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This is my emulation of Ernest Cline

https://drive.google.com/open?id=108n1lpdrkAdLbwADzk9nU55ro0vsYo8Y

https://youtu.be/Wrpry_CrMDY

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jodm8aXkKZA

https://prezi.com/view/yaRKfq39adgOdvXfFGVn/

Science Leadership Academy Center City’s Open House will be held on Wednesday, Oct. 16th from 5:30 pm - 8:00 pm at the School District HQ at 440 N. Broad St.

See everyone there!

By December, 2016, the discussion of my highschool experience had come up while talking to my parents and we realized we better get a jump on trying to find a highschool for me if I ended up choosing to leave my old school, which I did. We ended up looking at schools such as Central, Christopher Dock, The City School, and Science Leadership Academy. I had shadowed Dock and TCS, and had noted the complete differences in lifestyle from a suburban type area to a bustling urban scene at TCS. I had like most of the schools and I had eventually set up a visit for SLA. In early 2017 I went to 22nd and Arch to visit the school building in the middle of the city. When seeing some of the classrooms in action we had run into familiar faces such as Charles Velasquez, Micah Carrera, and Amaris Ortiz, who were all kids of family friends. Looking back over the last 3 years I see that what had drawn me to SLA is gone. I remember being embraced by the colorful and creative community when I visited the school but now we’re in a cramped new building that’s unfinished, unsafe, and a lot less accessible than the previous. Although SLA is a great school it definitely has changed me and I’m not sure if it’s for the worst. I was a strong Christian and followers of christ leaving my Christian middle school. Transitioning from chapel and prayer twice a week to a school that’s completely accepting about any and everything was especially frantic, and without being constantly reminded of the word of God, I began to find myself slipping in faith barely reading my bible, attending church less, and slowly starting to question God’s existence. I wasn’t sure how SLA would impact me but that’s hardly what I was expecting. Maybe it’s hard to say that I wouldn’t have ended up like this had I stayed in my previous school, but we’ll never know, and that’s okay. I’m excited to see how I grow from here and see my future transition into college. I’m not sure where I’d go, but I know that I’ll be ready for it. It scares me to see myself go from being an advent follower of Christ to a person that ended up liking not feeling the responsibility to uphold God’s image. After 2 years without a bond with Reflecting on my first year of SLA is quite funny. I came in from a school that was quite strict to a laid back environment where much was tolerated and I began to lose my head. WIthin the first month of school I was almost suspended for putting my hands on another student in a manner that I thought was funny at first. That moment taught me a lot and although I regret what I did, I am glad it happened as from there I grew from that experience. Entering my sophomore year I began to grow both physically and mentally and I began to get comfortable as I entered my second year of highschool. I don’t remember much of it as it was a blur since it wasn’t much of memorable transitioning rather than continued education. Starting a new year is quite exciting. You’re a year older and a year closer to graduating. Junior year instantly showed me how much of a difference it is between it and sophomore year. Just within the first week I found myself already being challenged by the workload that was being given out; and as of now I got a better understanding of the workload i’ll be receiving all year. Some days I find myself reminiscing on the past. I often think back to when I had little to responsibilities and my day consisted of snacks and TV. SLA constantly shows me that I’m at the point in my life where I need to step up and prepare for the next phase in my life, adulthood. Just 3 years ago I was in middle school enjoying myself of the yellow school bus. Eventually I’d like to see myself at a point where I’m content with my faith, academics, and maturity; but that takes time and a lot of effort.

Introduction: My goals for this essay were to show how music has affected me in my life. This was a very difficult piece for me to write because of how personal it is to me. I am proud of the details that I incorporated throughout my piece and how descriptive I think it is. I would like to improve on analysis and reflection because these were things that I struggled with while writing this.

My baby blue walls surround me I sit in my room, bored out of my mind. I just finished my kindergarten homework. It was rewriting letters and words. As I lay on my bed, I hear a faint sound coming from the room next door. It was smooth and blaring. I’m used to this noise. It’s the sound of my father practicing his trumpet. This usually bothers me, but today, it intrigues me. The music of the horn captivated me and drew me to my father’s studio.

I slithered into the room and stood near the entrance, admiring what seemed to be perfect technique. Soon, he spotted me from the corner of his eye.

“Do you want to try?” he asked me. I nodded enthusiastically and scurried over to his side. He guided my hand onto the cold yellow brass. The smell of pennies penetrated my nose as I got closer to the trumpet. He placed his lips onto the mouthpiece and started to blow. The same sound from before began to fill the small room. For a second, I stood there, still. I had no idea what to do. How could I even compare to the maestro that was my father? But, with a few encouraging looks, I lightly pressed on the first valve and the sound shifted to something higher. I was making that sound. That beautiful, rich sound.

I pressed a few more valves to change the pitch more. My dad’s blank wall seemed to fill with brightness and color with each note played.

I soon went through every note three times and decided to stop. My dad smiled kindly at me and went to face his music again. It was much too complicated for me to comprehend. I went back to my bed with wonder in my ears and mind.

I wish I could say that this was the moment that I decided that I wanted to be a musician. That ever since that day all I’ve dreamt about was performing on stage with only me and an instrument. But twelve years later, I haven’t a single musical bone in my body. I attempted to play the violin for several years, but I found it to be a liability rather than a creative outlet. The rest of my family, however, is completely different.

Both of my parents are professional musicians and my two brothers are pursuing careers in music. I am the odd one out in my family, the black sheep. I find algebra and solving equations much more stimulating and interesting than reading notes off a staff. My parents tried to console me that I’m still artistic and I’m just like them, but I’ve accepted that I’m different.

That doesn’t mean that music isn’t important to me. Even though I’m not as involved in it as the rest of my family, music is a huge part of my life. Music is the reason I’m alive. Both metaphorically and literally.

I’m a complicated human being. Most of the time, I don’t like talking to people about how I feel or the things that are going on in my life. There are a million reasons why I don’t open up: I don’t want to feel pitied, they wouldn’t understand, I don’t want to burden them, etc. But those don’t matter. Music is how I allow myself to release the emotions I so often engulf myself in. Music is the way I feel. It’s the way I speak to others. It’s how I listen to myself.

After finding out that my mom was sick, I didn’t know how to feel. I had only ever known my mom as healthy and athletic. She walked ten miles a day sometimes, and then she suddenly has cancer of the leg bone. I couldn’t look at her and see a person with cancer. It was my mother, not some frail bald woman you feel bad for in the supermarket line.

kept silent about the news I had just heard. If I couldn’t comprehend what I had just learned, how could anyone else? So, I layed on my bed and stared at the ceiling, in silence for a while. But my mind was blank. The information was in my mind, but I couldn’t process it or formulate any new thoughts. So I turned on my music. I don’t even remember what I was listening to, probably the Beatles or a random playlist I had made, but I immediately started to break down. The fear and sadness that had been building in me for days had finally been allowed out. Everything came rushing out and I couldn’t control myself. I layed there, with tears and snot streaming down my face.

Some people think emotion shows weakness and that crying is worrisome. I don’t think that’s true. Letting all of my emotions out was the most therapeutic thing I could do at that moment, and the music was the key to that. If I had held it in, who knows what would’ve happened. I would have erupted at some random, inappropriate time as if I was a volcano only instead of scalding hot lava it was misery and fear.

The singer’s soft, melodic voice was able to reach into my soul with a key and unlock where I was holding it all in. It’s difficult to explain why music is able to help me open up. It would be easy to say that the way the lyrics are written in a way that feels personal to me and my situation, but I think it’s more than that. Of course, words help. Lyrics are poetry and they mean much more to me than anything a friend or an adult could say. But, there’s something about the melody and instrumentation too. Music is like an entirely different language to me. At first, it’s hard to understand. But as you study it and start listening to it more and more, you discover the beauty of it and what it really means.

That moment wasn’t the first and definitely not the last of my adventures in exploring my emotions with music. Pretty often after a tough day, I just need to come home, put on my favorite Sufjan Stevens song and let it all out. If I didn’t have music, I’m not sure there would be a time where I was able to open up like I do.

Music is life. Music is my life. I was born because of music, and I’m still alive because of music.

“The cops are outside.” I whisper. She doesn’t believe me. That is until I open her blinds of course. Blue and white lights fill up the room, and I quickly close the blinds. On a dark deserted street in Cobbs Creek, lays 8 squad cars with their bright siren lights on. However, the sirens themselves are turned off. I tell her to take a look at the security camera system in the dining room. We make our way downstairs. The dog is letting out a low deterring growl. Followed by a series of ear piercing irattic barking. I let mom take a look at the cameras, and sure enough there’s a tall caucaisan man with a police uniform pacing up and down my driveway. Then he bends down and looks under the familys’ gray nissan. I am not scared, but wary. In the back of my mind I am concerned that they might have a warrant and will kick down the door at any moment. The thought of my brother being arrested also crosses my mind, as this would not be his first time on the wrong side of the law. There is thick tension in the air as we don’t know why our home is surrounded by police officers. Not a word is said between my mother and I. But, it is understood that we must not get involved. We understand that police cooperation is frowned upon in the community. She hesitantly walks up the creaking hardwood stairs and returns to bed. I refuse to sleep though; I don’t know why they are looking for someone. Or if that someone might still be hiding among us? I proceed to stare at the living room wall for the next 4 hours in the darkness with a rapid heart beat. Just waiting for something to happen. When the sun finally goes up, my guard goes down and my eyes close. Why had I stayed up all night? It was due to a variety of reasons. Growing up without a father in the house led to me being very overprotective of my mother, she is my everything. She fills the role of both parents so I have to protect her, she’s all I have. But that isn’t the only reason why I acted so vigilant that night. The summer before this ordeal. An armed home invasion was attempted on my family. Which scared the hell out of my mother but just made myself hypervigilant. We no longer feel safe in our home. Which is why we even installed security cameras in the first place. There are nights where I can’t sleep, because I want to be awake if something bad were to occur. So if anything provoking happens, I stay up in the living room just to be there if someone were to bust through the front door. This is precisely what happened when our surveillance camera was stolen a year prior. When I got into a heated argument with a neighbor over blocking my driveway. And countless other times. I understand that this is not normal for teenagers living in first world countries. But, this is a part of who I am now. In a world full of violence how do we live normal lives? The truth is, statistically speaking, as Americans there is a low probability that you will be the victim of a violent crime. But there are certain parameters that rise the probability. Your zip code, having loved ones who’ve been incarcerated, living in a single parent household, etc. And I meet plenty of those parameters. The vast majority of Americans will go through their lives not being a victim of any heinous crime. What we must understand is that seeing crime after crime being broadcasted on the news makes us worry that it might happen to us. That worry is even worse when something like that happens in your neighborhood or to someone close to you. There is not a single solution to this problem. You have to think about it from both sides. From a logos perspective you can’t be too paranoid, but also have to use some pathos and just always be aware of your surroundings. You have to think about this from a third person point of view. If you use the first person you’re prone to react purely on emotion because you’re taking this personally. Looking at the big picture shows that even in bad neighborhoods the likelihood of being the victim of a violent crime is low. But that likelihood is still noticeably higher than for the average resident in PA. So you understand that caution is needed; whilst paranoia is not.

Aidan McLaughlin

Mr. Block

English 3

Essay #1

September 22, 2019

         I started playing soccer when I was 11 years old. The moment I stepped on the field I knew it was the sport for me. It was the only time I felt fully at peace with myself and with life. It was an action-packed sport, yet somehow it soothed me. Plus the constant running made it hard for my ADD to get the better of me, unlike boring baseball. Over the past 8 years, my experiences on the field have shaped the player I am today.
         Anticipating a shot from the opposing team I stand on the sprayed white line on the dark green field between two posts. I wish the game wasn't tied. I wish I wasn't the keeper, I wish it hadn't made it to shootouts. I wish it wasn't the final game of the playoffs. I wish, I wish, I wish. Before my team shared the pressure together. Now, I hold the entire outcome of the game and that fate of my own team in my hands and feet. Waiting for the shriek of the Ref’s whistle, I feel the need to escape and run back to my brick row home two blocks away from the field. 
       “Twwwwwwwt” the whistle sounded interrupting my thoughts. The sleek 2012 world cup ball cut through the air. I Jumped, but missed. It was over, we had lost and it was because of me. 
         I remember choking back the tears after the game. I remembered my other teammates crying and felt that it was all my fault. I could never fail my team like that again. I had to step up and make sure that I would never let my team down again. Never again!
My breath was visible in the brisk fall air. The trees around the field had begun to change to vibrant red, yellow, and brown hues. I kicked my feet in the dusty ground that had once been a green field. The clouds that arose from the ground reminded me of my breath. I was uncomfortable and unhappy with my placement on the field. I wanted to be up top again scoring goals and making runs, especially since this was a playoff game and our team, Spain, was down by one. Most of all, I want to redeem myself for my failure the previous year. I felt the team giving up,  discouraged by the repeated failed attempts to score a goal. 
         “Keep the intensity, let's win this”! I shout out trying to brighten their spirits. 

I could feel the eyes of the enthusiastic and sometimes enraged parents on the back of my neck and it made my hair stand tall, like a cat confronted by one of its own. The ball was rolling toward me and I ran to greet it past half field. I kicked it with all my strength, my vision only trained on one thing, the goal. I turned around and began my shameful walk back to my side, the ball looked high. I subtle swush indicated that it went in and then a less subtle, “Aidan you did it” yelled by my teammate Gabe who rushed toward me at freight train speed. His excitement was matched by an overwhelming and frantic yelling booming from the sideline. The game was tied. Even though we ended up winning that game, I didn’t feel satisfied. Not with myself. I wanted to be the best; however, I no longer wanted to do it for myself. Well, maybe because I was scared. “Ref how much time is left?” I impatiently asked. “Five minutes,” he responded. The air was heavy with wet heat. I felt the cold beads of sweat escape my pores and roll off my nose and checks, leaving gray splotches on my white dirt stained jersey. My feet, hugged by black and orange cleats, were burning from the heat radiating off the field. The dark green synthetic grass had little black rubbery dots that held the sun’s rays. Looking left and then right I saw the red track surrounding the turf, my dad, my dog, my coach, and my team, decorated in the same white and blue I wore. My attention was swifty grabbed by the red and black jerseys, worn by strangers, weaving through our players. One broke through. My adrenaline forced me to run quicker than I ever had. Things slowed down, I was on his heels. He was split between me and the un-admittedly concussed keeper. I couldn’t let him reach him. My defensive instincts kicked in. My mind was shouting one thing, protect. This team is my family! I firmly grab his shoulder and peel him down like paint off a wall. Immediately the high pitched whistle pierces the air and engulfs my ears. A penalty in the bo was called against me. This was my worst fear, I had let down my team again. I was four years older, but the same 12 year old me walked off the field that day. I thought I was protecting, but I hadn’t. The MVP trophy I received after the season meant nothing to me because I did not see myself as MVP. The gold and blue statue topped with a soccer player mocked me. The congratulations of my teammates only served to remind me that I was a failure. Why had I tried to be at the front of laps during practice? Why had I tried so hard? I will forever strive to be the best, but I will never be satisfied not only in soccer, but because of soccer it now is a part of who I am in my everyday life.

Intro:

My goals of this essay were to explore and try to make the reader understand how sexuality, puberty, identity, and image all interact. I’m proud of the fact that for the first time in a while, I was able to write about these topics with a flow that coincided with my feelings. The random flow and revisiting of memories recent and distant was intentionally sporadic, as to capture my pace of thinking and it’s overlap with what I wanted to write about. I think if I made more time for myself to work on the actual consistency and focus of this piece I’d have put more thought into some of the subtopics I visit. Nonetheless, I’m proud of this piece and hope you can enjoy.

Essay:

I joined social media when I was in middle school, probably 7th grade. I was about 12 when I started looking at my body differently. Resentment towards a prepubescent blocky shape. Fussing with hair, pinching at hips and thighs. Reassured that my body would stretch into a sleeker shape. Reassured I would be handsome, less feminine.

In 7th grade, I wanted an undercut. My mom shaved away the back and sides of my hair with old clippers, frequently asking that I sit up straight and hold still. Afterward, I must’ve burst into tears not moments after peering at my reflection in the mirror. It didn’t matter the cut or color, nothing would take attention away from my round face. Washing the freshly cut hair off my shoulders and back weeping quietly, “I don’t want to be a girl.”

The frustration I had toward my image peaked around the same time I got comfortable with my gay identity. Most media tends to portray homosexual identity in a damaging way. Though the nature of its representation should be empowering, it just creates a false idea of homosexuality. Emphasis on sex, body, clothes, speech, etc. There’s less discussion about bullying, prejudice, guilt, embarrassment, shame.

The shame can kill you. You sit in class, paranoid that someone knows or that someone could find out and tell. You survive the same way everyone else does. Jokes disparaging homosexuality. Slurs with delicious vowels rolling off your tongue, leaving a bitter aftertaste. It’s subconscious and trained. You ́re a sleeper agent, equipped with the perfect comedy to mask your identity. After all, no one knows it better than you.

Being directly asked about your sexuality during this time is the worst. You don’t want to fib, but it’s easier. Maybe you’re being asked encouragingly by male friends, wanting reassurance that you all feel the same affliction to a girl in your class. It could be asked in a mocking tone, by a bully or a group thereof. Until you accept the part of yourself fighting its way out, your answer will remain an untruth, buried beneath shame, guilt, and a false sense of wrongdoing.

My first crush was a boy that likely faced some sort of confusion like I had, but was raised in an environment that lacked tools necessary to understand such feelings. Prolonged hugs in the dark, spooning at sleepovers, confused hormones, unnecessary I-love-yous, and so much shame. He had girlfriends he didn’t have feelings for. I had girlfriends I didn’t have feelings for.

Bargaining is very common, especially while exploring other identities. Yearning for some sort of flexibility, a wider variety of options. Bisexual, pansexual, demi, poly, etcetera. The lies you tell yourself might feel easier when pondering your identity. Lies are moldable, soft, and easy. The truth can be hard to accept. It is inconsiderate and uncaring to what you want, it simply is.

You might consider others with a sort of opulence around their sexuality. Others not like you have more options, lavishly exploring sensuality and feeding their sexual appetite. This isolation can make you grow desperate, yearning for comradery and understanding. A community can be found, whether that be via web forums, clubs, or amongst other outcasts you find yourself crossing paths with.

Early in my life, I found myself with other queer youth in an Instagram group chat, dedicated to some sort of online fantasy roleplay. I didn’t have much interaction with other LGBT folk up until that point, so being surrounded by it was highly liberating. Hours were spent nearly every day, typing, locked into conversation with people much like me. This didn’t wash away my guilt or shame completely, it just made it feel less alien or strange.

I still held a scowl as often as I could, shrouding my rather soft look. After being told by another student that I “walked gay,” my strut became more intrepid, heedless of what was around me. I dragged my uniform shoes, left buttons undone, tried my best to carry a dauntless and uncaring image. Could the way I dress now, (spikes and all) be influenced or a direct causality of this? Yes.

I was constantly focused on my image when I was younger— still am really. My body, my face, my hair. The persona I created was cunning, deviant, sexual. This, in hindsight, was mainly influenced by the queer representation we’ve had and still had. Rebelliousness, disobedience, insubordination. We’re subliminally taught that our very existence, our queerness, is an act of defiance against society, and more often than not, godliness. As if we had any say in the matter of our creation.

Introduction

What my goals were for the essay was to get people to never think of giving up as an option. Always think that you can do anything you put your mind to. Also to know how important it is to always give something a second chance. I’m proud of me telling these two stories to the class because these two stories were very emotional stories for me to talk about and for me to put it out there for people to see it makes me feel happy about myself. One thing I would improve is to make myself write the story as if I am speaking to someone else so that when they read it still feel like they’re right there with me.

Never giving up

All my life I went through it with people giving up on me, never having faith in me, and never trusting me. I’m getting tired of that so there was this teacher who came outside to look at my creation he decided he was going to put all 12 of the batteries on the battery cart that I made for the robotics club the battery cart collapse. At that moment I felt like I was a failure and everybody gave up on me but I wasn’t going to let that determine who I was. they said that someone else should make the battery cart Instead of me and I wouldn’t let them. When I mean that I wouldn’t let them. I wouldn’t give up on myself even though they’re giving up on me.

If you give up on yourself who else is going to believe in you in that moment of time. when no one wants you to do anything for them and they think you’re a failure. I would always say to myself “if you’re not good enough for yourself you’re not good enough for anyone else.” What I mean by this is If you don’t think you’re good enough to do something or to accomplish something who is going to think you can. So there was another incident where someone didn’t believe in me and guess what it was my friend.

So I laid on the ground and counted to 30 after 30 Seconds I was for sure going to do it. So I started 1, 2, 3, I licked my lips wipe the sweat off my face. But all I heard was Dylan screaming at me say ̈are you scared bro are you really scared You’re a wussy.¨ So I got up excitement rushing through my body, I said to myself you ain’t no wussy you can do this. So when I said to myself you ain’t no wussy I meant that I can do anything when I focus.

But at that time I couldn’t focus because Dylan was putting me down he was making me double think everything. I think that was the reason I fell when I was doing the trick. So what I realized after these two events happened, So know whenever I’m getting doubted or someone saying that I’m a failure. I just will not let that get to me and just focus on myself and what I’m doing at that because that can affect what I’m doing at the time. So what I realized after these two events happened, is that people are always going to have people doubt them and It’s not what you do back to them that makes a difference, it’s what you do back to yourself to not let it get to you that’s what makes the bigger difference.

The bigger picture of never giving up to me is that you are going to finish or accomplish the task or challenge at the time no matter how long it takes me to do it. I will work until the blood drips down my fingers and I can’t even stand to pick up my hand for another second. Then I still get up after like 30 because I can’t be happy with myself unless I finish what I started.

Introduction

With this essay, my goal was to convey how I felt about situations I have been through at the moment, versus how I feel about them now. I wanted to show how my opinions have changed as well as how I have changed as a person over time. I’m really proud of how I was able to show moments in my life, as well as how I was able to analyze and break down those situations. One of the ways that I would improve next time would be to plan out exactly what I was going to say in what order. Overall I am pretty proud of this essay.

The first time I was ever approached on the street was while I was waiting for the bus in 6th grade. An older man, in his late thirties, stopped me and said, “I just wanted to let you know that you are so beautiful.” I had no idea what to say, so I just said a confused, “Thank you,” and the man walked away. I was 11 years old, wearing a gray turtleneck and jeans. The situation didn’t exactly scare me; I didn’t feel threatened. For a while, I was pretty flattered, but over time that flattery turned into anger. Not at the man himself, but at the conditions that made him feel like what he said was okay and that something like that would be flattering and not super creepy. In a way, I was also angry with myself. That I had smiled and said thank you, that I had boosted this man’s ego and allowed him to think that what he had said was ok. If I could go back, I would have simply told him my age and allowed him to deal with that information. Throughout middle school, people never really expressed to me that I was pretty. The only validation I got was from the occasional creepy man on the bus I took home every day or someone calling out to me from their car. As scary as those situations were, they also felt new and exciting and grown-up, like now I was invited into the real woman’s club. When I was 14, my mother and I went to the thrift store one day after school. While I was looking through the men’s t-shirt section, a man who looked to be in his sixties came up to me. He started making conversation, asking me if I had found anything good yet. I answered his question and continued making conversation with him. It’s pretty common for older people to talk to me in public. I’m unintimidating, short, young, a girl, all these qualities make me seem approachable. The man and I continued talking until out of nowhere he looked at me straight in the eyes and mumbled: “I live alone just around the block.” I was confused as to why he had said this, so I nodded and went back to looking through the shirts. The man, in a slightly angry voice, restated what he said before, “I live alone just around the block.” Now I understood. All I could think of to say was “I’m here with my mom,” to him, this must-have seemed encouraging because he then said, “Well I can give you my phone number.” At that moment, my flight mode kicked in. I fast-walked away from him and found my mom in another aisle. I whispered what had happened and we left. I tell that story to a lot of people, In my mind, it’s something interesting that has happened to me in my life. In my opinion, if something scary is going to happen to you, at least make a good story out of it, and for a while, I held onto that story like a prized possession. Something about it had oddly flattered me and I couldn’t say why, but I knew that that situation would stick with me forever. It wasn’t until recently that I realized how I was feeling was normal. I was scrolling on Instagram when I saw a post that said: “When you are so used to being catcalled that when you aren’t, you feel like you look ugly that day.” I realized that the way that catcalling made me feel was the way it made a lot of women feel. From a young age, I was conditioned to believe that the only way men were going to find me attractive was if they could view me as a sexual object. Not as a peer or equal. So when I was catcalled or harassed, while I was scared, I also felt complimented, because, in my mind, it was all the attention based on looks I was ever going to get. Over time, I was able to get over the way I was feeling, but it wasn’t easy. It took a lot of personal reflection, therapy, and eventually, medication to get to a place in my life where I didn’t feel like I needed the validation of others to feel attractive or wanted. As I got older, I was exposed to more romantic experiences that I asked for, which helped me realize what I wanted and deserved out of relationships. When I told my mom what the man had said to me at the thrift store, she got extremely angry and wanted to go over and scream at him, but I begged her not too. Now, I wish I had let her. I wish I had taken a picture of him, I wish I had found his workplace and called them. I wish I could make him feel as embarrassed, scared, and small as he had made me feel.