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I laugh in between fast breaths. My twin brother and our friends chased each other around a field fearing nothing except failure. Nothing could be worse than getting frozen in freeze tag, I thought.

As my feet hit the ground, a sudden heaviness wrapped around my ribs. Wisps of constriction began to infect my throat, and I notice that following each inhale, there is a noticeable croak. I stop running. Forget being frozen, I remember being told  ‘an asthma attack can hurt you very badly’. I reach into my back pocket, where a blue inhaler hides. By now however, all my friends are familiar with my asthma. They keep playing, my brother nods to me,

“Are you okay?” He twin-spoke, using the noiseless and lucid language that only two people on the entire planet know.

“Yes, just a second.” I reply, taking the protective cap off of the device I’ve used many, many times now. I sit cross-legged in the dirt, as I feel an invisible twine wrap around my throat. I hold the inhaler to my lips, and pump the device twice. Almost instantly, I feel medicine charge down my throat, and rip through the constriction. I inhale all the air I can, again, again, and again once more. I take a moment to stuff the inhaler back into my jeans, and I stand, catching up with my friends.

I cannot remember a point in my life where I was not carrying an inhaler. I’ve always had a weird relationship with it. When I was very young, it was something that I just carried wherever I went. Sometimes, I would pretend that it was something very special, and I was chosen to carry it. As I got older however, I became more aware that this device was made to save my own life. I was first introduced to the idea of death by asthma when watching a news segment where a woman mourns the loss of her husband, who died during an asthma attack. I remember being paralyzed with fear, and very confused. I knew having an asthma attack was dangerous, but I never imagined myself being seriously injured during one.

For a few years after that, I remember becoming aware of the fact that medicine cost money, and ultimately that inhalers weren’t cheap. Most of the time, I was afraid to check the counter built inside the inhaler, which counted how many more doses were left. If it was too low, my parents would have to buy a new one. This made me very nervous, I thought that my parents buying me an inhaler would make our family go broke. I was almost always fearing an attack, not out of fear for my own health, but out of the idea that the medicine I would always need was expensive and would be always be expensive.

After over fifteen years of living with Asthma, I’ve come to the conclusion that there are many others with the disease, and most of them live perfectly normal lives, and are able to enjoy the things they want to learn. This realization helped me grow out of the complex I grew to have, in which I believed I was a sick child who could not do things normally. Truly, you can live a normal live with Asthma, you just need to be willing to do things you’re excited for without fear. As I continue to learn more about Asthma and how it affects me, I understand my own body, and my own world better. I was intimidated by Asthma when I was younger, but as I learn more about myself, I learn how to worry less, and breathe without much worry.

It’s 5:30 am and it took us about an hour to get there, we were due to board at 8 o’clock. There were seven of us and only two bathrooms. Everyone had to be dressed and ready to eat in a hour and thirty minutes. I can’t remember the last time I got up so early, but that was this morning’s issue. In 2 hours flat I’ve conquered up another issue.

People. So many people. How do you even control such an establishment? People with suitcases and backpacks, all in line waiting for one thing.

Security Checks.

I don’t know why I got so nervous, I didn’t have anything to hide, not anything that might trigger the alarms. I took off my hoodie just in case. I put my side bag and backpack in the bin and waited for my turn.

“Next,” said security.

I held my arms up above my head and spread my legs like the picture showed. Patiently waiting to hear the “clear”. But, I didn’t and my heart started racing. Maybe the machine is broken,  maybe I didn’t have my feet in the right position.

“Step out and then come back in,” the women said.

I stepped inside and mimicked the picture a second time, making sure that I did it exactly. I watched as everyone around me went through the metal detectors. I kept hearing the “clear” over and over again. Patiently waiting for the women to give me my clear.  Instead, I was told to come out and stand on the silhouettes of red feet as the women asked my age and where my guardian was.

“Since she’s under 18, I have to ask your permission to pat her down,” said security.

A pat down? Pat down what? How much could you hide in a T-shirt and tights? The lady explained that my shirt set off the system. I wore an embroidered grey shirt that had the word “Aero” spelled in jewels and glitter. They weren’t even the type of jewels that you could pick off the shirt. I guess the machine had other plans. I never got patted down before and I’ve only seen it happen in the movies. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but by the time the woman was done, I went from being nervous to being irritated. It was almost as if I thought she was going to find something. And of course when she didn’t I felt like the whole process was a waste of everyone's time. My family and I could have already been to the Florida Gate 34 by now.

However, my relief quickly turned back to nervousness as the women came walking towards me with two brown papers in her hands. She swabbed me. My palms were sweaty, I wish she could take retest me. I was frightened because I didn’t know what they were looking for. I didn’t know what type of things could affect the test. I especially couldn’t wrap my 13 year old mind around what “results” they were going to get from wiping paper on my hands. I didn’t know if they were looking for traces of chemicals or testing something completely different. Even at that age my overthinking got the best of me. I tried to slow my heartbeat, thinking that would change the test. Not realizing that a brown paper swab rubbing across my hands could have no correlation with my heart beat. Then I thought about everything that I have touched in the airport. Thinking about that made it worst. I put myself in this guilty position even though I knew I had nothing to hide.  

I didn’t really understand at the time, but people’s jobs have meaning and value. Even the littlest job has a reason for all of it’s tasks. I think about all the horrible plane attacks that have happened over the years. From suicide bombings to gun attacks. As nerve racking and pointless as I thought the checks were I respect that the women took her job seriously. You can not have a truly secure facility if there are special rules for certain people. No matter how simple something could be protocol was made for a reason.

The language teacher pointed at me and began to beckon me with her finger.

“Come here. I have something I want to say to you,” she said.

So far, seventh grade had not been my year at all. I walked around unexplainably miserable and tired all the time. I couldn’t seem to focus long enough to do my homework until the late night or wee hours of the morning, making my grades take a major hit because of it. I also hated my life and everything in it. Why? I couldn’t tell you, especially not without falling apart and bearing what felt like the darkest depths of my soul and inner psyche.

Now, anybody who knows the slightest bit about me knows that I’ve always been that kid that loves school and is always at the top of her game no matter what. For the opposite to now be true, panic spread around me like wildfire. Teachers were concerned, pulling me aside for “talks” with looks of sympathy, and my mom was yelling at me every time she saw anything less than an A on every piece of paper from school. Meanwhile, I was scrambling to fix it all, still trying to figure out what the hell was wrong with me.

We walked over to the side of the gym before she started to speak.

“Now, I’m not sure what’s been going on, but I’ve been hearing your name come up very often.”

My heart began to race as my emotions and words got caught in my throat, rendering me speechless.

“I don’t like that and I found it weird because in my mind I’m like, ‘They can’t be talking about her because she’s always on top of her work and she always tries to do her best.’ ”

My eyes welled up with tears as she continued. I blinked trying to keep my composure and hold back the tears threatening to fall from my eyes. It’s never a good feeling having your teachers talk about how poorly you’ve been performing. Not only do you know you aren’t performing up to standard, but you also hate yourself for it and beat yourself up over it every waking moment of every day.

She doesn’t even get it, I thought.

She kept talking, but my thoughts were louder. I felt the first tear roll down my face, my hand flew up to catch it before anyone could see it. Just as I had done so, another fell from the opposite eye and my world crumbled down around me. She ended her spiel by hugging me. I had never felt so trapped before in my life.

As she turned around to walk away, I quickly turned about face, darting for the bathroom to clean myself up. With my luck, it was inevitable for me to run into two peers that I rarely talk to who’d definitely never seen me with tears streaming down my face.

I dodged their questioning, left the bathroom and sat with my friends, making sure nobody was looking at me funny along the way. Just like that, I had managed to pick my entire life up off the ground and bandage it together just enough so that it would appear like I had everything together like I always do.

School for me had become stressful. Waking up early to get to school early, rushing around to classes, and then going home to do more work was a lot and it took a toll on my mental health. I had to realize that it was okay to not have everything together all the time. I learned that it was okay to just cry it out sometimes and let yourself feel. Maybe not in the middle of the school gym like I did, but you get the point. School is a challenge and your mental health is a lifelong battle. Though it may be hard, you have to speak up for yourself and do what is best for who you are and what you’re capable of. You're going to struggle without a doubt, no matter who you are, but you get to decide how you overcome and learn from each challenge you face while being in school.

Justine Koffi

Pahomov

English II

21 September 2018

The First Day

SEPTA stands for Southeastern Pennsylvania Transportation Authority, but that’s really code for a very confusing system of of buses, trolleys, light rail, and commuter rail. My first time falling victim to this intricate, complex system was the summer of sixth grade.

It was the 29th of June, the first day of Breakthrough, a summer program that I was attending.  My sixth grade teacher encouraged me to apply to further my education during a time most people would be on vacation. At first, was reluctant to apply because it was all the way at 34th street, but I thought it would be be beneficial in the long run. Since that morning was my first time taking SEPTA, my friend agreed to to take the bus with me. This brought me great relief but unfortunately, I was running late that morning so she left me.  She instructed me to take the bus that stops right in front of her house. So I did.

“Next stop, 57th and Spruce!” As I sat on the bus, I thought it was kind of peculiar that the numbers were increasing rather than decreasing  since I had to be at 34th Street. She’s taken SEPTA so she knows more than I do, right? I  then dozed off a little, only to hear, “This is the last stop.”

I knew I was nowhere near where I  needed to be and I started to panic. My eyes started to fill up with tears. I had no idea where I was and I was already late. I finally decided to just go home and start the process over.  It took about 30 minutes, but I got back to my house. I called my sister and she told me to walk to Market and take the Market Frankford Line to 30th street.

The first thing I did when I   got there was go to the bathroom and get myself together before classes started. I was nervous to meet everybody, and I was determined to not let anything get in the way of me having a good first day.

The day was a success, despite my horrible morning and it was now time to leave.

As we were waiting for the bus, there was a woman who was acting kind of strange. She was talking to herself and screaming randomly. I just ignored her. I caught my friend looking right into the eyes of the strange woman, and just before I could tell her to look away, the woman started to walk towards us. My heart was racing. My first thought was to run, but that was quickly shot down because she may have tried to chase me which was  even more scary.

“What are you girls doing here?” she screamed as if she was my mother and caught me somewhere I wasn’t supposed to be. I thought I was going to have a panic attack. “You’re too pretty to be in these streets!” she said as she slowly walked towards us. Was she delirious? I could smell cigarettes and weed all over her. I was lost in thought when she just shifted and bolted towards us, as to chase us away because we weren’t meant to be there. We ran, without looking back for even a second. I ran out of breath at the end of the block and turned back only to see that she was still way back at the bus stop.

I wanted to just leave and never look back, but my friend was convinced that we had to go back to that specific stop in  order to catch the bus, when we could've actually walked two more blocks to wait at the next bus stop. She wanted to go back, for the thrill maybe? I don’t know but being the follower I was back then, I went with her blindly.

As expected, the strange woman got angry and started screaming at us. All I could think was how much of an idiot I was to follow her knowing that it wasn’t right to come provoke her more. The same thing happened and my friend wanted to go back again. She had a smile on her face as if this was the best part of her day. I decided to walk to the next bus stop and she didn't follow me. I was proud of my decision, in that moment I stood up for myself which was something I wasn’t familiar with.

I couldn’t help but to look back. I saw that my friend picked up a crate, probably to fight back instead of running. To this day, I don’t know what happened and I honestly don’t care.

Although the day started and ended terribly, I still considered it one of the most influential days of my life.

Nile Shareef-Trudeau

Ms. Pahomov

English 2

September 21, 2018

The clock ticks to twenty minutes before closing. It was time for me to go home. I began to turn off the many lights that lit up the shop. I hear steps creaking from upstairs where my Grandad is, which means he’s gotten up from where he was working and is getting ready to take me home. When I am done closing up, we head out to his car.

After the many times my grandad has taken me home, I am pretty much prepared for what the subject of the ride is going to be. It could be one of three things, either the pristine work I am expected to be doing in school, how I should set my future up to be better than all those who came before me, or we just jam to the various genres of music being played on one of his cd’s.

“You know there are a lot of people doing different things in the world,”

My grandad says to break the otherwise silent car ride. I nod my head at first, not really understanding what he was talking about.

“Gays, transgenders.”

Ahh that’s what he meant, here we go. Just agree with what he says and maybe he won’t have extra questions and we can move on from this quickly, I think as I gaze out the window to the trees on lincoln drive.

“We accept them, although it’s pretty weird. You know, people aren’t really understanding that we need men and women to be together so that we can make more life. And then changing your body like that, it’s just not right.”, He goes on.

“Mhmm,” I reply.

I realize this is who my mom gets it from. I like to think she’s a little more open minded to topics of controversy. Then again, I can’t forget the time she stereotyped me as looking like a lesbian; short cropped hair and a nose ring. I was thirteen and had just recently cut my hair very close to my head. I was very excited because I had just gotten a fake septum ring for my nose. Later when I showed my mom, she said it was cute. However, she wouldn’t let me wear it outside the house because people might think I was a lesbian. This made me so upset, and eventually brought me to tears. Not because I was secretly a lesbian but because I never thought I should be worried about what others think of me. If I looked a certain way and people assumed things about me, so what! At the end of the day, they don’t know me.

“People may try and pressure you,” My Grandad says.

“But you can’t let them get to you.” He adds.

“Yeah,” I say, while I laugh in my thoughts because of how ignorant he is being to the fact that being gay isn’t a choice. If I was LGBTQ, pressure from my peers wouldn’t have an affect on who I am.

We arrive at my house and I’m free of his corrupted idea on the LGBTQ community. As I gather my things and step out of the car I look back and think about the recent experience I had with attempting to figure out my sexuality and finding myself. I wonder how my family would have handled it if I came to the conclusion that I did identify to be in the LGBTQ community. I let out a hmph kind of sound, with a smirk on my face as I walk up to my door, key in hand.

As I think back on this instance and the other times similar to this one, I realize that these are the moments that shape people. Those so called “make or break” moments that people have. I believe that hearing the views of my elders and those who surround me is important in the development of myself. Yes, hearing this from my Grandad, or even my mom doesn’t have an affect on my sexuality but it does open my eyes to the ridicule others must experience. Giving me a greater sense of sympathy and more of an open mind. I am thankful for this, because for some, this experience could have made them ignorant and oblivious if they chose to “go with it” instead of learn from it. We can choose our path in life and accept other people, as well as get it through our heads that we may not understand people’s notions. We must be able to adapt and find peace within ourselves, and the ever growing society we live in.

Jonathan Rodebaugh

Ms. Pahomov

9/19/18

The Ride

I start to walk up the long side walk of Frankford Transportation Center. It was my first day taking Septa by myself. I was shaking, every person I saw seemed like they were staring right through me. I walked into the building of the transportation center. I felt clueless even though I knew where to go. Throughout my childhood I have taken the L with family and felt fine about it, but sometimes I just feel really insecure about the little things. For example, if I accidently took something that wasn’t mine, I would have nervous breakdowns and not be able to sleep.  In the building I asked a million questions, just to make sure I was going in the correct place. I stepped onto the escalator that looked a mile long, as it crept higher I felt my heart pounding louder and louder.

As I got on the train, I was still unsure on what I was supposed to do. The train was mostly empty, except a man in the back. He had headphones on and a black hoodie. I asked him if the train went to my destination. He gave me an unclear answer that made me a little more uneasy. The door closed and there was no turning back now. As the train started to move, fear spread all through my body, The only thing I could think about was how many stops were left till my stop.  As the train got closer, I got more anxious. When I am a little worried about something, I get super stressed, and that is what was happening. I kept reminding myself that I had done this before and been fine. My brother, just a week before, showed me step by step on what to do. Now I felt like I forgot everything.

The almost empty train felt so cold. I was sitting alone, feeling lonely and nervous. I felt weird because I was alone, usually, I would  have a brother or a friend to talk to and just keep me company. In replacement I just have me and my thoughts. At this moment, my thoughts just sounded like a million people screaming at me. I couldn't even think, my head felt like it was going to explode with anxiety. I was counting down the stops, and also trying to pass the time until it was my turn to get off the train.  Finally, it was my stop. It felt like I was on there for hours. As I got off the train I let out a big sigh of relief. I have almost accomplished my journey. I walked on the dirty tile of 13th street station, I felt free being off the train. I neared the trolley stop, and was excited to almost be done, but I just got nervous all over again.

I arrive at the trolley stop, the automatic doors open and I walk up the steep steps and find an empty seat in the trolley. I sat down and my shaking began again. I just stared at the outside the window to make sure I did not miss my stop. Then a girl who looked about my age noticed my anxiety, and asked me, “Hey, are you ok?” I said yes, and that I was just really nervous. This was the first time in my trip that I was at ease, because someone related to me. Then I noticed my legs shook a little less than before. I had a renewed belief in myself that I could accomplish this trip.

The trolley rolled up to my stop, the doors opened and I hopped off. Then I started walking toward the steps up to the street. Each step up felt like a little more nerves were falling off my back, like a weight was being lifted. As I got to the outside, the light of the sun hit me in the face. That light felt like victory. Even though this might be a small accomplishment for some people it was huge for me. I walked up to my destination, then let out a big sigh of relief. I felt more independent, and that I could do something on my own and be okay.

Foreign

“Hey Preston, do you want to go play outside with the other children?” The woman in front of me asked.

She scared me. Her body, centimeters away from mine, made me feel tiny; like David and Goliath. It was as if her closeness to my personal bubble wasn't enough to make me uncomfortable. I could not understand a single word she was saying. She continued on but I couldn’t find a clear answer. Torrents of tears started flowing rapidly from my eyes, causing my vision to blur, nose to clog, and left a salty taste in my mouth. This was the first time in my entire life that I felt pressured.

“Did you guys watch the new Spongebob episode?”

What were they talking about? The only show I knew was Old Master Q. They all moved to sit at the table in front of me and began to discuss about the new episode of this foreign show. Again, my vision began to blur, my hands sweaty, and again, I could taste the oh-so-familiar salty liquid course through the interior of my mouth. This was the first time in my entire life that I felt clueless.

When I was in kindergarten, I hardly understood any English. Whenever I went to school, I wouldn’t communicate with any other kids because I couldn’t understand what they were saying. I felt lonely in school. Kids would speak to each other and discuss  T.V shows and toys while I sat in silence and listened. Everything I did was in Cantonese or Japanese: music, shows, my communication. The word was clueless, the cluelessness transformed into knowledge. As the world changed, so did my knowledge. I was starting to get exposed to things that were once foreign to me.

“Go wish your aunts and uncles a Happy Chinese New Year,” Mom said.

Her voice, along with the voices and conversations of the crowded dining room, gave me a brain freeze. I began to walk towards my family members on the other side of the room. My hands shaking, breathing unsteady, eyes focused on the ground. I had no idea what to say. It’d been a year since I used those phrases. I’d been exposed to so much English, that I’d fallen in love. I’d forgotten so much Chinese that I could barely pass the Chinese course I was taking.

“新年快樂!” Aunt Lisa said.

I chuckled nervously. “新年快樂!” I replied.

She waited patiently for me, red envelopes in hand. My mouth opened, then shut. I looked up quickly at her tense gaze and hurriedly averted my eyes elsewhere. My hands began to sweat again and my mouth began to dry. I regained my posture, taking a few deep breaths, and quickly excused myself.

“I have to use the bathroom, I’ll be right back. Auntie.”

This was the fastest I’d ever ran in my life. I rushed past the herd of people and shoved my way through until I reached the men’s bathroom. I stared in the mirror, thinking about the disappointment I’d face; the sneers, the looks of failure. The phrases began to resurface in my head. They don’t see the Preston that struggles with balancing two languages or the young boy who felt clueless and pressured throughout elementary school. They see the young boy who was able to speak multiple languages and is self-confident and strong.

I rinsed my face and stared into the mirror. I was going to wish them a Happy New Year and begin to balance my love for all languages, and attempt to speak all the languages I’m exposed to with the best of my ability.

“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.    

Mo Kelly

Pahomov

English II

21 September 2018

Sexual Assault in the City

“Do you wanna hang out with me and Ida tonight?”

The text was from my friend, Kate. I instantly smiled and replied with a yes. It was the first warm night of the year, and I was desperate to leave my stuffy house to hang out with my two closest friends.

When I got to Ida’s house, they came right out.  They were dressed similar to me; in shorts and a tank top, the perfect spring clothes. We all shared a smile and began to walk down the street.

“My mom told me not to go to the playground once it gets dark, but do you want to go anyway?” Kate asked.

I thought about it for a while. I’ve lived in the city my entire life, and I’ve never encountered anything scary in the night before. It was only a playground, what was the worst that could happen? We all agreed and went on our way.

The warm breeze hit our face as we laughed and talked on our way to the park. It was great to finally be able to be outside again and even better to be with friends during it. The sun was slowly setting, and the pink and orange sky lit up our path ahead of us.

At the park, we found a place to sit down and continued talking. Around us there were some kids playing. As the sun set, they slowly began to leave. Soon, we were the only people there.

What was her mom so worried about? I thought to myself. After all we weren’t kids, we were teenagers. We knew how to be safe.

In the middle of my thought, I heard a rustle in the grass. The others heard it too. I looked up and saw a group of kids on bikes laughing. They were acting just like we were, I paid no attention to them. It was just a bunch of kids having fun.

But, they slowly started getting closer to us. The kids with bikes started circling us and began laughing louder than before. Still, I tried my hardest to not pay attention to them.

“Hey,” Someone shouted, “You guys are cute.” We muffled a thanks and started shifting away from them. I started to get very uncomfortable, “Are those IPhones?” Kate shot up and started walking away, quietly telling me that we needed to leave.

Still, they kept following us. I said goodbye to them, trying to be polite, but they wouldn't leave us alone. One boy started throwing rocks and sticks at our legs. We just moved faster.

            “They grabbed my butt.” That was when I knew I needed to get out of there, and fast. I shared a look with Kate, and we began running. The warm breeze that was so refreshing earlier was now just an obstacle getting in the way of my safety.

I ran until I noticed that Ida wasn’t with us. Panicked, I tried to search for her. My heart was beating so fast I could feel it in my throat.

“Where is she?” I shouted.

As I was spinning, a portion of the same group of kids marched up to us. Behind them, I saw Ida, slowly walking with the other kids. She was visibly scared, but she was staying cool, calm and collected. I almost wanted to laugh. She was much smarter than us.

She made her way back to us, and we yanked her away from the kids. Thankfully, there were a few girls there who stopped the group from doing anything else to us. They left as loudly as they came, and we turned the opposite direction.

“Are you okay?” We all asked each other. Everyone said yes, but no one really meant it.

I was pulled into a group hug, and I could feel everyone shaking from fear. We reluctantly pulled away and began our walk home. Although it was only a few blocks, it felt like miles.

Ida explained to us later that she thought we were right behind her when she started walking with the kids. She was walking with a few girls, who she said were actually really nice to her.

“I didn’t want to scare them or anything,” She said when I asked why she stayed with them, “I was just trying to stay calm.”

What she did really opened my eyes on what to do in these situations. You can do dumb things when you’re scared, like we did that night. Running away only made us more vulnerable. If I stayed calm, they would’ve seen that I wasn’t afraid of them and they would've left. Most young kids that do things like this just want to try and scare you.

After that night, I have been hesitant to go out in the dark or go out at all. It was one of the scariest things I’ve ever experienced. But, now I know what to do in a situation like this one: stay calm. Getting in a panic will help no one.

I made a mistake that night. But, that mistake helped me realize something incredibly valuable. Something I will never forget.

“Okay everybody, here is your benchmark project instructions.”

The day after Ms. Gasser gave us the project, we brainstormed some more ideas and came up with two inspirations for our city. We were going to take some inspiration from Philadelphia and Elon Musk, CEO of Tesla Motors. We chose Philadelphia because that is where we live and we wanted to use its street systems to help us design our own. Elon Musk was going to help us with naming our city and its buildings/streets. We had two weeks to finish this project in its entirety.

On January 9, 2018, we decided to walk around center city after school to look at the street system in Philadelphia. We were gonna take a few SEPTA buses around center city and take some notes on what we noticed. Our first bus trip went almost flawlessly and we got some great notes on how our cities streets work. On the first bus, we rode up and down Market street a few times to make sure we didn't miss anything on our notes and then the bus broke down. The person next to us was really angry. He was a twenty-something-year-old guy in business attire. He shouted at the top of his lungs.

“I’m late for my interview dammit!”

After what felt like forever, they let us off the bus and a tow truck came and took it off the street.

Our second trip went worse. When we got on the bus, it wasn’t very crowded, but after the first two stops it felt like the entire city was on the bus.

“Hey stop bumping into me. Thank you,” someone said.

“It’s not my fault this bus is so crowded,” they replied.

It was impossible to take any notes on there because we couldn’t see and we didn’t have enough room to pull out our phones to take notes on. At our last stop, we decided to get off and walk back to the original stop.

In the freezing cold temperatures, it was a painful walk back. Every few blocks we had to jump inside a store for a few minutes, but we made it back to the stop alive and now we were going to get on our final bus for the day.

This was the worst trip out of the three. Mostly because I got us lost, but partly because it was still cold outside. While waiting for a bus to take us back to SLA, it started snowing, then we saw a bus come down the street. I told Ari and Matthew that it was our bus and they followed me on without checking the bus number. It took us maybe 10 stops before we realized that we were on the wrong bus. We hopped off the bus urgently and tried to figure out where we were. Our phones came out of our pockets without hesitation. We found out we were only a 15-minute walk from SLA so that’s what we decided to do.

The snow, wind, and temperature made the walk brutal.  When we finally got back to SLA we were freezing cold and covered in snow, so we took a break and decided to warm ourselves up before we looked over our notes.

The most important note that we had was that there were no unnecessary streets. Every street was used and helped the flow of traffic get through the city quickly. Also, most of the smaller streets flowed into bigger streets to direct traffic to the main streets. So, when we designed the road system of our city project, we used a minimalist approach. We used as few streets as possible and we only had a few main streets, but every small street led into the main street.

Even after getting lost, the freezing temperatures and the broken down bus studying the street system in Philadelphia allowed us to create a beautifully designed city for our project. The journey around Philadelphia allowed us to prevent the problems we faced when we designed our city. We created a street system that would, in theory, prevent people from getting lost, long waits on broken down buses, and overcrowded buses.

The teacher begins to teach her lesson on propaganda and its influence in society. She shows us 3 videos on how the different aspects of it trigger different ideas. Of course, the first one triggered emotional ideas and it had to be a film on the poverty in Africa. I felt several pairs of eyes burning into the side of my face. Here we go.

How the media portrays the living situations and lifestyles of Africans is a very inaccurate, yet vivid image. They painted us as the lowliest and the loneliest. We’re seen as anorexic, dirty, needy, and uncared for people in a neglectful society. When you think of Africa, your mind redirects to wild animals roaming around the village and little kids in minimal clothing. Or a medical station with cots all pushed together while the cameraman zooms into the little boy, his bones defining his body and his sweat matching his mother’s tears. Or better yet, a short documentary of a little African girl walking 5 miles to her only source of water, with healing feet that get the same recurring cuts everyday due to lack of shoes.

“With only a dollar a day dramatic pause, zooms in on stomach of hungry child, sad music gets louder we can help feed all the starving children in Africa.” I hate this, why do we have to listen to this bullshit bs? Can a dollar a day help educate this woman? Sheesh. Why is it that this is so easy to believe? But God forbid it be true that kids can grow up stable, have an amazing childhood and never fear for food not being on their dinner table. That education is provided, that clean water exists, and that they walk from place to place in shoes, and still are raised in Africa.

I hear someone across the room make a smart remark, “Do they even have clean water?” I take it upon myself to raise my voice and say “Yes,” head turning as fast as my soundwaves reach the ear of the imbecile. Turning back around slowly, sharing a glare and an eye roll with them and their peer. Mainstream media and their lies leave a permanent mark in the heads of the close minded. There are many places all over the world that lack proper distribution of food and resources. Why is it that they choose to bash Africa? Even if it were true, that Africans have very limited resources, why do people make fun of it? Poverty must be funny right? Where does the term African booty scratcher even come from? When you surround yourself with lies, you end up sounding just as foolish as the person behind them. Yes, some parts of Africa suffer from severe poverty, but so do many other places around the globe. Didn’t we learn that many countries in Africa were raided by invaders because of their resources and goods? Or did that history lesson jump over your head and all you got from it was enslavement?

To be African has several different definitions. Either you embrace the fact that your ancestors were slaves or indulge in the greatness that you and/or your parents are African immigrants. My parents with their Ivorian and Malian blood makes me genetically apart of two countries in West Africa. As a family, we’re all gracefully allowed to take pride in being bilingual, or so in my parents case, multilingual. Growing up African was never something to take pride in. To continuously be ridiculed by a bunch of uneducated nuisances, for being different and an outsider had a lot of cons to it, barely any pros. I wasn’t known as Hawa, I was known as an African booty scratcher who isn’t familiar with clean water and buildings as if I built huts in my free time. I didn’t consider this as bullying and I still don’t. This was a time in my life where I was forced to find the beauty in where I come from, because I am who I am and no matter the negative and biased opinions that come with it, the pride I take in my African blood is far greater than the irrelevant and ignorant comments deriving from a sad soul.

Kankoue D. Folly

Ms.Pahomov

English 2

18 September 2018

                                                  The Pain Microaggressions Cause

It really started two summer ago, racial profiling that is. It began once I started to grow taller and taller. First, it was the unintentional staring and the pulling back of purses that occured on the bus and public areas. At first I didn’t care, however things start to get annoying over the course of time. I thought it would go away, I thought I would soon be safe from the stereotypes that come with the color of my skin, this never happened it never got better if anything it worsened. I eventually got used to this daily mockery is what I considered it.

“Goodbye.” I said to my parents before I exit the house.

“Have a good day.” My mother answered back with a heavy accent.

It was a chilly morning so I put on my hood as soon as I got out of the house, put on my headphones and started walking to the bus stop. When I  finally reached the bus stop there was no one there except for a lady with a handbag and cigarette between her fingers. I walked past her and stood behind the bus stop, mostly to avoid the smell of the burning cigarette.  As soon as she saw me I could see the fear she had instilled in her, she held her bag closer to her, I ignored this.

“She’s just worried about her belongings, it's normal” I thought to myself. I took out my phone in an attempt to make things less awkward. Then,I started to get anxious,

“Whats taking the bus so long?” I started thinking to myself. The bus seemed to be nowhere near us so there I stood with this lady that would look back at me every fifteen seconds to make sure I wasn’t going to rob her. The bus eventually came and when I got on I sat all the way in the back, to avoid making any more people second guess their safety because of my color and size. The bus picked up more and more people at every stop, then we eventually reached the transportation center. I walked down the stairs and went into the terminal and there I waited for the broad street line southbound express to arrive. The terminal was pretty packed I could tell that the train would be packed as soon as it arrived, I shook my head in discontent.

“Doors are opening ” Said the robotic voice as when the train arrived and started opening its doors. I entered the train and unsurprisingly it was packed. I made my way over to the closest empty seat and unfortunately for  me it was an older civilian. This resulted in the usual response of gripping the bag and facing the window to avoid eye contact. I sat there and pretended not to care or notice, but the longer this went on, and the harder I tried, the  angrier I got. It wasn’t normal anger, rather it consisted mostly of confusion, I was angry about how I was being treated and I had no idea as to why I was being treated so.

“Why do you clench your bag?” I thought to myself. As the train stopped in Race-Vine, I thought about asking the lady the question, however I decided it was not worth my time. I got  off at the next stop and took off my hoodie. I took off my hoodie as if it was going to make any difference. As I was walking it came to the conclusion that people will always judge me based on the color of my skin, no matter how hard they try. This made me understand what I was going to have to endure everyday for possibly the rest of my life. Something not only unique to me but to every other black male out there. It made me think about how I was a lucky one, the fact that I haven’t been shot, or killed like some black males my age. I was lucky that I was alive.  Now that I look back on certain incidents, I do not blame people for what they do, rather, I blame their surroundings, for people are a product of their surroundings. People do not just act towards me the way they do because I am black rather it is because of the things I, a black male, is portrayed as in society. To this day, I still undergo racial profiling on a day to day basis. Everytime I see that my presence causes the squeezing of belongings, I too squeeze my eyes shut, and I think of a better tomorrow.

Michal Czapla

9/21/18

E-Band

POL-ish

“What’s that weird food?”

I mindlessly closed my SpiderMan lunch bag. It was a new week of Kindergarten, and I thought that I would bring one of my favorite meals for lunch that day. Polish potato dumplings, or “pierogi”, were quite literally heaven in my mouth. The soft, doughy shell enveloping a pile of toasty mashed potatoes danced on my tastebuds. I always ate it at home, as my family would always make them every now and then. It was normal to eat them. So, when a kid named Brendan pointed them out, goosebumps tingled down my skin. My mind felt hollow. All those years of chowing doing on my beloved pierogi were now shameful memories.

“I don’t know,” I replied,”My mom put it in my bag.”

I felt the sweat oozing out of my pores. Brendan, however, simply spinned around and waddled along his way.

It seemed that I always had trouble with being open about my Polish heritage. I felt like an alien around all these Americans discussing about things I didn’t grow up with. While they were talking about ‘Tom & Jerry’, all I could think of is ‘Bolek & Lolek’, a Polish show about two brothers fighting with one another and getting into trouble. Playing football was news to me, since Poland’s main sport was soccer. I practically had a ball by my feet at all times, which most didn’t understand why. No matter what, I could never fit in. So naturally, my solution to that was acting. If they saw me as on of them, they wouldn’t judge me.  

One day, everyone in my class was hyped up. The wooden desks were shoved to the corners of the room, and the big red beat box was brought out. As soon as “Teach Me How To Dougie” came on, the class went nuts. It was a flood of 6 year olds shuffling their light up sketchers all over the dusty plank floor. My mind spiraled out of control. My heart pounded from under my chest as though it would burst after every beat.

What on earth was going on?

I was so used to hearing Polish Disco: a lot of bass drops and catchy choruses. My type of dance was hopping up and down, or taking a pretty girl and twirling her around. This was nothing I had ever experienced before. Lifting up my feet felt like a dumbbell was pulling it to the ground. My legs tangled and intertwined as I tried shuffling my shoes, which turned out to look like me trying to kick the ground. My limbs were just flailing in every direction. It was almost as though I was in a different body.

The funny thing is, I probably received more weird looks trying to do the shuffle rather than suggesting my own music. I continued not to realize that, though, and I kept on shuffling. It wasn’t until one day, while we were in a reading circle, that everything changed. I had a select group of friends in my class, so anyone else who wasn’t part of it was just a stranger to me. That included the girl seated next to me. Our teacher, Ms. Gudis, assigned us as reading buddies. Naturally, as we sat down and started reading a picture book, I asked a bit about her.

“So, what’s your name?” I questioned.

“Karolina.”

My eyes widened, jaw cracked open. That sounded just like a Polish name. I had to be sure, though, so I pressed on.

“Where are you from, Karolina?”

“Oh well I was born in Philadelphia…”

Why would I get my hopes up?

“...but my family come from Poland.”

I nearly let out a screech. My slouched posture on the pillow underneath me had now turned into straight one. At that moment, I did the unthinkable: I told her about my Polish heritage. For the entire class period, we shared countless stories about how we struggled to fit into the crowd. We discussed things such as not celebrating April Fools Day, but rather Smigus Dingus, where boys would pour water over girl’s head on Easter Monday. With each story, I grew more and more excited about the topics. For once I felt proud of my culture.

I am not going to sit here and say that everyone loved my Polishness, thought I was a cool cat, and I lived happily ever after. However, school life did become more enjoyable. Everytime I opened my lunchbox, I could munch on my snacks in peace and even give a little story about them. Every now and then, I would sing a tune from a ‘Disco Polo’ song. The world didn’t end, and people simply accepted that it was me. A few kids even loved it!

The point is, you shouldn’t be ashamed of your roots. Your culture is just part of the building blocks that make you, you. Sometimes, it even spices things up. Not everyone is going to like you for it, but not everyone is life is going to like you anyways. You just have to express yourself the way you’ve always wanted to, and the positive people are the ones that will be attracted.

Randy Le

Ms. Pahomov

English 2

September 21, 2018

911, What’s Your Emergency?

The aching sounds from my father was painful. I felt like it was looping through my mind as I tried to sleep. I wondered if closing my eyes would help, but it only made the sound louder.

I got off the bus and walked along the sidewalk to my house. I was feeling the scorching hot rays from the sun that laid upon me. Every step, I could hear a different noise that resembled the painful sound from my father and would never stop—until I stop.

I finally arrived at my house and went directly upstairs. My father was lying on the ground, next to my bed. I looked to see if he was okay, but I couldn’t tell because he was sleeping. I went back downstairs, put my bookbag on the couch, and proceeded to find some food.

When I was younger, I was not entirely focused on anyone’s well-being. I was loud, energetic, and only wanted to play around. I remember my father doing some heavy-duty work, but it was nothing that I really cared for. Most of the time, I would be at  my grandma’s house, playing with my cousins. Until I got older, this was the story of my relationship with my father. Eventually, all the heavy-duty work built up and caused some wear and tear on my father’s body. It was not until I was age 11, where I could see the detrimental side effects of the sciatica. It would come back every year and strike my father with excruciating pain. I wasn’t the only one witnessing his pain, but that didn’t make me feel safe with how my father’s welfare was going.

My dad shouted from up stairs, “Randy! Randy!”

“Yes? What’s up?” I said, rushing upstairs to his room.

My father asked, “Can you get me a bottle of water?”

“Sure, no problem.” I replied back while rushing downstairs to grab a bottle from the fridge.

“Here you—” I said as I walked in the room, shocked at what I seen.

My father started to groan in pain while I stood there in shock. He was rolling on the ground, pointing towards his back and left leg while my muscles tensed up.

My brother, Kenny, rushed in and asked “What is happening?”

“I don’t know!”

Kenny and I panicked as he told me to go get his medicine from downstairs. I searched through multiple plastic bags, in hopes I could find a bottle of pills, but no luck. I went upstairs with a disappointed look on my face as I saw Kenny holding a phone to his head.

I unintentionally shouted, “Who are you calling?”.

“Keep it down, Randy. I’m on the phone with the ambulance.”

I sat down on my bed and waited for Kenny to be done talking. I wasn’t sure what was going to happen but the thought of my father being gone shadowed over my mind. I tried to not think about it but, the pain I just witnessed was like no other. I felt my throat begin to choke up and my face becoming numb. The ambulance finally arrived as I could barely watch the process of getting my father into the truck. The ambulance team had to act quick and needed certain requirements to bring my father from the second floor to the first floor. The first step was to check if my father was in a suitable position to be placed in a mobile chair. The team had to work together with my father so no one else gets hurt because the team must lift my father down many steps. At some moment the agonizing pain would build up to my father as he began to yelp in pain.

“Sir, we need you to stay still so we can transport you to the vehicle,” said one of the ambulance workers.

Eventually, my father would be brought to the ambulance and my brother joined them to make sure he was okay. My mom told me to go to sleep because it was getting late, but I just couldn’t. The thought of my father wouldn’t go away. There was a indefinable sound that I couldn’t put my mind to, but it haunted me for the rest of the night.

Ever since that day, I wish for sciatica to never strike back at my father (or anyone). He had returned from the hospital in just a few days after, and he’s in good shape today. I found that, just in an instance, one thing could turn anyone’s life in any direction. Without my parents, I wouldn’t be living the life I have now and the days without my father being home were the worst. After being seperated from my father, it made me realize that my parents were the most important people in my life.

I peer out of the cramped window as the skyline of Toronto comes into sight, my field of view increasing as the plane descends.

I hear the captain on the PA system, “Flight attendants prepare for landing.”

The first thing I see is the CN Tower, the tallest building in North America. I feel overwhelmed with excitement as the small wheels come out from beneath the plane. I get to experience the cultures of a new city!
As a present for my 15th birthday, my mom gave me the choice to visit either Chicago, Washington D.C, or Toronto, Canada. At the mention of going to Toronto, my heart fluttered. I had been to Canada once before and had desired to go back since then.

“I’ll let you think about it,” she said when I didn’t respond.

“Toronto!” I exclaimed.

“Well, you’re enthusiastic. I’ll look at plane ticket prices tonight.”

A few weeks later, I was setting foot on the train that would take us from the airport to the city. A video plays when the doors close and the train starts. “Whether you are visiting Toronto for the first time or are returning home, welcome!” The calming voice of the recorded message plays. I lean back in my seat and stare out of the window. We pass a friendly looking park as the video names famous attractions in the city. All I could think was that I could not wait to visit all of those cool places!

I sit at the table next to my mom, her computer set in front of us.

On the screen, it reads, “Top 20 things to do in Toronto, Summer 2017.”

We read the travel blog’s article together. It lists the typical things you find on a travel site, such as museums or landmarks. However, one thing catches our eye.

“The Canadian National Exhibition: Celebrating 150 years.”

“I forgot, Canada is celebrating its 150th anniversary this year! We have to go to this,” my mom tells me.

After they scan my ticket, I walk through the turnstile. I gasp at everything I see, trying to take it all in at once. A huge banner, with every color imaginable, announcing the 150th anniversary spans my vision. Many pavilions stretch across the 192 acres set aside for this festival. My mom and I are not sure where to go first! Perhaps the food pavilion? How about the petting zoo? I wish there was something like this back in Philadelphia; I could stay here all day.

“What else should we do in Toronto?” I asked my mom. “We are spending three days there, but there is only one thing we’ve planned.”

We were going to the Canadian National Exhibition, but so far that was it. While we both had ideas of what to do, nothing was permanent.

“We should visit my dad’s cousins,” my mom mentions. “I haven’t seen them in a long time. They do live in Toronto.”

“That sounds good. We should meet them for dinner one night,” I respond.

We climb out of our Uber and head towards the restaurant. I am excited to see my family for the first time since my Bat Mitzvah, two years ago. I wonder if they’ll even remember me, I think to myself. Of course they will silly, you only saw them a couple of years ago, I reassure myself

A hostess greets us and brings us to the table with my family. The butterflies in my stomach flutter, making my insides churn. Why am I so nervous?

“Hi! It’s so good to see you! You’ve grown so much!” My great-aunt Vera stands up and embraces me in a warm hug. The butterflies fly away, and I immediately feel more relaxed. We eat and talk for what seems like forever.

Finally, my mom looks at her phone and announces, “It’s Ten o’clock, we should be heading back to the hotel.”

I am so happy I got this time to catch up with my family. I am also glad to get back to our hotel and rest. This vacation has been so much fun. I really got to see cultural differences between Toronto and Philadelphia. Even though the city is just a short distance away, the culture is still different. Toronto is focused on the environment and urban improvement so much, I quality I would love to see everywhere. Everyone there is so kind to everyone they meet, from passers-by to new friends. I can’t wait to come back to Canada.

It was July of 2017, in Cambodia, where it was always a scorching 98 degrees almost daily. That day was no exception, and it felt even more humid than it ever was. Still, I wasn’t going to let this weather ruin my day of walking and sightseeing one of the most famous landmarks in all of Asia: the Angkor Wat. I was born in Philadelphia to a Khmer family, and I’ve only visited Cambodia once before then, but I don’t remember much of it. Now, I’m visiting the once rich, and flourished country again. To get there, we took a car, and during the ride, I could not stop but smile and think about the marvelous ruins and luscious plant life that is found in Angkor Wat. As soon as we parked the car, I hurriedly opened the door and took a step outside, breathing in the fresh air and smelling hints of river water and various trees and plants. All around me were other tourists; some were locals who took annually flocked to their most prized source of pride in the country while others were tourists who came internationally, from countries such as China, Mexico, America, India, France, etc. It appears to me that they were all here for the same reason that I am.

There is an old stone bridge that would normally take me towards the main entrance of Angkor Wat, but its status and shape are so bad that it has been closed for renovations and examination by Cambodian and Japanese experts. Instead, I cross a temporary floating bridge that is able to contain hundreds of people walking on it at once. As I walk closer, I can see birds flying around on the jungle-like trees and various tiny insects crawling on the old stone ruins that leads up to the bridge.

When you start to walk on the bridge, there will be officials on the bridge who gives you a simple test; they say Hello to you in Khmer. The catch here is that if you respond to them in a language other than Khmer, they will stop you and ask for your “ticket” which is essentially a tourist admission fee. If you say hello back in Khmer, they will assume your of Khmer ethnicity or a local. I know it may seem like a shady practice, but believe it or not, hundreds of thousands of people visit the Angkor Wat every year, and about 65 percent of them are tourists, which makes this a very lucrative source of money for the government and officials. Luckily for me, my family is all Khmer and we had no trouble getting past officials. Looking back, I saw a lot of officials talking to foreigners and at the time, I didn’t know why we were not stopped and all my dad simply said to me was “They are just looking for directions.” Being born in America, I never really witnessed an event similar to this, but today I understand now why my dad didn’t tell me the truth and I respect him for that.

Walking on the temporary bridge did not take long and soon, I was ready to explore the Angkor Wat in all its glory. As I headed into the main courtyard, I visited one of the shrines and was given some money and a piece of silk fabric which acted as a gift for which we were supposed to give to the shrine and the monk that was present. The monk said some blessings and prayers and gave me a red bracelet, which means good luck in Cambodian culture. After this, I headed to the main courtyard that led to many different small and various temples.

The courtyard had a rustic charm to it, and the atmosphere was archaic but in a cool way. All around me were guides, vendors, and photographers, all of which were implemented to generate income for the country, which relies heavily on tourism so it was no surprise that every employee was bugging us to buy their services. We just ignored them as we walked by. I kind of felt guilty because these people are usually people in poverty which is a common sighting today in Cambodia.

After that, the entire day usually went on as normal. I took many photos, and read plaques that were scattered along the walls of the temples, which detailed the history of a particular part of the ruins. For example, there was a huge wall in which there were thousands of carvings that depicted heavenly nymphs and it was a sight to see. I also happened to get the chance to ride an elephant! Not many people can say that and it was such a riveting experience. The elephant ride was slow and calm, but I was very high up as we went around the main courtyard in a circle. I even got to take some photos along the way. It just felt like a magical and exotic experience that you could get nowhere else in the world.

In the end, it was a truly magnificent experience that lived up to my expectations. The breathtaking views of the ruins combined with the majestic and dense jungle-like vegetation made it feel like you’re hiking on an expedition and it will be a journey that I will never forget.

¨Rising, Come Outside.”  

It was my sixteenth birthday and my father, who refers to me as Rising, was in the back of the house. I got up from the brown, cat hair speckled couch, that sits in my living room, and went outside. He instructed me to get in the glistening black Honda Civic that we lease, but this time I sat in the driver's seat. I was immediately overwhelmed with a clash of exhilaration and anxiety over my new seat of power. Painstakingly, I drove down the tight, dark, tar creased alleyway I had know my whole life. As I drove slowly past my neighbors’ houses on one side and their parked cars on the other, my dad nervously yelled, “don’t hit anything!” Thankfully, we reached the end of the alley unmarred. He glady states, “that's enough for today,” and I got out of the car.

As I walked home, the humidity causing beads of sweat to appear on every inch of skin, my mind wandered off. I ponder my sister driving, trying to reach back into my memory and remember how she passed her test. “Did she have a driving instructor?” I thought to myself. “Wait, maybe it was a book.” However, I could not recall. Either way I wanted to be like her. Driving seemed to come easy and she passed both her permit and driver's licence test the first time around. Now, with a sense of the competition between us, I was more inspired than ever.

Convincing myself I was good enough at driving, I immediately informed my dad that I was ready to take the knowledge test. He responded with a simple “How?”  Pushing me to realize I know little of what it might take to get a permit. He quickly whipped out his phone, typed in the four digit password and began his research. “You will need a social security card, a physical, several forms of identification, and there is a written test  that you have to study for.” I felt as if the chances of my success were being squeezed out of me like the juice from a lemon. “I can’t give up-- I want this!” I hopefully thought.

Growing up, I had always been fascinated with my parents´ driving and now I wanted it for myself. The idea that by simply turning the wheel you could steer the large metal mechanic box excited me. The sound of the wheel sliding back through the hands of my parents as they evened out the car soothed me. What I was most enthusiastic about though, was how fast a car could take you to places, new places. I loved peering out of the foggy window, seeing grass fields, houses, farms, buildings, and lakes quickly flash by like a movie without sound. It was entrancing. “When can I drive?” I would murmur to my parents.

Before I collected all of the items I needed to take the test, we departed on a 10-hour car ride to North Carolina. Four boring hours in and I realized this was good time to study for the test. I opened the app in my phone titled, ¨PA Driver Practice” and took the test multiple times, each time getting a different variety of questions on a range of topics, from driver safety to road laws. On the way back I did the same, this time reading the questions aloud to my parents. As we rolled along the grainy highway, my dad, who was driving, pointed out different signs and had me provide an explanation for what they were for. “What does that yellow sign mean?” He bellowed, hoping to stump me. “That means there’s construction ahead,” I proudly responded. By the time the trip ended, I was constantly scoring in the high nineties, which were passing scores!

A few weeks later, my mom gathered my expired passport, my birth certificate, my school ID and the required form and we headed off to get my social security card. We walked to the Chestnut Hill Train Station and waited for the 7:35 train to center city. We boarded and 45 minutes later exited the cool train at Suburban Station. From there we walked to the tall building in which I would hopefully receive my card. We took an elevator up to the top floor and then waited in a line for security to check us. ¨You can't bring that in,” the security guard chastised the man at the front of the line, who was understandably drinking coffee. He stepped to the side to finish his coffee and the line moved on. As I dragged my feet on the carpet marked with a strange pattern of blue and green, we made eye contact with the coffee drinker and he shook his head and laughed as if to say he did not approve of the guards judgment. I giggled.

We got through security with no problem and sat on uncomfortable metal chairs, marked with holes. We were called to the window behind us to the left. “What do you want?” The woman behind the glass rudely asked. Her voice sounded as if her nose was being pinched. “I need a social security card for my son,” my mom politely responded. She gave us the number fifty six and we headed back to the uncomfortable metal chairs to wait again. When our number was finally called we approached the window to my left. This man was much more upbeat. “How can I be of your assistance?” He inquired. We handed him the form and the various forms of ID as my mother explained our purpose cheerfully. He took a moment to examine them and then proceeded to ask me questions. “What's your mom's middle name? What's your full name? What's your best friend´s name?” He asked the last question with a chuckle and I realized it was not on the form. I answered all the question correctly and he happily said, “It will arrive at your house in 7 - 10 days.” “Great, more waiting,” I exasperatedly stated to my mom and we left the fresh smelling building.

The card came as promised, but I still needed a physical. I had to get a physical for soccer so why not get one for my permit at the same time. The physical was the last thing I needed, the last obstacle between me and my permit. I was thrilled and laughed as the Doctor completed a series of strange tests on me. Bending my limbs, checking my heart rate, and testing my eyes. “Have a great day,”she said and I knew I would because the only thing stopping me from driving that shiny black car, was a test that I knew I could pass. “Why did it take so much work to get a learner's permit I wondered?” I understood that you would not want people driving who had bad eyesight or some potentially dangerous health condition, so the physical made sense. It was also clear that people had to know the rules of the road otherwise there would be chaos, not to mention a lot of accidents. Nevertheless, why was it necessary to have a Social Security card, and why did that require several forms of ID and a face-to-face interview? Slowly, it dawned on me. Until now, I had been identified as a child of my parents. My identity was tied to theirs. Even with a Passport, I could not travel anywhere unless I was accompanied by one of them. Now, I was taking the steps to be identified as an individual. A driver´s licence was the thing that would officially identify me as me. It would say that I had all the rights and privileges of an American citizen. It meant that someday I could steer that mechanical metal box to some new destination-- alone.

Skrrrrrrr. The train comes to a complete stop and a cluster of people gather around the door to enter, myself included. The train is empty except for one man standing, walking cart to cart while holding clear bottles full of perfume. I take a seat and increase the volume of my music to enter my own little world, as my chain dangles and dances around my neck. A couple years ago my mom married a muslim immigrant who shared his culture and beliefs with us, which lead me to find a new meaning in things. I began to share the same beliefs as him as he took me under his wing. As the years went by my family took a trip to Egypt, without me, to meet my step father’s family. They brought me back a necklace that says “God is one, Muhammad is a profit” to show a piece of my religion. I haven’t taken it off since the moment I got it.

The man enters my cart, eyeing the amount of “future customers”. He’s wearing white Air Force ones with nike sweats and a Kufi (an islamic prayer cap), we share something in common. I see that he is holding clear bottles of perfume, trying to sell them to an open customer. I put my head in my phone trying to avoid eye contact because I’m not interested in buying any perfume.  

Social media has had a big impact on the way I think about things. I’ve seen multiple posts on my timeline warning me about people trying to sell perfume, when you sniff the scent it causes you to pass out and allows the person selling it to kidnap you or you not be aware of your surroundings. This causes me to be alert at the sight of the man.

I bury my head in my phone avoiding all movements. I’m scrolling through my instagram feed and suddenly a blue tinted clear bottle gets put in front of my phone. My heart starts racing as I lower my music, take one earbud out and lift my head to make eye contact with the man.

He proceeds to make an argument on why I should invest in his perfume, I make eye contact but I’m not really listening. I then acknowledge the kufi on the man’s head and look down to make eyes at my chain hoping he realizes the sign. I raise my head to see if he has caught the sign I was trying to make and he did. He then places out his hand and greets me “As-salāmu ʿalaykum”. I shake his hand as I respond “alaykum as-salām”. He then leaves me and goes about selling his scents to other people as I put my earbuds back in and go back to my daily train ride.

Later in the day, while I’m daydreaming during class I think about what occurred on the train. It lead me to think that the man on the train only went away because we shared something in common, our religion. It lead me to believe that once he realized we were almost one of the same, he wasn’t interested in selling me his product but he was interested in protecting me from it.

I then started to think deeper, people take it upon themselves to figure out how you identify, white, black, muslim, asian, male, female, but who said that’s how you identify? I realized that the man on the train was eager to sell his product to me while I was looking like any other ordinary white boy on the train, but after seeing we shared a common belief his mind had changed. I believe people are more prone to protecting people that they share a common belief with, especially if what they believe in leads them to discrimination. Although it’s comforting to feel united, we associate ourselves with the ones we’re comfortable with, leaving the others to be on their own.

“Nicola Breedy-Caesar please board the plane at gate C”

My body froze, I knew it was time to finally face one of my biggest fears and hop onto the plane. I had never been on a plane before and 6 year old me, listening to all my older cousins the night before talking about how birds love to fly into engines and cause the planes to crash, my imagination began to run wild. I started to imagine all the possible ways the plane could have crashed into the ocean. My mom yelled at me and told me to hurry up before we missed our flight. This was a big opportunity for me, I told my mom that I had to go the bathroom. I was trying to find anyway to make us miss the flight, my mom said that there were bathrooms on the plane. I knew that there was no way to try and make us miss the flight, if I had tried anything else the belt would have made sure it didn’t happen again.

The flight attendant had passed us our boarding tickets, and I wanted to just throw it away. The flight was booked and because we were riding on standby, I wasn’t going to be able to sit next to my mom and sister. This made the ride even scarier, I got onto the plane and went to my seat nervously. I got the window seat and sat next to an old man and his wife. The flight attendant had gone over all the things to do in case of an emergency. When they said it was time to buckle up, I grabbed the seatbelt and tied it so tight to point it felt as if I was stopping my blood circulation. We were on the runway just waiting to go into the air, and we soon began to takeoff.

When we got into the air, I had felt some turbulence and it made me go insane. I started yelling, “We’re going to die, we’re going to die!” I had caused a scene and all the other passengers had started to look at me. I kept going on and on for about 5 minutes, until the co-pilot had came up to me. I thought that I was going to get kicked off the plane, but he smiled and told me that everything was going to be fine. I didn’t believe him, and said that we were going to fall into the ocean. He laughed and told me to follow him into the cockpit. I was a bit skeptical at first, but still decided to follow him.

“Woah this is amazing” I said.

The cockpit was beautiful, there were so many buttons and I was able to touch the wheel. It was a lot of fun and the pilots were really cool to me, the kid that had caused a bunch of hell on the flight. I had almost completely forgot my fears and that we were almost 30,000 feet in the air. Those kind pilots had taught me to not be afraid of airplanes and that you should always face your fears. When we had gotten off the plane my mom had reminded me of what was going to happen once we got home, because of the scene that I had caused. I didn’t really care at that point, I was really happy, because I was able to face my fears and get a cool experience to brag to my cousins about, except for the crying and yelling part. From that somewhat embarrassing experience, I learned that you shouldn’t let your biggest fears haunt you, and that you should try to think about how to overcome those fears instead.

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Yasir Thomas

Systems Essay

Growing and maintaining my hair has always been a struggle for me. Every day I would think about what I would want to do with my hair and how it would turn out later. I’ve been on a long journey with my hair. I hated it, loved it, cut it, and grew it. I’ve also been through many different styles. It’s crazy to think about how many different styles I had over the course of a few years.

I was in fourth grade when I first began growing my hair out. It was longer than it currently is. I let it grow out because my father had cancer and all of his fell out. I would grow it out for him because he asked and I thought that it would inspire him to continue with the therapy, but trying to maintain my hair was always a struggle. I was tender headed and every little thing that happened to hair, even when it wasn’t braided it was still hard to deal with. After a while, my mom would always ask me when I would get it cut.

Once I reached fifth grade, I got a haircut. I felt like a new person. I could feel the wind brushing against my head and the sun beaming down on it. It has been a while since I felt the feeling. When I walked into class, no one recognized me, and when they did, they were surprised. Being nearly bald felt amazing until I realized how much I missed my hair and the feeling of the just having something there and playing with it. I started missing my long hair and thought about growing it back.

The summer before 8th grade, I began to grow out my hair again without even realizing. I came back to school with a mini afro and once again, I looked like a new person. 8th grade was the time that I struggled the most to keep up with my hair. Everyone would say, “I love your hair! Can I touch it?” When someone asks if they could touch my hair I would usually think that they meant to feel the texture, but they would play in it, pull it, and just mess up my hair completely. I used to put a lot of effort into making my afro look good. In the middle of the school year, I decided to get braids because I tired of everyone ruining my hair. My hair was growing but it wasn’t as long as I wanted it to be.

My freshman year here I started off with braids for a week or two. Then I took my braids out every other week and had a messy afro. I would also have designed cornrows and other types of styles. One of my favorite styles that I had was a braided mohawk, I felt like it was amazing because I didn’t think that it would look right. Soon after, I wanted a haircut but not a full one. Soon after I a drop-fade (the hairstyle I currently have). Right after I got my fade, I was filled with joy since it finally happened. When I walked into school everyone was overly excited and wanted to touch my hair. I felt like a brand new person because it was new and exciting. It's easier to take care of since I have half as much hair.

Looking at the amount of hair that I have now, I regret cutting off all my hair when I was younger. It’s probably one of the biggest regrets that I have. I miss having a lot of hair and being able to do a lot of things with it. Now, I’m just experimenting with my hair seeing what things I like and what things would look good on me. The next few things that I would try doing with my hair are curls, hair dye, and another type of braids.

We were in the locker room when coach said this is the game we all been waiting for. We knew that we had to win the game because this was the world series. We wanted to play this team the whole tournament. You could instantly feel the tension with the other team as soon as we got on the field, because on the first day we were at our hotel their players kept bragging about how they were the best team. They continued to say how they were going to beat us. As we were on the field  warming up they said “ Rays, Rays, Rays “, which was the chant that they would say after every game they won. By them saying that they were implying that the game was basically over before it had even begun.

We were the home team so we were able to throw the first pitch. The first three of there batters  struck out so our energy was up and theirs were down. We put up an 3-0 lead in the first inning. Their whole team was down and our energy was through the roof like the game was over and we already won. Our pitcher was on fire, he struck out the next 6 people. So now it's the top of the 4th inning. Score was still 3-0 we started to slack we thought we had the game in the bag. They started to get hits and started to get on base, the whole game knowone from there team touched the bases into the 4th. We still stopped them from scoring but now there energy was up and it was like ours was going more down as theirs came up. The 5th inning came still 3-0 but not for long, we walked 2 batters and a passed ball caused them to advance from first and second base to second and third. The next batter hit a pop up the our left fielder and the guy on third SCORED! 3-1. 4

Our coach called time and came to the pitcher mound and had a talk with the whole infield. “ Guys come on wake up, this game is not over we have two more innings left of baseball don't let up now “.  We went back to our potions, the next batter hits a ground ball to our third basemen, he fields it cleanly but makes a bad throw home causing another run to score. Now ts 3-2 one out and a man on first and third their power hitter is up now he hits a shot over our center fielder head both men scored. 3-4 Rays are winning! Coach came back to the mound and changed pitchers. Our new pitcher struck the next two batters out. This is our last chance to come back and we were at the bottom of our lineup. Tampa put in a new pitcher and struck the last 3 of our batters out to end the game Tampa won the world series. I was s hurt because we could have crushed them but since we were up the whole game we slacked and they showed us that you play the whole game your hardest into its fully over.