Advanced Essay #1

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

Forever Striving

Aidan McLaughlin

Mr. Block

English 3

Essay #1

September 22, 2019

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

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

Advanced Essay #1 [The Dichotomy of Sexuality & Identity]

Intro:

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

Essay:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

never give up

Introduction

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

Never giving up

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

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

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

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

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

Advanced Essay: Girl Approached

Introduction

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

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

Presence

Everyone is living and breathing in real time but not many people live in the moment for much longer than a couple minutes. Enjoying your time right now in this instant is important because you will never experience that moment again. There is no redoing decisions of any matter if they’re in the past. No matter how much we want to go back to a specific moment and do something differently you simply can’t. People should see this as the biggest incentive to be present at all times, be aware of your surroundings and be ready to react in a way that keeps you safe. Quick and frequent decision making can often times result in injury, especially when you’re on the cycle. There are a couple instances in specific where if only the rider made a slightly different decision they would have came out unscaved. I’m just glad the homie alive. Little banged up but he’ll live. My first thought was anger, what just happened had ruined our trip and I knew that the moment it happened. I think that fact settled in for the rest of the group once we got back to the house but I knew how it was about to be from the moment it happened. The ride back was quiet, everyone still a little shocked. I saw him run the light thinking what is he doing? I knew it wasn’t a go and yet he still barrelled on through the intersection, reading the traffic completely wrong. It only took two more milliseconds for the beamer to t-bone him in the middle of the street for everyone else to bare witness. At first I carried on about a block past that street. I was processing, then headed back to investigate. Heading back over to the scene was the scariest part, he could be dead for all I knew. The car was humming through that light and he got hit with the full blow. I’ve been hit off my bike before but never anything like that. Once I got over there I was relieved to find out all his senses were working and he was on his feet. We made sure everything was alright with both sides of the party and just like that went on our way. Easy come easy go has been an interesting theme that seems to be present throughout life. At least it is so far for me and most people I know. Just as easily as something can be acquired it can be stripped from you as if it was never there. Thats what happened to that beautiful Bianchi super pista. My friend had just bought it and had it to sport around not even a month before he completely totaled it at an intersection around city hall. I felt bad for him. I would have been devastated had that happened to me. The bike was a piecing race-red with the bianchi blue lettering and had polished tubes that merged together seamlessly, even a nice shiny sugino 75 crank. All that destroyed by a little slip up. I wasn’t with him when this happened but hearing that news was horrible. It sounds extreme but it really did feel like hearing news of someone’s death. My heart sank. At the time I was riding fixed but my mount was nothing near the value of that ride so loss of that image was painful to see someone else go through. A learning experience nonetheless. Conveying that riding a bike is dangerous is not the point of this essay but instead showing how riding a bike through and urban area is much like the path your life takes you down. There are plenty of unexpected obstacles and unwanted pressure but you just keep going. Of course there is so much that can go wrong, that fact will always be present. What’s more important than that however is that you always have the ability to avoid whatever went wrong. The only thing is you can’t go back and try it again; you have to be conscious enough to realize what’s about to go wrong in order to prevent it.

ADVANCED ESSAY (CLUMSY: 1)

The heat of battle, of the pounding sun, was like a cannonball inside my aching skull. dizzy, nauseous. Everything hurt…Was this really happening? Intense pain shot through my forearm. I found myself releasing low moans of pain. There’s no possible way this could be happening. Commotion arose around me and I began to get bombarded with questions from my mom, as usual, she was yelling. I hate it here. I blinked, I’m pretty sure my arm was now ruptured. It happened all so quick. There I was, attempting to ride a skateboard, no clue how to balance myself or anything. None at all. “Be safe on that thing.” my mother repeatedly bellowed at me to the point where it got annoying. There’s no possible way a skateboard could do more than a scratch. I shrugged her off, continuing to fool around on the wooden skateboard. What was supposed to be 30 minutes turned into an hour and I knew because the sun began to set and the sky began to turn crimson. I began to feel down, I couldn’t achieve the trick I was trying so hard to do. After numerous attempts, I finally built of the undying courage and I placed one on my clothed feet on the edge of the skateboard. I twisted my body and pushed my other foot on the other edge of the skateboard, or at least I tried to, because before I knew it, I was flying. I landed harshly on my arm, hearing a snap. I let out an ear-piercing scream and my neighbors’ dog began to bark. My head began to feel dizzy as the pain in my arm increased. Was this really happening? Here I am, laying on my bed, staring at the ceiling. It was blue. I was blue. It was a very blue day for me as I clutched my cast that protected my now broken arm.

Scene #2

Click. Click. Click. The rain padded the window. The tv sounded low. I was going crazy and some days I ask myself why do I put myself in these pitiful situations. Just 3 hours ago, I was heading to sleep and here I am in a hospital bed with an eye patch over my eye. Why do I let my infatuations get the best of me? The burning sensation began and I knew I was on the verge of tears. At least It’ll be half the tears than on a regular day. “You’re so clumsy.” “You need to stay away... You’re just too clumsy that you might destroy it.” Do you know that terrifying feeling of knowing that you’re about to fall right before you fall? The short distance between the realization and the fall is just a few seconds so there’s no point in attempting to prevent yourself from falling. The feeling of the fall, for me, isn’t as bad as the horror of the knowledge that I’m about to fall. There’s nothing I can do about it. Too tired of blaming myself, I began to blame the universe. It all made sense. I’m not clumsy. It’s just that the floors hate me, the tables and chairs are bullies. The walls are just in the way.  I used to want to be a Physical Therapist but my mom told me that I would break my neck and that I couldn’t go up a flight of stairs without tripping. Now, here I am, 16 years old and I never learned how to do a backflip. Now I’m 16 years old and I want to be a writer but I’ve got a clumsy tongue and sometimes it trips over air, sometimes. This time, I’ll stick my neck out. 

Shaded Emotions - Ethan Friedman

Introduction: In this essay, I chose to focus on my emotions and how I really thing. I didn’t want to sugar coat any of my feelings. My goal was to use the skills we focused on in class to compose two stories that mesh and form a single overall theme. I’m very proud of my openness when writing this essay. I feel like I left everything on the table. Many things I’ve never told anyone other than my parents. Not even my closest friends. I don’t like a lot of the words I used and I believe that I could do better if I wasn’t so focused on my emotions.

I didn’t know that I wasn’t the only one who hid their emotions. I thought I was alone. In 7th grade, hours after the last night of Hanukkah, my Dad called my brother and me into our parent’s room. Usually, we don’t have serious talks. Things come out as they happen, good or bad, but this time they’d been hiding something. My mom had a gloomy look in her eyes. She looked worried. My Dad looked weak. His shoulders were folded in. He always corrected my posture, so something instantly felt off. He started slow and soft, “So.. for about a month now, we’ve been waiting to tell you about something.” I continued to look him in the eyes. I glanced at my brother who didn’t realize what was going on. “Aunt Mindy is very sick… She has a rare type of lung cancer and unfortunately, she discovered it pretty late”. He exhaled quickly. I don’t think I took it in at first. I sort of thought it would all be okay. I just kept staring at his eyes. He could tell that he needed to say more. At the time I didn’t understand that he was choosing his words carefully. “It’s not curable”, he said gingerly. It hit me and hit me hard. I just felt a pull from my liver up to my throat. I squinted like I was looking at a fresh bed of snow with the sun shining on it. It never hit my brother. I left the room within seconds. I stormed up the steps, into my room, and onto my bed. I don’t remember how long I laid there and I don’t recall what I thought about. All I know is that my Dad called me back downstairs some time later. I washed my face off before opening the door to my parent’s room. He had a sort of smirk on his face. I was very confused. He pulled out two boxes stacked on top of each other. They were both wrapped in a Jewish Star filled wrapping paper. I gently unwrapped it as I tried to seem as excited as possible. Eventually, I got all of the paper off of it. They were new iPhones for my brother and me. For months, I had been wishing for a new phone and I couldn’t even feel grateful. My emotions were muffled. I smiled and thanked my parents. I couldn’t be happy. There was nothing to be happy about. It wasn’t feasible for me to take my mind off my Aunt. I went to sleep that night with mixed emotions. I was upset, but there’s always another road. There’s always another opportunity. Life surely will go on even if someone is missing. For the next few months, I didn’t worry. My family told me that my aunt was still living at home and still enduring chemo. I still went to school. We performed A Midsummer Night’s Dream by William Shakespeare. I was happy. I was in the All-Star game for baseball that year. My aunt and grandmother came to watch the game. Bases were loaded, tie game, and I was at third base. Problem is, there were two outs. The third-base coach reminded me that I had to run as soon as the ball was hit, which I knew already. The first pitch was in the dirt…. There went my opportunity. The pitcher fell asleep after the pitch; I could have run home. All eyes were on me. I could feel the glare on my back. Chills raced down through my toes. The pitcher hurled a fastball home. I got a good jump, but the batter whiffed low. As I trotted back to third before the next pitch, I notice the coach looking at me from the bench. He reminded me that it’s my chance. He also happened to be the coach of the Little League World Series team from Philadelphia just a year later. The pitcher whipped his arm around just like the pitch before. This time, the batter slammed on into the top half of the ball just a bit late. The ball is pounded into the dirt with a tall hop in between the pitcher and the third baseman. I dash down the line. I’m not particularly fast, but I could feel myself flying. The world rapidly lagged in my mind. I could hear the ball deflect up off of the third baseman’s glove as he lunged for it. I instantly felt my knee. The same knee that I messed up a few years before. I had been afraid of sliding since, but the third-base coach hollered, “DOWN DOWN DOWN” as I got close. I slid on my hip instead of my hamstring at the last minute. All I remember is getting mobbed by my teammates. I don’t remember scoring. I don’t remember seeing the ball. I guess the third baseman didn’t have a chance. I could see the coach talking to my dad through the dugout fence. He wanted me to join a higher level team. I didn’t care about that. I was glad that my family got to watch me play. Primarily because I played well. I went home unsure of how to feel. She had been sick for 9 months. She was only expected to live for 8. I texted each of my grandparents before I went to sleep. Asking the same question, “How is Aunt Mindy doing?”. They all gave me the same answer. Something similar to, “I don’t want you to worry about her. She’s doing alright. But remember that in the end, no matter what happens, we will all be okay. Including you.”

Hasciya Austin// What is control?

My goal was to come face-to-face with myself and my indecisiveness. Although I know that I can’t help myself choose just by writing it down, it’s a good way to voice it out privately. I’m proud of my reflection, as I felt like I could be truthful to myself. It made me more self-aware of my feelings towards specific things, and hopefully being able to assess that normally can help me in the future.

Another day, another awful drawing. One by one, another page is flipped, or thrown away depending on my mood. I tell myself to just give up, but my ambition says otherwise. Despite my negative thoughts, I chose not to put my pencil down. My hand was cramping and as much as I wanted to continue, I had to put the pencil down. After stretching my hand for a good three minutes, I picked up my pencil once more. Once I started to write, my hand cramped again.

I had a good two weeks before school started, but that was the least of my worries. I wanted to get this drawing done. After erasing many times, I thought the image was done for. So as a way to hide my embarrassment, I called it a “draft”. Four trapezoids, two of them facing towards each other and the other two facing away. Each had a different sketch inside of them. The day before, my cousin had asked me to just draw a logo of our favorite boy group, but I decided to add onto it.

I was somewhat proud of the first trapezoid, which had four different circles, each one representing a different story. One looked like it was melting, another looked like a feather. One was covered in stripes, but each line was never a match to the other. The final circle was simply black, as the original album cover had, I tried my best to recreate it, and I believe that I did it to the best of my ability. I was finished that part, but I never got to finish the other three trapezoids. I had done the rough sketches, but I never got to shading them in.

I knew sketching wasn’t something I wanted to pursue as a career…do I? I truly am not sure at this point. I do prefer to stick with the art department, I just never knew which category I wanted to stick to. Everyone has their own paths chosen, why can’t I choose mine? Of course everyone has a specific talent, everyone but me. I try to do anything I can but I feel as though I fail miserably. I have the greatest ideas in mind, but it seems like time has other plans for me. I can never get them done, and most times I barely get to start them.

Although all of these mishaps, I am determined to figure out what I want to do, and how to get them under control. I am the only one who knows what I want, but do I really? I know what I can and cannot do, but how can I use that knowledge to benefit me? Does anyone know what they want, honestly? I am like a tangled pair of earbuds, once I get things back on track, they somehow get jumbled up once more as soon as I turn my back away,

Advanced Essay #1

The main goal of my essay was to be able to be open and share something that is very important to me. I wanted to be able to make people step back and become aware of everything and everyone that they have. One thing that I am very proud of in the essay is how I was able to be very transparent and write about a time in my life that was really hard. One way I would like to improve my writing technique is by expanding my vocabulary and figuring out how to not repeat the same words over and over again.

My mom had just left the house not even two minutes ago, yet there she was, banging on our front door. I peered out of our front window, remembering all the things my parents had told me about opening the door for strangers. Pressing my nose up on the glass, as my warm breath began to fog it, I saw my mom, standing on our front steps with her hand in her hair, tears dripping down her face, shaking ever so slightly. I watched her struggle with her keys, hearing the faint jingle through the window. I leaped up and ran to open the door, confused as to what had happened. As I unlatched our lock and opened the door, watching as the light from outside flooded the living room, I saw the flashing ambulance lights across the street. Time felt like it was moving in slow motion. A million thoughts went through my mind, one after the other; my mind racing so intensely that I could barely breathe. My mom, still trembling, walked into the house, and as she tried to pull herself together, uttered, “he had a heart attack.” Not sure how to respond, I asked if he would be alright. That’s when she told me the ambulance didn’t make it in time. He was gone before the paramedics got there. He was breathing one minute, and the next, he was gone. We had just had dinner with him a few nights ago. How could he be gone in such a short amount of time? He was just here. Alive. Healthy. Breathing. Within minutes, his life was taken. His voice never to be heard again, and the sound of his footsteps on the hardwood floor was only a faint memory.

I never realized something like this could happen so close to home. You hear about these stories on T.V., but you never expect them to happen to you, and when they do, they are heart-wrenching. Seeing my brother’s friend lose a dad at such a young age is an image that is planted in my mind that I will never be able to get rid of. I can’t even begin to imagine the pain and heartache they felt and still feel. A whole piece of their family puzzle has been taken away, never to be returned. A family is not complete when such an important figure is taken from a family. My brother’s friend went to bed the night before, expecting to wake up and live another typical day, but instead, he lost his father. The father who raised him, cared for him, and loved him. Not only did their family lose someone very important, but our community did as well. He was one of the most influential and active members of our community and losing him impacted us all. I’ll never forget everything he did for my family, and I wish more than anything that he didn’t have to go. I don’t even remember the last thing I said to him, because I didn’t think it’d be the last time I’d speak with him. You never expect the last time to be the last time. I can’t remember what his voice sounded like or how he laughed. It’s the little things that seem so small when someone’s alive, that are most important when they’re dead.

I think of all the times I fight with my parents or don’t fully appreciate everything they do for me, and sometimes I think of what would happen if they died a few minutes later? What would happen if we fought and then my mom went to the store and got into a car accident? I would be crushed and I don’t think I’d ever forgive myself. It’s normal to fight and bicker, but it’s also so important to never leave angry, or go to bed mad because you never know when it’s going to be someone’s last day. Too often, people fail to appreciate certain things in their life; whether it’s family or food, there is a lack of gratitude. When someone is given so much, they often take many things for granted and if they suddenly lose the people and things they once took for granted, then they live with that burden for the rest of their life. Life is constantly busy and stressful, however, it’s important to sometimes take a step back to realize and appreciate everything that you have, because there are so many amazing things in life that you don’t realize you have until their gone.

Advanced Essay #1: Mule

Introduction: When drafting this essay, I wanted to portray my sickness using detail that was true to my personal experience. I’m proud of the way that I described how automatic eating tendencies become after you begin dieting. On my next paper, I want to make more of an effort to get good peer revision. I got two people to look over my paper, but I could have gotten a better paper if I reached out to more people.


I rarely visit my grandparents in West Virginia. The grueling eight-hour car drive made it difficult to reach them, but in the summer before sophomore year my family decided to drive out and stay with them for a few days. I was thrilled! I would be staying somewhere quite different than Philadelphia with family that I rarely see. Although, part of me also dreaded this visit. It had been a few months since I began my diet; and I remember shoving down any excitement I had with calculation - how would I avoid too excess calories in West Virginia? Before leaving, I had to promise myself I would not overeat and surely damage the progress I had been making. I had internalized information from the health accounts of social media and created a mental manifesto on which foods I would avoid, but truly, how I would avoid eating altogether.

It was always very quiet in West Virginia. In the gloaming hours, I would lie in bed and try to fall asleep. Distantly, I heard crickets as they spent those halcyon hours in reverie. I would eventually drift off into sleep, mildly uneasy in the fact that I was not falling asleep in my bed; I was surrounded by the sprawling Blue Ridge Mountains, and I was sleeping in a guest bedroom that was twice the size of my own, and it was very quiet. In the morning I would drink coffee with my grandparents; They would offer many sweet and tempting items for breakfast, but I would always cry indigestion and stick with the coffee.

When we returned from West Virginia, the habits that I picked up over the summer became automatic, a sort of body memory that occurred when my health tendencies took over my life. I continued downing black coffee even though it tasted like death. I took up doing sit-ups in my room.

I had almost forgotten that school was imminent by the time August was ending. I went into school on the first day with dread that was mildly pacified by how exhausted I felt, and as friends greeted me with such vibrant energy, I realized how different I must be acting compared to everyone else. I didn’t know whether or not people would comment on my weight loss and was surprised to have had many people walk up to me to make comments.

“You got so skinny! Congratulations!” Is how most people reacted if they chose to verbalize their thoughts about the change.

“Something’s different about you, did you lose weight?” One teacher said, in a manner that surely wasn’t meant to be intrusive.

I reacted to all of the comments with humility; I told most people that I had naturally shed ‘a few pounds’ from biking all around the city. It was a lie, but it felt like the easiest way to explain the change. Even though people were confronting me on my weight loss, none of their observations affected me. I was the only one who could feed into my body image. I had become immune to whatever anyone could have said about my body; I had become the mule.

Advanced Essay #1: FEAR

Advanced Essay #1: FEAR

By: Caresten Lyn’ae Moses

My goals for this essay was to tell about how my fears affected me and to let the readers know that it is okay to have fears, as long as you try to get over them. I am proud that I was able to share my experiences with fear. I’m glad that I was able to give vivid details of my fears along with my feelings. If I was to improve my writing, I would plan out what I want to do and then I would have a better idea of what I want to write about and ideas could flow more freely.

Fear is a part of you and me. It’s apart of growing up. Whether it’s fear of dogs to heights, to asking a certain question, we all have fears. Having fears is totally normal. It’s about how you overcome those fears. In life, you can’t run from your problems or fears. You have to toughen up, muster up the courage and face your fears. It is one of the scariest things to do, but once you finally conquer your fear, you feel unstoppable and it easily turns into the greatest feeling. I know. I have been fearful of things in my life, and I felt stuck until I just needed that extra push or a sign to tell me to just face it.

I felt the push of a familiar big hand. There I was. Every step feeling so heavy. The music was loud and the lights were hot. As I stepped out onto the stage, I looked forward into the audience. I couldn’t focus on one face. As I looked further into the crowd, I saw the bright, blinding lights from cell phones filming. I then looked to the side of me when I saw the other girls in their pink sequin covered leotards and tutus. I saw the bright, blinding lights from cell phones filming. In this moment, I looked to the side of me into the wing of the stage. I saw my teacher counting off for us to start. I saw her mouth say, “5, 6, 7, 8.” I remembered why I was there in the first place. I glanced down at my arms that had goosebumps on them. I get the same cold, terrified, stiffening feeling every time I get on stage. It was time. My feet started gliding across the floor and I started to flow through the dance routine. I remembered to smile and show personality— To go full out on my movements and to keep going if I messed up. All these things the dancer teachers tell you to remember to do while dancing. It was so difficult to do all of that while dancing though. I was almost finished the dance, and my mini solo part was approaching. I remember my transition. The swift movement I had to do to get to my spot. I did it. I really did!

Dancing in my room when nobody is watching is so much different than performing in front of hundreds of people who are watching your every move. Fear is what held me back for so long. Once I finally got over that fear it all started coming together and things were easier. Fear seems so hard to overcome when you are older. Every little thing is frightening.

As I got into the car, I immediately popped in my headphones and shut the world out. I knew my parents wanted to ask me a thousand and one questions, but I didn’t care. I listened to my music and scrolled on Instagram until I fell asleep. I knew the ride home was going to be a long one. Since I was a small child, there was always something about the bumping and stopping and vibrations from the car that I enjoyed so much. As I laid my whole body across the cold leather seat, I drifted off to sleep. All of a sudden I was in a room. A dark, stale, cold, small room. This room was unusual. I tried to stand up but my head hit the ceiling. I must be trapped in a box, I thought. No. How did I get here? I heard a scratching noise. I turned behind me and it stopped. I looked forward again, and the noise continued. Suddenly, there was a small light. I could see a large hand with red gloves holding a lighter. I looked in the back of the lighter and saw a white painted face with a red painted smile. OH My GOD. CLOWNS IN THE DARK. Those were my two biggest fears. This really couldn’t be happening. I was shaking. Finally, I said this has to stop. I pushed the clown into the wall and shouted, “I’m not afraid of you!” The sight of the clown faded away and I woke up.

There’s always been something about dreams that make them seem so wickedly real. When I have a good dream that’s never a problem but I have a nightmare it’s the scariest thing. Fear is just a temporary thing. What I’ve learned throughout my 16 years of life is that if you don’t face your fears, you will be stuck thinking you can’t get passed them. Fears will hold you back forever, restricting you from accomplishing your goals. It is extremely necessary to muster up the strength and courage to face your fears head on.

Advanced Essay #1: Finding Me

Introduction: My goals for this essay was to convey my story of change. I wanted to pass on the message that change is never easy, and there will always be challenges ahead. But with every challenge, every obstacle, I will grow and learn to know life a little better. I am proud that I remembered so many details from Toronto, so that I could write about it and make it entertaining. I am proud of the way I wrote my essay and I was pretty strict with myself while writing, I wanted there to be a specific tone. I wish I could have more space to write even more about how Philadelphia has changed me to this day. I wrote more in the past tense, about how I felt in the past moments.

Finding Me:

It was a Tuesday morning during 3rd grade at Blake Public Middle School, right outside of downtown Toronto. All morning, we have been working on “Me Posters!”, all the other 20 students and I had to brainstorm, write, and decorate a poster that would reveal who we are at age 9. Joshua was writing about playing basketball everyday, and Joanne wrote about how she loves medicine and her passion in becoming a doctor. I don’t know what passion is, I don’t play sports or instruments, my life is boring. I sat there for an hour looking at my blank poster before Ms. Barr came to ask, “Annie, why haven’t you started your poster?” In which, I exclaimed, “My life is boring, I’m boring, I don’t know anything about myself. I’m no fun.” “Everyone has their own story Annie, and they are all unique in their own way. You’re not boring, you are always smiling, always kind, and you love to make people laugh. People always change, try new things, and become new people.” So I did what I could with my poster, I drew the places I would go to. I paid close attention to what I was doing on a daily basis, how I interact with people, and I was more than ever aware of my words. But still, I was only 9 years old. So I hadn’t taken anything seriously yet.

Trying to find yourself at any age can be very challenging. And most times, everyone is always changing, like Ms. Barr said, whether it be minimal or drastic. Changes in a person can be a result of many factors. One of those factors is the environment of the person. It becomes the people a person interacts with daily, the places the person adventures to, the media, and of course, the person itself. While I was in Toronto, I had a few friends. Luckily for me, my school was very diverse. I was exposed to different types of people at a young age, which opened my eyes about people in general. I had two best friends, Zoolnad and Azka. Zoolnad was Pakistani, and she was always the prettiest girl. Her mom always made the best Chicken Biryani. Azka was Indian, Azka and I lived close to each other so I would try to go over to her house. In which my only guardian, my grandma refused. Azka was a lot darker than Zoolnad was. Here’s the thing, most traditional older Asian people tend to be racist. “You never know what they could do to you, I am only doing this for your safety. Those types of people are scary, dirty and dangerous,” my grandmom always said Pretty soon, I submitted to her ideas, and Azka was gone.

Up until leaving Toronto entirely, I lived there for almost three years. I was 12 when I left. What I knew about myself was: I was a tomboy, I loved riding scooters, I laughed at everything, and would cry about anything, I was still boring. All those things about myself weren’t relevant to me. To be honest, I was scared about the future, I lived in constant fear that I would never be able to live with my parents. So when I was on the steady 14-hour bus ride to the city of brotherly love, I was incredibly excited.

I arrived in Philadelphia on June 13th, 2012. The first day of 4th grade was rough, I had bowl cut bangs, deep dimples, and my Cinderella backpack. The Cinderella backpack was not my idea, the worker at target said that every girl has it, so I should get one too. I realized how much I missed my friends in Toronto. I had never seen so many white kids than I did in class that day. Everything seemed so dull and sad. The kids were not nice, but they had made fun of me because of my haircut. It was the first time someone made a mean comment about me. I cried about it when I ventured back home. My parents were at work until 8:30 pm, so I barely got to see them. I would fake a smile for them.This was the first time I truly felt sadness. I dreaded going to school the next day. For two years, I hated my life. “You’ll get used to it” was not the case for me. I was homesick in my new home.

Towards the end of 5th grade, I grew out my bangs, and started shopping at a store called Justice and Forever 21, no more WalMart clothes. I felt not like me, but change is necessary. After a couple of months, kids at school were being friendly to me. They started talking to me outside of school, and then came my new best friend, Allie. She was white, the popular girl and perfect for me. We had the best time ever, we would Oovoo each other everyday afterschool. Allie and I did a lot of things together and pretty soon, I adapted her talking language, her sense of fashion and I even decorated my room like hers. It was the new me.

All of that was physical though, as I got older, my mindset changed. I was very observant of my surroundings, I noticed the number of homeless people on the street, I noticed the number of times I got catcalled at age 13, I noticed the sadness and depression in a stranger’s eyes. Not everyone would be happy, and most times, people are miserable. For the first time in my life, I saw the bad, the ugly, it wasn’t playgrounds, sunshine and rainbows. I started doing things so that people would like me more, and sometimes I still do this. It was something I had never done in Toronto.

I didn’t realize I was changing, nobody really ever does. It becomes a self reflection thing. I heard many more mean comments, bought things to please society, wasted time on people didn’t deserve it, try new things, liked it, didn’t like it. It’s all apart of life and I would never regret any of it. Transitioning into a new society can be very difficult for anyone, it causes unwanted and wanted change. Philadelphia and Toronto are both big cities with millions of people. There as many differences as there are similarities. I learned so much about myself in both cities. I am not sure where life will take me in the future, but I will always be Annie.

Advanced essay #1;A look at reality

Introduction; When writing this essay, it took a couple of tries until I found a topic that actually came from me. I knew from the beginning that I wanted to write about the time when I visited Mexico for the first time, but I wasn’t sure exactly what I wanted the takeaway to be. For the second scene, I found myself lost, now knowing how to connect my ideas, but then something clicked in my head I knew I could write about when I got chosen to go to Ecuador in 7th grade. I knew that many people don’t get the chance to travel, let alone so young and both of those trips were unlike and similar in many ways. Life in Central America was very unlike our day to day in the U.S. I felt proud being able to share my experiences in this essay, because I got to tell a little about my origins and my thoughts on life. One way I would like to improve my writing technique is to use more sensory details, like I tried doing in this essay, but also being able to describe what I’m thinking at the time and paint the setting for the reader.

As I stepped my first foot onto the Motherland, it felt known but new. Then both a woman and man of similar complexion to mine greeted us saying, “Bienvenidos” I do a slight smirk and greet them back accordingly. My heart raced, as I’ve been told from stories to stay on high alert, my mother said numerous times before I left, ” When you arrive talk to no one except the people you know, the police can’t even be trusted at times.” Mexico has one of the highest crime rates in Latin America.I always observed my surroundings for any alarming behavior. I walked slowly letting everyone lead the way, greeting everyone with just an ever so slightly smirk, never speaking. I continued to follow the crowd out to the luggage claim, identifying my bright pink suitcase from across the room, still always being on the lookout. I struggled to carry all my belongings as if I was going away for months when in reality it was only 2 weeks. As I walked across the ceiling high revolving doors, I felt my face light up as I spotted my family from the end of the hall, I rushed with open arms rushing into theirs, struggling to run with all my luggage. I yelled, “Abuelitos!” My heart felt at home again. They continued to ask me endless questions on how my trip was, as we made our way “home”. I crowded onto the backseat of the car with all my luggage, my eyes glued to the window not knowing where to look, I couldn’t believe it I was finally here, the place I’ve heard about my whole life, where my parents had grown up. Everything wasn’t so magical as we passed tall skyscrapers, apartments, federal buildings, city houses and a zoo. I couldn’t help but notice the same thing at every corner children on the streets selling bracelets, candies, cd’s and food. These children should be in school but instead their out on the streets day and night for some spare change just to survive. As we continued on our way to Puebla, roughly a 2 hour drive. I noticed as we got closer no skyscrapers, no apartments, no city houses, all you saw for miles was green and for as far as you can look that’s all you saw, but there was one thing right in the center, Iztaccihuatl the sleeping lady, an inactive volcano . Having heard so many stories about this volcano it made it seem as if I was just seeing it once more. The uneven dirt roads led to the main streets, houses parallel to each other, each house labeled with name tags. The boys played soccer with each other, barefoot. Women coming home from the market holding the groceries on their heads heading home. This places was unlike anything I’ve experienced before. Then a year later, a letter arrived at my house saying, “ Hillary Hernandez you have been one of the chosen students to go to Ecuador,” my dad read out loud. I yelled with excitement, I couldn’t believe it in a couple months I would be traveling to a different continent with 13 of my classmates. Then the day came, I didn’t know how to feel I was feeling a rush of different emotions, I was ecstatic that I had gotten this extraordinary opportunity but frantic at the same time. I was going into this new environment and culture I knew nothing of. As we said goodbye to our parents, tears started to run down my face, for a slight second I thought about just going back with them and not going anymore, but I knew that wasn’t an option. After a lengthy 9 hour flight, we landed in Quito, the capital of Ecuador. We boarded onto a bus to the hostel, house lights we’re the only thing leading the way at 3am. My head rocked back and forth as I forced myself to stay awake, but ended up caving, since I hadn’t slept the whole flight. My anxiety kept me up watching endless movies. On the first day, we visited an orphanage on the slum part of Quito. I couldn’t help but notice that Quito had a lot of similarities to Mexico, kids sold candies on the street and washed cars windows for some spare change. I didn’t know how these kids would react to foreigners coming in, but all we wanted was to bring them joy with gifts and volunteer work. The first girl I had met there was a 14 year girl named Isabell, she told me her story about being raped by her stepfather and getting kicked out of her house then for a while she was living on the streets before getting taken in by the orphanage. I felt the tears go down my face with such frustration and empathy, but here stood this girl in front of me telling me her story with no emotion, as if she was used to it or it was her fault. The sad thing is that she wasn’t the only one with a similar story. When I look back at my time I spent in both Mexico and Ecuador, and I see the struggle of the corrupted system and I praise my parents for their sacrifice and courage on how much my parents had to go through, just to get to where they are today. They grew up with absolutely nothing back home and they had to come to a foreign land as a necessity for a better future one back home couldn’t offer. They’ve taught me that money isn’t everything, that when their grandmother couldn’t buy them something she would just make it and that made her cherish is 100x more. My experiences in both of these countries made me realize that I look selfish for taking for granted even the smallest things like having a roof to live under or having an education and food on the table every day.I look around and realize that not just me but us as a society take things for granted everyday or make fun of those who don’t have as much as us. That we are always eager to post our newest stuff and show them off. That if he has 10 pairs of shoes, I need 20 pairs. That we all just feel like we have to be superior to the other.
These experiences at such a young age, made me look at the world differently because whenever I want more and more, I think back to all those kids who might not have a small percentage of what I have. Although there are times when I don’t go by this, I hope that as I get older I become more and more grateful for my parents sacrifice and to be grateful for what I have and not distressed for what I don’t

Advanced Essay #1: Living In The Present

INTRODUCTION

In my essay, I tackle the idea of living in the now. My goal for my essay was to enlighten people on how important and impactful small moments can be. How we should appreciate what we have in front of us because nothing is a given. I am proud of the work I did to make it clear and elaborate with the help of my peer editors. For my next Essay, I want to make sure that I have multiple people look at my essay so that I can get a lot of feedback and advice.

LIVING IN THE PRESENT

by Nile Shareef-Trudeau

I’m alive!

This is about recognizing all the blessings that are right in front of me. All the blessings that I pass up because of the toxic conditioning I have as an American. Unlike many people around the world, the way my country is set up has made me think I have all the time in the world. An infinity of tomorrows. Because of this, I take so much for granted. I’ve felt so sure that tomorrow will come. I stay stuck in times past or fantasies of the future. Instead of living; appreciating each day as the amazing blessing that it is.

There’s a recurring event that happens at least once a day in a nook known as my room. A feeling of anticipation of what’s to come, from sounds so familiar yet mysterious. Two little feet, size twelve in kids, traveling up my staircase. I await all the possibilities. At times these feet are loud and clunky, at others slow and creeping. From these two sounds, I can tell who it is. The seven-year-old stinker of a sister I love so dearly. The incredible and loving little Lama of mine.

I can’t count all the times I’ve been annoyed when she comes up my stairs. I often didn’t care about the magical things, thoughts, and ideas she had to offer. I had sunglasses that covered the light that she radiated when she came into my room without even realizing it.

Though this event passed for small and insignificant, with my new realizations, it provides me with an opportunity to instead soak in and savor every moment of it. I could count each step it takes for her to reach me. Hear the clicking her tongue makes as she speaks. Feel how my heart warms in her presence, each little thing she does. Looking at her in a gaze of amazement, taking in all that she is. Her soul stands personified in front of me, and I’m in love with it.

Little moments are often overlooked but it is in these moments that we feel the most. Many people don’t appreciate these moments as much as they should. In these moments it can be hard to be completely present. However, if you can get there you truly feel alive. You experience raw cut emotions of realization. I am living right now, in this moment. I’m feeling, seeing, hearing. Each moment of life is a blessing and it should be understood/treated as such.

I went through a rough patch last year where I was sucked into a tornado of negative emotions. I chose to cut my hair as a release.

I felt a twinkle of insanity; an uncontrollable excitement rushed over me as I gripped the scissors in my hand. Cutting away my luscious lion mane and knowing feelings of rebirth and self-empowerment. “I feel a heavy weight lifting,” I said to my sister Lotus on the other side of the call. All the shadows my hair cast on my shoulders and nape of my neck being shown to the light. Now with all I’ve uncovered about myself, I can move forward. I wanted so badly to move on from this state of being. Growth is all I was looking for, so I cut my hair off. In that moment I allowed myself to feel. To take a chance. Brushing past all the thoughts that tried to tell me I would regret my decision. Not knowing what the outcome would be but not caring because if not now, when?

As American people, we are programmed to walk through life looking for a bigger picture. We are constantly thinking about the future. We wonder and work to figure out how we will harness it. With this being said, we miss out on all the important things: the nows. By being stuck on the future and dwelling on the past, we miss out on exploring, enjoying, and exercising the present moment. To do things just because: like examining details of a drawing; A simple creation from my mind: how the drawing on my wall consists of a hand, but this hand specifically is a left hand. That of which is gripping a small book with its pudgy fingers. These things often seem insignificant. Some may say, “Why would I sit around and look at the junk in my room?” What people don’t understand is by doing these things we begin to live in a world so real. Getting to know the present moment. Tomorrow isn’t certain, and the past is said and done. This is what it’s all about. Putting in the work to evaluate things we can change that are right in front of us. Rather than looking for things that are no longer in our grasp. Not to mention, we begin to get rid of this idea that life is boring but instead fascinating. With each moment and thing a new adventure. Then, and only then, will you be living your life in color.

Advanced Essay #1

Hi, my name is Christopher Jacobs; my goals for this essay were to describe my theme and explore the personal struggles that I have had, and the struggles that I and others go through. My theme was complicated but also simple due to it being very versatile in how you could explain it, but I decided to make my main focus something I am really passionate about, sports. I wanted to tell about my experiences with my self doubt while playing and how much it affects me on and off the court. I am proud of how descriptive I was and how I really let myself go and let myself be vulnerable here. I took a lot of notice off my classmates work that helped give me a better idea of what I should write. I would use my time a little bit better next time and plan out each scene better if I could do this again though.

All my life I have been told that I wasn’t good enough, that I won’t do good at this sport or that I don’t deserve my “gift” of height or that no one needs me on their team.  Well, for a while I believed them, my self-esteem was killed and even now I still don’t believe in myself when it comes to any sport I play. But no matter what, no matter how much I don’t believe in myself, no matter how many times I doubt myself I always persevere and I always pushed through. You see when I was younger I always told myself that no matter what everyone else said or what my mind itself said, that I would keep going, keep pushing, keep persevering and never give up. 

I remember getting up that day and looking outside my window and sighing as I remembered the big game later today and how without most of our players I will most likely be forced to play way out my comfort zone and most likely, and just thinking about this gave me anxiety levels that ached and plagued my mind. I quickly erased all of those negative thoughts and went about my normal routine before grabbing my gear for my game later on. I went and grabbed my gear and headed out. 

When I got to the game I felt extremely nervous more so than I did anytime earlier and felt as if the world had its eyes on me and the nervousness built up inside me like a volcano dormant for years suddenly becoming active with fears I never knew I had before. I felt like an emotionally derailed train and was feeling so many negative emotions in me that I didn’t even notice the amount of time I held my breath as I put my hand on the door handle. I thought as I took a deep breath, “I could simply not come, I could call in sick or fake an injury or just go home couldn’t I.” I took my hand off that door handle and was about to turn back and hop onto the bus home before I stopped in my tracks and thought to myself. “Chris, you can’t do this to your team, they need you right now, we are down so many players and this would be extremely selfish, and it would go against your own morals.” I sat there for what felt like forever having an internal turmoil, before I sucked it up before grabbing that door and walking inside to be greeted by the sounds of screeching feet and a basketball game, I smiled and took a deep breath, relieving the stress off my shoulders before walking over to my teammates gathered together and joining them to do the most important ballgame of my life up to this point.

    When I first started playing football, I hated it, I absolutely hated it, it was a sport I had never played before, a sport I was never interested in watching, and especially the fact that it was a contact sport my dad forced me to do instead of letting me play basketball made it worse. I was always the kid who was out of place while I was there, the kid who would get pushed around by everyone else at practice, and never even got to play in any games. My coach sat me out all the time saying the same excuse, “You're not ready yet.” I remember it was 4 games where I was reduced to sitting on the sideline as a water boy while my teammates went and played their hearts out. I hated every second of it, it had kept killing my self-esteem and each time I had to sit out, my morale to keep pushing and persevering would just deplete even more over and over till I felt empty, till I felt like a black hole constantly being sucked in together with no escape. Then I remember the day my coach said that I could finally play, I felt so excited but so nervous at the same time, I was scared, scared that I would have wasted the hours of training and ruin my opportunity. But I did what I had to, I put on my pads, put my jersey and gear and hopped onto that field. When the coach told me “Go play your heart out, kid.” Those words felt like something that I needed to perform well that day, I felt empowered and that experience is still the one I can look back on and be truly proud of myself for once.  

Some people don’t get it though, they simply say,” just get over it, it’s all in your head and that it isn’t real.” What they don’t know is how real it truly is, how it does so much against you physically and mentally, how it always plagues your mind and hinders you so much to the point of you physically feeling sickly because of it all. They think that these issues are just simple and I don’t get it. Why are these issues looked down upon, why are they so ignorant to these feelings that not just I have, and that ignorance is what hurts me the most. “No matter what, I think, no matter what everyone else says and no matter what stands in my way, even if my own mind goes against me, I’ll keep going.” Those are the words that I live by, the ones I die by and my morals.

My Identity

Introduction

My goal for this project was to communicate how important it is to have a connection with Sudan and my family through stories I felt the closest to my culture. I am proud of the way I wrapped up my points at the end. I clarified my points and drew a bigger conclusion. Some things I could’ve improved in my essay was the amount of description I gave. If there were more details it would be easier for the reader to imagine the scene in their minds.

“Sorry if I butcher this name…”

I already know that my name is about to be mispronounced. And since my last name starts with an A, it’s usually going to be a struggle within the first 5 seconds of taking attendance. I’ve heard it all, Imon, Amon, Imani… I-M-A-N, the Arabic word for faith and belief, that’s how you spell my name and it’s pronounced exactly how it’s spelled but it seems to always get people’s tongue-tied. Which I don’t get but everyone has different lenses they look through…right.

As a kid, I hated my name. It might have been because of the way it differentiates me from the other kids at school. Asking my parents for a Dora backpack and matching Dora shoes, I felt I had to find another way to connect with the kids at school.

I was 5 years old the first time I went to Sudan and I went with my dad. We stayed in my Aunt’s (my dad’s 1st cousin) house. She had the same name as me which I thought was cool because I barely knew anyone that shared a name with me. I walked into a house that didn’t resemble the houses in America. One house was the size of ¼ of a block in Philadelphia, the outside walls were mint green with a tall white door that didn’t have a door frame, just a door that was connected to the walls, above those walls were barbed wires just like the ones in jails but it was to keep any robbers from entering. She immediately hugged me after opening the door, she seemed so excited to see me even though I just met her. We all went inside and sat down on the perfectly laid sheets. There was this familiar smell that I smelt, it was the smell of burning scented wood hips that mom would burn every time guests were coming over. My grandma’s sister came and greeted my dad and I. I noticed this connection between them when they were talking, picking up where they left off when they last saw each other, laughing while they shared the memories they had together. I just stared at them, chuckling with them even though I didn’t understand most of the things they were saying. I felt the joy in their voices, the smile on their faces soothed my heart. When we were about to go to sleep, my aunt slept with me. She told me that when she heard my dad named me after her how happy she was. How she loudly started proudly cheering, then going around the neighborhood passing out cookies. Her dear friend and cousin moved to America but he never forgot about her. I soon realized that I wasn’t named Iman for no reason, but it was a way for my parents and me to still be connected to my family that lived halfway across the world. It was a way for my parents to remember all the people who they loved that they left behind.

As I grew up, I discovered that I wasn’t alone. Almost all 1st generation Americans go through a similar experience. There was this one time I connected with my Sudanese friends. We were all on Facetime having our usual conversations about news in our lives and sharing inside jokes. We were all on pause when I heard a laugh coming from my phone. I asked what happened and she told us to go look at what she sent us, I thought it was a regular funny meme she just sent. But when I saw the post was from an unfamiliar account. It was called “growingup.sudanese”. Underneath was a meme that read “When mama doesn’t agree with something and she makes it rhyme.” We all started laughing like crazy, talking about how our parents are so weird but funny at the same time. Then we continued to go through their page, connecting even more with every meme we read. I could feel this warm, comforting feeling that made me feel like I can finally relate to people and know exactly what it’s like. Our experiences created these strong bonds.

My name and experiences are apart of my identity. Behind those 4 letters held a history of culture and religion. My parents came to this country taking only what they could from their country, their traditions. It was important for them to share their culture and traditions with their child in this country in which culture can be easily diluted by the American culture. This was something many immigrants experience with their children and as of 1st generations, we have to adapt to where we live in while holding on to our story.

Advanced Essay #1

Introduction:

My goal for this essay was to connect two important scenes of memory from my life with a common motif. The motif I found was hardship and hardwork. Both my memories have to do with struggling through something and overcoming challenges even though they might be hard or frustrating. I’m extremely proud of how I describe my scenes of memory by using alliteration and descriptive storytelling. Descriptive storytelling is something I enjoy and have put a lot of work into being good at. I think I could have done a little better at building out my reflections by building out to stronger ideas. But, this type of writing is more new to me and I hope to improve as I continue to write more.

I struggle to blink through the thick heavy rain drops that smash into my eyes as I continue the run. It’s qualifiers for the half marathon and I am of a single mind: finish. My legs ache as they give in a little more to gravity each step. I cross the 10 mile mark and I don’t even notice, I’m too busy fighting myself. I’m burning hot and freezing cold at the same time and to equal discomfort. My hands that have been hastily wrapped in my soggy jacket are beginning to go numb. My lungs feel frozen as I inhale my next breath of cold, wet air. The rain above me is heavy and freezing, each drop a sharp thin needle that rips through my body, fracturing me at my core. But I keep moving, fueled by my reluctant determination and stubborn pride I trudge the rest of the way. Whirling around my head is the only clear thought I can think of, “Suck it up Buttercup, who told you life was fair?” The phrase, handed down to me from my parents, has been what’s kept me going in the past, and the only thing keeping me going now. It’s by this phrase I’ve discovered motifs in the world around me. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction, and for anything to be achieved, their must be an equal amount of work done to achieve it. I’m reminded of this daily, even though I usually don’t want to be. Ultimate Frisbee practice reinforces this notion daily. Every day starts about the same, 6:00 am and the alarm goes off. I’m torn from my dreams, back into my dark room under heavy quiet sheets. I wake up and look in the mirror to repeat the magic words, “Suck it up buttercup, who told you life was fair?”. Time for practice. Get up, get clothes, get in the car, get to the field. The adrenaline I’ve built up begins to wane as I spill out of the car a tired mess for my first day of ultimate practice. Cold air claws my skin and I’m jolted back awake as I trudge onto the field. My cleats are fresh with newly formed mud as I’m reminded of last night’s thunderstorm with every “Squelch” and “Schlop” my shoes make as they wade through the wet dirt. Freshly cut grass stings my nose, my eyes feel like sandbags sewn to my face, they sting as they try to force themselves back shut, with the little willpower I have I force them back open. I put on my cleats and I stand, zombified, waiting for instructions. “Go for a run” I drag my body into motion as do the other kids on the field. I run around the field and the faster I run, the harder it is for drowsiness to keep up with me. Practice starts and I’m running as fast as I can, my torso trying to keep up with my legs. I’m trying to breath but I’m using more oxygen then I can take in, I’m indebted to my lungs. I hurt in the worst of ways, I want to stop and be able to breathe again more than anything. But the words ring out in my head once more, “Suck it up Buttercup, who told you life was fair?” I keep going.
Hardship and hard work mean so much more than people realize. People often lose sight of putting in work, trading the eventual payoff for the immediate relief in phoning it in. Putting in effort seems to almost be mocked in current culture today. With popular posts on social media advocating for giving up or procrastinating, it’s hard not to be sucked in, to feel validated as you give up. I think people, especially people my age are still learning that the world is dictated by hard work. And the longer it takes for people to recognize it the more work they’ll have to do. Even though we don’t want to, we have to push away the notion that it’s ok to give up or half do something. That’s what the saying means to me, it’s more than a phrase, it’s a representation of what life is and what hard work means. Life is unforgiving, chaotic, and does not have your best interest at heart. That means it’s everyone’s job to engrain what they want into their lives. Even if it starts with a silly saying.

The Center of The Universe Is a Man’s World

While writing this essay I wanted to bring awareness to how precious a woman is and bring attention to the fact that our soul purpose is not to serve a man. It’s to show the digression of the level of feistiness we have as we grow up in a world that tries to mold us as the archetype servant for a man. I tried to be as honest as possible with my opinions but to also get the reader to understand this isn’t a persuasive essay but one to open eyes and minds. I am proud of this essay because it stands out from many of my other pieces of writing. It’s not about heartbreak, or race wars, depression, it’s about being a woman. It was fun to not be stuck in my same writing topic and divert from the usual. Even though I am very proud of my work in this essay but for future essays I will focus on descriptive writing more, so that I can transport the reader into the scene.

When we are little princesses,we don’t worry about what we wear around our uncles, or if our stepdad will come in the house when we’re getting out of the shower. When the pod becomes a flower it gets pushed into the dark.

Everyday after preschool there was a routine. My grand-pop picked me up, brought me ice cream sandwiches, took me home, made me waffles, we watched cartoons and went to sleep. Naps with my grand-pop were the ones I’ll remember the most, they’re the reason I don’t know how to do homework until 8pm.

I was the babygirl. I woke up from my nap at the age of 12 with girl parts that now set boundaries for me. When a girl grows a woman’s body too early her childhood slips like sand between her fingers. I always wondered why my grand-mom let me and my grand-pop eat while she just washed the dishes. Why my mom felt obligated to make my stepdad breakfast before the rest of the house. Why when my grand-pop had company my grand-mom would say to stay upstairs with her until they left. Why do we go from princess to house slave? Scared to speak unless spoken to, cooking, cleaning, being fully submissive, unselfish, and unconditionally loving. I remember watching Weezy Jefferson go toe to toe with her husband. It made no sense to me why the Jefferson’s didn’t apply to real life. I guess that’s why they say TV is fabricated. TV even depicted modern day moms as sassy, independent,and witty like Rochelle from ‘Everybody Hates Chris’. She is a depiction of the way married women are supposed to be, but why aren’t wives living up to these standards? Are they too high, for the modern day wife?

By the age of 14 I had two sister in-laws. I’ve watched both of them cry, but only in private. It is written in the universal invisible rules of relationships that “if you and your significant other are having problems your outside demeanor should not say so”. Men can cheat, hit, go out, etc. If a women were to do these things they would be looked at as crazy or as hoes. We are forced to keep our pain private. I’ve watched my sister in-laws fake their smiles to the point their faces might crack. One of them,Jade, is 5 years older than me. She’s beautiful with long black hair, tan skin, and an hourglass figure. I’ve seen her breakdown and tell herself “I love him…I can’t leave him”. I don’t know why love makes a woman mindless. She tells me “You won’t understand until you fall in love”, if that’s what love is count me out. “I would never be that stupid” “I would never let a n**** play me”- Said every girl whose words bit her in the ass.

The line between stupidity and love seem to be blurred sometimes. The line between self respect and mindlessness seem to overlap. If the world was full of little girls what would men have? No wife, no servants, no one to blame for their life going wrong, no one’s heart to mangle, nor no one to make excuses for them. Little girls with hair and mouths that can’t be tamed. Princesses who get answers and never give them. What would men do with a world of headstrong girls? We go from being carried on backs to a man’s world nearly breaking them. It scares me to think that I can’t be the Wheezy to someone’s George, the Lucy to a Ricardo, but instead a Ceely to a Mister.

The rules of this game called ‘Life’ were written before paper. Men were winning before women were presented to the playing field. Hundreds of years ago a man was raised to be independent, headstrong, selfish with his time and efforts. Women were raised to look for a husband trained to be a housewife. Females did not understand the power of realizing self worth. Women did not understand how much raw potential they had because all they knew was that getting a husband would be a lifetime achievement. In society it took centuries for a woman to be looked at as an equal, as another being and not an accessory to a man.

A conversation with my grand-mom will always stick with me. While riding in the car going to school, doing my usual game of 21 questions with her, one of her answers stood out to me. I asked “why can’t relationships be equal?” “Relationships aren’t really meant to be equal.You have to be submissive to your husband because he will be in charge. Yes you have a say but sometimes what they say goes.” I tried to give her statement the benefit of the doubt. Tried to convince myself that these thoughts were just coming from her 60 year old mind. But, I realized that it wasn’t her mind, it wasn’t even really her opinion. It was the result of her training, they were the words of the world and its ways. I’m fearful that 20 years from now my daughter will have to push her feelings to the side because she fell in love. Or that I will have a son who feels entitled because he was born male.

I’ve realized I can’t let the world teach me how to be a woman. My pride will forever stick with me. The colorful mind of a young girl will forever rest on my shoulders. I’ve always viewed relationships as equal; I’ve viewed relationships more like partnerships. It might be new aged but that’s the way I see it. I’ve always been a sunflower never to be pushed in the dark.

Advanced Essay #1: When to Step Away

Introduction:

My goals for this essay, honestly, were to just be honest and tell a story that meant a lot to me. Any other way I try to explain it, I fear that it’s seen as me complaining, so I tried to make it so it would be more down to earth instead. I don’t expect anyone to sympathize with it, but it’s still the story I wanted to share. I’m proud of how I took the time to figure out what I did and didn’t want to include, since I could’ve kept the topic the same but mentioned a different scene of memory. One way I’d want to improve my writing is by getting all my ideas down first and then going from there instead of trying to figure it out before I write. 

Essay:

My backpack made a sound louder than I had expected as I threw it off my shoulder and onto the floor of my room. I took two steps from my bedroom door and sat on the bed to unlace and take off my shoes. I didn’t think much of the sound my bag made until my mom stormed down the hall and pushed my wooden door open. “What was that?” she asked. I turned to face her and replied, “It was just my bag.” She shook her head and closed my door as she started to make her way down the hall. “Too many books in that bag,” I heard her say. I didn’t reply and continued to settle in after coming home from a long day of school. English, Rosetta, history, math, art. All this homework, I thought. So much to finish.

I laid back and sank into my bed. I reached across the grey bedspread over to the small, white nightstand to the right of my bed and grabbed my airpods. I put them in, listened for the sound to signal they’ve connected, and put all of my music on shuffle. The first song that played? “Buried Alive Interlude”. One of my favorite songs from Drake’s album Take Care. The long windows covered with white blinds were slowly getting darker as the sun went lower in the sky. I grabbed my phone off the bed next to me and put the whole album on shuffle. After placing my phone down again, I closed my eyes, and waited for the next song to play.

I care about a lot of things; My grades and homework are some examples of that. I remember being younger and wanting nothing to do with school. Everything required excessive amounts of thinking, and having to take part in that for eight straight months was unappealing. The stress, arguments, and having things not be as fun as they used to be follow me around every school year. Once mid-spring came around, things started looking up again, and it turned into a cycle. The only reason I wanted to go was for my friends, since they were the only good things about school. It took me years to understand that it would happen regardless of how easy or hard the work was. It was just up to me to decide to either fight against it and complain all the time, or do something about it to help get to the end of the year.

The situations that bring you down, like stress and overwhelming events, are the ones that you can’t change. They’ll stay how they are: negative, bleak, and eventually, powerless. It took me about five months to learn that specifically, and after that I could enjoy what I had, like my freedom, my music, and the weather. Over the past three months, especially, I grew. I learned who was and wasn’t there for me (sometimes through the hard way), what I wanted in life and what I didn’t, and what I liked and disliked for so many things. But mainly, what to focus on and what to leave behind. I was sad to see some go and happy to welcome in others. I had to remember it’s not really about them, it’s about what’s best for me.

I found that it’s important to step away and escape with what makes you happy. The feeling of stress from the loads of homework easily washes away when both headphones are in and I turn the volume up a little higher. You can forget the pressure of junior year in high school when you hang out with those you love most and only yards away from the beach. You’re not always going to be near a beach, but over the summer that was the outlet I used to help keep myself relaxed. I know that my situation won’t always be the same and things definitely will get rough. But as long as I keep what’s best for me in mind, I know I’ll be fine.

Advanced Essay #1: Six Flags Unexpected Adventure

Introduction

My goals for this essay was to really step out of my comfort zone in writing and trying something different. Usually, for my essays, I write about a sad event that happened in my life, but this time I did something different. I am proud of the number of descriptions I had put into my essay and using words that I haven’t used before. One way I want to improve in my writing is trying to use new vocabulary and use it in a professional way in my essay.

Six Flags Unexpected Adventure

These days, who can you trust? Life is not always churros coated with cinnamon sugar, or a harness protecting you, or a person telling you that you’re “all good.” It’s different. You walk out in the open and wait for something to happen, like Kingdom Ka ready to blast you away, unexpectedly. Everything is so unexpected you don’t know what will happen next. Six Flags is a place to have fun, but to be careful about. This was not a Six Flag Great Adventure I pictured it will be.

“Omg, it’s so hot!” Walking in, waiting in line, just trying to get from point A to point B, the happy sun shines brightly. “Hi.” Gently I put my skinny, long thumb on the scanner. “Enjoy your day at Six Flags!” People pass by me on their way to Green Lantern, kids eagerly rushing to Bugs Bunny Boomtown. I pass a large, crystal clear fountain and a congenial gift shop. “Get close,” I overhear, as a family huddles for pictures together. The sound of the carts zooming through the wind hums in my ear. “Hi, do you guys want a family photo?” asked an employer. “No, we’re fine.” The cacophony of carnival game sounds; screams, shots, and dings, blend with the voices of people hoping they’d win. We walk on, loud music roaring through our ears competes with people trying to shout over the noise. Heading to the first ride, people accidentally bumping into us. Kids are crying. The smell of churros, pizza and turkey legs mixes together. “Omg! Look at this line, yo!” I shouted. All the rides are going to be long regardless, so we walked in. “Enjoy your ride on Green Lantern!” As the man smiled at us. No shade, skin to skin contact, the smell of sweat, which drowned the deodorant, and bugs roaming around us. In the distance, you can hear a girl’s voice, “All clear. Enjoy your ride on Green Lantern!” As time passed, it was our turn to ride. Everything was green, it looked like the wicked witch house from Wizard of Oz. As the cart slowly came back, the lady’s mouth which puffs up like a blowfish, then popped, she almost puked. They unbuckled their belts, while the harness slowly rises above their heads, as they exit the cart. The grey, dirty gate slowly opens, as 4 people from each gate get on the ride. I sat at the end of the cart, my friends’ sister sat next to me, Kobe, beside her was her brother, Dymond, and beside him was my sister, Yolanda. We all pull down the green harness and pulled it down to our pleasure, then attached the belt to the harness, there were only three clicks I heard, mines didn’t make a sound, but it didn’t come off when I pulled it. Eh! Who cares? The guy will check it for me. From the right side of my ear, a voice entered, “Everybody good?” Dymond said, shouting over the loud sounds. We all nod our heads. From both sides of the cart, two guys made sure we’re secured. The guys make it to our cart, in which he checked Kobe’s and pulled her belt which she was secured, then he pulled my belt and it was secured, or was it? The employees who slowly swung their hand side to side, thumbs up. “All clear. Enjoy your ride on Green Lantern!” As the girl said. Slowly as the cart moves, bumpy, adrenalin running, people screaming, “Omg!” Slowly as the cart makes its way to the top, lights, people, then suddenly… cart rushes down, people screaming on top of their lungs, hands grip to the metal bar, palms start to sweat. The tracks in which vibrates through the cart, to our feet, and to our mind. Reaching its highest point, slow, scared, screaming. Looking down, parking lots, lights, then… “Woahh!” The coaster twists and turns as if we were being twisted like a pretzel, the adrenaline freezes into a rage, the blood pressure that can’t decide what to do, the heart faster beats every second. Everything turns upside down, the blood that rushes to my brain, face drooping, hair dancing with the wind, then… blood rushes out of our brains and back to our feet. White lights which flash a couple of times, a picture. The black leather strap which held me into the machine suddenly passes out. The face of confusion, wondering why I hear metal clanking together. I look down, notice that the belt wasn’t secured and had detached from its partner. The ride was not done yet. Squeezing the metal bars, eyes shut as if there were spiders on my face, standing as still as a statue, heart beating so hard that I could hear it above the screams. This is it. Am I going to make it through the ride? Am I going to die? The cart suddenly stops, as if the cart instantly stops at a red light. Looking to my right, “My seat belt came off!” I said with fear. Suddenly, laughter, “You good?” Dymond said. What was so funny about that? I could’ve died. But luckily I didn’t. To hide the fact that I almost died, I covered it off with a laugh. The cart slowly making its way back into place. The harness then rises, I got off the seat, then make my way to the exit. My heart knows what my mind was thinking… thoughts and emotions started to fly into my head. Was it funny? Did they even care? Who knows? Hiding my emotions is something that I can do, in which they locked themselves up. “Alright, guys what ride you want to go next?”

“Life is like a rollercoaster, live it, be happy, enjoy life.” Well, this is not always the case, life is like a rollercoaster: unexpected, anxious, and trusting. Trust is what you need in order to get on rides. Getting on a rollercoaster and expecting to have a “Six Flags Great Adventure,” turned into something I had not expected. After that mortifying feeling, I had no thoughts or words. My mind was blank and all I could hear was the cacophony of carnival game sounds. With a quick gasp, I thought to myself, no I can’t do this, I can’t trust these lies. I thought I was safe. To this day I think to myself what could’ve happened to me, the thought of holding onto my life couldn’t surpass me.

Advanced Essay #1: Loss

NTRODUCTION: My essay is centered around loss, I wanted to bring attention to the fact that loss is not something that you get over easily. I thought that a good way to do this in my scene of memory is to talk about a time I lost someone and how that affected me and how it still does. I am proud of how I framed my scene of memory and how I then tied that in with my development of larger issues. Overall I am proud of the fact that my essay had a nice flow and good transitions between the different parts. On my next paper, I would like to improve how I developed my larger ideas because I feel like I could have expanded on it more to really improve my essay.

Advanced Esasy #1: Loss

I remember the day that they told me, how the whole family was together; my brother sitting at the table with my sister. My parents standing up in front of the coach…I had just walked into my house, keys still dangling from my pocket, the house was quiet when I walked in, and my music was loud. I pulled my headphones out of my ears, music still playing, as I dropped my backpack onto the floor. I peeked into the family room and saw that everyone was there. I walked in and everyone looked up. My brother got up and just gave me a hug, as I looked over to my mom and saw that she was wiping tears from her eyes. My father reached across my sister to hand my mom a tissue. My sister glanced over to me and then continued to stare into the kitchen as if she had somewhere better that she wanted to be. Everything seemed wrong, nobody was acting like normal. I did not understand, I looked around the room, nothing was out of place, everyone was there, nobody was hurt, what could be wrong…All eyes were on me, then each other, my mom spoke first. “Mama…” she choked. My dad put his hand on her shoulder, as she started to cry again. He turned to me and said, “Grammie died last night.”

I looked down at the floor, then up at my mom, I knew this was harder for her than it was for me, she lost both of her parents, I am blessed enough to still have both of mine. I was ready to walk out, I was ready to go in my room and break something, I was ready to release all the anger that I had built up, I was mad at the world, mad at God, because I did not understand why this had happened. I did not understand why God would let something like this happen and why I could not prevent it, and why I did not expect it. I walked over to my mom and gave her a hug, I let her cry onto me, I just wanted to be there for everyone else, I knew that they all wanted to be there for me but I wanted to show them I was strong. When I got into my room, I shut the door, dropped to my knees and cried, I cried and cried and cried and just let everything out, and now sitting here in the same spot that I was when I first found out, tears are falling again.

I tried my best not to lose myself, I tried my best to come to terms with the fact that I could not take back what had just happened. This was not something that I expected. Eventually… yes I knew this would happen because nobody lives forever but I did not think it would be then. I didn’t think my whole world would explode, I figured it would happen when my world had already exploded but nothing ever happens how we expect it to. The day after I found out, I went to school, I did not want to let this stop me from continuing my normal routine, I even went to my volleyball game. I remember being on the bus crying, trying not to hide it so my teammates would not know, I did not want to burden them with my loss. I looked out the window hoping that if I pretended that everything was fine then it would go back to normal, but of course that never actually happened. It is almost a year later and I still have not come to terms with the fact that my grandma is no longer with us.

I guess that says something about how I deal with loss, about how we deal with loss. It is not something that is easy to accept or get over, in fact, some people never recover. I do not know if I ever will but what I do know is that things will never go back to the way they were, and that is something that we all have to accept. We can never truly grieve if we do not accept the fact that we can not go back and change what has happened. You have to move on, never forget the person you lost or how that made you feel but at some point, you have to continue on.