought there may be some negative things but, these artists are always pushing positive vibes regardless to their lyrics. They always show creativity in their music. They can talk about more than how many guns they have or how many women they fornicate with or how many racks or bands they have. I mean yes, they have all mentioned it but it’s not always about that with these specific artist. They can paint a picture with lyrics alone and that's what makes them so amazing in my eyes. Regardless of the music they make they were still good people and most of them know how to differentiate music from life. That's what makes these artist so good and why I fell in love with their music.    

God bless the smooth, creamy substance that binds itself to the sweet and sticky darkness alongside the inner walls of two pieces of bread.

A knife is drawn. The skilled wielder swiftly dips it into the tall jar of jelly with precise accuracy to grab the perfect amount with one swoop. The satisfying slap noise that echos in the small kitchen by the jelly hitting the bread fuels the wielders energy to slide it over the bread in a perfectly even spread. The adrenalin in his veins only increases when he goes to rinse the small amount of excess jelly on the blade, preparing himself for the second round of this ancient process. Paper towels are the key to making sure the utensil is truly prepared for the next step. One square cut towel is all you need to cleanse the blade of wetness. Once the knife is dried of all liquids another jar appears. Although this one is no simple jar, for it is a container of peanut butter! Rich, silky peanut butter that sticks to the blade with one twirl in there. This part of the procedure requires the most experience. To be able to seal the deal with the perfect ratio of peanut butter to jelly is respected across all lands.

At last. The final step in the short but enthralling journey is the best part. Slapping the two prepared pieces of bread together. It's almost as if there is an invisible audience applauding the maker of the sandwich. A satisfying thing indeed.

Who doesn’t like to travel? Being in the YPD, you get to travel to a lot of different cities, states, and even countries. The YPD stands for Young People’s Division, it is an organization for young Christian missionaries from ages 2 to 26.This organization is not just about traveling, but more importantly,  it is about learning who God is and learning more about yourself.

We have mission projects. They are basically us providing for the less fortunate. Mission projects are very important, because it is giving back. I  think of mission projects as a way of being blessed by blessing others. One of our meetings was held in Dallas, Texas. While there, we had a pajama party. In order to get into the party, we had to bring a pair of pajamas and a book. This project was to help deal with the fact that some children are never read bedtime stories and maybe don't even own a pair of pajamas. Also, we went to a nursing home and sat with the elders to talk to them and sing hymns. It was a great experience. It made me feel good inside that I got to make someone smile, especially elders that live in that  type of environment. You can tell by their faces and by the way they kept thanking us that they enjoyed us and was thankful that we came. Every year we go away, we have to bring something whether it's soap, deodorant, or toys.

In Atlanta, we went to visit Martin Luther King’s grave site. This was very informational, and I really enjoyed my time at the grave site. We also went to the Ebenezer Baptist Church which is where Martin Luther King Jr. and Sr. preached. It felt good to be in the same place MLK once was. I felt like he was right there with me when we went in the church. Lastly, we had a moment of silence as we experienced visiting the Lorraine Motel where MLK was assassinated. This experience was a scary one. Before we arrived there, I really didn't know what to expect. I actually felt like at any moment there was going to be a shoot out. As I stood where Martin Luther King Jr. was killed, I honestly didn’t know how to feel. There was so many emotions flowing through my body but overall it was a nice museum.

My favorite place of all was Bermuda. In Bermuda, it was more of a fun trip than a church trip. We had a lot of free time to go sightseeing and do a lot of activities. Our usual annual meeting is just for the weekend. Friday night is opening service, Saturday morning is workshops then we have a couple hours of free time. We have a banquet on Saturday night and then we have a social which is just like a party. We have a closing service on Sunday morning. We stayed an extra day in Bermuda to do some fun activities. We had a clear bottom boat where you could see the fish and every other animal in the ocean. Also, there was jet skiing, zip lining and parasailing. I would love to go back to Bermuda and make many more memories. I really enjoyed my time in Bermuda.

The YPD is a great organization that teaches the young people of the AME church  how to please God and others by helping those who are less fortunate. It provides us the opportunity to travel, meet new people,  and have a good time while doing the work of missions. I am so glad that I am a part of this organization, and I am excited about what the future holds.

“What does it feel like?”

I played with a loose thread on my sweater sleeve, trying to spit out the words of my response. My eyes grazed over the faded beige walls of my therapist’s office, to one of those childish posters of cartoon-ish faces displaying different emotions, to the tips of her leather boots, back to the walls.

“I can’t really… put it into words.”

How do I describe something like depression to a trained professional? People often confuse it with just being ‘sad’ or ‘angry at the world’. For me it isn’t any of those emotions. It’s bleak, and dark. The absence of ANY emotion. So I shrugged, picking at some exposed cotton on the couch.

She sighed, pushing up her glasses and uncrossing and crossing her legs. “Well, that’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Art therapy is useful for a number of reasons.” She smiled warmly, setting her clipboard down and going over to her wooden shelf. It was grainy and stripped, as if it had lasted through the civil war. She tugged out a bin of art supplies and fished out a pencil and a blank piece of printer paper. She sauntered over to me, setting them down and folding her hands together. “Your mother told me you loved to draw. So I want you to draw what it feels like.”

My eyes flickered down to the blank sheet of paper. Reluctantly, I picked up the instrument, and sketched my way through what having this mental illness felt like.

I started with a silhouette of a heavy set girl. Growing up I of course had issues managing my food intake, to the point where it concerned my mother how heavy I was getting. She dragged me to nutritionist after pediatrician after psychologist, to get the same responses she didn't want to believe: “Your child eats when she’s anxious or upset, and that seems too often. What’s happening at home?” It felt awful, having to be seen in public, being an embarrassment to my own mother. My seventh grade math teacher even made a rude comment about my weight, one that I laughed off, even through the twisting feeling in my throat.

I drew a smile on her face. Not a sincere one, this one was crooked and exaggerated and painted, like the Black Dahlia’s after she met the wrong end of a blade. I used to get picked on, teased for everything. Until I started to smile. If I could make someone laugh, if just for a moment, then they couldn’t see what was hurting. If I kept myself smiling, no one would guess that every night I’d curl up and sob, because I wanted to die so badly. If I made other people happy, they’d never guess that the only reason I haven’t killed myself is because of the ache in my heart when I picture my mother’s sobbing face as I’m lowered into the ground in a casket.

I drew a pit in her stomach. I drew scratches, scribbles, shaded it with harsh strokes, so much so that my therapist raised a curious eyebrow. I drew this storm brewing on the inside, but not one of rage or a fit of emotion. This feeling was anxious, dry, and it ached. It was waking up early and staring at the ceiling to try and find the meaning in getting up. It was people asking, “You’re depressed? Well, why can’t you just be happy?” Which is akin to saying, “You have alzheimer's? Well, why can’t you just remember?” And instead of seeking help, you drag yourself through life, trying to ignore the fact that it isn’t normal. Not everyone goes through this. It’s not like being stabbed with a knife, it’s like being stabbed so many times that you go absolutely numb. I scrawled scars on her forearms. I drew dry and crusty eyes, I drew a facial expression that no one knew wept because she couldn’t just be happy.

She glanced back up at me, her eyes tender and soft. “I see…” she murmured, as I let go of the pencil that I had been squeezing so hard my knuckles were white. She set her glasses down, breathing out a sigh. “Have you ever considered to yourself… that it’s okay to not be okay?”

My lips parted, the concept foreign to me. I met her eyes, for the very first time. “I’ll try.”

“Mom, I think I want to convert,” I remember telling my grandmother, who I refer to as mom most times, that I wanted to convert over to Islam. Her response was blunt, “Who are you converting for? are you doing it to benefit yourself or them?” Her response had me thinking. Was I converting to make my parents and the people around me, who were Muslim, proud? or was I doing it because I actually wanted to do it? I spent my whole life doing others wanted me to do, to make them happy but was I actually happy? why would I make a choice to do or be something when I wasn’t actually happy? Who was I doing it for? Me or them? I’d rather make mistakes while doing something that I love while being genuinely happy instead of doing what others wanted, making them happy while I was unhappy.

I remember keeping it bottled up, feeling trapped, feeling forced. I felt like I wasn’t being true to Allah. I felt like I was only Muslim to make my parents feel proud like they accomplished something. I wasn’t born into an Islamic family and I wasn’t around Muslims every day. I was confused, I felt pressured. But I couldn’t reveal that to my family and friends.

When it came to my parents, religion has always been pushed down my throat in the most forceful way. I couldn’t even be able to imagine what would happen to me at home if I declared that I no longer wanted to practice and/or be Muslim to my Muslim family and friends. So, I kept it to myself, which was the hardest thing ever. All I craved was to meeting a human and to be able to relate deeply within but I had yet to find someone with the connection to the beings around me. I thought, “Maybe if I took time to myself and dug deeper into the religion that I would actually be interested.”

First, I discovered the beauty of the five pillars of Islam, which are so gentle and lovingly composed. I still wasn’t convinced though. Fast forward to my start of freshman year. I made friends with someone who changed my outlook on Islam and my life overall... I promise you, this was one of the best things that happened to me. They showed me a side of Islam that I had been longing, and what Islam truly is and how Allah SWT is the most compassionate, forgiving, and merciful. I knew my decision to practice this religion would affect nearly every aspect of my life, but I didn’t care. My decision was a shock to many people, but it is a choice that I have never once regretted. Being Muslim is a lifestyle, not just a religion and wearing the Hijab is a dedication.

When I wear a hijab, I feel like a different person, I feel abnormal. Being more open with my religion was a challenge because people would stare, and when people gazed at me for a long amount of time, I began to feel uncomfortable, as if they’re judging me with their eyes. The Hijab is not just a headscarf, and it’s certainly not a form of oppression. If people actually took the time to understand the real meaning behind the hijab, the values of the hijab, then maybe there wouldn’t be as much ruckus as there is.

One thing that I was hesitant about was revealing that I was Muslim to the world. I never wore the Hijab to school. Would I cover for Ramadan? If I did, how would people react? On the first day of Ramadan, It was a Monday, which meant I had to go to school... Covered. I made my decision. Walking into the building, catching stares that made me uncomfortable. Taking a seat in my first class, I avoided eye contact.

“Hey Riri, I didn’t know you were Muslim.” One of my peers said. “Well Surprise.” I chuckled. Then the questions came flooding in.

“Are you Fasting? Is it Mandatory for you to cover? Do you feel beautiful? Hows your hair under your Hijab? Let me see! Let me seeeee!”

I first informed them that I was fasting and that unless you can’t fast, you should be fasting. I then informed them that it is mandatory for me to cover because it helps me preserve my modesty and morals. I also told them that I am not allowed to describe what my hair looks like under my hijab, for it is a sin to do so. Lastly, I explained that I feel beautiful in my skin and in my Hijab. It felt great to be able to share with others without getting overlooked.

“Do you like to be referred to as a Hijabi?”

“Hijabi” isn’t offensive, but it isn’t the first word I’d use to describe myself, therefore it’s not how I’d like to be defined. I respect women who choose to have the word ‘Hijab’ in their title but for me, I feel as if I’m being placed in another category as if I’m not normal when in reality, we’re just normal people who have a strong passion for our religion.

“Well, Tyria, you look cute.” One of my classmates cooed and I smiled, “Thank you.”  

After recieving many compliments from many of the students, I felt more comfortable. I felt beautiful. I felt proud to be Muslim.

I peered out of the window as we sped past the fluffy clouds. The island was beautiful. So lush and  green; the sea so clear and blue. I smiled thinking of my Grandmother. The last time I saw her I was only a toddler, and I’ve only seen pictures and heard stories about her. I couldn’t wait to see my Father’s childhood house that my Grandfather built. I couldn’t wait to meet my great tios and tias. I was so eager to explore the island I’ve only heard stories about and seen a few pictures of. But deep within all of this excitement, I was in distress. I was in Puerto Rico for the worst situation I could ever fathom; my Grandfather’s funeral.

The majority of my Dad’s elders live in Puerto Rico, including his parents. When my Dad first heard that my Grandfather was sick, he went down to the island immediately. He was there a few weeks before my Mom, Brother and I came down. I remember the day I heard the grave news like it was yesterday.

I had just walked into the front door of my family’s house and walked through our kitchen. My mom was sitting at the kitchen table with the laptop open and all the daily newspapers surrounding her. I was tired and my body ached, but I greeted her happily. She smiled and I went to my room to put my bookbag down. When I came back out, her mood shifted; the atmosphere changed in the room; my stomach lurched.

“I have to tell you something Isabella.” Those words hung heavily in the air. My body became stiff.

“What?” I asked her reluctantly, I didn’t want to hear what came after those words. She started to speak but my body couldn’t wait. My face scrunched up and tears started to fall from my eyes, down my cheeks. My mom said the words I never thought I would hear. I ran into my room, closed the door behind me and buried myself under my blankets. I fell asleep crying.

I was angry and in denial that my Grandfather passed. I didn’t want to believe this is was the result. No one in my family thought he was that sick, no one expected this was going to be the outcome. We all believed my Grandfather was strong enough to pull through this. The whole family was in shock and we didn’t understand why.

I never met my Grandfather at a time when I could remember; I was just a baby. Everyone in my family talked highly of my Grandfather. They would say he was funny, witty, and such a loving person. I have always wanted to meet my Grandfather and I’m sure he always wanted to meet his granddaughter when she was all grown up. But now I’ll never meet him. I’ll never get to hear his laugh or laugh at one of his jokes. I’ll never even get to hug my Grandfather. I was frustrated and I struggled with this thought for months after Puerto Rico. I would randomly burst into tears just thinking about never seeing my Grandfather. It even got to the point where I blamed my parents for not taking me to Puerto Rico sooner.

As the months went on, I began changing how I went about the situation. I didn’t resent my parents anymore, I didn’t have sudden mood swings, and I began to look at what happened in a different light. I thought more positively to help me cope with the circumstances. I believed that my Grandfather was in a better place. I know he wasn’t in anymore pain and that he wasn’t suffering. I also trusted that one day I was going to see him in a better place; he would be healthy and he would look better than he ever did before.

Do not get me wrong, I still do have those moments where I wish I had met my Grandfather. I do still get emotional when I think about him, but now I have faith that I will see him. It’s having my faith that keeps me going and helps me gets through the dark times in life.

Ever since I can remember I have been afraid of heights, this fear is also known as vertigo. I have never liked heights and always had anxiety over it. But what happened in Northern Ireland was a first. Nothing like this had ever happened to me before. This was my first time having a panic attack and it was a complete shock.

While walking down the green path I was thinking to myself, “Should I cross this bridge or not? I am going to see it and then decide if I should.” I thought that seeing the bridge would help me get a better picture of it and how high of the ground it was. Decision time came. The bridge was a wooden rope bridge and I knew it was safe, but my head was too distracted by how high up it was. My family were looking at me and I could feel them pressuring me to cross. I did not want to disappoint my family. So I crossed the bridge. I did this with extreme caution and vigilance. When I got across, I felt very dizzy. Things were spinning and my breathing was irregular. I lay down and waited till the feeling passed. When I got up I was surrounded by amazing scenery. The grass on the island was freshly cut and I could hear the sound of the waves and  everything smelled so fresh. I looked at my family and they were so proud of me. I thought to myself that seeing this view was worth crossing the bridge.

Then came the way back and there was a line before you crossed the bridge. I thought I was going to be in this line forever. Only a certain amount of people could get on the bridge at one time. This helped me with my fear. I was waiting in line and then I saw this ignorant family crossing the bridge. The family started to jump on the bridge. I saw the bridge move up and down. It rattled and shook. The waves were crashing underneath. This immediately made me afraid and I started  overthinking. I was starting to regret crossing the bridge to begin with. I started to say things in my head, “I am not going to make it across”. I knew that none of this was true but I could not get it out of my head. Once the fear started, it took control of me. I got to the bridge and I was shaking. I stood at the bridge for 15 seconds thinking and trying to get myself to cross. I was so scared I could not get myself to do it. Suddenly everything started to get louder,the waves, the people in line, everything and  I could not focus. I started to get dizzy and things were starting to spin. I could feel my heart rate increase. I was having trouble breathing. I felt tears coming down my face.

My cousin started to help me regulate my breathing. She said, “Breathe in your  nose and out through your mouth to get your heart rate back at a normal pace.” I started to do this and it was working. I was not dizzy and I could breathe better. My heart was starting to get back to a regular pace. It took me some time but I got up. I started to walk to the bridge. I stared at it and I was completely frightened.  I decided not look down to see how high up I was. I was breathing in my nose and out through my mouth. This was really helping me zone out and not think about what was happening in the moment or the fear I was feeling. I finally got across and immediately tears started to come down my face. I could not stop myself from crying. The fear overwhelmed me and the relief that it was over made me cry.

I finally stopped and started to head back to the car. On the way back to the car my mind was blank. I was in shock. I could not believe what happened. I think I need to stop letting my family pressure me and worry less about other people’s expectations for me. To this day, when I look back on that time, I still get nervous and start to get anxious. I can't shake the feeling. I can’t shake the fear.

“What’s going on here?”

Everyone’s silent, looking around trying to figure out what was going on.

“I don’t understand why he’s constantly trying to make himself seem that he can do more or just lie about what he doesn’t do.” The first thing that was projectiled out of my mouth when I was asked what was going on by his dad.

The room slowly dimming down and more and more people opening and closing the doors making more ruckus than before. While everyone trying to have a say, gliding their hands making movements to have a stronger opinion. “You guys need to chill out” Looking around wondering trying to figure out who exactly is speaking but, I can’t see. All i wanted to do was block out everyone and what they felt they needed to get across..

I was egure to get up and walk away. My mom pulled me aside and told me to calm down and to not speak to him. Since there is no point to argue with someone that feels the need to believe that getting likes on Instagram is more important then keeping your grades up and telling the truth about anything in general.

“I’m play varsity basketball next year for Northeast” all that was heard while we were all talking about school and how everyone was doing in their classes.

As soon as this was said I realized he had said just 10 minutes before that he had only had a spot for JV and wouldn’t be able to make varsity till sophomore year. But I let it blow off because I’m already used to my cousin feeling the need to put himself on higher peddle stool then where he actually is.

Our family on my mothers side is pretty close. Between all the cousins there are three of us that become the same age in the matter of three months. I turn 15 in March, my cousin Jayden turns 15 in April and Aliyah in May. He feels that he needs to make himself seem better in situations since out of the three of us Aliyah and I were already in highschool and were starting to feel the pressure of the work and the change in environment we were placed in.  

He was still in the mentality of social media is everything. School’s a breeze when in reality he was still struggling but still was lying because he was getting all these comments and likes on his instagram posts. Let be honest real quick; all the comments were the same 3 people spamming his comments. So he truly had 3 fans. There's something about the world today that everything relies on how many lies or viewers you get on social media. Which is where his mindset lays at. It created a tension between us two. As soon as I had gone onto his live he had wanted to say anything so his fans could hear. Talking about how “I am not an athlete”, how he plays almost triple the amount of sports then I have. Hence the fact that he's only played 2 sports and I've played 5, but you know he makes it out to seem like he's better.

What really triggered everything while we were at the table sitting waiting for dinner to be done, was they way he continued to target me for no reason. Which made the intentions of him trying to bring me down clear, and I was not about to let him bring me down knowing he was lying to everyone.

Everytime I initially hear something that is for sure untrue, that comes out of his mouth, I realize that it isn’t worth my time saying anything to him because what’s the point of telling lies if it won’t get you anywhere. If, I know that I am doing what I need to do in the end and being true to myself I know I will get somewhere in the end. Lying gets you nowhere, especially when your trying to brag about something that has no effect on where it will get you later in life with social media.

I never really knew that you could miss someone you never even knew or met before, but I learned you can. When my mother was pregnant a couple years ago with my little brother I was so excited. Until I was told that my baby brother was premature and was too small to live. I was heartbroken.

It was 2013 and my mother had a little bun in her oven. I was so happy because not only was I not gonna be the baby anymore, I always wanted to be a big sister. I always wanted to know what it felt like to protect and look after someone who’s younger than me. My whole family was really excited about this baby especially because it was a boy and my mother already had two girls and always wanted a boy. When my mom first told me she was pregnant I honestly didn’t know how to feel. I was excited but also scared that my parents wouldn’t pay attention to me anymore. One night my mother was having really bad contractions and we started to worry, so my father drove her to the emergency room. I was up all night that night sick to my stomach worrying about my mom. My sister tried to calm me down , but she couldn’t, nothing could. My mother stayed in the hospital for about 3 days and I was told she went into labor early. After those 3 days of her being in the hospital I finally got to see her. I was so excited. I just knew she had the baby and they both were ready to come home.

As soon as I walked into to the hospital room I gave my mom the biggest hug ever. I felt a sense of relief knowing that she was okay. Something was wrong though. I didn’t see my baby brother or the little beds that they have the babies in. I was really confused but I didn’t ask any questions because I was sure I was going to see him soon. The nurse walked in my mom’s room and my mom asked me to go sit outside the door with my grandma for a bit so her and the nurse could talk. I asked my grandma what was going on and she told me my parents would explain everything once we got home. At that point I was freaking out, I didn’t know what to think.

When we got home my mom and dad called me into their room. My head was spinning with so many different questions and reasons to why they called me in here. Silence filled the room for a good 2 minutes straight. My father finally found the courage to opened his mouth and told me that my baby brother had passed away because he was premature. At that moment I felt like someone had just took my heart out of my chest and stepped on it. I walked out of my parent’s room and tears start falling from my face uncontrollably. My dad comes and brings me back into their room and he tells me that I don’t have to be scared to show them my emotions. I couldn’t even focus on what he was saying because I was to busy crying and tasting my own snot. I couldn’t talk , I didn’t want to talk I just wanted to cry and cry and cry.

As time passed by my mother and I talked about him all the time. I always and still do think about him everyday. Some days I get very sad and don’t want to be bothered. I miss him all the time. I used to ask my mom how is that even possible if I didn’t even know him. She always used to tell me that that’s a lie because I do know him, he’s my little brother, and I am his big sister and he lives inside of all of us. When I was younger I didn’t really know what she meant when she said that but as I stared to get older I understood why she always said that. We can’t predict life or control it and sometimes tragic things happened but that’s just the way life goes. Now when I am missing my brother I go talk to my mom and everyday before I leave the house I tell him I love him, kiss my hand and rub it on the blue box which his ashes are in.

It was another hot day in August, and I was walking down 60th street towards my block. With it being hot, I was able to finally wear a pair of shorts and let my legs get some air. Unfortunately, the usual catcalls followed my attempt to be somewhat comfortable in the intense heat. I walked past a group of guys huddled at the corner of the block I live on, and I hoped that I could walk by without an incident. But, of course, that wasn’t going to happen.

Teenagers and adults catcall in my direction every now and then, so it was a struggle figuring out what to wear with the air conditioner turned up high in my school during the day and the drastically high temperature change once I walked out the main entrance. Wearing a jacket and a short sleeve shirt seemed fine whilst inside, but after I get halfway to my bus stop there’s sweat marks all over my shirt. Turning to tank tops and tying the jacket around my waist handles my sweat problem until I get looks, nods, whistles, and comments thrown at me.

One time, to be specific, it was 92 degrees that day. When I stepped out the house that morning around 7:30 am it was about 75 degrees. The temperature in my school was at least 60 degrees, so I had to make sure I had a sweatshirt or some type of jacket with me when I went to school. Walking out the house with a sweatshirt on was a little uncomfortable because of the weather, but it would spare me from having to stop in school to put it on. Around that time there was a two week long heat wave happening, so everyday was a half day. Having to put the sweatshirt on then taking it off only a few hours later was getting frustrating, but I couldn’t control the weather so I had to deal with it. The bus ride relieved some of my tension since all the buses have air conditioning on them, yet my real problem was if there would be a group of guys at the corner of my block by the time I got off the bus. Sometimes they’d be there and other times they wouldn’t. There was no true pattern either, so I just had to hope for the best.

My parents try to make sure that I wear clothes that won’t attract unwanted attention when I’m outside by myself. I try to do the same whenever I have my own money for clothes I might want. It’s frustrating not being able to fully express your style or expand your comfort zone when a stranger’s opinion affects my decision. “Just ignore them,” a friend of mine said. “It’s what I do.” The thing is, I shouldn’t have to ignore them. I shouldn’t have to deal with them in the first place. There are times during the year where it gets hot and that’s when people decide to wear less clothing to help regulate their body temperature. Men like to call out women on the street because “she’s hot”, then get mad when she rejects them. If they just don’t do it in the first place, we wouldn’t have this issue.

I see girls at school and outside of school dress in many different ways. Sometimes it’s in a uniform because of the type of school they go to, or it’s however they please to dress if they aren’t held back by a dress code. I believe that the systematic power of beauty influences everyone into making certain decisions and evolving the way they think as they get older. It has its positive and negative effects in communities and in the world. The way someone dresses and the way someone wants to express their style should not be held back by strangers who give off an unsettling feeling when they think that proclaiming their interest in an inappropriate way is okay. If we can find more ways to help stop the process of sexualizing women in society, I believe that would help this issue more and it would prevent people from writing more stories like this.

The Airplane Mishap

“Wouldn’t it be funny if someone really had to throw up?”

All three of us laugh as the guy on the aisle makes the joke. He puts the barf bag into the seat pocket the conversation dies down, so  I put my earbuds into my ears. Peeking out the window, I see so many planes are departing and arriving that if I blink I will miss a plane. As I look out over the airport, I see the sun setting as the sky is turning a beautiful pink hue t. What a great way to end a trip in  Washington D.C.

Our middle school partnered up with an organization that would host schools from all over the country to teach kids about the city they’re visiting. In previous years they visited New York,  Chicago, and Boston. This year the trip was planned for Washington D.C., and my parents thought that it would be beneficial for me to learn for me about our nation's capital. The 4 day trip was eventful as we headed to the most fascinating places in Washington D.C.; from the World War II Memorial to the Pentagon. It was surely a trip to remember.

“If everyone can please put on their seatbelts as we are ready for departure.” As the flight attendant finished her statement, I heard the unanimous sound of seat-belts clicking together. I scrolled through my Instagram feed as the flight attendants conduct the safety demonstration.

“Hey, my stomach hurts. Do you have anything for that?” The girl next to me taps me on the shoulder as we start to lift off the grounds. I tell her yes as I reach all the way into the bottom of the bag to find her some Aleve. I pop open the cap, give her a few, and she replies with a sheepish thanks.  I nod to her in return thinking nothing of her stomach ache as I close my eyes and try to sleep.

I wake up to the sound of the seat-belt light turning orange again, and the flight attendant announcing that we are descending in 10 minutes. Was I really asleep for the entire flight? I look out the window to see darkness plague my vision. The lights stand out from the abyss and give off a warming vibes. From all of the white, yellow, and orange lights I see from above. It all seems so far.

We start to descend, and the girl next to me taps me on the shoulder again. “Hey. I don’t think the Aleve helped me. Do you think you could grab me your barf back from the seat pocket.” As I reach down to get the pocket, I feel something splat onto my neck. She just threw up on me! Then she vomits once more unto herself as my fellow passengers a look away in disgust. People around me start asking if I am okay, and I give them a half-hearted “yah” and laugh it away. The teachers rushed over to the girl who threw up to see if she needed any medical help, and the flight attendant was shortly over to help her out. She gave the girl some napkins as I sat there with puke in my hair without anyone helping me out.

The plane finally landed, and I couldn’t wait to get out off of it. The smell of the vomit was so strong that it was almost making me sick myself, but I would not be the girl who throws up in someone’s hair. Since we were a class of students, we had to be the last to get off the plane so the vomit was just seeping into my scalp making the smell linger longer. We finally are walking out of the plane as I soon realized that her vomit reached my bookbag and my shoes. Great.

The teachers left us go our separate ways after we got off the plane, and I practically started to run to the plane train as I notice the girl throwing up in a trash can near the boarding area.

As I ran through the airport, tears started running down my face. I thought of all the things that I could have said, that I could have done, but I decided to stay silent; laugh it off as a joke. But this no joking matter; someone threw up in my hair! This ruined the trip, and now I never want to sit by the window; trapped from the aisle; trapped from freedom. Planes will always scare me, but not fear of heights, but from someone else’s motion sickness. This flight makes me nervous for all future flights and it makes me very superstitious. This might sound dumb, but I know that this will leave an impact on my life for better or for worse.

Ethan Friedman

September 2018

Systems Essay

First grade was the first time I was told that I was great at math. My teacher put me in an advanced group so that I didn’t get bored of work that I already knew.

I wasn’t surprised by this move, I expected it. I knew my dad was good at math and logic questions. He wins all of the games we played at family events. He used to talk about how he used to come in second in the state math tournaments, losing to the kid in his class who had aced the SAT and is now a senior developer at Apple. I continued to be in the advanced groups in all of my math classes through fourth grade. That’s also the year I discovered Minecraft.

A couple days before starting fourth grade, I got the list of kids that were in my classes. Not one of my friends were listed. They were all in the opposite class. I was a very fragile kid. It hurt me a lot to know that I would have to make all new friends again. I had a good close group of friends since I started at that school in Kindergarten. At that school, they paired 1st and 2nd grade together and 4th and 5th grade together. That meant that every class but spanish and math were combined. Since I didn’t like any of the kids my age, my only option was to hang out with the kids above me.

The first kid I met was Joseph. It was around the time that minecraft started to blow up. We played on large networks with thousands of players. The people who created them were making millions of dollars a year. Me being my curious self, wanted to learn how to make a server just like the big ones. I did my own research and taught myself how to write Java fluently and created server mods and plugins.  Joseph helped me with everything. He wasn’t into Java as much as I was, but he wanted to be apart of my server and business. Since we is a year older than me, he knew more about grammar and punctuation that I did. He helped me make advertisements for my freelance services.

By this time, I had told everybody about what I learned. My family, my teachers, my friends, and even myself. Every night before I fell asleep, I would map out a bug or new project that I needed to work on the next day. Keep in mind that I was only 10 years old by then and Knew more about Java than math for my age.  My dad was excited that I taught myself something new because he also never really learned anything in school. He taught himself math and binary.

I started making a lot of money for a 10 year old. I was selling one plugin per week and making $10 for each. There were a lot of things I could do with $10. I bought lunch for my friends over the weekend, I ordered a new mouse, keyboard and bought myself Spotify Premium.

Just 2 years ago, I applied to SLA and made a presentation showing off my work. I was interviewed by Mr. Enzweiler. I was extremely nervous before my interview, so when I walked into the room, I didn’t really know how to act. First, I panicked. I couldn’t connect to the SLA internet because I didn’t know the password. Thinking about it now, It wasn’t even a weird question to ask, but for some reason, 13 year old Ethan was too scared. He kindly noticed the redness of my face and asked what the issue was. “Can I connect to the wifi so I can show you my presentation?”, I asked.

“Absolutely! The password is Philadelphia with a capital P”, He responded.

When I showed him my work and the list of people who wrote school recommendations for me, I could tell he was impressed. I wasn’t the best student in 7th grade, but I don’t think that really mattered after that interview. He was extremely interested in everything I was showing him. I instantly felt comfortable talking to him and I gave him a demo Java lesson. I rushed out of the room and down the block to see my dad who was waiting in the car for me. He was eager to hear about the interview. I didn’t really know what I tell him. I was excited inside, but I didn’t want to talk myself into believing that I would get in no matter what. There were over 1000 more kids who still needed to be interviewed. Most of them probably worked harder in 7th grade. I told him that I was really nervous and that it went fine.

Reflecting on it now, I’m really proud of being able to impress such a smart person as it is. And I’m also proud of being able to make money from nothing. I dedicated myself to something that I cared about. I couldn’t learn Java in school. I needed to learn it my own way at my own pace. That’s part of the reason why school mostly doesn’t work for me. I need to content to myself. Today, I make almost $300 a month selling the same old Minecraft plugins to sometimes 30 different people a week.

Tyler Carter

September 20, 2018

Through my eyes, systems are created to help people. For example, vehicle systems are created to transport people from one place to another place. A car is a vehicle systems.,  It starts out as a frame. Then different parts are added. The interior is put together first, such as the driving wheel, the seats, gears and the break and gas pedals. This vehicle system cannot move without things like the engine, battery, transmission, and exhaust. The vehicle system also has an exterior. The exterior is made up of the wheels, hubcaps, mirrors, doors, gas tank, headlights, hood and the trunk. There are robots that paint the vehicles. The robots work with the computer to decide what color to use. People also help with building vehicle systems.

I experience a vehicle system because I ride on a trolley everyday to school. I also rode on a school bus from kindergarten to eighth grade. I also ride in my grandfather's car. I have also been on a plane to go to Florida and Maine. I have also taken a train to Florida. Some vehicles systems are faster than others. I do not like to take the train to Florida because it takes too long to get there. I also have a bike. I ride my bike around my neighborhood. like vehicles systems because it takes you places. I do not like to walk, I would rather take the trolley.

Systems help other people in their lives by taking people where they need to go. People would not be able to survive without vehicle systems because we get to get somewhere with wheels; we can´t walk everywhere. If we didn't have public transportation the world would be cleaner because buses take up a lot of fuel and people would have to walk everywhere if they didn't have a car.

The Frisbee Game

“Remember you are first cut, he second cut, I will call stack, and he will be swing.”

Hearing an actually formulated plan from my teammate woke me up as my mind was quickly losing focus. Right now we are tied with a score of 2-2. He was telling me the position I should be playing in the field. I will be the first man that the handler will attempt to pass the frisbee to. It was the last point before the end of the game and both teams were giving their all. We been chasing the frisbee disc up and down the field but no progress has been made. It was 5 minutes in the point, the longest point we had. My body already felt restless, legs heavy as bricks, my stomach growling, and my mouth dry begging for a drip water. My team always had a problem when it came to communicating with each other. We have always been unorganized, all over the place, no rules or positions had been in place.Our clueless faces on the field show that we did not even know what to do. We would always lose the games and it would be pure luck if we score a point. My coach would be on the side lines shaking his head in disappointment and I could see it was his turning point to make a change.

At our last practice, our coach wanted to talk about a essentiel concept called communication.

“It is one of the most key things when working as a team, not only for ultimate frisbee, but also with school work and other sports,” as he said putting emphasis to each word.

We spent that whole practice learning how to communicate with each other. We learn the commands and what each command means. We also learn how important eye contact and hand signals where useful in communicating with each other too. At the end of the practice, we were playing like a real team, a real ultimate frisbee game for once. We shouted commands at each other, made solid eye contact, and most importantly, work as a team. Just in time for the next game.

“Alright,” I said to my teammate.

We raise our fist and our opponent throw the frisbee out to the end of the field. We all ran down the field to get to our position’s.

“STACK ON ME,” as one of my teammates shouted out loud as I breathlessly ran down second to last in the stack.

The handler had picked up the disc. The defenders were all lined up to each one of us.  

“DISC IN,” shouted the handler. The first cutter sprinted off to the open side. He was able to outrun his defender. The handler fake his defender (trick his defender by going in one direction then rapidly change to the other direction) and pass the frisbee to the first cutter.

“NEXT CUTTER WHO SECOND,” scream the first cutter.

I already ran down field so I sharply turn back towards where the first cutter was. Clap-clap-clap as I repeatedly clapped my hands to signal him that I was open. He threw the disc to me. I clap the disc with both hands and caught it. I look for an open person but my mind was under pressure and there was only confusion. The defender started to stall count me beginning from 10 as my sweat drip down my face.

Then from the corner of my eye, the handler waved his hand at me outrunning his defender. I turn around, eyes locked on him, and throw the frisbee at him. He caught the frisbee and signal the next cutter to go deep into the end zone. The deep cutter ran down and the handler huck the disc (Threw the disc far down the field). It travel far and fast down field. The deep cutter sprinted quickly down the field as his defender and others around him try to desperately catch up to him. The disc dip lower and lower and everyone ran faster and faster to the disc. The body of everyone from my team and the opponents team obscure my vision of the disc. There was a moment of tension to see if he caught it. A scream of joyness came out from my team. The deep cutter caught the disc! We won! We line up and shook hands with our opponents said, “good game good game.”

As I travel home, I realize how important communication is when it comes to teamwork. You can have a group of people no matter how many people are in, ranging from intelligence, backgrounds, if they like dogs or cats, etc. What most crucial out from teamwork is communication. When you communicate to your peers, you and your peers will understand what is the next step and who is playing what role. With that, you have organize the certain task to certain people to complete one objective. I had never taken that into consideration before and thought to myself, “I should try to apply that with other things in life,” as I approach to my front step, ready to begin a new day.  

The purpose of this essay is to show it's okay for people to need help.  Even though you can handle situation on your own most of the time don't turn people down who try to aid you in tough times. Writing skills I'd like to improve are transitions because I feel like they can be stronger in this essay.

The purpose of this assignment was to create an essay that linked to a greater idea using a scene from the writer's past. When first given this assignment, I knew which moment in my life on which I wanted to speak but had difficulty connecting it to my larger idea. I eventually found a way to do so through the use of thought-shots, which is displayed later in the text.

The beginning of fifth grade was a stressful time in my life. I was transferring from a Catholic school to a charter school, and I did not feel prepared. The first week of my new school was a lot different than my old school. I still had to wear a uniform and still had assigned seating in every class, but the atmosphere felt peculiar.

The classroom I was in did not look unique compared to ones I had seen before. Cramped, wooden desks were still placed in rows, which were still difficult to navigate through. There were lockers in the back of the room, which I had never used before. A projector and screen were present at the front of the classroom, which was different from the chalkboards with which I was comfortable. The teacher’s desk was pushed off into the upper-right corner of the room.

In general, Catholic school felt a lot more strict when it came to regulations. I thought that having less rules would be great for me, considering I had a hard time following the more obscure ones at a young age.

The teacher immediately went into what she expected from us this year. She began by stating the number one rule of our school: respect. This was also a crucial point used before, so I immediately thought this year was going to be simple, despite being a new student. However, the next part of her introduction made everything more complex. She aimed to base her curriculum around presentations, which meant we were all expected to present projects for a grade.

Presenting was not a foreign concept to me. However, it never counter as part of the rubric. This meant I could usually pass through speaking to the class by mumbling.

I was always afraid to speak as a child, because I always felt like what I said never mattered. My time at Catholic school was filled with immense amounts of bullying paired the inability to discover a social clique. Nobody listened to me. I would always wonder to myself: Why should I waste my time speaking to others when they do not care. I became a very isolated child, which triggered my desire for a fresh start. A new school.

Several weeks passed before the class’s first real presentation. The goal was to memorize three stanzas of poetry, and present it to the class. I spent days perfecting the goal, to avoid embarrassing myself in front of my new classmates. This was my time to impress them! My mind constantly focused on this idea.

Finally, it was time for me to display my speaking ability. The teacher decided that I should declare my piece early, and I joyously agreed. After several presentations, which I had deemed sloppy in my mind, it was my time to shine. I steadily approached my destination. The front of the classroom. My eyes were locked straight ahead, instead of the downward sight I always displayed when presenting. My hands were not clenched and my mouth formed an awkward, yet toothy smile. My posture was perfectly straight. I was ready.

Or, I thought I was ready. After stating three lines perfectly, my voice began to nervously rattle out words: “While follow eyes the steady…” I looked at my hands. They were tightly clenched. My posture became slouched. I was now aware of the monstrous frown on my face. I could only see the floor, unable to look up at my classmates. I realized that my eyes were watery, and I could feel the red color placed on my forehead. I was afraid. I sulked back into my seat, unable to finish the poem I had studied endlessly for days. I was embarrassed. The classroom looked much larger than before, and everybody was staring at me. I was not ready.

I realized that I spent so much time focusing on a single poem, that I had missed opportunities to introduce myself to the other students and attempt to find new friends. Looking back on this experience, I realize that I was unable to present this poem for a much larger reason than just stage fright. I had isolated myself in Catholic school, so I assumed that I was alone at this school in addition. I never reached out to anyone, asked for any phone numbers, or compared homework answers with another student before class. I had convinced myself that impressing my classmates with my stellar presentation would force them to not bully me. I was unable to realize that a new school meant a new experience, and I had to let go of the fears I held from Catholic school. One of the most important moments of my grade school career was letting go of those fears. Eventually, with proper introductions and a new mindset, I was able to present without worrying about my past.

The were many movies out that I wanted to see, but they were all rated R and being me, a mere sixteen year old I could only fantasize. I looked around on all the movie theater websites like the RAVE, the AMC and of course google itself for a movie that wasn't rated R. Then I found it; Happy Death Day. I was a bit hesitant because I really enjoy a good scare when I go to a horror movie, and the best scares  were the movies rated R, so I assumed that the scare was not going to be as well done compared to the movie Saw (2004).

On October 19th I asked around snapchat if any of my friends wanted to see a movie. I asked them, “Hey do you wanna go out and see Happy Death Day the movie with me?” I wanted to see it really badly because all of the other horror movies that I wanted to see were all R rated.  I was only 16 at the time so I would had needed an adult I didn't want to sit down with one of my parents through a horror movie that they would hate it. It might've been awkward. I asked the new girl in our grade, Maddy I added her on Snapchat when we first meton the first day of Sophomore year. My friend lou introduced us in the cafe of the school

“Hey this is Maddy” she said

“Are you two sisters or something?” I asked

“No!” they both said

I asked her if she wanted to go and she said “Yeah sure I’ll go”. Around 9:00 pm we go to go the Rave at 40th and Walnut. We got there and it was actually my first time in a movie theater at night with no adults. The theater had as usual, there's the classic 90s carpeting pattern, the red background and the little black triangles and yellow squiggly lines that looked like mustard on the floor.

The Movie was about a girl in college that had one day of her life repeat over and over.

At first she is confused about this strange phenomenon. She wakes up everyday in another bed after a late night of partying, a friend of the strangers and says something disrespectful about her being there. It is her birthday she walk outside and notices little different thing like a group of people having a picnic then the sprinkler turns on and they get all wet, the next thing she notices is a guy that passes out from some kind of frat hazing this happens many times. She gets used to these recurrences and she does something each time this happens. Ten thing start to get weird  a masked killer suddenly takes her life in a brutal attack again she wakes up without a scratch. She uses this phenomenon to get who the masked killer is.

The movie was fine but I don't recommend it, I was very confused but I still figured out who the murder was  half way through the movie and that was fun. I didn’t enjoy the scares since it was a PG13 movie.

Then her parents came to pick her up and I was picked up too. Later that night I asked her out and she said yes and now were together. if this is you can, you can get to know things about new people that you meet and create new friendships and and relationships with a simple text.