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Introduction: My goals for this essay was to make it as detailed as possible and I wanted it to be really interesting for the reader. I tried my hardest to make sure that it didn’t sound repetitive because that was one of my biggest problems during m process. I’m really proud of the final product and the comparisons I made in piece. I hope you enjoy it and give me some feedback on what I could improve on because of course there is always room to improve.

I’ve waited 4 years and it’s finally here. y heart beat rapidly as the words changed from downloading to play. I immediately rushed my headphones into the headphone jack and pressed play. The music was blasting. It was the only thing I heard and it was like coming up and taking a breath of fresh air. The first song was entitled Nikes like the sneaker company. The first beat dropped and I felt my body jolt with the music. As I looked up from my phone I saw the abstract painting in my living room. The shapes intertwine, making a beautiful melody. Seeing that gave this song a visual. I saw the complexity of the entire thing. The complexity of the 17 beautifully written songs. The 7th track enchanted my mind as it wrapped itself around my inner soul. It brought out how I felt about myself. It opened my mind to the sheltered soul who doesn’t like to let anyone in because they’re too afraid of being hurt.

I listened to the rhythmic melodies. “I came to visit cause you see me like a UFO. That’s like never, cause I made you use your self control” Thinking they were empty, little did I know they were about me. My fear of letting someone in started at the tender age of 3. I didn’t know my left from my right or how to tie my shoes but I knew what love was. The cozy yet comforting feeling of being loved by someone. It was like falling but knowing you were always going to be caught. I felt that feeling with my dad. I knew him all but 3 little years but our bond was like no other. I clung onto his leg as if it was the last thing I was ever going to hold. But on October 31st he was taken away from me. The news struck me like a bolt of lightning. I felt my body start to run out of water and my throat felt as if someone was clawing its way to the top. My fear of abandonment began there. When meeting new people I always carried my shield of armor with me making sure not to let no one enter my inner soul. I couldn’t be torn down again. I built a great wall of protection. It was covered by fake smiles and endless lies. But who could ever know?

My mind was clouded with the idea that nothing is forever. Love had a round trip ticket into my feelings. As soon it entered my mind I kicked it right out. I never wanted to feel the gut wrenching feeling of being lost and losing my control. The great wall of Nadya was guarded by agony and alienation. They made sure that my body never endured their pain and suffering for I would never come back from it. It became so easy not to let anyone in, it was almost like an alarm clock. It ticked for a while but when time was up I could hear my fears clawing and screeching in my mind to let me know that it was time to let them go. I let that become a norm to me because whenever I let someone in and try to feel that warm feeling of being loved my heart always gets ripped from my chest and torn into little pieces. Then I’m stuck trying to piece my heart together and what went wrong? I always come to the conclusion that it was my fault. I knew better. I heard common sense in the back of my mind begging me not to fall but I didn’t listen. I always fell, and I always fell hard. But this time there wasn’t anyone there to catch me and pick me back up, it was just me this time. Everytime I let myself lose my self control I fell the wall getting taller and taller and my mind starts to lose oxygen, start to lose the sense of life and just become another heartless being walking through the pathways of betrayal and hurt. Love always seemed to wander its way back into my life always trying to convince me to let someone love me. I remember when I finally let someone in, I showed them the real me. I poured my soul into every breath I took when I was with them. I got attached, and once I got attached there was no going back and no letting go. I lost myself, and I lost who I was. It felt like I could finally breathe. The feeling of being loved filled my whole body with warmth. Everything was great but then they decided that I just wasn’t enough. I remember staring at the crisp white screen as it went from those three little grey dots to “I’m not cheating on you, but I can’t promise you that I’m not going to.” It turned my insides out, I felt my heart drop to my feet. I thought to myself “not again.” I felt the tears race down my red cheek as I sobbed into my pillow making sure no one could hear my hurt. My pillow was full of broken hearts and broken promises disguised as wet stains from my tears. But I knew those stains all too well to believe they were just tears.

I seem to always lose who I am in the midst of losing my control. When I let my wall down I lose who I am. I’ve always kept my feelings and when they are finally brought to light it’s never enough and I always lose the person I love and myself. I keep my feelings locked away in a tower and they sometimes try to peek out but I always make sure that they are never to leave. It almost feels like I’m trying to balance an equation. Trying to balance an equation of my life.

With this piece, I wanted to first connect to my own childhood and show how I grew up as a reference. I then connected the piece to a memory of visiting the Titanic museum where I first realized all of the changes in how people are being raised with technology and the impact it is having. I then went into my analysis and explained all of the negative impacts I am seeing on my own brother who is struggling to detach from technology. I can see it is taking over our society and throughout the piece I want to show how we are losing morals by doing so and how apprehensive I am about technology growing. I am proud of the way I told the stories, because I feel like I pushed myself to use a lot of descriptive language to make my story more compelling. In the future, I would want to make it a bit shorter so that I can really work on getting my point across.

This is it. Now is your chance. There it is. There’s the aisle. “Mommy…”, I said. “Yes Emily.”, my mother responded fully expectant of the next few words to jump off of my lips. “Can I get a Barbie?”, I asked as sweetly as I possibly could with a menacing little smile. “How many dolls do you already have”, my mom said matter-of-factly. “Not that many! And I don’t have any with a sparkly dress like this one. Pleaseeeeee”, I begged. Once we got home, I wildly searched through the matching plastic bags waiting until I found the doll, introducing her to the rest of my collection. I would sit in my room with the box of barbies for hours, talking to myself acting as each different girl. My mind would never tire of moving the plastic people around, creating scene after scene. I could keep myself occupied and simply change their outfits to inspire a new plot. Creativity was a constant flow through my veins just like any other child of my generation. We didn’t rely on anyone I didn’t realize just how much the times have changed until I stepped back and saw how my siblings have been raised. Pieces of the changes I see in them have been left as bread crumbs for me to discover. I found the bread as it all suddenly hit me. This past summer, my family flew to Ireland to visit my relatives. A new exciting experience that was first on our list was the Titanic museum. As soon as I stepped through the boat-shaped glass building, I was transfixed on each artifact hanging on the walls. I read every board to drown myself in the stories of the great tragedy. As we walked through each room and each exhibit, we reached a darker room. As I walked through, there were transcripts of the final communication with the passengers of the ship. There was one worker who stayed in the engineering room to communicate with the other ship sent to help rescue them. “Come quickly. Please hurry. CQD(the old fashion version of “SOS”)”, the worker sent in morse code. “We are on the way”, the ship sent back. Moments later, the worker would send another message. “Please come quickly. The boilers are almost filled. There is not much time. CQD”, the worker said. “We are coming as quickly as we can”, the ship responded. “The ship is sinking quickly. CQ————(radio silence)”. That was the final transmission ever sent from the Titanic. I stopped as I read, chills rolled down my spine and each hair stood up on end. Each dead body had a name, a family, a story. With each word I read, I felt myself growing and learning. I was so in touch with life in this moment. I walked through the exhibit with a heavy heart and a million thoughts buzzing around in my head. I looked around at everyone else walking through, wondering if they felt the way I did. I was met with blank faces. My eyes darted around the room until they finally landed on two boys running through the exhibit with their eyes locked on their bright iPhones. They rushed past each picture, artifact, and piece of history and stood by the stairs never glancing up from the technology. Every ounce of blood in my body began to boil. One of them was my own brother. I was absolutely speechless. The fact that my twelve year old brother had the audacity to breeze by a hundred years worth of history like they were nothing but scrawny morsels of words strung together limply, and had dried up without a single meaning to them. At first, I was tempted to scream at my brother, because he knew better than to disrespect everything this museum, and humanity, stood for. Or did he? My brother was only a small window I looked through to view the larger issue at hand: the new generation. They are being raised in the age of technological advances, which seems to be slowly consuming them. Their childhood is being stripped down the nothingness. Barbie dolls are being replaced with iPads. Creativity replaced with Netflix, real life replaced with artificial conceptions. My brother couldn’t disconnect from his phone for twenty minutes to learn about a real event and discover. He was so ignorant to everything around him, much like millions of others in society. I grew up aware of my surroundings and valuing people and my creativity, while he is growing up in a world where Facebook friends he’s never met are more important. I didn’t have pointless Apps to absorb hours of my life, instead I interacted with others and the world around me to expand and teach myself tools I would need growing up. My brother is missing out on this, and has already surpassed his window of creative childhood. It is sad to watch him reach for his Xbox controller instead of a book, or a soccer ball. Social media and these technologies have become artificial priorities and are taking over. Supposedly we are gaining more from technology, but I see it eating away at the youth. There is nothing to do but sit back as the barbies are thrown away and the iPhones take over.

Intro:

My idea for this paper was to show how my relationship with my parents has grown over the years and, as shown through my gifts, I really appreciate them, especially my mom. I mention that as I’m getting older and as I’m maturing, I am thinking more of others and I am adding more emotion to my gifts that I give her.

Essay:

This year for Mother’s Day, I wanted to get my mom something really special. The years before, I hadn’t really given her anything that was spectacular. It was mainly just cards that I had made, or little things that I had painted. But this year I knew that I wanted to do something different.

In previous years for Mother’s Day, I do remember the day that me, my dad and my sister went to a ceramic and art studio. We had no idea what was going to come out of our time there, we weren’t sure about anything at that point. This idea was kind of a last resort thing since Mother’s Day was so close and we still didn’t have a gift yet. A week before this, we had my sister’s birthday party at the same place and we really liked it here. Walking through the door, I felt a cool breeze hit me along with the chill from outside. My dad talked to the person at the front desk about some things that were available to paint as a gift. Most of the ideas that she mentioned didn’t really appeal to him, until he heard her say that they had big salad plates available. She went to the back of the studio and brought out a big ceramic plate. It was rough to the tough, almost as if it was sanded down before it was brought out to us.

At first when we got the plate, we tried to come up with ideas of what would look good on the plate and what would look nice in our kitchen. We decided to go with a cooking theme because my mom loved to cook. The next thing that we had trouble with was deciding what colors we would use and more of a specific design. The first thing that came to mind was wine because she loved cooking with it and it went perfectly with the theme. We drew it out and as we continued drawing, everything started coming together. Around the rim of the dish is speckled paint that is not too thick and not too thin, just around the rim or edge. In the dead center there is a painted wine bottle that says Pinot Noir in the center of the wine bottle as a label and in the top right hand corner of the label is 2012. Under the word Noir is a thin squiggly line and also on the top of the word Pinot. At the spout of the wine, the cork is short and shaded. The inside of the outlined wine bottle is also shaded. Near the spout of the wine bottle are four thicker winding lines, thicker than the squiggly lines on the wine bottle. 

As I worked on those things, my sister had a different design in mind that didn’t really fit the theme. She started to paint flowers on different parts of the plate and at first it was weird, but then it started to look okay because it added some color. I wanted to make the lines sharper on some of the flowers, so I walked over to a set of cabinets that had little bottles of paint that you added a metal tip to and it made clean lines. They only had a few of those tips, so we had to wash the ones we used with warm water. I was about to rinse the tips and when I turned the water and stuck my hand underneath, I burned myself with the water. I felt the pain rush up my hand into my arm. I felt stinging my hand, so I quickly switched the water to cold and it instantly changed the pain in my hand. Next to the wine bottle on the left are flowers, the one on top is bigger than the one on the bottom.

So we drew the wine bottle on the plate and came up with an idea to paint grapes around it. I remember agreeing with that idea, but then not knowing how to paint grapes. The lady overheard me and handed me this long stick with a small end that was almost like a dotting tool and a large end with an even larger dotting tool. I tried using that, but dots ended up being too small and the shape was weird so I just used a paintbrush instead. Right next to the wine bottle on both sides are bunches of grapes, the one on the left wraps around the front of the wine bottle. Under the bunch of grapes on the left of the wine bottle, to the bottom left hand corner is a little open cook book illustration with the words Cookbook underneath it. Next to that is the word Pasta. Slightly above that to the right a little is a little drawing with rainbow swirls and hearts. Right next to the bunch of grapes on the right of the wine bottle is a flower that just has the petals outlined. Right above the bunch of grapes on the right side of the wine bottle is another flower with outlined petals. In the open spaces are squiggly lines, but only a few. It started to come together really well.

My dad slowly added things that helped make the plate come to life, like little illustrations of a cookbook and words like Pasta and Cookbook. When we finished painting the details, we looked at the plate and noticed that it was missing something. So my dad thought that it needed a border and he also added some squiggly lines in places that were empty. Then we told the lady that we were finished and she wrote our names on the back and put it in the kiln. She told us to pick it up in a few days. After a few days past we went to pick it up and once we got there, we saw it and said that it looked great and that my mom would really enjoy it.

This year was completely different for Mother’s Day. I was out with my friends, when my parents and my sister had gone to my aunt’s house for the day. We were shopping for clothes for the upcoming comic con at the Central library. I remember that in the morning when my dad dropped me off it was chilly and rainy, which didn’t help with a hurt ankle which I sprained earlier that week. We all met up at a Starbucks that was on 20th and Market because it was closest to H&M, which was the first store we wanted to go to visit. I walked into the Starbucks and instantly a gust of cold air hit me. I saw my friend sitting by a big window, holding their rainbow umbrella, waiting for others to show up. A few minutes after I walked in, my other friends tapped on the window for us to meet them outside.

After going to a few stores, we got something to eat at Wendy’s and some of us went to Five Guys. When everyone was finished eating, we went to Liberty Place to take a gander at what they had to offer. We went to a few stores such as Express and Bloomingdales. We didn’t find anything we needed in those stores, but after looking through a few more stores, we finally found this clothing store that was small and not a commonly known shop, but had things that we needed to complete our outfits.

I wanted to go to Bath & Body Works while we were in Liberty Place, so me and one of my other friends went there while the others were checking out of the previous store. As I walked into the store, my nose filled with various aromas and my senses were awakened. I noticed that they were having a sale on hand sanitizers, 5 for $6. Above the display, I saw another sign that was talking about gifts for Mother’s day. I asked the lady at the front desk,

“Hey what is the mother’s day sale?”

She said, “You can make your own bag or set of body washes, lotions and sprays for a certain price.” So I went to the section that she pointed to and started putting things together.

On the way back home I was thinking about previous years, what I got her and how she reacted. Those years in the past I realized that each year my gifts were like an upgrade from the previous year. As I was getting older, I was thinking more of others and giving myself more to people. I was becoming more emotional with my cards, I was using words and memories that I knew would mean something to her. The cards turned into 2 page letters, the little hand painted things turned into things bought with my money and the little poems written by 7 year olds to meaningful words written by a mature 15 year old.

When I got home, I re-wrapped the gift and added something else to it. I also found a really nice little gift bag to put in that kind of fit the theme of the gift that I got her. Later in the week I wrote her a really nice little heartfelt letter that came to me as I went along. I had to hide it in my room until it was Mother’s Day. On Mother’s day when I gave it to her she read the letter first and as her eyes went down the paper, her eyes filled with tears. When she finally opened the gift, she gave me a big hug, thanked me and told me,

“This is one of the best Mother’s Days yet.”

I remember the first time I read breakfast at Tiffany’s. The old colored paper and the distinct smell of an old worn in book swirling into my nose, there’s nothing like swiping my finger across a page until it reaches the corner and the other side reaches my thumb, as I hang on to every word in anticipation before I flip It. Sitting in class the world around me seemed to dissipate and I kept anticipating the main character to be named Tiffany; since I never even read a review. I became so intrigued by Holly Golightly, the real main character. Her metaphors and analogies intrigued me. The world around me began to blur, my eyes saw black words printed on what used to be white paper, but what I saw was a woman and man at Tiffany’s, everything became so clear the heat of the mean reds, the smell of cracker jack’s and the sound of a cat named cat. I was there. I was falling into a world that didn’t belong to me, or anyone else but lived in my mind, and I was reminded by that when my teacher tapped on my shoulder and told me it was time to go.

I always found myself in what my mom called “lala land” speaking of how a child gets distracted and/or sings while they do things, however I never sang. Instead the world around me would disappear and time froze, or at least it feels like it would. I was never aware of it freezing. It’s not a adrenaline nor a day dream, but a calm. The worst part of it all is always coming out of lala land and facing reality. It’s like being woken out of a beautiful dream right before something spectacular happens. I never know when I go into the zone, I am usually just doing something and once my passion and imagination start spiraling nothing else matters.

Like in those old movies when someone is kissing someone fully in love, Imagine that like getting lost in them, this is usually where the movie cuts off and happily ever they live. But they never show the part when they are snapped back in from their fantasy. Hearing something that makes them realize times not frozen and although they may be alone together, the two aren’t alone in the world. My mind is probably the only thing that has been returned from the Bermuda Triangle. I get so lost in myself, someone or something I cease to realize I’m falling back in, just like the couple. Not that it’s a bad thing, it’s like falling in love; the only part that sucks is when you hit the ground, that’s kind of how I feel when I get snapped out of it.

An October Saturday on a New York street felt my heart with joy and I heard a solemn song play in my ear of cars, yelling and people talking because I am and always will be a city girl, no matter what city i’ll be at home. I pulled my grey hoodies sleeves down on my fall frozen red hands and hood over me, in an attempt to fight the new york wind against flipping my hair in a tornado. Lit by a street light, I saw this women painting and man on the sidewalk making names out of wire. It was I looked to the right, a photo for my breakfast at Tiffany’s themed room in Philadelphia. The women put the posters in black thick frames, as my mom watched the man bend wire into our last name, I handed the Asian woman $15. I carried the three photos in a big blue bag, towards my mom with both of my hands, using it also as a shield for the wind. Towards my mom getting the perfect trip nick nack, watching her drift into the same place she’d always catch me in, I paused. Gazing at her hazel eyes glazed over and illuminated by the city, watching the man’s hand bend wires with a tool, almost in second nature, attaching a piece of artwork like the statue of liberty, the women dipping color onto a brush then on a canvas, watching them both. I was watching the three, I could tell none of them were there. She was lost in their movement and they were lost in their art.

It was then that I realized that everybody has their own place of fantasy. Imagination is limitless. Whether it’s movement, dancing, creating or getting lost in our moment. It’s a private island of wealth in imagination, that everyone has a chance to submerge into the boundless ideas, people, places and things. No one’s lala land is the same and never has to stay the same, the one thing it has in common is the part where you get snapped back and reality and realize that these are only black words on what will be only white canvas and there’s more going on then you reading my paper.

Memories come to me at random times, in random places. They play in my head like a flipbook; multiple images creating a familiar scene. Sometimes I want to go back to that scene, and sometimes I just want to leave them alone but my brain makes me think about them over and over despite how many times I wish I could forget. I am taken to some places more than others multiple times. One place I never seem to lose is the home I grew up in; a small apartment in Germantown, top floor, apartment A. There were two front doors: the outside door and the actual front door. Beyond the outside front door led a long stretch of stairs, speckled green and black like a cat’s eyes. They wound to our actual front door. It was a tall, red door; the poppy-colored cover of an old book of an apartment with walls the color of browning pages. A plump sofa and matching loveseat sat invitingly at either side of the living room with satin and knitted pillows. The floors were fuzzy and tan like oatmeal, I used to think. Below us was a small pharmacy where we spent quite a lot of time, when we would get a $1 or $5 if the tooth fairy was generous about front teeth or molars. Out back was a large tree my sister and I used to climb; it’s limbs large arms that bore delicate bunches of pink petals that fell in our hair and pockets.

I can recall a number of pleasant childhood memories in that place, but I can also remember vividly the times I just wanted to leave. I used to feel cramped, sick of the beige walls and the beige carpet and the narrow hallway that felt like a two-way street. I banged my head against the pages of that aging book and filled my pillow with tears silently because I hated being stranded on the top floor and watching the city pass below. Music blared, people shouted and sang at all hours of the night, sirens whirred and cars screamed, but I floated above it all, craving to escape the chaotic scene. I would always ask my parents “When are we going to leave?” but they would never reply. That angered me, but little did I know that they secretly dreamt of leaving too.

One day, my dad came home from work, the same way he always did, but today was different. Today, I sat on the couch with my mom and sister like we always did also, but outside, peculiar streams of auburn and ginger ribboned the evening sky. It was also strangely chilly for springtime and the quilt was pulled up to my neck. “Did you hear what happened?” my dad asked. My mom sat up. “No.” “They bought out Fred’s store,” he began. “Who?” “Some realtor company. They said he has thirty days to pack all his things and leave…and so do we.” My mom and sister gasped. I froze. Hearing those words gave me a nervous rush in my gut. Was this how God was punishing me? For all the times I was angry at him for putting me in this tiny apartment, and for all the times I thought my parents hated me for making me live here: was this how I was being repaid? I didn’t know how to react. For so long I wished to leave this place…but not like this. As we sat in silence, a harsh winter tumbled and raged beneath our roof. It was still cold went to bed that night and it gave me a deep shiver that shook every part of me. I couldn’t eat. I tossed all night. I worried for my parents because for the next few nights, I know they didn’t get any sleep either. The lights would be on for all hours of the night, and from the living room I could hear them shouting and talking, and then I realized: I was no longer above the scene that I longed to flee from, I was right in the middle of it. It had called me to it without calling my name. It knew me, followed me. I had dreamt about it before; what it was like to be in the midst of the frantic city. But here I was: staring it in its red eyes. My sister felt it too. We turned away from it, but it was everywhere we looked. We shut our door tight and covered our ears with pillows but it was always there…until one day, it wasn’t. The chaos inside and out had ceased for just a moment it seemed, maybe two. Either way it was quiet and the lights were off, and I was asleep. The next day we learned that my parents found a house.

Finally, they day had come where we could no longer stay in our apartment. Our chairs and tables and beds were gone, and our lives had been sealed into brown boxes that lined the hallway. I had never seen it that way before. I had never seen the living room without our bookshelf or the glass coffee table. I had never seen the room that my sister and I shared without colorful blinds or toys on our beds. In that moment, I wished I could have it all back: the keyboard in the hallway, the small radio in the kitchen. They were in some box or another, but they weren’t where they belonged. There I stood, in the middle of the silence and it was what I always wanted…but it was too silent. The chaos had been driven out from the street and from inside but I couldn’t recognize my surroundings. I couldn’t place the feeling I had because I never had it before and it startled me. It also saddened me. I was headed to a place I had never been, in a house I had never seen. When I could no longer take the desolate atmosphere of my now empty home, I turned to face my mom. “I think I’m ready to go now,” I concluded. We both headed toward the door, and she too took a final look. “Alright. Let’s go,” she said doing her best to conceal her sadness. With that, she shut the red cover of our ten-year novel.

Sometimes I wish I could go back to my old house. Sometimes I wish I could revisit the room I grew up in and run around the kitchen in footy pajamas because of the sound my feet made against the plastic tile or climb that giant tree with my sister the way we used to do every summer. Looking back on the day I left, it’s easy to recall the hurt and anger my parents and I endured. But with it having been almost eight years since leaving my childhood home I have acquired a bit of wisdom and can actually see it as a positive experience. When I got to my new house, the movers had brought in the couches, tables, lamps, and few other items from the apartment. It didn’t feel the same of course. The floors were wooden, the walls the color of fresh pages rather than weathered ones. To this day, the same couches from my old house remain in my current one, and it gives me a sense of comfort. Even as it took some time for my home to feel like home, I had something that I could recognize which made everything feel grounded. I think of this often, especially when I am trying something new or am not excited about change. This memory tells me that yes, change is a process and it’s always up to you. It can be the chaos of the city street or the quiet atmosphere of a small home. Either way, it’s inevitable and at times frustrating, but it gives you the chance to narrate your story on the fresh pages of a new book. Now, I guess it’s even safe to say, being driven out of our home was actually…a good thing.

Introduction: The goals for my paper were to get the audience to understand how I got over my shyness and was able to talk to someone I really liked. I am proud that I was able to use something important to me in a class writing assignment. I normally write on topic and this gave me a chance to talk about what I like and what made me happy. Areas for improvement in the future go to more people for feedback, expand my writing vocabulary and next writing I will write more even though I wrote pass the word limit. I am proud that I came out with a good piece of writing and that I worked hard on it.

When we got to the game it was about 7:15. The other team was in the lead unfortunately but after the 3rd quarter, they started working hard getting the score back close to a tying score. As we were watching the game, the game plays for Overbrook were working. The team runs down the field tossing the ball back and forth to one another, knocking anyone down in their way. Touchdown ! The crowd screams and the cheerleaders began to cheer. The Overbrook panthers had scored another touchdown and got in the lead. The crowd is now stomping their feet and clapping loudly. Overbrook had made a touchdown tying score. After the touchdown was made a certain player catches my eye. He has on an orange and black jersey. I’m not really sure who he is or what position he plays but he had my attention that whole game. Player 15. Every Time I looked on that field I looked and watched player 15 run through players like it was nothing , helping the team score.

He had my attention through the whole game and nothing else had my attention. I completely ignored the other players as if he was the only player on that team. I went to a couple games just too shy to actually talk to him. I thought of so many different ways to approach him but I never would go through with it. I thought of talking to him before the game , talking to him after the game , or just talking to him through one of the other team members but I never tried any of these ideas. I even thought of like bumping into him but I knew that wouldn’t work out.

So many thoughts in my head. I didn’t even know how to go over and start a conversation with him. I wanted to get over my shyness and just go talk to him. I was so shy and I wouldn’t wanna talk to him if I was too shy because that could have been embarrassing I thought.

I went to a couple games hoping to see his face but I never saw him. He would always go from the locker room straight to the bus so I never got a chance after the game to speak and before the game, I didn’t want to knock his focus so I stayed to myself. One night I went to a game and after the game was over he took off his helmet and I thought he was so handsome in my eyes. I figured at that point I had to talk to him one way or another. I told myself that I shouldn’t be scared and I should take the risk because the worst thing he could say would be no. One day I was outside of my cousin’s house and I saw him walking down the street with my friend. First I thought of going in the house trying to avoid him , then I figured no I should stop being so scary and just speak up and say something. So I took a deep breath and called my friend to the side. When he came to the side I told my friend to get his number for me and he told me to stop being so shy and speak. So I went over , talked to him for a minute and things went well.

We hung out a couple times and at first things were kinda awkward but after a while things got better. If I hadn’t talked to him or spoke up I wouldn’t have got a chance to meet him. So I was glad I got over my shyness and spoke up because it changed things for the better. I was glad that things got better than before because if things continued to be the way they were then maybe things wouldn’t have worked out. Our first date was really weird at first because we didn’t know what to talk about or even what we wanted to for at the restaurant. After a while, we got more comfortable talking with each other and dates were more relaxing and fun. We went out to eat a lot , and to the movies once or twice.

Time had passed we got to know each other better. We had found a lot in common like our attitudes, interest and we shared some of the same values. Things were looking good throughout the time when we made things official.

We had our tough times but overall I don’t think I would want to be with anyone else. Thinking back to months ago when I was afraid to even approach him , I wouldn’t have imagined us together as of now. As you know his number was 15, but now he’s player 7 because it’s my favorite number.

Introduction:

This paper follows the idea that memories are usually idolized in good benefit and we seem to always neglect the bad parts about it. It tells the story of multiple events in my life that I always loved and remember and I decided to name the negative things about each situation that we all know about but never say. I am very proud of my analysis in this paper, and how I connected my stories back to my main idea. Also, I love my anecdote and how I went back to that idea in my conclusion. Some things I feel I could do better with in the future is adding dialogue into my story and let it run smoothly throughout the essay. Also, I hope my descriptive writing is good enough for the reader to feel exactly what I felt when writing this story and understand the idea of the entire paper.

I Want to be a Child Again by Tia Roberts

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! The sound of a roaring and shattering killer of a lavish night of sleep. I slowly rise, eyes barely allowing me to see the full sight. The red lines marking a distant six, zero, zero. Just minutes of sitting there in my head soon turned into longer times in reality. Rushing to get ready for a day I knew I would surely regret; full of tedious classwork and never ending periods. Reminiscing about a time when life was so easy and simple. When very complex situations were more obvious. Allowing myself to be free to my own extent. Being young was a blessing, but it also has its setbacks. I miss the idea of childhood more than actually living a child’s life. 

Running on the hard cemented ground where the pebbles felt like thousands of small hills my feet soon had to climb. Approaching the cold metal gates that were almost five times my height. Looking through the diamond shaped holes which opened a hole of happiness within my body. The sight of kids and laughter was all I needed to fill my body with a bursting dose of excitement. I loved the park, it was always my favorite place to go. But as time goes by I realize the pain I always endure; from the leaking blood streams of my knee or the plumping purple blisters that covered my fingers. I remember crying about every little scrape and always needing a person right by my side to take care of it. This made me question my constant need to be in this situation again. As we get older our memories of childhood all seem to be happy and something we wish we could relive, but we tend to forget all the negative aspects of our memories. When we think of the park we focus on the fun of it, like all the games and friends we made during each visit. We forget to mention the times when everything wasn’t so perfect at the park. Like that time when I lost my favorite toy, or all the red swollen hands I would take home just to ice because of the monkey bars. Not only did these constant bumps and bruises affect my cry baby childhood, but also my now partially adult life. The whole scenery of parks no longer resembled fun for me. Just many dull swing sets empty of life with all it’s tears in it’s hard black material. No hope for the slides filled with unrepairable marks and uncleansed kids. Childhood must have just sounded better in my mind.

Crawling on the warm fuzzy carpet from the playroom to my bedroom. The lights in the living room always had a gloomy look to them. Constantly observing the world around me was something like a habit. Having nothing to worry about but your own actions was one of the best features of childhood. Not a care in the world. Crawling up the steps felt like rock climbing because if I went too fast I would tumble and fall. But the fall was not my biggest fear. The fear of not reaching my destination was the biggest one. It crossed my mind more times then my body hitting the ground after missing my next step. Having the freedom to make my own moves was a good thing; until you realize that there was always a larger restriction. My imagination ran wild only to soon be caught by the ones who always towered me. Shadows of figures grew bigger and bigger, it seemed as if my day of play soon turned for the worst. No more running, no more toys, just lay in the bed and make no noise. But I loved playing with my toys from the play room and making a scene. Naming them and dressing them up how ever I wanted. Discovering that this feeling doesn’t last was like thousands of knives stabbing me in my chest. My idea of childhood has abandoned me and left me with unpleasant memories. This has now helped me escape this imaginary world of where everything is all fun and games to open my eyes to reality. The reality that not everything is good. Life when we were younger always seemed to backfire on us yet we praise it as a time we wish we could have back. No reliving, we continue on.

Daddy’s little girl sounds like the perfect title as it left the lips of the over towering stranger. Proud to be called that name, which left smiles on so many faces. Everything about it seemed perfect until I realized the importance of the title and all the actions that came with it. Always wanting my father and hugging him until my face loses most of it’s oxygen. Calling for him day and night and always wanting the comfort of him near me. “Daddy!” Sadly this wasn’t particularly my reality. Hugs went to the bear that was fluffier than a bed of marshmallows. Taller than a child like me and sweeter than a sweet tooth. I was a mommy’s girl which you don’t hear often but even so, as the years went on the bond slowly faded. The child that always wanted her parents became a child who could now explore an undiscovered world without them. The idea of the towering strangers became stranger than the idea of no comments at all. I realized maybe I like being the age I am.

Loud alarm clocks became smoothing beeps. Swaying side to side as I awoke from my sleep. Starting my day of a newly found adventure, now seemed like the greatest thing in my life. So yes I sat through my tedious classes and never ending periods, but it all came with my freedom of life and freedom of expression. Yes being young may have its ups and fun moments but it can also bring you down. Childhood is not always as amazing as it sounds. BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! I’m ready.

 Introduction:

My goals for this paper are to relate my feelings of anger and my experiences with myself to the audience, and inform them. I’m proud of some of the parts where I feel like I relate my ideas well, and also some of my descriptive scenes from memory aren’t too bad, I think. Apparently my transitions aren’t very good even though they’re fine and if they should be better than you have to tell me what’s wrong with them (a wonderful example of passive aggressive anger), so my transitions could be improved and my ideas and analysis could be better and I’m sure everything could be improved.

 Essay

Things make me angry. Lots of things make me angry. Everything makes me angry, and anything can make me angry with the right circumstances. I am an angry person, but you might not be able to make the case that I have anger issues as I have developed an amount of self-control in the last few years. It’s not difficult to make me angry, but one of the things that makes me angrier quicker than anything else is time. More specifically my time being wasted.

Unfortunately for me and the people who have to interact with me on a regular basis, this happens more often than I’m comfortable with. Many of these instances involve my family members, as my mom seems to love wasting my time slightly more than she loves my sister. It doesn’t matter the activity, she’ll find a way to waste time. Going over to my grandparents? Let’s stay over there until 9 o’clock on a Tuesday. Running into the grocery store to buy milk? Apparently we have a lot of things to buy. Even something as mundane as driving home is subject to this uncanny ability. My mother and I were driving home when she decided it was time to stop to stop for some art.

“No.” I pleaded. I don’t plead often. This had been an unexpected stop, hence my pleading. We stood in the tent, plastic on four sides which did nothing but enhance the oppressive heat. We were encircled by art, or “art” as many would consider it. I am one of those. The abstract paintings surrounded us. And my mother just happened to pick out the worst possible one.

Now while these detours frustrate me, there is another type of time-commandeering that infuriates me. I only have two days in the weekend, and a lot of work to do in that time. I like to spread it out, pace myself properly. This puts me on a very tight schedule. I have “x” amount of time to do work, “y” amount of work to be done, and “z” amount of downtime. Yet, nearly without fail, I am interrupted. I can understand when there are things scheduled for the weekend, things to do, errand to run, and I am fine with doing them. As long as I know ahead of time. And sometimes, I am not so forewarned. And during a particularly busy Saturday, I can get angry.

On this particular wasted Saturday, I stormed into my room and slammed the door. It doesn’t take much to slam my door, but I gave it the extra push just to prove my point. I glanced at my phone, the time reading 5:02. God. Damnit. I did my best to control my anger. This limited the outlet of my rage to the nearest throwable object, which just happened to be a pen. I took a few breaths in which I thought about my situation again, and promptly threw the pen at the wall. I let out a sigh, almost a groan but not quite, and slumped into my chair, which had begun to crack quite badly in places. I checked my phone again, 5:03. I had to leave in a few minutes. I stood back up with a groan that was almost a sigh and angrily picked up the pen as angrily as you can do that. I looked around the room again, then exited, not quite slamming the door this time.

This isn’t holding anything against my mom, merely accentuating how much I value my time, and providing a reason for why. She has taught me to cherish it, for it may change owners at any moment. As I said, when things are scheduled everything is fine. I am willing to sacrifice time with very little complaint if I am given the proper notice. But if not, then the examples above show the reasons for my anger.

My anger, as annoying as it is, is an integral part of who I am, it’s part of my identity. I somewhat enjoy being angry, as counterintuitive as that may seem. As my classmates and friends can attest to, I am the short kid who get’s angry at everything, give or take a few adjectives. And I embrace this openly. I’ve had a degree of anger problems for a long time. I can remember getting mad at the tiniest little things in first grade. But as I grew older, I learned to control it better (not perfectly, but better), harness it even, in a similar fashion to the “If you embrace your faults then no one can use them against you” quote. I’ve even said I’m at my best when I’m angry. So, all in all, it’s almost a good thing that I’m always angry.

Introduction:

My goals for the paper was to address the topic of extrovert versus introvert and ask why being extroverted is still deemed the more desirable outcome if all it affects is how people recharge. I also address many stereotypes and complications that an introvert grows up with. The parts of the paper I am most proud of is the opening scene because I really spent time on describing the scenario and I just really like it. Areas for improvement for the future is definitely my analysis. I knew where I wanted to take this paper and what to talk about, but writing it all down in a chronological order is difficult for me and I often jump too fast.

Essay:

I close my eyes and breathe in deeply, to take in the scent slowly, savoring it. I can identify the aroma of ink, aging paper, and the oily wood essence of books. I can hear the slow methodical crackles as pages are turned and words are absorbed. I open my eyes and all around me I see my type of environment. I smile and tug on my mom’s arm, beckoning her to my favorite section of the library, children’s fiction and adventure.

We go down the old steps and I count them as I always did. One, two, three… I don’t pay attention to the girl in front of me or how I almost plow her over, just the slow counting.

Once we get to the bottom of the stairs, I practically run in the children’s section to ensure my favorite spot to read, the back lonely corner.

I say bye to my mom and brother and break off from them, relishing my alone time. I grab a Goosebumps book off a shelf. I sit down merrily on the cold wooden stool as no one was in my spot and I crack open my book smugly.

Once I was about three chapters in, I saw a small boy making his way to my corner in my peripheral vision. I frown because I’m really not in the mood to ‘connect’ to people. I want some recharging time. Of course the boy decided to stop right in front of me and I had to put my book down to see what he wanted.

“Excuse me?” I asked lightly, unsure of what this kid wanted.

“Uuh… I like reading in this corner… Can I sit next to you and just read?” I was shocked, it wasn’t another one of those excited younger kids who bugged you about reading to them.

“Sure? Can you just be quiet?”

“Of course Miss, thank you.”

He seems like someone like me, someone who enjoys being alone to think.

When I was a younger kid, being introverted was not a top quality to have. Adults would often wonder if introverted children even had social problems or even disabilities. Being independent was fine, but being too independent scared a lot of parents.

The idea of introversion often turns people off because extroversion is pushed by society to be more desirable in individuals. Introverts are depicted as shy people with a very few amount of friends, while extroverts are shown as the type of people who are popular or successful. All of this is untrue. How is being an extrovert deemed more successful than an introvert? People say you need people skills to climb the social ladder, but people skills and how individuals charge have no correlation.

Introverts often get a bad wrap and there’s a lot of misconceptions about us. People who seem outgoing aren’t always extroverted, they could be introverts. What my main point is is that introversion and extroversion can never be fully judged by another person and that not one leads to more success than the other.

Growing up as an introvert was really difficult because often people would push what their idea of what ‘introvert’ meant onto me. I was supposed to be a shy girl, a people hater, a serious person, weird. However, I act completely different than what people think an introvert should act like. I am a very outgoing individual who has people skills and even enjoys public speaking. I push myself to try new things and am often not serious at all. The only stereotype I’ve really held true was that I like to read. I like to read because I like discovering new worlds and new stories, not because I get energized by being alone. Being an introvert also does not mean a lack of confidence either. Introverts can be really confident because they need that inner focused recharge time and are often more comfortable with all of themselves.

Introverts and extroverts aren’t just black and white either, another misconception people often have. Often there is a spectrum of how people are receiving energy. Some interactions may cause slight energy decrease, while others cause the person to be completely drained (It’s the opposite for extroverts!).

As a whole, there are certainly biases for both introverts and extroverts. And there are certainly stereotypes. While introverts are “supposed” to be quiet and shy, extroverts are “supposed” to be loud and outgoing. We all know these stereotypes may be false and even if an individual falls under one of these stereotypes, it does not define a whole group of people. So, my question is why is being extroverted still more sought over even though all it reflects is how an individual gets energy?

Introduction:

This essay is my reflection on a connection I had made with an important person in my life, which was then suddenly severed. My goals for this paper were to try and enhance my descriptive language and to work on describing actual events that happened in my life. I wanted people to understand the connection that I had with this person and how guilt and sorrow came to affect that relationship. I am proud of the work that I did in using imagery and painting a picture through words because I feel that it added a lot to my writing and is one of the aspects of this piece that are most engaging. In the future I would like to work more on my structure, because I feel this piece was made up of a lot of different pieces that didn’t quite go together, but I forced them to, and next time I would like to make the story more fluid.

Advanced Essay:

An old and scratchy voice yelled to me from afar. I turned around, confused as to what I had just heard. A familiar face poked its head out of a car. “You boy, come here, let me show you what I have here for you!” I approached with caution, still startled by the voice that had come out of nowhere. On the corner of the street stood a small car, almost miniature, with a dark blue coat, it was shining from the glare of the sun that bore down upon it. I staggered towards the vehicle, looked through the gaping window to see my father and the woman to which the familiar voice had come from. Now knowing that I could trust the owners of this machine, I grasped the latch to the door and stepped in. Immediately I felt a cool blast of air pour onto my face, and a cold metal object thrown into my lap. I was unsure as to what it was until I was able to take a closer look at it. A metal man lay in my lap, staring up blankly into my eyes, carrying little to no emotion on his face, though he looked curious. He looked as though he was looking through my eyes and into my past, present, and future, though he just sat there, emotionless, worthless. I lay out his flat body in my arms, grasping him, wondering what use he was to me. Why should I care?

The metal man lay on the wall with a look of curiosity on his face. His body thin and bony, easily breakable, so thin in fact that you could see the outline of each and every crevasse in his body. Each one of his limbs hung lifelessly from his torso as if he were a skeleton hanging dead from above. His chest was like a washboard that could be played as a musical instrument. His left arm dangled towards his side lifelessly gripping a guitar that looked like it would be played in a rock and roll band, though it hasn’t been touched for a long time. A charm is wrapped around his neck clinging closely to his skin. A column of ridges peaked out of his face in the place where his nose would be, seemingly connecting his round skeleton eyes to his wide open mouth. The lifelessness that fills him seemed to be the same that might fill a robot, an inhuman metal contraption that sits upon the wall until it is needed. His metal seemed beaten and worn, covered with dents and rust, but through the battered and mangled body that lies there are intricate designs carved into each limb, resembling starry skies and gusts of wind. He stares straight forwards as if he is looking right at you, but you know that he can’t see anything. The metal man is made of scraps, but seem to be something new, a masterpiece depicting a man with an extensive story to tell. He reminded me of her. The old lady who once thought of me. Every time I stared at the corpse of a man strung up on my wall, I was filled with the sight of her face, gleaming at me, hammering the image of her into my mind. It made me happy, knowing there was someone in this overwhelming population who cared enough about me to make a special connection with me.

It hit me all at once, a wave of confusion washing over my entire body. I heard her say the words, but I was unable to comprehend their meaning, each word translated into a foreign language, something that made complete sense, but only sounded like jibberish to me. “I’m leaving on a trip,” she began in a mild tone, “to the middle east, to help the refugees from Syria, to provide them with the many comforts that they need.” Her words confused me, I wanted to believe it wasn’t true, even though I knew every word was spoken with complete sincerity. I didn’t want to believe that she was leaving to such a dangerous place all on her own. I tried to make up excuses in my head: Maybe she just is just fooling with us, she knows that someone of her age wouldn’t make it in that part of world. Maybe she will change her mind once she realizes the mistake she is making. But deep down I knew she wasn’t going to change her mind, and she knew that she wasn’t making any mistake. This was where she was meant to go, and there was nothing I could do to stop her. At this moment I felt completely alone. And I was. I didn’t see her again after that moment, and I continually ask myself: Will I ever again? Was I the one worth leaving?

I never really appreciated her until she left me, and I will always regret not telling her how I feel. The lack of time that I had is something that keeps spinning around in my head, the idea that there may have been another moment, and there may have been another time where I could see her. Every time I now look at the lifeless figure that hangs on the wall I think of her, and how I might see her again someday.

    The beauty in both terror and reality

Is it wrong to find pleasure in a place of torment? Those nostalgic feelings that continue to grow on you over the years The happiness. Then there's those dark memories. The ones you don’t want to go back to but at the same time, can’t wait to find someone who share similar experiences. Fears is what led me to these unexpected situations. It is what drew me closer to darkness. The horror movies, the video games, the websites, seeing some messed up things had brang me so much joy as a kid. It was all fun and games until the night crept in. When everything turns off and the only light you  had was the moon but even that wasn’t strong enough to save you from the horrors that haunt you. The terrors that made you feel alone and i'm not talking actually alone. The type of loneliness you have when you're the weakest one in the room. I had quite a few lovely experiences with darkness himself. I hope to not see him again. 


Friday night, at 7:30pm. My parents are downstairs so I can watch wrestling on the tv in their room. While i'm downstairs, I stared at the staircase. All I saw was a big shadow that was coming from the upstairs, pure darkness. I  walk up the stairs, step by step very cautiously and slowly the light that once guided me, faded to black. I see a painting in the far distance. Everytime I step a little bit closer to it, another human figure will appear on the painting. I examined the picture and remember the man in the white tank top all the way on the side of the painting. It creeped me out and gave me these chills so I turned around in the direction of my parents room. Still in a darkness. 

Walking into my parents room, I quickly turned on the light and then the tv. The room had this safezone feeling with it’s warm colors that laid on me. I changed the channel to the CW where “Friday Night Smackdown!” came on and laid on the bed. Though the room light was on, the hallway was still pitch black. The darkness wasn't pleasant. It was the type of darkness that a kid would get lost in. Though I was disturbed by it, I was also curious. I would take a walk in the darkest place on earth. I may not of been able to see with my earthly eyes but I can see anything with my conscious  that has a mind of its own. Though I was watching my favorite show, the hallway seemed more interesting. Every 5 minutes, I would stare at it. Seeing patterns and shadow, the hallway was speaking to me. It revealed that painting of the dancing spirits to me. Even with the darkness, the painting felt so vivid.  I went back to watching tv. The hallway tone started to get louder as I tried to ignore it. It got to the point that I just had to turn around and look. This time I look, I saw one of the figures from the painting. The man in the white tank top was standing there in the hallway. He was covered in the darkness but his white tank top wasn't. His white tank top is what led my eyes. He never looked at me. I felt like he knew I was there but he just kept staring to the left where my bedroom was. It was like he was watching something in there. As I continue to stare, I start to notice gunshot wounds on his shirt. Each one having a black cherry hole with red blood slithering through the white material of his shirt. He had very strong arms. Those type of arms that just symbolized strength and agony. A working man arm. 

He had this scent about him that just made him bigger than he appear. It wasn’t natural at all. He just shifted through the hall way and stop in front of my bedroom. He just stood there. I blinked and he was gone and so was the darkness.

That night, changed my whole view on ghosts and spirits. I thought Id freak out if that ever happen. It felt like someone stitched my clothes to the bed so I wouldn't move. I was such a shy kid that I didn't even want to breath loudly for the man to hear me. I wasn't afraid. I had fear but it was non existent that night. I never told anybody about that because I easily forgotten about it. It felt normal for the two worlds of living and dead to be together. It felt like the human form of darkness. 

Around that same year, I had another experience with the darkness. This time It was late at night. I went to bed that night like any other night. I was just laying down with my blanket over me, starring at the ceiling. My light was off and my door was wide open. I always hated my door being open. Something kept me up all night. It was like my mind was just racing with so many thoughts of going to sleep and never waking back up. I was scared of the darkness that night. I just kept staring at the ceiling that was lighting up from the bright tv that was on. I kept dozing off to sleep but I didn’t want to. I was afraid of having a nightmare because of all the scary things that wrapped my mind around them. I had no controlling over what I was thinking so I just decided to try and stay up. I just remember staring at the ceiling and then not hearing the tv no more. I try turning my head at it, thinking maybe i put it on mute, but I couldn’t. In fact, I couldn’t move none of my body. It was like a huge weight was just laying on top of me. Like a very strong man or something. I thought if I scream maybe my parents would hear me but I couldn’t. I had no control over my mouth. It was like something had its claws over my hand and its fingers in my mouth because it was hard to breath. I couldn’t move anything on my body but my eyes and man were they wondering. I just kept looking around and around. All i saw was darkness from the hallway. Every time a scene will change from television, a new shadow would appear in front of my door. Making everything go black. So much darkness danced in front of me. Like a show full of ghost and one of them just layed on top of me with its hand on my neck and mouth on mines. I wasn’t myself. I didn’t want to close my eyes. I didn’t want to see those thoughts come to life but they did. They stayed their, one getting closer to my bed and then the other. It was like my soul wanted to up lift itself and run to the light. With all that going on, everything just suddenly stopped. It was all back to normal.

That night felt like a long show that I was being forced to watch. When I think about , I imagine cold dirty hands grabbing on my upper arms. I feel a nasty long black tongue going down my throat to taste my vocal cords. That experience was freaky and gave me a new concept of darkness. How darkness can make someone feel so weak. This time felt like the physical form of darkness.

Then there was the outter body experience I had around the same age. The main difference is that this time, it was after dawn. I was sleeping down stairs that night. I’m on one couch and my sister is on the other. I woke up that morning, and just stared at her for a second. The sun gave off this golden light through the house. It made everything feel so alive. I got up and walked a few steps forward just to turn around and saw myself laying on the couch, sleep. It almost took the life out of me. I was up and walking but at the same time, I never left that couch. I couldn’t speak but I don’t think I even thought of spoken. It was like simple logic just left my body as fast as I did. Maybe I was dead I thought but my body laying there was breathing. I then thought that maybe it was my soul or subconscious. Nothing was making sense until the next weird thing happen. My full sight just changed into this picture of Abraham Lincoln. It was a very old picture. It made me wonder even more because Abraham Lincoln died on my birthday. It was a very gritty yet real picture of him. The presence of it got into my thoughts and try to choke me. The spirit of the painting swayed a way into the publes of my eyes and stabbed a chain in them so I wouldn’t look away. His lips were shut like they never opened for a thousand years. He stared deeply into my body and frozen my heart for me. Then the picture moved and so did what I was viewing. It was now a picture of Abraham Lincoln’s Skeleton. The vivid colors cause by lack of flesh, made the picture even more of mystery. I didn’t want my heart to beat while all of this was happening. I didn’t want any sign of life to remind me of what set me apart from what I was experiencing. I didn’t want the darkness to know that I was still alive. I just wanted to dance with it. I wanted to be friends with the black rainbow because both me and it experience something in common. No one ever caring to truly understand the works of something that’s not like them. Something that is only celebrated by those who learn to simply accept it.

I may lived through those beautiful experiences with black. Just promise me that you will never go home as I, myself, fade to black.

My goal in this essay is to show the readers that trying new things and going a little out of your comfort zone isn’t always so bad. Sometimes in order to realize and appreciate certain things you have to go through uncomfortable situations.

Advanced Essay -

“Happy Birthday to you” is all I heard when I woke up that morning, my eyes were still closed as I turned to the other side facing the wall not wanting to be bothered. I almost forgot it was my birthday, but when my mom continued singing, my eyes opened so wide you could see my pupils. As I turned to the other side to face my mom our eyes interlocked, we were looking into each others big dark brown eyes while she sang happy birthday and handed me warm delicious pancakes that smelled like brownies. I had a bright white smile and a really crusty face but I didn’t care it was my day. I was finally turning a year older “Get dressed I have a surprise for you” is all I heard with a sweet and mellow voice. I was anxious. What could it possibly be? I wanted a new phone so maybe that’s what it was! I hopped out of bed so quick my mom could feel the wind as I ran past her to go to the bathroom to turn the shower on.

Everyone’s dressed, except my mom. “Hurry!, Hurry! I said with a forcing and loud tone, you can see the annoyance on my mom’s face as she quickly continues to get ready. What could this surprise possibly be? I hated surprises so much! I hated them just as much as dogs hate baths. Ten minutes passed, Twenty minutes passed and even thirty minutes passed and I was STILL waiting on my mom. I gave up! My heart is beating extra fast and my mind is racing. I bugged her and bugged her and she never gave in.

The last thing I thought the surprise was is painting a picture. “Painting with a twist” to be exact. My mom knew I didn’t like to paint! So how dare she even consider taking me to this small, uncomfortable place on MY birthday. I was angry. Blood, sweat and tears angry but I smiled. I smiled because I didn’t want my mom to think I was selfish, I smiled because I didn’t want her to think I didn’t appreciate it, I smiled, but I wasn’t happy. Trying new things was always hard for me to do especially if I knew I wasn’t the best at it and it wasn’t in my comfort zone. I didn’t want to embarrass myself and walk out with the worst painting. I was also afraid of what other people thought and I tend to compare myself to others. It was my birthday so I was already going to be the center of attention so that on top of a horrible painting was just not a good mix.

We walked in and I put an old black apron on that had paint stains, I didn’t want to get any paint on my new fresh clothes. The director told us it wasn’t going to be hard and all we had to do was follow directions. She was old, with wrinkled pale skin, dark brown hair and tiny glasses. Of course she could easily say follow directions, she’s been doing this all her life. In my head, it didn’t matter if I followed directions or not I could NOT draw. I was staring at the blank white canvas as the director handed me these bright beautiful colors on a plate, big to small paint brushes that my hand held on tight to, and a big cup of water for the brushes. My mind was still racing, and my stomach began feeling uneasy.

As we waited for everyone to arrive, I just started to think about how the night would end.” Would I end up with the worst painting in the group”, “Would I embarrass myself?” Just all these negatives thoughts running through my mind as I was still sitting on a old wooden brown stool with one of it’s legs missing just. Finally, it was time to paint this beautiful African piece that I thought was going to be a disaster. The director began to show us the first step, all I could remember is each time she went back and painted, it looked harder and harder. Trying to keep up step by step, dipping my paint brushes in the paint as I colored the greenish blue background on this piece, hands shaking, nothing but silence in the room, and my mind telling me not to mess up.

As I kept painting, the colors became brighter on the page, my vision became clearer and my painting wasn’t so bad. I followed directions and made it into my own little creation. This surprise wasn’t bad after all. There was music blasting, snacks being handed out, laughter and enjoyment from everyone that was there. The environment is what made my painting so beautiful, the ideas I had in my head plus following the steps is what made my painting so beautiful, it came from my heart and that’s what made it beautiful. Some may say that they don’t like my painting but the red,blue and green colors that filled the canvas are beauty in my eyes and beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Most importantly, I tried something new and I got over my fear of being embarrassed in front of others. I’m learning in life in order to grow, one will have to take risk, so as I grew one year older I became a little more wiser.

‘’ What’s your name ‘’ ? The teacher said ‘’My name is Fatoumata”. This is how it all began in 6th grade. My name was difficult for many people because it was a name that nobody was used to. It was the first day of school I was so excited. I had my navy blue skirt with my attached ribbon , a navy blue shirt and my gold glittery flats. My hair was braided nicely with colorful beads. I was finally in middle school. I get in the car and my dad drives me to school. We stop by dunkin donuts and got breakfast. I gave him a big kiss and I’m off on my way to school. I walk down the steps and go down to the cafeteria. Everyone was there with their parents smiling giving kisses and hugs out to their parents. I was cheesing so hard because I was finally a 6th grader. The breakfast line was so long it was like a herd of cows. I waited in line and finally I got my warm hot pocket. I put my lunch number pin in and went to go find a seat. Every table was crowded. I devoured that hot pocket in seconds , that was the only school food I liked. 2 girls came my way. They were staring at if I were beyonce. They looked and looked and finally said something. I was relieved.

‘’ What’s your name ‘’? ‘’ My name is Fatoumata’’ ‘’ Could you say it again ? ‘’ Fatoumata” ‘’ Fatomatao”? I hated my name so bad. ‘’ What’s so wrong with my name ? ‘’ It’s just a name that sounds weird. ‘’ ‘’ How is it weird ‘’ . I was so upset but I didn’t want to ruin my day with a silly joke like that. I walked up the steps and waited outside my homeroom. The teacher came out the classroom and said ‘’Good Morning students’’ “ Good morning Ms.Shannon we all said. We all walked in the classroom and we all sat down in our little blue chairs with our name on it. Ms. Shannon introduced herself and we played a few games. The name game was next and I was very nervous. I hated the name game it was the worst game that was ever invented. When you’re young you’re mean so much to you but it was the opposite for me. Whenever I say my name people always question , Where are you from ? Where are your family from? Do you speak a different language? These questions get on my nerves so much. I hated to say my name out aloud because the classroom would be so quiet and all the attention would be on me. We would have people in the corner laughing, people sending text messages , people whispering. How could I ever love my name ? I was next I was shaking I wasn’t ready to say my name I was too embarrassed. I was next it was my turn , I got up and the whole class was looking at me. My name is Fat -ou mata. “Your name is really pretty’’. I was so surprised. ‘’ What did you say? ] ‘’ I like your name do you like your name ? ‘’ No I hate my name so bad. ( Bell rings) . ‘’ We will get to the rest of the names tomorrow have a great day’’. I was still in shocked that somebody actually liked my name. ‘’ Hey Fatoumata ‘’ “How is my name so easy for you to say”? ( giggles) “My name is Shakiya by the way and it’s really pretty for a pretty girl like you”. ‘’ Why don’t you like your name? “I wish I could have a name that wasn’t known so I could have been unique just like you.

I wished my mom had gave me a name that was so easy to pronounce or a name that was known. All my life I had to repeat my name about 300 times in a day I hated it so bad. Everybody use to tell me I love your name I just didn’t see anything to like. It was a bunch of letters that people could never get. When I was in middle school people randomly gave me nicknames. Nicknames that cutted my name out of it. I was okay with it in the beginning but then I realize that it wasn’t my name and it wasn’t who I am. I started to realize that I loved my name after a while. I was very insecure about my name because I let people criticism get to me but now it represent who I am and I would never want to change my name ever again. I finally accepted myself and my name it took quite some time. My name was a real challenge to others because it was name that nobody was use to. There’s no a lot of Fatoumata in our world and i’m very happy to be one of them. In my family history i’m the only Fatoumata in the family.

‘’ Fatmaata could you come sit down’’. ( Class laughing) ‘’ Whats funny?’’ ‘’ The teacher pronounces your name way wrong and it was hilarious’’ ‘’ I don’t see anything hilarious it’s a couple of words that she can’t put together’’? ‘’ Ms. Shannon I might not be proud of my name but that’s not how you say it it’s Fatoumata’’ ‘’ Sweetie your name is a name that i’m not familiar with’’ ‘’ Well get familiar with it because I won’t respond to Fat Fat or Mata or Fatou it’s not my name my name is Fatoumata’’. ( Applause) I was shocked .I never cared what people called me only if it wasn’t Fatoumata. That’s when I knew I actually did like my name I just hated that it took people years and years to finally get my name correctly. My name is Fatoumata and i’m very proud to say that’s who I am. I won’t be able to change my name because of the amount. I’m starting to love my name and feeling comfortable with saying my name. Its who I am.

Advanced Essay #1 Falling Down

In my journal this year, I wrote that I sometimes struggle to get a story going. However, I overcame this by simply venting non-stop, and continuing to write even if I was not sure how it would relate to the theme of my essay. This allowed me to choose from a lot of content and organize it, which is one of the strong qualities I have and wrote about in my journal. Furthermore, to strengthen my essay I used some descriptive writing, which I am usually hesitant to do because I don’t feel that I sound deep. I am proud of the simile I created, using the elevator to describe how I felt. I want to be able to write more like this in the future, as well as other lines that were significant in my analysis. The most critical area for improvement I see when I read through is my scene that starts of the essay. I want to become a better story teller, so that the story is not only useful for my analysis but so it can hook the reader and they will understand even better.

I popped the cap off the side of the gun and twisted the knob on the faucet. Once the gun was filled, we ran out to the patio where a thick burst of heat hit our faces. We stepped outside and took our shoes off. The tile was warm on our feet so we squirted them with my water gun. It was the middle of the summer and we were living our eleven year old summer carefree. We walked to the edge of the patio. It was around a twenty foot drop to the bricks below, and the same distance between us and the side window of a bank.
“I bet you won’t shoot the window with your gun” I said.
“Are you sure?” said Phil. He angled the gun up and yanked the trigger down. GUSH! The water soared through the air and smacked the window. THUD! We ducked below the edge of the patio.
“Holy Shiitake” I said. “You are a maniac. If they catch us who knows what will happen.”
“I didn’t think the gun could reach. I’m Sorry.”
At the time, spraying a water gun at a window seemed so scary and out of line. I still don’t think it is a good idea, but it is interesting to see how my opinions on what is acceptable and what is not has changed. Today I feel more willing to venture into danger than when I was younger, and things seemed so crazy and scary they were unimaginable. Is it because I was brainwashed by my parents as a child and did not form my own opinions on what is bad or not until later? Maybe after going through enough dangerous things, the world has made me more numb to a lot today, and it seems normal.
I still feel I have a grip on right and wrong, but it seems to be changing as well. It is as if the bar is firmly in my hand, but I am in an up elevator so it rises regardless. I find myself going to boundries I did not even know were pushed yet. When I look back to the old me, I clearly remember not believing my future would hold what it does now. Am I falling into a trap of bad behavior, and my mind is too convoluted with changing ideas to see the immorality in my actions? I can justify most of it now, but before I could prove why it was wrong. An old history teacher once told my class a quote that I always knew was accurate, but I can now see in full effect.
Mr John said, “Boring people are the most dangerous people.” I see this conclusively in my life from the people around me and sometimes even myself. I am still a person with strong values. I want to be as positive as possible so I can spread happiness around me. However we all commit bad deeds, and sometimes it is because we have to, but other times it is because we are just looking for a thrill, and think what we are doing is cool. I try not to let this mindset control me and block out all negative peer pressure. When I want to I definitely can, but it is not always easy to remember in the moment that what you are doing is losing your innocence.

My goal for this essay, Is to tell a story that lead up to the cross and what it symbolizes in my life. My goals were to have a few descriptive scenes along with a backstory that describes and explains why the cross is as important to me as it is. I am most proud of the part in my essay in which I describe what being a Christian and going to church meant to me as a little girl and even until now. I also enjoyed the last part of my essay description. Some of my areas I would improve are shortening my essay down by getting rid of some of the descriptive details. I need to work on having at least two details per scene, because the scene seems to drone on and on the more descriptive it gets. I want to have less, but more as far as visual imaging.

“Hear O Israel the Lord Our God is one Lord, and thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thine heart and with all thy Soul and with all thy might.”, my mother said smiling as she recited to us Deuteronomy 6:4-5. This was one of the many precious verses of the Bible that held the key to living a good Christian life, a life that would make God proud. I remember it like it was yesterday. The bright white pages of the Bible, with shiny gold tint on each edge, as the bold black words marked their presence as they spilled down the page in smooth straight rows, an epitome of scriptures, chapters and verses. I can still see my eleven year old frame, tucked closely next to my sister’s thirteen year old one. Our eyes wide and smiles stretched across our faces, as we soaked in each word into our brains. I remember the sun, as it played peek-a boo through our window giving the straight golden letters on the front cover of the Bible a heavenly like glow. I can still see the smooth brown wood surface of the table, my elbows resting on it’s hard sturdy surface, as I kept my eyes on my mom. I can still hear my mom’s voice as she read the scripture. Her voice smooth, the rhythm steady, rising after each sentence to provide emphasis on each line. Though I had read the Bible many times over the past years , and had been writing scriptures out before my E’s even faced the right way, this was another one of the many times I had read this scripture, and each time it was read I was excited. The way my mother read it brought it to life, just like much of the many animated Bible lessons she taught in our comfortable living room. To us, these scriptures were not anything we hadn’t heard before, but the lessons we would learn and the blessings we would receive would be, if we continued to immerse ourselves in the word of God. At this age, and for ages to come, nothing meant more to me than getting to know God. From the time of birth until now, I was born and raised Christian. I love Jesus and talk about him so much, that I am often labeled what people call a “church girl.” As defined by many, A faithful attender of church every Sunday and a proud member of what my friends call “Team Jesus Christ.” I have seen everything, from the synchronized step of the ushers, as they march in their Black and white uniforms, the harmonical notes of the various choirs, and even the blunt and bold messages of my Pastor. Not only have I seen many of these things, but I have been on everything from the choir, to the usher ministry, to even the Evangelism Team, which requires giving to people in need and sharing about Jesus. Growing up Christian and in the church, meant values to me, and I began to fervently seek Jesus in every area of my life. This meant being faithful to his word, which I had been trained in and even to fasting and praying. As a little girl, this scared me quite a bit. Not the fact that I knew I would make mistakes as a Christian but what it would mean for me to get to know God. To me, God was a great huge, powerful being and I was just a small girl with pigtails, gapped teeth, and frilly church socks. However, my curiosity and my growing love of Him and all the attributes that make up who he is, overpowered my fear and soon I found myself getting baptized in the year of 2008. I can still fill the cold water as it covered my arms hands and feet, as I was immersed underneath it. I can still feel the sting of my nose as I came up out of the water, to the warm smiles and laughter of my family as I stepped out of the water. From then on, I continued to seek the Lord, and at thirteen I received the Holy Ghost, which to Christians is the “Lord’s spirit living within”. From thirteen on, only God continually proved himself to be a working favor in my life, and I sought him through in every way I could. Not only this but the symbol of the cross and what it stands for, became valuable to me. I would wear it on many outfits, whether in the form or earrings a bracelet and even a necklace. and accessorize it with many outfits. It became a favorable sight to me. That is why when the silver cross was given to my mother, I immediately took a liking to it. Although I could not wear it around, I could look at it and it became a reminder of what Jesus did for me. It was a warm spring day, The sun enveloped the clouds. Orange, green, and brown leaves dotted the ground’s rocky surface. The wind, marked its presence with its cool breeze. I rushed down the stairs, my footsteps making loud thuds on the soft brown carpet. The house still, the only noise being the loud ticking of the kitchen clock. As I walked into the kitchen, something amazing glistened off of my window sill. A new sight. It was a silver cross. Not the cliche brown wooden carved cross, but one made of pure crystalline glass. From top to bottom. Each corner and tip arched and etched perfectly together to create on lasting, standing masterpiece. The glass, although blurry continues to shimmer. The sun creating rainbows on its glassy surface often times when it peek into the window. As if this wasn’t enough, it stands on a rectangular ledge, meant to make it rise a little, so that it would be almost impossible to miss it. One layer, two layer, and finally the masterpiece. Despite the ordinance of the sill on which it stood, it stood out. Amongst everything it shares the surface of the sill with. And here it stands. Not did it become a reminder of the great sacrifice by which Jesus made over many 2,000 years ago, but also as a testament and witness. That showed me why it not only is a symbol that belongs in the many phases of life, but also in the very dear recesses of the heart. That day, there was not a moment as special. This cross meant the world to me, because it was a symbol etched into my heart. And so like this cross is , so is my religion and it continues to be as I proudly represent Jesus in every area of my life. Just like I am doing right now in this essay. Hey, what can I say? I am a part of Team Jesus Christ.

Introduction

This essay has been one of the most personal writings I’ve ever done. I haven’t written what I consider a good essay in a while. This essay made me think and write about important events in my life which is something that is really hard to share. Not only was this essay real but it was also one of my only essays I was really descriptive. I lack very much in being descriptive and using descriptive words. I feel like in this essay I did a great job moving forward and improving my descriptive language. I can maybe try to include less scenes and have more analysis in my essay but I think I did a good job of balancing it.

        The Man That Changed My Life        

As I walk in and out of my room each day, I always pass by a very important painting. It is of a man that has played a very important part in my life as well as many others. The painting is of a man looking up into the sky while crossing his fingers; which is centered in a mysterious blurred out background with only a gleam of sunlight peaking through the window. He is wearing a nice silky blue shirt that seems as if it is the sky on a sunny bright day. A tiny thin gold necklace dangles around his sturdy neck. He has a slightly faded beard with a face of innocence. This man has long light brown hair that sits upon his shoulder. His mustache is slightly bushy, not too thin but just right. I see a halo hovering above his head glistening. To the right we see a lady in her late thirties, slowly approaching this man. This women has a white cloth on her head that resembles a hoodie. To complement the cloth, she wears a burgundy type of red shirt that fits just right. Around her neck there is a necklace that has a flaming heart at the center with a chain surrounding it. Her skin was flawless and her face embodied an equilibrium of seriousness and serenity. The portrait comes together as one to show the bond between a mother and son. The picture is of Jesus and his mother Mary. A nice classic artwork of the two; framed in a nice light brown frame with sharp edges to center out the artwork of the two. This image would come assist me in multiple situations throughout my years as a young boy trying to find out how this world works. “How was your day?” Asked my mother as we sat in our living room. A room that gives the feeling of calmness and leisure. The walls had a mixture of the two colors; brownish red and a dark yellow. Im sitting next the couch which is closest to the back wall. The room is cubed with 4 walls and two openings “It was good, I got to complete most of my work at lunch and now barely have anything to do at home.” I replied. “Im proud you are being a good student.” “How was your day mom ?” I asked. “Umm… it was ok, I have something to tell you but have no idea of a way to tell you without making you feel a certain way.” She replied. I moved eagerly to the couch she sat on to hear this news. The couch was located on the opposing side of the room from where I had just been.These two couches formed a small hallway that was parallel to the two openings. “Well, mom you know you could tell me whatever. Whats wrong?” I said. “Nothings wrong with me baby, I just got a phone from Frankie’s mom and he’s in the hospital.” She replied. I stood up and began to shakingly walk around the room. At that very moment millions of questions rolled through my mind, but the only one that managed to come out was, “What happened?” She answered, “He was in a car accident, he said he wants to see you.” After she said that I walked upstairs with no response to what she said. I never used the artwork hung in my room but this was the first time I decided to use it. I talked to the artwork and this made the artwork come alive. I asked for mercy for my friend Frankie, and that was exactly what they did. One day In fourth grade, I was sitting at the lunch cafeteria table playing a game of chess with my friend. He was very short with a mushroom shaped haircut that was a very bold dark brown color. He was real light skinned and was always a really nice person.
“No matter what you do I’m still going to be the best at this game.” I said in a giggling voice. “You have no chance against me.” I then continued. “Yea whatever you say” he replied. As he moved his king chess piece; and I realized that this is where I had him locked down. “Looks like someone in checkmate” As I said that; another kid soon approached us. He had been looking in our direction for a while but now he was in the presence of our game. He was a smaller kid who matched the body type of my fellow chessmate. We had been in the middle of what I considered a very intense game when the boy rudely interrupted.
“What are you guys playing?”
He reached for one of our chess pieces and moved it. I shouted, “What are you doing!?”
“Just moving it around”. “If you do that again I’m going to punch you” I said now aggravated. He went to reach for another chess piece; I stood up and pushed him so hard he hit the lunch table’s edge. The situation did not escalate after this so later on that day I went home. When I got into the house my mom asked me, “How was your day?” “My day was good, nothing bad happened just another day of school.” I replied, knowing it was a lie. After the conversation I walked up to my room with the feeling of guiltiness taking over my body. I then looked up at the painting and asked for forgiveness. He talked back to me and told me to go tell the truth to relieve all this guilt. That’s exactly what I did. Jesus is someone who can easily control your actions, which is crazy when you think about it. He has helped me through many obstacles in my life. They’re a lot of people who do not believe in god and have no religion at all. That’s perfectly fine but when I come to think of that, I can’t seem to find myself being the person I am without god to guide me and help me. Jesus isn’t someone you have to make an appointment for, he is someone who is always available. This makes him even more special to me. After Frankie’s accident, I never felt the same. I felt protected and felt as if there had always been someone there for me if my family or friends weren’t able to be there. After the many incidents I had experienced throughout my life, I was able to build a nice strong relationship with Jesus. We developed an unbreakable bond that I will cherish for the rest of my life.

Introduction

This essay is a reflection of my childhood life back when technology wasn’t too much of a big deal or focus. My goals for this essay is to show people that there are more things that can entertain us besides technology or the internet. I want people to understand that technology can entertain us but it doesn’t help us make and experience good memories with other people. The parts in the essay that I am proud of would be the analysis or the last paragraph because I tried putting all my thoughts together about my childhood and my experiences in an organized way. The areas that I need to improve on would be my redundancy in writing and the use of more descriptive words.

Advanced Essay

I had never thought that I’d be living on the other side of this beautiful and gigantic world. I was just a little girl who freely ran around the streets of my small town in the Philippines. I lived with some cousins, uncles, my grandmother, and sister in an old and average sized house. Antique things gathered in the house as dusts always collected in every corner. The air could not circulate enough in this small house and even the ceiling fans barely provided us any air. I remember that as I came home from school, sweat would dribble down my face and into my body. I tossed my backpack slowly to the table where we placed all our necessities such as school supplies or other necessities. After that, I carefully took the ribbon off of my shirt and school ID wrapped around my neck. I unbuttoned my plain white school uniform and unzipped the skirt as I rushed to get changed. Then, my cousins, sister, and I headed to the streets of our village to play with our friends and neighbors. The look of excitement was always seen on our faces because it was a relief to be playing after a long day at school.

One day, as we were playing “tag” and making loud noises on the street dogs kept barking from a distance. Little did we know that it was our friend who was chased by these group of dogs. We saw our friend with his terrified and sweaty face from a distance as he pedalled as hard as he could just to get away from these angry dogs. It was a bit of an entertainment but we were frightened to do anything. My mind blanked, heartbeat almost came out of my chest as I quickly picked myself up and ran swiftly to avoid these enraged dogs. We played a lot of the Philippine traditional games such as “tag”, piko “ hopscotch”, Chinese garter “ Chinese jump rope”, taguan “hide and seek”, and so much more! Sometimes, my cousin, sister, and I would be doing our homework because our Lola “grandmother” said so. No matter how thrilled we were to be playing outside we just had to give it up sometimes if school gets in the way. Playing street games outdoors became our routine almost everyday after school and even on the weekends. Butterflies of excitement always rumbled in our bellies every time this “play time” came.

My childhood life in the Philippines is unlike any child’s life nowadays. I had some forms of gadgets growing up but I detached myself from them because I had fun playing tag with my friends on our street and playing cash register games or barbie dolls with my cousin. I may have some gadgets such as a phone to contact a guardian at school, a desktop computer, and a video game gadget but, they were just there. They weren’t a big part of my everyday life which I am glad. As a little kid, I connected myself to the outside world and enjoyed myself being outdoors. Thinking back, I am very grateful that I got the chance to explore the world outside before the LED screens came out big time. I always loved every moment being outside but I’ve never really thought of the idea to fade away one day. As a laid back kid, I didn’t think of the fact that as you get older and move to places things will never be the same and things can change. If I just knew, I could have enjoyed every second that I spent playing with those kids in my block more. Now, I could go back and visit but things will never be the same because we’re all growing up. However, I cannot complain because I am in the most comfortable that I have ever been in my life even though sometimes I think to myself, “Oh I just miss the good old days.” Those were one of the good times in my life but according to my dad, “good things must come to an end.”

Introduction// My goal for this paper was to let people get a glimpse of what my life is like behind closed doors. Honestly, I put up a strong front and wall towards people in order for them to think I’m strong and sometimes that can come off pretty bad. Although I am somewhat of a tough character, I still do have certain weak spots just like everyone else. I am very proud of being able to be very descriptive in certain parts of this essay and that’s something that I normally really struggle with when it comes to essays. Of course there’s room for improvement and I think I could’ve improved my conclusion paragraph but I tried to tie it all back to my first memory and description of the painting in my dining room and I think I was able to do that along with bigger idea coming across.

There’s this picture in my dining room. It hovers over the dining table like my guardian angel. It captivates my eyes due to its assortment of large and small circles of different colors and textures. The background of the picture is something quite unique. Colors collide together beautifully down the green, red and yellow ombre backdrop. The texture of the background reminds me of paint brush strokes, streaky but beautiful. The top of the picture is a grass green and like love at first sight it falls romantically into a goldish yellow. Between that and the next two colors, resides a gray area something that resembles what we all have in life. A moment that does not really seem to fit, but at times it may move you into something a thousand times better. That vivid brown color twisted the gray area into a moment I fell in love with. Possibly the best transition of the entire picture or maybe of my entire life. There’s a big white circle on top of that grassy green tone I mentioned, I would say it is a perfect circle but life can never be too perfect and on the outside of this circle comes a white orbit facing forward around it. Like impulsive moments in my life, this picture is filled with spontaneous circles. Varying from quarter sized orange and red circles that reminds me of Mars, to that big white circle with another orbit that reminds me of Pluto.

I am way too familiar with the five senses associated with a broken heart, or maybe I should say the senses acquired to a heart break. It sounds like occasional whimpers, sniffles and sobbing. It tastes like sea salt, cotton and strawberry ice cream. It looks like eyelids forced shut and dried patches on my brown skin. It feels like feathery pillows and warm cozy blankets. It smells like fresh perfume or old cologne. As I sit at my table and reminisce about my past, my eyes become engulfed into a blank google document and keys that varied from alphabetical to numerical order. I remember this day just like it was yesterday.

The laminated faux cherry wood dining set pushed out into the middle of my dining room. Hanging above it was a crystal chandelier, a little dusty but the reflection from the shallow jewels still relayed the dark brown reflection of your eyes. The table we sat at was covered in postal mail of different sorts. Postal stamps plastered onto envelopes, package tape ripped off of brown cardboard boxes but for some reason the clutter did not seem to bother you. What your eyes really laid on was the steaming hot, shrimp alfredo my mother made for us. The linguini noodles were smothered in a white sauce topped with speckles of paprika, pepper, salt and garlic powder. I watched as you sniffled in the steam and various aromas that arose. The way you clutched my forest green ceramic plates as you engulfed the food with that metal 4 armed fork let me know, you enjoyed every bit of the meal. That made me smile inside. I know you’re a keeper if you happen to like mothers food. In that time, I caught myself occasionally staring at that picture. The various large and small circles captivated me, they sort of resembled my pupils. The pupils you always seemed to compliment that made me blush uncontrollably. After eating, you had to go home but your memory did not leave. Although I would never see you again, I saw some of you in the sweat stain you left on the burgundy leather chair cushions. I saw your lip print on the glass cup you drank from and that never left. Damn Finish ™ for not getting the dishes as clean as they promised. Now I will always see you in that picture, at my dining room table and as a faint memory in the back of my head.

I wish there were actual memory erasers, you know from Men in Black. Your presence would be here and then gone in an instant. But, of course my long spiral road of heartbreak just doesn’t end there. There’s always one thing after another, just like a broken record of vocals. The same lyric playing over and over and over and over and over and over and ov- you get it right? Similar to what I’m dealing with. A never ending, record repeating, late night assortment of blues.

The morning blue jays arose and sung a song while I stared at the window behind my bed and admired the blooming spring flowers and healthy green trees. These trees always scared me on windy nights because I thought the tree would fall over. As the day came to an end , and the crickets came out to play, I saddened at the next saga of events. A notification tab popped up onto my phone screen and what I saw next made my mouth drop completely to the floor. “He broke up with me.” Tears welled up into my eyes, slowly finding their way into the creases beside my mouth. I tasted the salty liquid on my taste buds as my body started to become numb. I slowly read the message making sure I caught every detail within the long cold hearted paragraph. “This just isn’t working out.” Words screamed in exhaustion throughout my head, my heart cringed at the beating it would be taking yet again. “After all I’ve told him, after all we’ve been through?” 4 walls began to close in on me, dry patches stained my cheeks and my body began to shake uncontrollably. Should I leave it on read and not respond? Should I convince him to stay with me? I couldn’t really seem to come up with an answer. The more I read the message, the more questions I had. Is this all my life will ever be? Was there someone else? Were you not happy? Am I just not good enough?

My story is a prime example of transition. Alike the gray area in the painting that hangs faithfully above the dining table in my dining room, my life became swiveled and swirled into that vivid brown closely related to the swivels and swirls in that soft serve ice cream cone from the Mr.Softee truck. So effortlessly did that brown take full control of the car I had slowly but surely lost control of. After a full year of total unhappiness and complete betrayal left and right I realized this was all a test. A test to see how much I could take. It felt as if I took this test about 50 times, each time being labeled a different type. My first trial, I was to weak to realize the true lies. My second trial I was stable, starting to understand my mistakes but still blinded by the black veil of “love”. My last and final trial I was strong. Realizing that I am worth an entire picture of words. I am a beautiful little 15 year old black girl, who will be 16 in two months, whose hair will never get curly in the water, a picky eater who hates when their food touches but loves the mixture of vegetables and meat in beef stew. I am a little black girl who is a little shy and awkward around new people but able to be outspoken and loud when it comes to expressing her thoughts. I am a teenager who has experienced the devastation of heartbreak at a young age, I am a teenager still learning to fight for true love. I am still in the process of finding myself. But, most importantly. I am changed and I am me.

Intro:

My essay is about life lessons that I learned. In which that happiness comes with pain. You can’t have one without the other. And that you need bad experiences to change who you are and give you a good outlook on life;aka to be wiser. I am proud of being able to express myself in this paper because I have a hard time opening up. Also, my poetic descriptions are fantastic! I am very proud of this piece and I hope others enjoy it too.

Essay:

Happiness comes with Pain

“Left, right, up, down. No matter what direction you are looking, you are stuck Mackenzie.” These thoughts that haunt me from mind began at five years old, and I only started talking at age 3. “Little kids don’t understand or interpret much,” adults throughout my life would say, but I disagree on a deeper level.
Everybody liked to treat me as child that is incapable of hurt and feelings. Put me in a room full of children, they would walk by making me unnoticed. The adults would just sit there not knowing the inside screaming in my head. My head taunts me every time: “why won’t they talk to you; I see people sitting next to each other laughing and talking. Mackenzie you can’t do that, you are all alone.” Play with me, sit next to me, show me your smile! Black starts to cloud my vision, and my heart sinks like it is going to my feet. I have to hold it in, I have to hold it in, that’s what is expected of me, and I don’t want to cause others worry. So I am the child that is incapable of being hurt. Elementary school arrives, and I took a turn for the worse that I was not expecting for. I woke up every morning, brushed my teeth, threw my clothes on, got in my car with my mom and on we went. Every morning when my mom dropped me off I was embarrassed with soft kisses on my chipmunk cheeks, and received squeezes from her large, warming body. I’d walk into school, expecting to start the day off good. “Hey fatty, did you take a bit out of the door thinking it was a chocolate bar, a part’s missing.” Their it comes again. The Darkness, The pain, The regret. With teary eyes and a held tongue, I pick myself up with my head tilted down and bangs falling on my eyelids, I walk out of the classroom into the bathroom. “You have to hold it in, you can’t show them.” it whispers into my anxiety ridden soul. Looking steadily in the mirror, I examined my eyes, watching the salty pain running down my face onto my lip. The taste reminds me that I can feel, and why i am in hell. That continued like a tribal ritual for the sun coming up. Except there was no sun in my life, just whispers in the dark hardening my strength to speak. My lips were sown with the invisible threats of hurt and insult I was reminded with. I was not seen, therefore I would just be the air that you breathed;Unnoticed.Watching every move they made, listening to every sound they made. They do not see me, but I see them. I am the child that is still not capable of being hurt. Middle school I ignored all their comments, but I still thought I was worthless. I then met the best friend love of my life. Everytime she hugged me with warm moist hands around my back, and her big solid chest for me to find comfort in, it did. I imagine her like this blissful heaven like glow in my mind. She grabs my hand and pulled me out of the abyss of my screaming darkness, and in a loving embrace I cry like a cat who was picked up from the box of abandonment. She was my nice new home, where I could stretch out my legs and take a nap on a comfy couch. The voices in my head that wished for me to let go, and lose my mind with loneliness, have stopped. Sarah helped me, but my mind could not erase the saddest that was engraved in my memory and current vision. When I hug my mother, I cling onto her like a child, because I missed my childhood, it was taken away from me. She could not understand the struggle with my classmates. I want to show the situation right in front of her, but I cant burden the broken. They’ll listen through one ear and out the other. I am the broken child who is hurt, someone please notice me. Later as the year went on, I looked more closely at time with myself. I realized that only I can make peace with myself. I spent my time staring into the wide gaping sky, and gasping over the beauty I see in the flowers that cry droplets. The the bright yellow sun flowers that a husband gives his wife to tell her that she is the shine to his life. A baby’s laughs from a mother spending precious moments with her baby at the park. Or even the the burning sensation that I feel on my back and face from the sun shining on my Vitamin D deprived skin. Proving that I belong in this place called life, and I am alive. Even if a person hasn’t noticed me, life has accepted my existence. The sun will continue to beat down on my snow like skin, and tears stream down my thankful face, representing that happiness comes with pain. As long as I have these memories , I keep a lesson within me, that the darkness cannot escape inside of me, but my empty box will be refilled with the life that shines through the breaking walls around my heart. I am a girl who can feel hurt.

My goal for this essay is to show my audience why I love fantasy books. I’m very proud of my detailed description of the book cover in my story. My description should paint a clear picture of the book’s cover in the minds of my audience. One thing that I needed improvement in my essay would probably be getting to the point faster in my writing. This is fixed now, but before it was just extra writing that wasn’t needed. I hope you enjoy the experience of reading my essay.

Near the bottom/ middle of the picture is a fight scene between two teenage boys and their horses. On the bottom left side of the picture is a depiction of one of the two boys. It starts out with a rising black thundercloud with yellow lightning streaks coming from it. Rising from the thundercloud is the boy wielding a sword on a horse. The boy is caucasian, with a sort of goldish tan and golden blonde hair. He is raising his golden sword with his right hand and holding on to the horse with his left hand. He is wearing a purple shirt and making an angry/ screaming face toward his opponent. The horse this guy is riding has the same look as the thundercloud, black with many yellow lightning streaks for veins. Also, this horse’s eyes are a glowing red. The horse seems to be rearing up, but from the middle of his stomach and down is covered in the black thundercloud.

Next is the teenage boy on the bottom right of the picture rising from a violent wave of water is with a sword on a horse. This boy is caucasian as well, but his skin does not have a golden tan-like tone to it and he has ruffled black hair; his skin looks a little darker. He is raising his shining bronze sword with his right hand and holding onto his horse with his left hand. He is wearing an orange shirt and he is also making an angry/ screaming face at his blonde haired opponent. This boy’s horse is a black pegasus but you can’t see the wings too well, so don’t worry about the wings. Like the thunder horse, the pegasus seems to be rearing up as well. But from the the middle of the pegasus’ stomach and down, the waves are covering it. Both of the two horse’s front legs appear to be touching each other as they are reared up near the bottom middle of the picture.

Right above this battle near the top of the picture, in a crimson red color, is a huge face of an owl. It’s not the owl’s entire face, but just it’s eyes and small beak. The eyes are drawn to stare right at you. Creating a “C” like formation around both owl eyes are feathers. Right in between the owl’s eyes is a medium streak of white lightning, and around the outer parts of the owl’s face is small minor streaks of lightning. Above the owl’s face, the picture just does a transition from crimson red to black. The last thing is that starting from the top of the two horse’s heads and going toward the bottom of the picture, behind the battle scene and between the black thundercloud and violent wave is a sort of whitish and yellowish color.

This picture that I have delicately described is the cover for a book called, “The Mark of Athena”, by Rick Riordan. The day my mom took me to Barnes and Nobles in 2012 to get this book, I unintentionally memorized every detail of the cover. It was so inviting to my young and curious eyes that I had to have it. Like most fantasy books, looking at this book made me hype to delve into it. From then up to now, diving into the worlds of fantasy stories is such a beautiful feeling. It pulls you away from reality, which for me was an amazing thing. Back when I was twelve and reading, “The Mark of Athena” getting pulled away from reality meant getting away from homework, annoying teachers, and some responsibilities. Now that I’m a teenager in the eleventh grade, reading books like, “The Mark of Athena”, means getting away from more homework, bigger responsibilities, benchmarks, the major nuisances of this world, and the the idea of growing up. Sometimes, the thought of growing up can be scary. So to make myself feel better, I would pick up a fantasy book and delve into it. Not only are fantasy books so interesting and exciting to read, but they are also very comforting and they give me a sense that I will be alright.

Even though fantasy alleviates reality, reality is still reality. Growing up as a leisure reader, I soon had to learn the hard way that I won’t always be able to read the books that that I want. Whent started my first year of Science Leadership academy, I was already in the middle of a good book. But then I was assigned lots of homework and lots of educational reading. Which was very boring. Because of all this work, I then had to set my leisure reading aside. Reality had won this round against fantasy. I had thought that I would be able to read my book again after all my work was done. But as the work progressed to greater amounts and as the school reading increased, I wasn’t able to catch up on my leisure reading until the next year. After my freshmen year, I had thought that reality always wins against fantasy. It wasn’t until my sophomore year that I learned that fantasy can sometimes beat reality too. That is to say, I found time to do some leisure reading. It was then that I created a balance between Fantasy and Reality. I made sure that not only would I get my school work done and get good grades, but that I would find time do some leisure reading.

My goal in life is to be myself and help others, and in my piece I explained that and other things I’d love to do. I am pretty proud of how I described my piece of how I really feel.. Areas for improvement can probably be my grammar.

Advanced Essay

Waking up to an bright light almost makes you feel like you’re in a better place. I can sense the heat on my sensitive skin, keeping me warm and comfortable. I told myself I heard the sound of sweet soul of music downstairs. It was within me today, I said as I was shuffling out of bed. The sheets were attached to me like a magnet. It was yet another Monday Morning about 7:21 am. I was only 6 years old when I started learning about my superiority. I took myself downstairs for a bite to eat as I made me some cereal. My step-mom made me eggs and a bagel. I took it to the living room and turned on the tv to watch some PBS. Sesame Street was on, but sadly went to commercial. An advertisement came on. It was at that moment my eyes started dwelling and my stomach was growling. I glared at the television listening to a man who had a voice of an activist. He stated, “You can accomplish anything, anytime, if you just put your mind to it.” I had to hear more to what this man had to say. He kept going on about accomplishments and achievements. At the time I didn’t know any of those big words he was saying, so I wrote them down on a post it note and gave them to my Dad. He defined them for me and it was all making sense. Leadership, control, management, desires were swarming on me. I told myself I wanted to go find these accomplishments because I knew I would need it. The rest of my life that is ahead of me. Not just that, but at that time, things weren’t going so well for me. You could say there was some family problems, or you can say there’s sadness that surrounds me and my broken heart. This happens at times, but it drifts away from me also, and returns when my emotions change. I was able to get out of the house and walk around for a bit with my mom. We went to the park, I got on the swings, went down the slide. It really helped me forget about the things I used to know. Just a simple commitment with Love and positivity can do that to a kid like me. I thought I could do that to someone too. To make them feel better about themselves, and put a smile on there face to let you know “Hey, I’m alright” I also thought, If life was simple like this that I can take a deep breath and start over, then this is something I can get use to. And so I did. And it was really helping a lot. Each day, I explore more and more and stopped worrying about the negativity that tries to surround me with sorrow and guilt. Because, I was already surrounded by the power of positivity. Everything I had was already on my side. My parents, friends, family. Because even though we always have our bad times, in the long run, we all love each other in the very end. This is my motto and still is today. As I keep growing and developing, I add more and more things to my notes. Always have a positive attitude, having faith, having hope, and believing in yourself. If I ever see my friends who are down, I’d do my best to pick them up. When I was 9, I told myself I want to make the world a better place, one by one, one step at a time. Helping people, help feed the homeless. Talk to my peers and to make them happy. Of course, I was gonna have my off days, of how much I wanted to keep it to myself. I couldn’t, people who were really close to me notice my troubles and they were there to help me. Raised in a church taught me how to be a better person. It did change me a lot, developing into a better me than before. This is where I started my roots. These were reasons why I was becoming a great kid. 7 years old and growing. When I accepted Christ into my life and began reading the bible when I was 8. The next year, I was understanding the passages, one of my favorites were Romans 3:23 “For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God”. One of the best quotes in my notes, is to accept defeat. Of course when I was initiating to becoming a great kid, I realized that we are all not perfect, we will sin, we will do wrong And when that comes, I’ll be ready for it. My life isn’t over, it is just beginning. And I realize there is going to be times where I will do good and I will do bad. Sometimes, I won’t be able to realize the good and the bad. Or what I’ve done at times. But I am prepared for it. The only thing I’m not prepared for is what’s going to come later. I don’t know how and I certainly don’t know when. I could die the next day. But doesn’t mean every second I have to breathe it. Just to be alive is a reminder to be happy and to tell my story one day..

When I first saw the portrait, I said to myself: “This painting will go great with the atmosphere of my house”. When we got home we couldn’t figure out where to put the portrait. I suggested why don’t we put the portrait behind the dining table. My parents said “That not a bad idea because it fits the area around it. So we all agreed to put it in the dining area and when we stood back and looked at it, we all said “It looks perfect here.”

Quite a few months back I move into a small apartment with my parents. The area around seemed empty because where the apartment is, it is surrounded by garages. The apartment was small yet durable it had a deck so I can go outside and had a electric stove. First we got the heavy stuff in the way so it won’t be much of a hassle at the end. Next we got lighter stuff out of the way and then a week later we got the internet and cable up in the apartment.

During my life there was a lot moving and here I am going to tell you from the beginning. When I was born, I use to lived on Brighton St. near where there use to be a HESS nothing much happened at Brighton Street.

Next I moved to Frankford Ave where I lived most of my life. A lot as happened on Frankford, some good some bad. I call it a small apartment with a lot of memories, For example a squirrel came into our apartment without any notice and me and my mom were scared to go near it, so my mom called her boyfriend without telling him what the situation was. When he got there my mom just tells her boyfriend about the situation and her boyfriend got the broom with a nervous look on his face and he knock it down the stairs and it ran out the door never to be seen again. When I lived on Frankford Ave. I met two people named Alexis but people call her Lexi and a boy named Anthony but people called him Ant. after we became great friends as the when we started to hang out but as much because they kept coming and going for a while and all of the sudden we stopped seeing each other for a long time and we have not seen them since then.The reason we moved out of Frankford Ave was because a drunk man kicked our door open in the middle of the night and my mom called to police and nothing happened after the fact.

Next I lived on Disston St. Not a lot of has happened on Disston, but the only thing I remember is inviting my friends over and pool parties. I had a great time at Disston Street, but we had to move and I really liked it there.

Then a few years later, we moved to Tyson. There was really no memories at Tyson because we moved not even a year later because the neighborhood was a bit crazy.

When I moved to Marsden St. we had some memories there for example I made some new friends there, got my new pet there for Christmas, and met my uncle who I have never seen on the same day. I also graduated Austin Meehan Middle School and when to Lincoln High School and a year later I started my first year of Science Leadership Academy. When I first saw Science Leadership Academy, it looked like a office building from the outside. When I started to go to Science Leadership Academy, I was excited and nervous at the same time because it was great to be in a new school and make new friends and nervous because it was a new school, new neighborhood, and new faces. I was scared because I was afraid to make a bad first impression at my new school. When I saw the schedule I was so lost because at Science Leadership Academy they call them bands instead of periods and the letters were confusing because I did not know where any of my classes were. As I started to go there I started pick the pattern that was happening and after three months, I started to get the hang of it.

After that I moved to Vandike St. with my mom and her boyfriend and as we are living here at Vandike St., we are creating memories. So these are all of my past memories that I can think of on the top of my head.

Introduction:

My goals in this paper is to inform the reader about my struggles on figuring out what to paint for an important assignment I once had. And how that influenced me to not to listen to people who discourage me and to continue their passions. I am proud of the analysis towards the end where I express my feelings about what society expects of me but I do not what to follow what I was taught. Some things I would like to improve in the future, is to work on my transitions so the flow of my essays would go smoothly with no changes in tone.

Advanced Essay:

As I sit in on my bed, thinking about what to write, how to write about this. It stays sitting in my bookshelf, on the very highest shelf hidden behind all the happy family memories. It is something that holds my talents; a small painting created by my fifth grade self. Painting came easily to me and it was somewhere I could express my creativity and there were no limits. But this talent wasn’t satisfying the expectations of my family or the lifestyle I was grown into.

I drifted away from those thoughts and flashbacked to when I painted it. The memory was slowly fading away from my mind and it was getting difficult to remember every detail. It was an assignment every student in the fifth grade was given. We were to read, Number the Stars, by Lois Lowry over the summer. We would be focusing on impressionism and by observing closely at different artworks we were to create a masterpiece by ourselves. To expand on our ideas, our teachers let us explore the Philadelphia Museum of Art which housed quite a few impressionist artworks. I anxiously walked through the exhibit, hoping some kind of concept of what I wanted to do would bloom in my mind. I stared deep into the paintings as if I were to be dragged into it like a black hole at any moment. I noticed how the painters used strokes to make the painting seem blurry but very subtle to lead the viewer to their imagination. I already had experience in painting but I wanted this to be something new and mysterious. This task was going to be unique and I was determined to make it the best I can.

It was finally time to paint and I chose the scene where the main character, Annemarie, found peace amongst the chaos during WWll. She was watching fireworks in the night sky. I wanted to start at an angle where the view was through her eyes like she was directly seeing it. I had to put myself in her shoes and painting the scene in that very moment. As we sat in class, I let myself go and let my mind and hands do all the work. I allowed my emotions get to me and tried to feel what Annemarie would have felt so that the scenery would be powerful. It screamed happiness and excitement but sadness all at the same time. It was like you would get the same thrill of watching fireworks and just looking at the painting and being there yourself. It represented that even during the darkest times there was light.

I started from one small sparkle to a massive firework like Annemarie herself, just a young girl with great ambitions. I painted some small, and some larger than others using bright, and alive colors that brings joy within us. I painted the dark black buildings, which were above the water. They stood tall, the pigmented color of black, as prominent as ever. I painted the water with ripples and reflections and look as if it was glistening, like you can reach out and touch it. If you looked close enough it seemed as if it is moving and you can hear the soothing quiet sounds of the water. I didn’t let myself stop until I felt as if there was nothing left to add.

This all came back to how everybody thinks art is just something you accomplish just for a leisure activity. It’s something that gives people joy, it’s something you can’t throw away or hide, it’s something someone should spend time on or make it their career. It allows people to express themselves whatever the situation you are in. Whether you are angry, emotional, happy, those moods allow you to produce different types of art and makes it meaningful. It is a way of finding peace. It is the positive vibes during the bad times.

Art is dependent on ourselves. It’s on you whether you want to express this talent of yours that other people may not have. A majority of people think that arts isn’t something you should focus and spend your life on or that you won’t get noticed for it and that doesn’t mean you have to stop doing it all together. Don’t let the negativity stop you. Don’t let it knock you down. Don’t give up. Let it motivate you instead to continue with your passion. “You have the control of your future. Control of you is all in your mind and your hands. Don’t let anybody take control of your future other than you,” states Dina Torkia (UK Stylist). It’s not just in arts but other subjects as well. People telling you what to be when you grow up or what to do. Today, it’s like society has your fate written, you have to be a doctor or engineer. As Dina said, your mind and your hands give you the ability to do what you want in your life so do not let what people say get to you. This is what I have learned from this experience; get past the barriers and reach for whatever you want in life. It may take time but you will eventually get it. I could not figure out what to do with the empty canvas. But I got passed it all and produced something that was valuable. It’s not just the tiny things like this assignment, but the larger things in life.

It was as if someone snapped their fingers and brought me back to reality, that I realized I had something to finally write about. I opened my eyes and smiled and let myself and my hands type away, like I was painting once again.

My main goal for this piece was to show my friendship with my bestfriend Saiyeh. I wanted people to see what friendship means to me. I think that I described how I feel about my friend well. I did lots of editing to my piece since my first draft so it has improved a lot. I feel that through the whole process of writing this advanced essay I did a good job, so I am proud of that. Something I can improve on is trying to find ways to use metaphors and other different writing skills in my writing.

Stuffing her life into three suitcases a guitar case and a box. It’s crazy when you pack your life it just looks so small. It makes you realize that was only the beginning of your life story. I said goodbye to my best friend that night. Blasting our summer playlist on Spotify as we danced around her mess of a room. Singing every song because every song brings back a memory from our perfect unforgettable summer. As I sit on her suitcase to close it with her, “Riptide” comes blazing through the speaker. We both stop and smile at each other. This was our summer song. As a tear crawled down her face, she realized this summer was behind her and it was time for the next chapter of her life. I took her hand and started singing. Music has always seemed to be our escape.

This moment comes in my mind when I look at the panting pinned onto my wall. I remember the moment that my best friend Saiyeh gave it to me. Looking at the sunset in the background of the painting remembering how beautiful that night was. This sunset is red, orange and yellow; all combined. When I look at this painting, so many memories float in my head. The sunset reminding me of the last day we were in Indiana together. After 4 days of looking at the sky, the last night was the most beautiful. Not just because the colors blended perfectly together but, the guitar in Saiyeh’s arms as we sang many songs made it the best night ever. Everything just felt right in that moment. We just soaked up the many memories. I never wanted to leave because “the sky is just so big” Saiyeh would say in awe.

The next thing that catches my eyes on the painting is a tree that is on the left side of the canvas. The tree is brown and you can only see half of its big trunk. This brings back all of the times we met at “our tree” at the park near us. We painted beautiful pictures and listened to music a little too loud. The tree is drawn with grass surrounding it. I remember the many grass stains that I still have on my jeans from laying in the grass at Rittenhouse or the park near us. We just were not able to stay away from parks. We just loved the wind blowing through our hair and the grass below our bare feet. Sitting on the grass, that is surrounding the tree, there is a girl. This girl’s body is facing the horizon, but her face is turned to the right. Looking at the beautiful view all around her. Her torso is a skeleton where you can see her spine and her ribs. This reminds me of beauty that comes truly from the inside. Her shoulders, neck and face are normal reminding me how we got over the many struggles and look deep within.

Friendship to me is a connection that can’t be broken. Friendship is one of the reasons I wake up in the morning. Knowing that I have people who care for me and that will always be there helps me keep my head up throughout the day. I have been through many things and my friends have came right to my door to comfort me. One time, when I just got off a serious conversation with my cousin that resulted in me crying, Saiyeh came right up to me held me in her arms as we swung back and forth on the porch swing. This sad moment didn’t last long though with her by my side the next thing I know we were both laughing so hard that are stomachs hurt. We can never stay serious when we are with each other. Another time when my dog passed away, she found out and her and I took a walk. We bought a tub of ice cream, then we sat on some random steps talking about the whole thing. Some people overuse the term “bestfriend.” They use the word very frequently for people who they don’t know much about. A best friend is someone who you have an unbreakable bond with; you can relate on a different level. Saiyeh and I have that relationship, we connect in every way. Art and creativity strengthens that relationship we can talk hours and hours about it.

The last day with Saiyeh before she went to college, had a bittersweet feeling. Sad, because I won’t see her everyday and knowing that she wouldn’t be near. I felt the grip loosening on the rope that held us together. I also felt happy because she is about to start the next chapter of her life where she will grow and become an even better inspiring, talented, and beautiful person. I may not be able to see her everyday but I’ll always remember the many memories that we shared and the many memories to come. “A strong friendship doesn’t need daily conversation or being together. As long as the friendship lives in your heart, true friends never part.” The fullness in my heart will always be there because of our deep friendship.