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I’ve always believed that home is important because home is where my heart is. Home is where my memories are. Every happy and sad thing that has happened to me is brought back to this place. I’ve lived here almost all of my life. If I ever moved away from this neighborhood and my memories, I would be a disaster. It’s where I can go and I won’t be judged. I can come here after a rough day and be greeted by my family. While everything else in my world is spinning around, this is the one thing that never changes. It’s where I’m safe. 

I can go back to when I first walked into my house when I was 5. I was down the basement and I couldn’t find my way upstairs. My dad was bringing things into the house since our basement door is next to the driveway. It’s easier then dragging things all the way to our front door, which is on the side of our house. When I saw him I ran over and said “Daddy! I can’t find the door! Help me!”  He laughed and then said, “Turn around.” As I turned around I saw the door to walk up into my living room. When I got upstairs there was almost a ton of change in random spots in the rooms. I was so excited; it felt like a treasure hunt, and so I ran around the house collecting any change that I saw.

I love looking back on that memory and thinking about how easy things were. The biggest problem that I had was that I couldn’t find the door out of my basement. Now I have to worry about what people I trust, what my grades are like, not letting things get to me, along with a hundred other things. Nevertheless, every rough time there is, a hundred great memories that come along.

One of my favorite memories in this house took place after a concert my friend and I went to, she came over my house to sleepover. We ended up staying up until 3:30 am, hanging out in my bedroom. Most people don’t like staying in my room for too long. Everything in my room is pink, my bedding, lamp, desk, walls, rug; even my ceiling is painted pink. It is very bright, even sometimes I don’t like being up in my room for too long. There are also a lot of pictures and posters. It was one of the funniest nights I have had though.

                   When we first got home from the concert, we just hung out and talked for a little.  As the night carried on we got extremely hyper, because we were both tired and we each had a can of Mountain Dew. About halfway though the night I brought in my little brother’s Yamaha keyboard. Neither of us know how to play keyboard so when we tried, it ended up sounding like nails on a chalkboard. I felt really happy because it was fun and neither of us has to try to act perfect. Later on, we decided to randomly call people and play the keyboard while on the phone. Every time we would dial a number and listen to the phone buzzing as we waited for them to answer, we would laugh hysterically, thinking about the reaction of the person we were calling. When someone would pick up, we would shout “Hello! Hi! Hey!” in funny voices and then slam random buttons on the keyoboard. People thought we were completely insane, asking, “What is wrong with you? Why are you calling me?” Every person that we called hung up on us within 5 minutes.
                   About an hour before we actually fell asleep, we turned on my old, bulky, silver television that my grandmother gave me. We started watching That 70’s Show, one of our favorite television shows. We were also quoting every line that a character would say and cracking up. After a while we got really tired so as we were still watching That 70’s Show, we both fell asleep.

            That night was just fun and that’s the night that I realized why home is important to me. It is important to me because it’s a stable place in the world. Everything changes, but this place never does. I have grown up in this same house and my bedroom has grown along with me. From my princess room, to just all pink, to how it is now. Now it is exactly how I want it, it has pictures all over my walls; there is just enough space all of my belongings and me. It’s organized perfectly for me, not too neat but at the same time its not too messy, and I know where I want everything to go.

 I remember when I got my room the way it is now. It was a Saturday, 2 years ago; the movers said they would at my house any time between 1-4 pm. It was 3:30pm and I have been staring out of my window for the past 2 hours, impatiently waiting for my new bedroom-set to be delivered. I had my room completely cleared out, except for my television. Other than there was just pink walls and ceiling, both windows with their curtains pulled up, and an open door. I was completely ready for my new bedroom, so over excited that I couldn’t even go 10 minutes without running towards my window to check if the movers have finally arrived. Every time I would hear a car rush by I would run outside and be greeted with disappointment.

            At 3:45 I heard something, it was the pounding of large tires on a road. I looked out the window and screamed downstairs to my mom “THEY’RE HERE!” as I stormed down the flight of stairs that was separating me from her. I stared out of the window as the movers checked their paperwork to make sure it was the right house, slammed the trucks doors, and started walking up to my front steps. When they finally knocked on the door, it was like a symphony. “Hello, we have a bedroom set delivery for the Flite family.” They said when we opened the door.

            When they were upstairs putting the furniture together, it felt like life times were passing by. They finally finished and left the house at 4:10. When they left I raced up my steps into my room to see how it looked. I loved it. It looked so different then before, instead of a cleared out room of nothing, my room now had a queen sized bed, and a matching dresser, They were each a light washed wood color with 2 rows of silver wood panels at the top.

Home is my place. It’s where I am free and happy. My little brother was born three months premature and for about 6 months I had to live at my grandma’s house. It just didn’t feel the same. Her house is nice and it’s big, but it’s not my house. It has a different feel to it. Home gives me a feeling of safety and security. It’s the one thing that never changes, while people and life does. I love my house and I love the feelings that come from it.

Setting- Jake talking to his best friend Mike on the phone.

Hey buddy, how have you been?

That’s good I haven’t talked to you in centuries. By the way how has the job search been going for you?

That sucks. However, when you do get a job, I hope your last resort isn’t to work at a crappy oil refinery like me.

So you are telling me that you have not heard about the health risk while working in an oil refinery? (Surprised)

There are too many health risks to keep up with. I have to deal with keeping myself safe while working in the disgusting gloomy environment due to chemical polluted air. Also, my ears are being damaged every time I go to work because of the industrial noise. The impact of the noise is 5 times worst then having my IPod turned up to maximum volume.

Who are you telling? I feel bad too because my wife and three kids worry about me everyday when I go into work. Seeing the looks on my baby’s faces when I go off to work is heartbreaking. (A sad toned voice)

Aw shut up man, I’m serious! If you were here to witness you would definitely be on the same boat with me. (Serious)

Listen man, the health risk is only half of the issue. You have to worry about fires, explosions, and water waste. I have to rely on other people to do their job to prevent those things from happening. It’s mind boggling because when I am at work, that’s one of the only things I think about.

I know, this is a very dangerous job.

No man… It’s my pleasure because I would not want you to go into working in this profession if I had a chance to stop you.

Alright man, have a good day. Oh yea, and don’t be a stranger!

Setting- 69-year-old Maddie is being visited by her oldest daughter Amie while in Departments of Corrections in Washington D.C. Maddie is a Washington D.C White House protester that was arrested.

Amie what did my lawyers say?

I would never think that I would be counting my days in jail at the age of 69 for trying to help my society and the people that took me into custody. They had the nerve to do that to a little, hunched back, elderly lady that was doing no harm. I mean, I have gray hair for god sakes Amie!

After all this justice is served how much do you want to bet that Obama still won’t have an opinion on any of this. This is preposterous! I didn’t vote for him so he could sit his “hiney” down in his swivel chair and not have opinions. I voted for him so he could do everything he said he would, one of the things being to help change the Earth’s climate and environment.

The protesters including me were not there to cause any conflict, but to surface this whole pipeline situation. We spent hours in the church training for this event and where did we end up? I even remember one of the chants. (Stands up and presents her chant) Obama Stop the Pipeline- Yes he can!. (Guard tells her to sit down because she was being disruptive and her visitor had to leave in the next 5 minutes because of her outburst).

Amie you have to promise me one thing before you leave.

You have to promise to try your hardest to put your two cents in to help stop this 1,700 mile Keystone XL pipeline full of oil traveling through 6 states that is very dangerous.

That’s my girl! I love you.

Setting- Tasha is talking to her best friend Maxine outside of Mitchell Hall. They are about three minutes away from protesting about the Keystone XL pipeline.

Max are you ready this is big!

You are nervous? Max snap out of that its time to put your game face on.

Yes I did get arrested two weeks ago when protesting in front of the White House. However, I am ready to get my point across again. I am overly excited that Joe Biden is going to be here. That just means another person in the government can hear what I have to say. I will get arrested 5 times if that means stopping this 1,700 mile hazard.

Maxine just do what we practiced in the dorms. Every time you go to think about what to say or how to say it just think about all the lives the pipeline risks.

Just trust me… Nothing feels better than holding up a sign and standing up for what you believe in.

Copper Stream

October 15, 2011

Revised Essay:

I got my first camera when I was seven years old on a cold wintery day. I was at my grandma’s house when my mom and dad called me to the sofa and they handed me a plastic box. At first, I thought it was a Hello Kitty key chain, but when I turned it over, it was a camera! It wasn’t a camera that came in a fancy glossy box like my cameras come in now but it was a simple five mega pixel, battery operated, silver plastic camera from Kohl’s. I roughly cut it out of the plastic case, so I wouldn’t get cut by the thick plastic and pulled it out in slow motion. There it was, with this quarter pound camera, I could hold all of my memories here. I could pause time for half of a millisecond on a 2-inch screen and keep that forever.

All of my cousins ran up to see my camera and the first thing that they said was: “Why does it look and feel like a toy? Are you sure it’s real?” I didn’t care what they said but it was the best thing my mom ever got me because it started my love for photographing my family and my life. And with one press of the hand and a faint capture sound from the camera, my first picture instantly appeared on the two-inch screen. My first picture…an outlandish view of my monkey toes. With that camera, it started my collection of my wide array of cameras such as my silver Canon 8 mega pixel, then to my Canon 10.1 mega pixel, and now I currently use my asphalt black Canon Power Shot SD780 IS, 12.1 mega pixel camera.

All it takes is one little camera to start my hobby in taking pictures. I take pictures of everything and anyone I know. All I want is to remember everything I do in my life. This once in a life time moments that you can’t always remember on the top of your head. Yep, those are the moments. Like the time I jumped off of a forty-foot tree-pole or that other time where I stuck my hand inside of sixty year olds’ leg and then picked it up. It was supper heavy. Wait…don’t believe me? Well, sadly you can’t take a picture while your examining a body, now can you but that moment is forever engraved in my head. Simple days like those are the days I want to remember. I constantly take pictures and every so often people get annoyed but I think of it as a: “Hey, I’m helping you with your memories too.” People don’t understand how powerful pictures can be.

Except my family, they cherish every moment together and we never let go of any “Kodak moment” opportunity. Well, figuratively because we use Canon brand cameras. In every part of my family’s houses, aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, there are framed and polished pictures on the wall, four by six pictures hanging off of the mirrors, taped on or stuck in a little corner, and frames scattered through out the house, on the mantles, tables, and some times even the floor. My mom always says: “Say gnaw day gal gaching gal sung seen” and roughly translating from Cantonese that would mean “Wash the pictures of your family only”, and translating from roughly to clean would be: “Print out pictures of only our family.” But I always sneak a few of my friends without her knowing it.

Weeks later, to my utter surprise, while cleaning out my hamster’s cage, my dad, in the blink of an eye, appeared at the back yard door and he told me: “TURN OFF THE WATER and come to the basement.” Being myself, I stubbornly asked what was wrong with cleaning my hamster’s odor-filled cage – which I hadn’t cleaned for two weeks, with a childish smirk. After that one question, he gave me the death stare and blatantly across his face read: anger, frustration, and impatience. This was the second time in fourteen years – This was the second time in my life of fourteen years.

The first time was a complete blur because I was six years old and wailing at the top of my lungs. I think I yelled at my mom and dad about how I was smarter than them and how I could do anything and everything I wanted because of my intelligence. My stubborn, spoiled intelligence. My dad did not stand for that so he picked me up and threw me out of the door – not literally, more so placed. Standing barefoot, on the “beat up” welcoming mat we had out side of the door, my three-year-old sister opened the door for me and she: “Say sorry to mommy and daddy. So they are not mad.”

I wasn’t going to go against that look again, so I shut off the water, leaving the cage out side and Alfred in his ball. Usually, when I go down the stairs I listen to my feet pit-pat but this time there was another sound. What was it? The dryer? No, it sounded watery and leaking. The washing machine? No, that sound isn’t the same. The water sounded free, flowing wherever it wanted too. I turned the corner and my feet got wet instantly, my mom was standing there confused and angry. We quickly evacuated all of our things out of that small room and I helped clean up the mess after putting away Alfred in his coconut-scented cage. After moving all of the beach toys to the other room, I found a pitch-black bag with the gray “EXPRESS” logo on it. In that bag, contained two of my mom’s twenty by thirty wedding pictures, framed up and now water damaged. I got this cold feeling in my cheeks like all of the blood just left my face and ran some where else. Just like the water running out of the photo frames, just like the preserved memories running out and only leaving behind wavy sheets of memories. Crease and wave, crease and wave, crease and waves EVERYWHERE.

I was the saddest of all that my parents’ twenty by thirty wedding pictures were water damaged. My parents didn’t seem as sad as I. How could they not be as devastated as I was? Their wedding pictures were ruined. That special day led to my sister and I and where we were today. So many stories were past around each other about that picture and all it took was water to cringe up the paper. I wasn’t going to stand for this so I promised my self that my first paycheck would go to their pictures. And lo and behold, I got my first paycheck!

There were so many things to do, to buy, and to have! I cashed in my paycheck with my parents at TD Bank. In my mind, there were so many things I could do with fifteen crisp, clean twenty-dollar bills. I could spend it all on clothes; spend it on a long wanted bag, or just save it. I could use all of this money on myself. But I was reminded of the ruined wedding pictures when I went to put all of the clothes into the dryer, one night. I knew what I was going to get. It was a long lost goal, promised years before. And what perfect timing, my parent’s anniversary was coming up. Dinner and two perfect frames for the big one-six anniversary.

Secretly with just one hundred and forty-six dollars in my hands, I walked in to the picture-framing store on 21st and Chestnut. In and out of the store with a nice deal was what I was aiming for. While walking in the store, I realized that this store was really hot and the pictures in this store all had a different story of his family in it, whether it was written onto the frame or the picture itself. I found the owner of the store in the back just finishing up matting a picture of the sunset to the engraved golden frame. The owner was a big man with a graying mustache and goatee. I introduced myself and with an unsure voice, told him I didn’t know what I wanted yet, so Mr. Allan escorted me to the front of the store and pulled out at least forty hundred different frames, twenty hundred different types of matte paper, and a list of sizes. It was like a never ending maze of frames and then he finally asked me after seeing that little frustrated crease appear between my eye brows:

“What’s the occasion for the two pictures?” – He asked like he already knew the answer.

“My parent’s sixteenth anniversary gift.” – I smugly said with a smile.

With that answer, he automatically knew what was needed. After a lot of questioning between the canvas print and the framed matte print, I don’t know if he wanted me out of the store or just gave me a discount for knowing me for such a long time, but we concluded the price of one hundred and forty dollars. So, two pictures: framed, enlarged, and matted all by Friday. I chose Friday because Friday was their anniversary day, sixteen years together. Mr. Allan handed me the yellow receipt copy and everything was done. With a wave, good-bye and a polite “Thank you, see you Friday!” I spent the half of my paycheck on restoring my parents adored wedding memories. I was going to give them back their special day with these pictures!

On every vacation, heaps of pictures are taken and hordes of pictures are printed out. Who wouldn’t want an eight-gigabyte memory card filled with pictures? Nonetheless every year, once a year, my family goes on one big trip together to Virginia Beach for a couple days which means one big family on one glorious beach. And every year that we arrive home my mom chooses pictures to print out but there is this one picture that will always hang on my wall. It’s a unique picture in a unique pearl color fish scale imitation frame. She told me, "Although this picture is dull and has almost a color-less gray horizon, my family and I are livening our surrounding up with our bright and vibrant personalities, shirts, and shorts."

Taking pictures on vacation hold the experience you had and holds it until the end of time. It’s all the matter of memory versus experience. The photographers in my family all know that. We seize the moment to keep hold of the past on every vacation. Pictures are something that will help us remember what we did down the road of life.

Day-by-day, I take pictures of anything from over sized pigeons and people walking their hairless cats to my friends and family. I never let go of any moment. Pictures are what trigger the past and shoot the memory back into the present. They trigger the repressed memory in the back of our mind. Everything memorable moment should be kept, big or small. Even in every moment you’re with me, pictures will be taken. That’s how it is; I stop the present to look back at the past in the future. Taking pictures gives us another way with which to share our lives and our loves with the rest of the world. I will ceaselessly take pictures, holding every memory in a book, and looking back to see what a picture tells me. I will show the world my life.

Eight years of taking pictures on my own, learning it all, day-by-day and still learning. With the average photographer, getting the perfect light and knowing which background gets the best of each shot. If you hand me a camera, I can get a perfect shot in a heartbeat. Pictures can give anyone so much power. The power to hold your past in a convenient four by six or an enlarged sixteen by twenty, your most prized memories, no matter how small the memory they hold. Pictures are taken everywhere, at home, on vacations, and…well, everywhere. All moments in life are important, but not all are special.

9-12-20                                                       

Descriptive Essay

 If you walk into my living room, you’ll see nothing out of the ordinary. Simply a cozy little room with two sofas that lay against a wall each. The third wall has a TV and VCR case with many pictures and certificates put on display. The fourth wall has a computer table with a little desk on the side. In the middle of the room lays an oval rug with swirly patterns and on top of that lays a small coffee table. This room has everything that any other living room would have in it, but for me it is extraordinary. It has more than just something out of a magazine. This room carries many memories and artifacts that define my life.

                   On the second shelf of the left side of the TV case, towards the bottom stands my eighth grade graduation diploma. Whenever I look at the certificate patched with a leather bound cover, I remember the when I first received it.

I was sitting on the stage with my fellow classmates. It was almost done. Just ten more minutes. She was halfway through calling all the names. Five more to go until my name was called. One down, my hands were sweating madly. Two down, I could feel my heart drumming. Three down, I began to feel dizzy. Four down, oh crap!

“Jasmin Husain,” called Ms. Knight, our school counselor.  It was time for me to go and take my diploma from Ms. Sydnor. I slowly walked around the empty and barren stairs in front of me until the top of the glossy wooden stairs of the stage. I went down the stairs one by one carefully, holding on to the cold steel railing. I didn’t want to trip on these ridiculous heels and ruin my dress. After I made it down the stairs, I walked two feet over to Ms. Sydnor. She shook my sweaty hand and said, “Congratulations Jasmin, you’ve come a long way and you have a long way to go.” She handed me the navy blue, leather bound diploma. Carrying the thick diploma, I followed my friend out of the Gymnasium door.

This was one of the most important memories in my life. It was the moment in my life when I made the transition from middle school to high school. I felt accomplished, like I had just achieved a goal that I was waiting to reach my entire life. My diploma was a symbol of me growing up and moving on.

As I look back at the TV case, more artifacts start to bring back memories. On the bottom shelf of the TV case lays an old, dusty, black VCR with two missing buttons. I try to recall how many my family had to replace the VCRs that my little sister and I had broken. As I observe the absent buttons, another memory runs across my mind.

My little sister Tajnia was extremely naughty and mischievous. She would trash everything that she was able to get her hands on. This was like the hundredth time that she broke the VCR.
            “Aah NO! Not again Tajnia! Did you really just break all of those buttons out of these holes again?” Yelled my dad to baby Tajnia’s slobbering, and glowing face.

“I can’t believe we have to go out and buy another VCR, this one wasn’t even a year old!” Dad continued to complain as we all filed in to the car.
            This was the fourth time that we were going out to Wal-Mart to buy a TV since we had come to Philadelphia. The first time it was me. I absently stuck sugar daddy candies into the new cassette holder. At the time I was just a baby but currently I was a big girl. I was seven years old and I knew how the world worked. I had matured over the past two years. I knew all the specific things that made dad upset. So, I had, long ago, stopped committing those crimes. Tajnia, on the other hand still hadn’t learned the lesson.
           This was another one of my very important memories. This memory this memory represents family. There are many different definitions of “family.” Family, to me, means a group of people who you can look up to. Family members are people who understand you, accept your mistakes, and help you to become the best person that you can be. In this memory Tajnia looked up to me, hoping that she would, one day, learn not to make the mistakes that made dad upset. She hoped that she would also mature and learn from her mistakes like I did when I was her age.
             I start to laugh at myself thinking of all these ancient memories. My living room has many if the same layout as any other living room, but it holds memories that are very specific and special to my family and me. Every small detail in the room stands out. From the vase of artificial flowers to the knitted tissue box cover, from the stains on the walls to the spills on the carpet carries something out of the ordinary.

   There I was standing on the second floor hallway looking at something ugly, black and sooty. Something horribly ugly!  Disgusting, it made me want to puke I wanted to cry!
 Wednesday afternoon. At school and I get a phone call from my mom saying that I needed to go over my friends house and spend the night. I wasn’t worried...I was clueless. I was around 10 or 11 years of age.
 I get home the following day, not sensing that anything has happened. I run up the wooden stair case to my bedroom and before I could go to my bedroom I turn around and I see that the wall going up to the third floor was black and there was a hole in the wall. I could see my parents bedroom... There I was, standing on the second floor hallway looking at something ugly, black and sooty. Something horrible ugly!  Disgusting, it made me want to puke I wanted to cry!
My house was filled with the aroma of burning sticks and paper in a campfire, but worse we had a fire.
 I still wonder from time to time, why on earth was I laughing when I found out that my older brothers room on the third floor or should I say his “little apartment” that he just finished fixing up and putting surround sound system in just a couple days before, got the most damage, which meant for 6 months he had to sleep in my non damaged room...
   I wasn’t laughing then...
   “Have a great time , enjoy your self and work hard!”  , “I’m so proud of you!”  “I’m going to miss you so much!” That isn’t even half of the good-bye’s and the good-lucks or even the “I’m proud of you”  ,  that my brother got before he left for College. My brother was so ready to leave and live his life with out my parents nagging him. He was ready to let go and party…I could tell.
I remember saying good-bye to my  brother before he left for College like it was yesterday. For the first 2 months , I had to get used to not having my brother around to mess with or prank. The detachment took about to 2 months for me to get used to , because my brother and I were pretty close..  After a while it was like a vacation , I got spoiled once he left , it was the life! He wasn’t there to take up the t.v or eat all the food , before I could lay my hands on it.  But before I knew it , one day the door opens  and my brother is standing in the door way , I was pretty happy to see him , because I haven’t seen him for some time , then my brother tells me that he is going to take a break from college , and my smile turns into a solid face , I wanted to scream!  Why me?!

 I have been waiting for this day...forever!
  For the past 6 months, my family and I have been trying to get our house back to normal and in better shape after the fire. We’ve been ordering mattresses, getting bed frames, picking out colors, getting contractors, and getting our floors re-done. So much! Oh, and I’m even getting my room remodeled!
I’ve been waiting for this day...forever! Here I am, in my new looking house and my new looking room, waiting for people to bring in my mattress, and then my room will be complete! They come through the door, up the staircase, up to the 2nd floor and to my room, and put my mattress in my new bed frame. My room is a granny smith apple green, with a white bed frame, and white desk, a wooden bookcase, white doors with black knobs.
  That night I slept great...matter of fact it was the best sleep I’ve ever had, no more stinky brother in my room with his nasty socks, and now I don’t have to find socks and lotion missing! I finally have my space, my privacy back….my independence back! I take in a deep breath, smelling the new fresh paint, the new mattress. As I lay in my bed … I think to myself … now this is more like it.... this is home
When the fire happened, it made everything for 6 months an inconvenience, because my brother had to sleep in my room and we had to go and my family and I even had to stay at a hotel, and everything just wasn’t right. Everything wasn’t the same. I had no privacy , no one did! My else was limited because half of the rooms in my house was off limits because of the fire.Also because of the fire my brother and I became closer. Having a fire is somewhat disturbing, for me it was. You think everything is fine that day and you come home to find out that you had a fire, and now you’re back to square one. It’s like you just moved in to a new house and once you buy it, you have to fix it up, pick paint, get carpet, and get the essentials for a room, which is like a 6 month process.
                    For some reason when I had a fire, it didn’t hit me until the next day. I bursted in to tears, I wondered why. I asked myself why am  I crying? I didn’t feel the tears coming, it didn’t feel like I had a lump in my throat like it usually feels when I’m about to cry, it just…came out.
Could we have stopped the fire early enough, if someone was home? Then again if someone was in the house they could of got injured. A bunch of questions come to my mind when I think about the fire, and they’re all unanswered.

“Hey Karly, how was your day,” she asked with a smile.

“Usual,” I responded.

“That’s good. Karly! What did I tell you? After you’re finished eating, put your plate in the dishwasher.”

“Sorry, here I got it.”

Scooting my chair out from under the table breaks the silence. I skip to the dishwasher. Thunk! My butterfly mask I made in 6th grade had fallen off the corkboard. “Man this thing is old,” I mumbled to myself.

                 My mind traveled back into 6th grade. It was art class, and it was one of the final weeks of making the masks. I had just finished painting the base of the mask. The aroma of the paint base filled my nostrils with a chemical smell. I try to ignore it, and ask my art teacher where the paint is. She points me to the direction of the blue metal drawers. I open the 3rd one. Many different colors were organized so neatly it was hard to choose. I picked the colors that I thought would be good for a somewhat realistic butterfly. Walking back to the table, glancing over at other’s people’s work, I was hoping mine would turn out well. I began painting the wings of the mask gold. I turned off everything else around me, and time flew by. Looking across the room and seeing that everyone was packing up, I put my butterfly on the drying rack. Finally, I was done.

                 “Come on Karly, let’s go do the laundry.” Mom’s voice brought me back to kitchen, out of my flashback. I placed the mask back on the corkboard, and went to help.

            Over the years at Greenwoods, I had an amazing, unique experience. Throughout all my classes, all the hikes, up until my graduation, it will be in my mind for many years to come.

My favorite classes varied throughout the years, but it was never math! Science classes were the most interesting. Throughout the years, we went on many hikes on the trails and explored wildlife. We were able to interact with what we were learning, which gave us a different opportunity then most kids. Our usual walks through the leafy pathways, up and down hills, trees above shading us, carrying our clipboards, seeing deer trotting through the woods, dodging all the trees, having annual tick checks, and carrying clipboards, which was annoying then, but now I always think how lucky I was to be able to do those kinds of activities.

Most of my other favorite memories took place during art class. When you walk into the grand room, you see the tall bookshelves taking over the right walls. Above them were famous drawings by various artists. I smelled clay, glue and paint all mixed together. When you sit down in the tiny paint stained tables, our teacher Ms. Mail would begin teaching different techniques and or skills. Her gold leaf earrings would dangle from her ears as she walked around the classroom helping us get inspired. Sometimes the projects were related to some of our classes, and others were about us.

One of my favorite projects was making animal masks. Each of us had to think of an animal that we would want to create. We all had to choose an animal to create, and from there on, it took several weeks to make it all happen.

Art class always inspired me throughout the years, and I still have most of the artwork I made hanging around the house. Throughout all the years at Green Woods, eighth grade was the one that was most special to me. Towards the beginning of the year, we were all just excited to be heading off to high school in a few months. We all thought it was nice to be the oldest in the school. It was all fun and games until the high school preparation came along. Weeks went by, sitting in our homeroom looking at all sorts of high schools. Our counselor took us through the long process. Waiting patiently for our acceptance letters, months went by, and most of us were still gnawing on our nails waiting patiently for the replies. Science Leadership was my first choice. This past year they had their first graduating class, so there was over a thousand applications. It seemed as though I was the only one without a letter. The day finally came.

It was last after lunch; we were in science class taking notes. The classroom was pretty quiet, except for a few coughs here and there. Then, the front door broke the silence. It was one of the teachers from the front desk with an envelope in her hand. She said the letter was for me, so I hopped out of my chair and darted over. Ms. Geist told me I couldn’t open it until class was over. My eyes were glued to the letter the rest of the class.

“Class is over,” Ms. Geist shouted, “See you t33omorrow!”

Struggling to pack up my books, I tried to hurry out of there to open the letter. Tearing it open, not caring about a thing, I saw the 2 words that made my heart stop. Waiting list. I wasn’t sure what to do with myself. Two of my other friends got accepted right away. What did I do wrong? I thought to myself. Was I too nervous at the interview? I created a whole new project about my pet! At that point, I had no confidence in myself and I starting to feel down. This was the only school I had really wanted to go to. After a few hours, I decided to let go of it, and relax.

Months went by. It was now April and all the middle school students were boarding the huge yellow buses to go to our Earth Day field trip at Temple. I just walked on the bus and sat down. As I was pulling out my music, Ms. Wallace, the principal stepped on and told me to step off. Hoping I wasn’t in trouble, I got up and followed her out to the blacktop.

“Someone’s on the phone for you.” She said with a smile.

Looking confused, I picked it up. It was Mr. Lehman from Science Leadership Academy. He said he wanted me to attend SLA in the fall. At that moment I felt more special then anyone else. I was more then excited to get accepted into that school.

Next thing I know, it’s already graduation day. It was extra fun because we didn’t go to school. I had got my dress on sale for twenty dollars at JCPenney. It was a silver halter dress with a diamond as the belt. I was excited, but more nervous to be the first one to walk out the door.

The doors opened. There I was, standing in front of all my family members, minutes away from graduating middle school. Holding the bright red rose tightly in my clammy hands, I take my first step down the deep red carpet. The music makes the moment even harder to take in. My eyes met my Mom’s. I hand her the rose and hug her tight. “Thank you,” She mumbled softly into my ear. My eyes started to water, but I managed to hold it in until I got to my assigned seat. One by one, each of my former classmates made their way down the aisle. I try my best to hold back my emotions I didn’t expect. Being first for everything, it was time for my diploma. Tripping towards my teachers in my new heels, I hugged my vice principal first, then got the diploma from my principal. The black frame with fancy writing and our class picture inside made me feel like a made a huge accomplishment. I held it up in the air smiling. Flashes went off, all I could hear is clapping. I was ecstatic. Middle school is finally over with.

Joy was seen in my smile, but nervousness was shown in my eyes. I was happy that it was a new school year. It was my sophomore year. I have three goals and one of them is to get rid of my clumsiness habit. I trip and stumble all the time. I have tried to be more conscious of my surroundings but it doesn’t seem to help. I feel like I am cursed. Whenever I injure myself it is always on a day where something bad is going to happen or already did. I know that from then on, I am just going to have bad luck that day. Can I break free from this curse? Can I?

I hear my grandmother calling my name, DEJAH DEJAH! I overlook it. Its 6:00 in the morning and I can’t get out of bed. She comes back half an hour later and shakes me saying, “WAKE UP”! I can barely see her face and I attempt to open my eyes. My eyelids felt heavy and dropped back down. Tiredness got the best of me. I was finally able to overcome it. After I did, I was able to get dressed, brush my teeth, do my hair, and eat breakfast in 30 minutes.  Mental stability was key in this process. My day began to pick up and I THOUGHT it was going well. I was wrong.

As my grandmother was leaving our driveway, I asked her if I could go to Dunkin Donuts to get a hot chocolate. After getting back inside the car I let the hot chocolate cool in one of the cup holders. My grandmother went to start the car and nothing happened. The engine light was flashing. We were stranded for 20 minutes until we found a cab to take us back to the house to get my mothers car. It was a good thing that she was out of town. I prayed and hoped that today wouldn’t be a bad day.

There was so much traffic. It made the car ride to school tedious. I tripped twice while in school. In each class I received homework to put in my day planner. Joy was visible by the smile on my face when I found out that school ended early.  I took the bus home.

I have been stumbling through my life. Literally. My friends and family call me clumsy or accident-prone all the time. When I was younger I never felt like a sturdy walker or the most athletic person. Almost every sport that I have tried to do I have injured myself in some way, shape, or form. The only two sports that I succeeded in were tennis and volleyball. That is only because my father is a tennis instructor and my mother used to play volleyball. They both helped me. However, there are still so many injuries that happen on a daily basis.

When I got home, I went into my kitchen to make myself a quick snack. When I was cooking grease popped onto my face. I was startled. My arm flinched and I hit the handle of the pan. It went onto the island of the kitchen. I went into my dinning room to get some paper towels. Ironically, I slipped on some water. While I was falling I tried to catch myself by grabbing the dinning room table. However, I ended up actually knocking over a candle with a glass case onto the floor. I picked up all the glass pieces and try to get more paper towels to wipe up the mess that I made in the kitchen.

I was on my way back into the kitchen when a piece of glass went through my sock and into the ball of my foot. I limped into the kitchen to sit on a stool to try to get the large piece of glass out. I slowly tried to pull it out flinching from the pain. Then, the glass shattered and the tip was still in my foot.  It was a stinging sensation. Every time I would step, it felt like I was getting a needle in my foot.

The next day, the glass was still in my foot. However, I would walk and I could fill the glass going into my foot deeper and deeper. My brother had to tear into my skin and finally get a piece of glass out smaller than a pea. I am not really sure if all the glass is gone or if some is still in there because the sharp pain in my foot is still there. However, it might just be the pain from all the skin that had to be taken off my foot.

Having glass in my foot was less pain than when I spilled hot chocolate on myself. I opened the bag of coco powder packet and ripped the top flap off. I was so excited to make my hot chocolate that I sloppily poured the coco mix into the cup. I missed and 1/8 of the powder ended up next to the cup. I mixed the water and powder together to create a brown hot liquid. There was so much steam coming from it. I grabbed a paper towel and sat down. I wiped up the powder that I had spilled. However, I wiped too much and knocked the cup onto my left leg where my left hand also was. I was screaming at the top of my lungs “AAHHHHHHHHHHHHH”. Thankfully I had on a large sweat suit that absorbed most of the hot chocolate. However, the chocolate seeped though it enough to give me a second degree burn.

The people around me flinch whenever I fall. My friends sometimes giggle and I do the same. What am I supposed to do? All I can do is to just get up and walk it out. My family just ignores it. They know that I injure myself all the time. My brother just tells me to man up and my parents just let it go. I feel accident-prone. I can never change that because I can’t change me. I won’t change me. I am good at so many other things that just the athletics. Therefore, maybe I should only have two goals this year; to get straight A’s and scholarship money.  

 Who am I? That has always been an essential question for incoming freshman to SLA. I never really understood why we had to answer that question along the way, but I’m now a sophomore and I still have no idea who I am. It really bothers me that for 15 years I still haven’t figured out “who I am”. Constantly going from class to class and making new friends I still can’t pin point who the “real” me is.

Which takes me here, to Mr. Block’s class, writing a 3-page essay about our memories. Sadly, the ones that I can be really descriptive on are the sad ones. Leading up to this were 2 scenes, a revise, and “hot words” is what Mr. Block likes to call them. While I was writing, I couldn’t really think on what to write until he announced, “ Everyone put ‘Free Write’ on top of your Google document. You have ten minutes.” I had no idea what so ever to put on my Google doc. I sat in class, during last period for about 4 minutes pondering on what to jot down. Words of any kind, non-stop about anything that my two scenes reminded me about a larger part in life.

I stared and stared until I finally thought of a good idea. “Who am I really?” That was a question that I was trying to answer. While trying to haul all my thoughts and words on the blank page quickly I finally knew what to say and how to say it. For some reason, I’ve always felt sad, the little things I picked out, and sometimes I even felt as though I was not confident enough in myself.

I know that not everyone is going to like or approve of you but sometimes I just feel this way.  Other times, I feel empty, just as hallow as a log. I feel like I’m hiding behind a mask most of the time. Who am I really? The darker thoughts reminded me of how it all started like a punch to the face. I remembered how I first felt like. I was lost, trapped inside myself trying to lure my true self out. It all started when my friend had called my name in technology class during the 6^th grade, “Briana?” he asked.

That’s all I could hear through the thundering of noise of voices echoing off the technology walls. My best friend David had showed me a picture of this fallen angel with it’s back facing the screen and her left wing broken and crippled but the right wing folded in. The picture was very alluring and it drew me in like the smell of a fresh homemade apple pie. I couldn’t help but understand the picture so well. With constant friends leaving, and broken promises, I understood the pain and sorrow that screamed through the picture.

With my speechless eyes I stared at the picture. I couldn’t take my eyes off it. It was if my eyes hungered for the understanding of the photo. It felt as if I needed the reassuring judgment that the photo brought to it self. The power in the photo was so overpowering that everything I was supposed to hear, was closed and pushed out.

After being suck into the vibe of the photo I soon heard, “It’s time to go. Everyone line up.” I then realized that it was time to go back to class with my homeroom teacher. And with that, I pushed in my chair with aching noises of yelling and got in line. We then, as a class, left the technology room. Having this whole flashback moment I realized how many bad things must have happened when I was little.

I’ve always had friends leaving me from my side. And I’ve always been so trustworthy, believing everyone that was nice to me. Always being lied to and having to chose over friends, I’ve never really knew who was telling me the truth and who wasn’t. The constant “I’ll always be your friend” or “You can tell me anything” had always been a lie to me. Now I don’t know who’s really being truthful, and who’s not.

I guess you can say I kind of just gave up on people? I still have things to strive for, but now people are just an obstacle for me. I sound like a horrible person to others when they read this, but I’ve always learned that there's a story behind every person. There's a reason why that they’re the way they are. They aren’t just like that because they want to, something in the past created that.

But knowing that, I still feel as though I would be hated for being the “me” that I think is my true self. Sometimes not caring is the only thing that saves you. But if you think about it, I’m not the one completely at fault. Because others didn’t like the way I was, I changed. I learned how to control my tears. I molded myself into the person that everyone wanted me to be and still do.

To them, I was the backup. The one everyone looks for in time of need. But what if the backup needs a backup? I remembered one time when I tried to pour out all my thoughts, my feelings onto paper. “Why” was the only word on the page of my spiral notebook.

 Somehow I couldn’t think of anything to say. I somehow wanted to get all the pain out. Sitting there on the farthest of my couch I thought about the happy times that used to be fun and made everyday seemed as though the sun was out and smiling down on my “friends” and me. That’s when I quickly snapped back into reality. I didn’t notice at first, but I soon felt a small marble like tear jump from my cheek and onto the pants of my leg.

I wiped my face with the quickness. I was angry with myself. How could I possibly cry over something that happened so many times already? With my thoughts filled with rage I finally begin to write. When I was done, I still didn’t feel any different.

I was confused with how my coping skills had failed me like my 5th grade teacher tried to do. How could I still be feeling upset if I just poured out all of my feelings on the paper that was trying to keep it hostage? After a while I just sat, and pondered on what to do next. I then noticed that all I could do was just accept all of it. Accept the pain, happiness, sorrow, everything.

And after my friendship of 8 years ended with one of my closest friends, I told my self to shut down completely. Now I can’t tell if my feelings are real or fake. I just go with the flow of my life. I follow what people want from me. I smile when I feel it’s a need to, and I try to be sad when everyone else is too.

I’m numb, and I don’t know how to fix myself yet. Maybe it’s better to leave the broken pieces of glass where they are instead of trying to put them back together. So I continue to find out who I really am. Searching for the chance when that one faint light shines to lead me out of the surrounding darkness of my own shell. But until then I still look for the answer to my question, “Who am I?”

I love when the funniest things come unexpectedly. My friends, Ben, Andrew, and I were all in my dining room making our own video series that we brilliantly thought of to upload on YouTube. The videos were based on a class setting, and students making up funny excuses on why they didn’t do or forgot to do their homework. We would do this almost every other day when we would get enough excuses to put in a video. Although, today was different, my friends forgot their list of excuses at home so we decided to record a different kind of video. Not to be racist, but since Ben was Asian we wanted to make a random kung-fu fighting episode. Ben and Andrew take out all their stuff from their pockets and set them on a table. Andrew, by the way, is taller and bigger than Ben by about seventy pounds and eight inches. To tell you the truth I didn’t know what was going to happen, it was all improvised and not even thought out. Seconds later, the fight started… Andrew leaned in for an attack, but Ben’s quick senses stopped and countered the slow attack with a swift 360 degree spin to his left and BACKHANDED Andrew to the light-colored hardwood floor where he got knocked out! All it took him was one move to take down someone way bigger than him! And I got it all on camera! It was a funny day, and Andrew woke up about 10 minutes later.

The most boring English class I’ve ever been in. In eighth grade our teacher, Ms. Parks, made us read a really long story in the old torn up textbooks we had. That was normal for us, but what made it boring was the whole room being quiet except hearing classmates read aloud in monotone, messing up words, and reading unusually slow. Half the class was asleep and I was almost there. Out of nowhere, I began to think to myself about anything and everything. Where then I thought about a dog eating homework and how I hear that in movies all the time. It finally hit me; I started thinking of ironic and hilarious excuses that nobody ever thought of. I wanted to introduce the idea so badly. “Ben!” I screamed quietly. “Yeah?” he asked.

“You want to make some YouTube videos?”

“About what?”

From there we planned meetings and had a goal to make a total of 101 excuses. That’s how we came up with the name “101 Excuses For Not Doing Our Homework”. It’s a simple title but we all agreed on it. We also asked around the school if they wanted to be a part of the “classroom”. We didn’t really get much people and we never reached our goal. Although, we had so much fun doing this, and it gave every boring class something for us to do when we finished our work!

These are just some of the great times my friends and I making a YouTube video series. They are connected because they both happened 2 weeks apart, and without making the series the backhand would’ve never happened. I remember when almost everyone in my school knew about our series and they liked it, and when I showed the kung-fu video to my friends and my teacher at school they all laughed hysterically.

I guess we stopped because summer was over and we didn’t see each other as often as we went our own ways to different high schools. Ninth grade past by, and now we’re both in tenth grade, I still wonder when we’re going to get together again, we had a goal... Goals should be achieved, and in life .

By Isabela Aznar

English

Mr. Block

9-20-11

The painting of a strange man with beautiful eyes looked down at me in my living room, but the eyes on his face were not his own. He had the eyes of a woman with long thick eyelashes, and glittering shadows on his eyelids. These eyes were clearly not his own as they were too large for his face, and they looked like they had been cut out of a magazine and glued over his own eyes. The rest of the painting looked like any ordinary photo of a man. His lips were calmly shut and expressionless, he wore a suit and had slicked back hair, the only unusual things about him were his beautiful eyes. This was the first time I had ever truly looked at this painting of the man with longing, feminine eyes that had been in my house for years. I now saw this painting through a new perspective; the man was trying to hide his feminine side. He like any other man, had emotions and another side to him that might be associated with women if he showed it. I was intrigued by this idea, and that’s what got me thinking.

I started thinking about the things I’d always been too afraid to do, because boys were considered better at them. I would never play four-square after school because only the guys could play, and if a girl played she had to be a tom boy, she had to be good, and she had to act just like the guys playing. They didn’t welcome new comers, especially not if they were girls. I always avoided sports games because my dad and brother already knew what all the rules were, but I being curious and a little timid didn’t want to have to experience the whole “learning how to do it like a guy” routine, because I wanted to watch or play sports my own way, and not be treated differently because of it.

When I was in eighth grade, I decided that I was sick of boy and girl stereotypes. I was sick of doing the things that girls were expected to do, and finally wanted to try something that “only guys” could do. I believed strongly that people should be allowed to be themselves, whether or not they’re following what’s considered normal, acceptable, or stereotypical. I decided that I wanted to be the one to change the possibilities different genders were offered, but I was still keeping in mind open to the fact that I couldn’t just expect everyone to begin changing their habits, and doing things they’d always wanted to, but never tried before.

I decided that I'd start with myself, and with sports. I didn’t want to be on the softball team, because I thought it was demeaning that sports had to be modified for girls. I wanted to be challenged just as much as any boy, and I wanted to prove to my guy friends that I too could play baseball, the “rougher” version of the sport.

            I explained my interest in trying out for the team to my best friend, and she nodded sympathetically agreeing with me that it was unfair and saying that she too would love to do baseball. We decided to talk to one of the two principles at my school, Teacher Ed. Teacher Ed was a small, strict man and when I saw him scurry into my study hall room I decided to seize my opportunity.

“Teacher Ed, I was wondering if it was possible for Emmi and I to join the boys baseball team bec-” I didn’t even get to finish my sentence before he cut in and said “No” in his sharp voice. I tried again “I want to play on the boys baseball team because there’s different rules, and the balls are smaller and harder, also overall I feel like I'd be more challenged” I said confidently, but this time he just laughed “No, just play softball” he said walking out of the room. I sat there frustrated, and disappointed as I watched him walk back to his office, thinking that I’d take his word as the final one on the subject, but he should have known better than to expect me to give up.

            The next day, I waited until school was over to go talk to my other principle, which was a woman. Tap-tap-tap! I knocked on her decorated office door. “Teacher Terry?” “Come in!” she said in a singsong voice from inside. I pushed the door open and stepped into her office. If anyone would vouch for me being on the boys team, it was going to be Teacher Terry, and I wasn’t about to let this opportunity pass by. Not to mention, Teacher Terry was quite the versatile feminist herself; she went to protests, traveled a lot, and her office was covered in scented candles and pictures in different countries. “I would like to know if Emmi and I could be on the boys baseball team” I tried slowly, eyeing her for any signs of an answer but she nodded so I kept going “I think we’d both be good, and I don’t want to do softball because I just don’t feel like it’s challenging enough for me. I want to be able to play the same version of sports that the guys get to play”. She nodded and looked up at the ceiling making a light humming noise “Okay” she said pursing her lips. “I think we might be able to make that work. The team needs more players anyways...I just have to run it by the sports coordinator. No promises though, it’s not every day that we have girls signing up for boys sports”. I smiled excitedly and thanked her. She nodded and shooed me out of her office with her hand.
            The next day at school, I told Emmi the good news. She was as excited as I was, even though it wasn’t official yet. We were jittery, and I felt the knot in my stomach twisting as classes slowly passed by. Throughout that day we talked about how awesome it was going to be to practice on the boys team every day, and to get to avoid all of the drama and attitude that tended to come with girls’ sports at my school. Sure enough at the end of the day, Teacher Terry told us she pulled some strings and we could join the team. We’d be starting the next day after school. I went home feeling proud of myself for getting us on the team, but I knew the hard part was going to be the actual practices and games with the boys’ team. I told my parents, and they seemed proud that I had taken an interest in something other than my social life. I felt a new motivation pumping down through my stomach and up into my fingertips, it was the beginning of a new me.
            The following morning, I packed my bag with a pair of cleats, high socks, a baseball hat, and a water bottle. I was now prepared to face the challenge I had set up for myself. I was nervous and jittery all day, I couldn’t wait for classes to get out. When it was finally time for practice, we got on the bus that took us to the field and introduced ourselves to the boys, who weren’t very happy to have girls on their team. They were territorial over their field, coaches, and traditions that we knew nothing about, but we were confident and no amount of pushing was going to break me. The practices were hard, and the boys were hard on us. We experienced blood, sweat, and tears. Rough practices and angry teammates. However, after a lot of bad throws, a lot of frustration, and a bloody nose from getting hit in the face with a ball, I began improving. And when the season was almost over, the boys were giving me high fives, cheering for me, and I even won a game ball!
            When the season ended, We were all closer than ever. We had all been through injuries together, being there for Emmi when her mom got cancer and she could barely keep herself together at practice, celebrating birthdays, sweating, laughing, and fighting, every day out on the field. When it was finally over the rest of the team told me they were going to miss me, and they had really warmed up to having girls on their team, especially since I wasn’t bad anymore they joked. Whenever someone said something to me about being weird for joining a boy’s sport, or for just joining in the midst of trying to get attention, the guys on my team would stand up for me and defend my new found passion.

My coach who went by “Wink”, gave me this whole speech about how he was so grateful to have a girl as dedicated as me on his team and that he was going to miss me. I remember him patting my head and saying “everyone has the potential to be good at what they love, silly old rules shouldn’t stop you from doing what you enjoy.” I gave him a hug, and was proud of myself for sticking up for what I wanted to do, and following through with it. His words never left my head, and I will forever live by the motto of doing what you love, regardless of who tells you can’t. I hoped that girls all over the world would begin sticking up for themselves and making opportunities to do the things they love, no matter the gender rule. Although it was a big goal, I was more confident that things would keep changing for the better. To this day, I’m still friend’s with every boy on that baseball team and they all have a different perspective on girls, and what they are capable of.  

           I’m lobbying for better advocacy for homeless teenagers and children in the city of Philadelphia. Often time the people of Philadelphia will look down on homeless people and families not realizing that sometimes good people get caught up in unfortunate situations. I think that if we start to change the way the homeless are viewed than homeless teenagers will feel more comfortable seeking help.         

            In 2008 The Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia’s Homeless Health Initiative confirmed that “the number of children under the age of 17 experiencing homelessness in Philadelphia grew from 3,433 in 2008 to 3,582 in 2009 — a four percent increase.”  With more and more children and teens becoming homeless every year it’s clear we have a problem.

And the two biggest supporters of the cities young homeless population are the Interfaith Hospitality Network of Northwest Philadelphia and “CHOP’s” Homeless Health Initiative. IHN is designed to help find housing for or give referrals to the homeless while HHI help to provide dental and medical services to homeless children.

            Currently there is no law in place to advocate for the homeless youth to find shelter, have access to clean resources or help them get into contact with companies that might know how to help them. However they are laws that state that homeless children are still required to go to school.  To me there is a disconnect in our thinking and I would like to propose that we change how we define homeless youth so that more children can be helped and that we mandate that children under 17 be forced to live in a shelter and be accounted for as opposed to wandering the streets.

Links:

Interfaith Hospitality Network: http://www.philashelter.org/

Homeless Health Initiative: http://www.chop.edu/about/chop-in-the-community/homeless-health-initiative/home.html

Iron Stream

Getting over your fears.

Everyone has a negative mind about something. We all do. We have fear, anxiety, and struggle towards things. That’s what makes us human. But we have to learn how to take that fear and turn it into something we are brave about facing.

Art was always something I didn’t truly understand, but always had curiosity for. I never thought I was good at art. I would fear art class because I didn’t have the confidence within myself. But then I learned that life is full of unexpected moments, and we should just go with it. I started to not fear, but to stand up to the things I wasn’t comfortable with, and go out of my safety zone. I ended up loving art. One time I was taken completely off guard when I did a project that I didn’t want to do, but ended up enjoying it.

It was 8:15am on a Wednesday morning and I woke up anxious to what we would do today. I arose, brush my teeth, put on the clothes I picked out the night before, and took a quick glance at the mirror, not thinking twice about what I looked like. I was too eager to go to school, but not for art class that was first period. I rush into the classroom, passing the morning chatter, heading straight to the stool with my name on it. Ring Ring. “Good morning class, I’m very excited for the assignment we’re doing today.” My mind then jumping to the array of projects we could possibly do. Drawing still life? Going outside and painting? “In front of you, there is a small black bag, in it is clay. You will be making whatever I say to, without looking at it.” My jaw dropped, this is so stupid I thought. We started the project, and it was strange. Not being able to see what you were doing gave you a whole new perspective on art and how to interpret it. The warm clay, soft but fragile in your hands, as you change it into different pictures you realize different views of art. I thought too much on what my peers might think, and it made me scared that I had to try something new. But going through the process, really not knowing that I could see my creation gave me confidence because I had nothing to worry about. It was supposed to be a fun project that reminds you not to take everything seriously, and if your having fun what your doing you will turn out with amazing results. By the end of class, I was in love with this assignment. It taught me to be patient and to never give up on your work, to always listen and go along with different things. And lastly, to always recognize the views of other people.

Art can resemble many other life situations. A lot of times we are so caught up in something, and if it gets ruined we’re devastated. But to me, that’s why we make mistakes, to learn from them and to make the second time even better than the first. I remember one time I worked all year on a painting, and then only had a few hours to make another. But, in the end I was happy I did it, because it was better than I ever imagined.

I wobble as I walk through the door, my book bag taking up my left shoulder, and my equipment bag taking up the right. As I finally get in I drop the things on the floor, my eyes droopy and my back slouched over from the tiring day. When I walked over to grab a snack, a slow smile started to take up my face. My mom hung up my painting, the one I worked all year on, I was so proud.

I remember it. Last Thursday, wait maybe Tuesday? No, Thursday. I went in the art room at 1:30pm. The atmosphere was loud. Chatter, stools screeching, paint splatter, brushes falling, it was a mess. I put my orange, black, and red paint on a pallet with a big fluffy brush and walk over to my canvas. “Hey Sara, come here I got to tell you something.” My art teacher said slowly with a worried look on her face. “Sure” I say shaky, not knowing what was going to happen. “Rachel spilled water on your painting, I’m sorry but it got ruined.” The room suddenly started spinning, my heart, every beat was faster and louder. My mouth was so dry I couldn’t swallow. I was very silent for what seemed like forever, but was only a few minutes. My head was full of anger, frustration, and failure. “Umm, Uhh” were the only things I could get out. My teacher let me work in the backroom because I had to start over, and it would give me some quiet.

I worked there for over 6 hours. Painting, repainting, drawing, critiquing, moving, sliding, everything.

And there it was, completed. It was actually better than I ever imagined. Seeing it on my wall in my house made it even better. All my work had finally paid off.

It’s very hard to get over fear. But once you do, your entire world is open to new experience with great opportunities. Art is like a clean slate, and you can create anything within your imagination and yourself. This reminds me of coming to SLA for the first time. It was first day of freshman year. I was a tiny little freshman that people mistaken for a shadow, I didn’t know anyone. I walked in, looked around, and only talked when I needed to. But when I went into the bathroom I met this tall blonde girl that hated Justin Bieber. Excitedly, we never left each other’s side the entire day. Luckily, I was blessed with a best friend from the start. Friends can always help you get over fears. She has helped me so much from the first day, to projects, to random things I have to get over. Good friends are always there for you and can help so much with your fears and once you overcome them, nothing can stop you from being the best you can be.

Discovering My Own Life

Adventure is defined as an unusual or exciting experience; however, I personally think it’s more then that. Experiences change and shape people. My life is full of adventure; I love to move through life unplanned and on instinct. It brings me joy to discover new things unintentionally.

Books help me discover places I thought I would never get to see, especially autobiographies. I recently read, “If You Ask Me (And of Course You Won’t) by Betty White. You’d think there was nothing significant about it, but when I look at it, I see way beyond the plain white background. From the start, I was hooked. It seemed as if every time I turned the page, I was running through doors. The doors would open up to another time, place, event, in her life. When it was over, I would grab the next knob and the process would continue. Through 252 pages, I could vividly picture each moment, each emotion, each breath she took.

Angela Carter once said, “Reading a book is like rewriting it for yourself. You bring to a novel, anything you read, all your experience of the world. You bring your history and you read it in your own terms.” It’s funny to think how much life parallels to reading. Through books, you can discover a whole new world or even look further into a world that you are missing out on. Every book I have ever read took me on its own adventure; however, I was really leading the journey myself.

I’ve been on journeys beyond any text I have ever read. My life is full of exciting adventures, especially with my cousin Charlie. He and I decided to visit the mall on a rainy Saturday afternoon. It started out with our first steps off the bus into the shallow puddles of rain. Once we walked through the door, we had unspoken agreement to head to the comic book store.

           One of the escalators was broken and we could not stop hysterically laughing as our imaginations ran wild about why it was in that condition. After the comic book store, we ran around yelling movie titles and artists to each other in FYE. Nothing compares to when we scrolled through posters, making comments on each one. The best part was the fact that we were the only ones who understood our jokes.

The mini adventure in FYE ended with a purchase of strawberry candies. The mall looked evacuated with an exception of a few small groups of teenagers. Charlie and I began to move down the row of stores looking for something interesting. Since the building was close to silent with the lack of people, I could here the roaring thunder; it echoed throughout the bare, plain, white walls. As I pressed on, down the glimmering tiny tiles, I could hear little pitter-patters. It seemed as if the rain was falling right next to my ears. I started to glance up at the skylights taking note of the splattering tears of a storm and the electrifying light, which shined throughout the second floor.
           I have seen plenty of thunderstorms before, but none like this. It was as if the lighting was coming right for us and the dark, mysterious clouds were only intimidating this mall. We kept walking, chatting, and laughing. Our bonding was interrupted when we came across the Halloween store. We turned towards each other and said in sync, “I cannot wait till Halloween!” While we went into detail about my Halloween costume, we came across the bookstore. I decided to pick up an autobiography; I searched past different musicians, politicians, and celebrities to come across, “From This Moment On” by Shania Twain. As soon as I looked at the picture of the brunette country legend, I remembered when I grabbed my hairbrush and sang her songs on the glass coffee table for my “audience.”
           With that purchase, we ate and strolled through the mall. Traditionally, we always sit for hours talking about everything. We are not ones to break a routine; we grabbed a bench and relaxed. As we talked about personal issues, feelings, and secrets, I began to imagine this bench turning into a bubble of trust that only we knew the entrance to. This bubble was unbreakable with a million protective shells containing our deepest conversations. While we were getting wrapped up in each other's lives, we almost did not notice the puddles beginning to submerge through the roof in spots around the entire mall. We did not even realize the fact that half the building was pitch black and the room seemed emptier then before. Apparently the power went out and the only reason we could see was the lightning peaking in and emergency lights. So even though it started out as a regular rainy Saturday, it turned into a memorable and eventful day that I will cherish forever.

Through that mall experience, I learned more about the bond Charlie and I had. I never took the time to notice how alike we are. We love the same shows, movies, food, and music. Of course, family isn’t the only way to experience life or discover new things. Friends have a way of opening your mind to whole new experiences, leading to tons of new adventures.

It was a Saturday morning; Karly and I were heading off to the Arden Theatre in Old City. After hours of becoming someone new and immersing in imagination and creativity in our acting class, we opened the big wooden doors. The exposed sunshine was warm on my face, which added to my happiness. At this point it was about eleven in the morning and Karly and I had an hour to kill. Instead of waiting around forever on the cement steps, we went looking for adventure.

Across the street, I spotted a comic book store. Faster then a cheetah, I ran across the street as if I was playing Frogger. I was greeted with a life size Spiderman welcoming me to this new land. Each wall was covered from top to bottom with colorful covers and victorious heroes of all shapes and sizes. There were so many characters throughout the store; they all screamed, “Pick me!” While looking for the perfect one, each one tended to take me on a different kind of adventure.

After leaving the store, we came to Second Street and looked from left to right. Where to go, where to go… From the corner of my right eye I could see Soho Pizza. After pointing it out to Karly, she remembered being there before. We crossed the street on a search for a great slice of pizza. When you walk through the narrow passageway, you can see the small, yet warm environment. My nostrils filed with the smell of pizza sauce and freshly kneaded dough.

While admiring the autumn colors and empty tables, I almost didn’t hear the man behind the counter. “What can I get you?” he asked, looking confused at the fact that I was staring into space. After ordering, Karly and I sat and ate. I couldn’t help but notice that the guy behind the counter continued to make excuses to come over to our table; as if he wanted to start a conversation but couldn’t. Let’s just say we made a new friend that day. Together we realized that this would be a regular Saturday routine for us; every week, we’d look forward to the weekend.

It is important for me to remember these times when I sat down with a good book and when I enjoyed the company of others because without these individual mini-scenes of my life, I would not be where I am now. Adventure has really shaped my love for new things such as: language, cultures, places, food, etc. It has also taught me to keep an open mind. For these reasons, I will continue to encourage others to take the time to stop thinking and planning every moment because sometimes while in the midst of all the stress you miss out on a lot. Every day is a new opportunity to learn and get everything out of life.