Why I write

Writing is my passion
I love the frenzy of a flash of words 
igniting a page in a fire of feelings
blank paper with arms outstretched 
welcome me
to tickle its spine with lines of my poetry
I am enchanted by dancing pencils and pens 
that unleash thunderous words
that snap crackle and pop
on eyes once read

Its more than a hobby
its a passion that I hold close and dear to my heart
and I believe with this gift
I can change the world 
All I have to do is perfect my art

So I'll just take it one day at a time
slowly release my restrictions, inhibitions and doubts that cloud my mind
as I write to promote growth 
find my writer's voice and let it show

Douglas Wallace - Why I write

I write because I have to

Life issues haunt us all

So instead of picking up a bottle

I pick up a pen and

Let my story begin...

I write to free my brothas and sistas

My story isn't the only important one

So I will tell the story of June

Suffering from post-love depression

She was never taught this lesson

So she slits her wrist to pour out a confession...

Or for my brotha from another momma 

Who never had a poppa to tell him

How a real man is supposed to act.

It's hard for a mother to play father

And keep food on the table..

So little David sold a brick got locked up

And now by the government she is labled

So when I write I tell their true stories

Like they are fables..

I write to tell a story

It's funny how many people could actually relate

Your fate isn't just your alone..

You would be surprised how many lives

Your pen could save.

I write because this is what I love

No matter what I've gone through

My pen has always been here

My poetry book is my soul

I put my right hand on it 

When I tell the truth..

Writing tells the story of the life I live

I am constantly faces with quandaries that stretch

The boundaries on my tight-knit life.

You can validate my soul by reading my poems..

My book pass no judgement

My pen keeps all my secrets

My mind brings these things together in unison.

I create a 3 dimensional world 

On a 2 dimensional surface

This is why I write..

Lobbying Idea

​In America today you hardly see any after school sports programs for kids to be involved in and you see more and more children getting into bad acts because of the lack of these programs, you also see more and more children becoming obese because of these programs being taken out of schools. For my lobbying project I will explore ways to get these programs back into schools and how to lower the oncoming epidemic of childhood obesity in america; I will look closely at programs like play60 which encourages kids to get out and play for an hour a day by incorporating the idea with professional athletes, I will also look at what city officials in Philadelphia are doing to change this problem. In Philadelphia because of budget cuts a lot of these programs were cut back and some being taken away permanently because expenses were just to great to try and uphold over the course of a few years, I believe that if we also tackle the issue with how much money schools are actually given but how much schools can actually take out to use on sports year round and by combining these things and fixing them we can fix the problems of budget issues surrounding after school sport programs as well as sports programs being cut all together. 

I believe that by bringing these things back into schools across America we will not only see a great drop in childhood obesity but we will see a greater drop in illegal activities as well as an increase in students in school as well as students.

http://www.usatoday.com/sports/preps/2009-09-02-budget_sports_cuts_N.htm

http://www.nydailynews.com/ny_local/queens/2007/08/28/2007-08-28_funding_cuts_squeeze_afterschool_program.html




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Davis - Why Do I Write?

Over the years, writing has evolved into a major aspect of my life. As a young child, I would look at books and newspapers, astonished with the amount of words that one had written. Initially I couldn't understand the significance of writing so much. Why do the writers of textbooks care so much about the information it contains? How do authors of novels not get tired of writing so much after 100 pages?

These questions weren't answered until I began to explore writing in my own way. I often found myself digging deep into my imagination when i read stories. Looking at some of my favorite story lines like "X-Men" and "Star Wars" and thinking about how I could develop my own. I would then take those concepts to write alternate story lines for some of the stories I read, and even incorporate my own ideas. This process revealed the captivating aspects of writing and built my confidence in the subject.

In my teenage years, I found myself approaching writing from a different perspective. Instead of writing the fantasies in my imagination, I wrote more about the reality of my life. I discovered music as being an effective outlet in my life. Being able to turn my thoughts into lyrics and then mix them with other melodies. It's like being able to manipulate the thoughts that you can't control in your brain into a product that you know like the back of your hand.

Writing has changed me as a person, but more importantly, has allowed me to change it, morphing language into my own thoughts, and my thoughts into something tangible.

Why I Write

I

I write because when I have no other way to look, no other way to express my feelings, the paper of my hardback notebook is my escape from this world. Some have best friends, some have parents, some have Twitter and Facebook, but not me. It's just me, myself, and the notebook. I can speak my mind without being judged by others. I can release the things I hold close and dear to me, and never worry about its affect on those around me. When no one else understand me, the notebook is always there to be that understanding person. I can talk about my true feelings, talk about my stress, and relieve it without caution. My brain just leaks the thoughts on my mind onto the fine point of my #2 pencil and those thoughts end up on paper. And the process never ends. Whether its about how I feel about a person or about my experiences, writing will always give me positive feedback. It will never disagree, never reject those thoughts. And I like that. The brain can only hold so much till its breaking point. My brain is like a car, and writing is its oil change, giving me a fresh new start every time I close the pages.

Why I Write

The Writer

​I've always been fascinated by words,
The funny little characters dancing on the snow white backdrop,
Some so elegant and graceful,
While others are blockish and hurried.

They seem so simple, so easy to use and manipulate,
Creating something sprung from somewhere I've never seen or heard of,
And yet, there the product lies, orderly and clean to my eyes,
Ready to be shown to another.

I'm not sure where it's born from,
But the order I see has another effect on people,
Because where I see words in their proper order, simple and plain,
People say I've placed beauty and depth.

I look at what I've written and compare it to works I've read,
Things so beautiful and so very enchanting,
Words woven together to create new worlds,
Opening the doors to places never before dreamed of.

It is not that my own words are displeasing,
The order's right, and that does please me,
But they don't offer the same magic the others do
They don't open the same doors; they don't seem quite right.

Perhaps it is because I already know them,
I understand the magic they hold, I know the doors and the worlds beyond them,
So maybe it's not quite as enchanting for me
As it is for those who read it.

Who knows why it is so?
But what I write is not intended solely for me,
So if others like what I create, so be it,
I'll continue to write so long as there is a demand for it.

It may not always be easy to weave a new spell,
To forge something brand new and intriguing,
Only to fail to see the beauty others do,
But to see that smile spread across their face as their eyes trace the words upon the page,
Makes being a writer so much easier.

Why I Write

I  write because I want my ideas to spread beyond word of mouth.  It's easy to tell a person what you want them to hear but truly allowing yourself articulate a point worth real consideration requires ample thought. Writing gives the outlet to devolop my words and choose how I go about a point. Its means to portray the most elaborate idea into simple elegance or turn a hardened belief into a thoughtful persuasion. It acts as a filter that both refines but better explains myself while still carrying a my original thought with it. 

Why I Write

Why do I write? A simple question with many answers. I write for one reason. I write when there's a assignment which requires me to write a story/essay etc. Most of my writing happens in school so I basically write because I have to for a school assignment. Outside of school, I don't write that much or none at all. Writing has been one of my weakness thats why I never liked writing. I write to pass my assignments in school which requires me to write. If its not a school assignment, I won't be writing. 

Why I Write.

My writing is my voice on paper or a new Microsoft Word document. My voice is my identity. My voice represents my beliefs and my values. To not write is to not exist. To not write is one’s refusal to contribute to the turbulence of knowledge and opinions that our world is being swept away in. To not write is to be selfish. To not write is to limit humanity the choices that are available to it. Whoever writes helps break one link from the chains that we, as the human race, are confined to. It is for this worthy cause that I put my pen to paper and my skin to plastic. It is so that we can point our eyes to darkness and bring the light to our minds.

Revision

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

 

 

Lexus F. and Imani R.- Monoluges

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

 

Hey buddy, how have you been?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I know, this is a very dangerous job.

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

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

 

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

 

Amie what did my lawyers say?

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

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

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

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

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

That’s my girl! I love you.

 

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

Max are you ready this is big!

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

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

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

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Revised Blog Post

Ellen To

Copper Stream

October 15, 2011

Revised Essay:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Descriptive Essay

9-12-20                                                       

Descriptive Essay

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lobbying against Fracking

    ​I am lobbying against hydraulic fracturing, which is a big issue especially in Northern Pennsylvania.
Essentially Hydro-Fracturing (fracking) is a way to harvest some of the earth's natural gasses.
The way that they do it is by shooting water and chemicals at high veolcity into the earth's shale
to fracture the rocks and then they harvest what they can. 
    The problem is, it essentially ruins the
water supply of the people whom live in those areas.I want to lobby against fracking because this is
something that is very bad for the earth and the people on it. Fracking isn't an issue that people in
places like Philadelphia or any urban city environment have to really worry about, because we have a different type of water supply. 
    The main supporters of my lobbying case would probably be all of those people whom live in these areas where there is an abundance of Fracking happening. They are the ones whom are really suffering and they would love to stop their water from igniting. 
    The only people whomwould really be against my lobbying case would be the big oil companies and the people in governmentthat support the oil company and their abuse on the people of the rural areas this is happening.
Just recently those companies tried to bring fracking to Philadelphia, however they were shut down. If
fracking can be denied in Philadelphia, it should be denied in thos erural unknown places too.

Say what?!



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

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

 

Descriptive Essay

Danielle Little
10-17-11

Danielle Little
September 14, 2011
Descriptive Essay

    “ Why act like the world when you can be a part of the world?” this is all I heard growing up. I’d try copy the make-up that Tyra Banks had on while walking down the catwalk in the largest fashion show I’ve ever seen. Other times, it would take me at least 30 minutes to put my hair into a style that was on a commercial for caucasian women. Watching my aunt (who is only a few years older) put on make-up, high heels, straightening her hair silky straight, and even wearing hoop earrings, made me want to rush past life and slow down once I reach 18.
    I always wanted to know what it feels like to be a part of the world. To live a life that I only saw in movies and have everything without struggles. I yearned for all the new trends and styles and a world where I can fit into every crowd. I wanted the perfect life, where everything was served to me on a sliver platter.
    When I think about my middle school life, I realized that not only was it middle school, but it was the huge mile stone for me. I remember looking down the rows of desk admiring everyones shoes, picturing myself with 22 different pairs of shoes. Everyone else was different from me, a different skin color, hair and even background. However, I always thought I was the same as everyone else. This was soon contradicted when I started to use their hair products and my hair started falling out. I found out the hard way that I was different.
    I joined a modeling agency at the age of 5. Modeling taught me both good and bad lessons but the main lesson I learned was to always be myself. I realized that you have to listen to your heart and not other people. Modeling shows you what the world wants and how to not get caught up in the next trend. For an example, America’s Next Top Model is a reality show for everyday people to fulfill their dream of becoming a model. These models work side by side with Tyra Banks. However the stress of being a part of the world for a brief moment in your life changes you in a way where you would do anything just to be a part of the world.
  “When do you go back home?” I asked
“Danielle, I’m just taking a little bit of your perfume, calm down. I’m staying for another 2 weeks.” Iyona said as she sprayed the perfume.
My best friend from California came to visit me in Philadelphia. It was only her first morning here, and I was sick of her using my things. That’s just part of a best friend relationship, almost like sisters.
“Come on! Were going to be late! You’ve been in here before anyone got up. That like ehh 2hours.” I yelled.
“Looks are priceless, shawty.” As she said this she turned her head to wink.
This is how every teenage girl takes each morning. With Iyona, well she thinks she walking the cat walk every 22 seconds. I always feel bad when I have to break the news to  her. “Iyona....” I say.
“Yes danni boo” she say even sweeter
“Your not on America’s Next Top Model....” I stated
“Oh everywhere I go there’s a camera to record me on the cat walk!” She says breaking the silent.
What have I gotten myself into by telling her that. I was thinking to myself that I just made the biggest mistakes I could have made. Iyona has officially taken over the conversation.
“The cat walk is a place for me to express myself” she went on.
“The way I walk express my mood” she boosted.

    To be apart of the world is very easy to get caught into all the drama from the world around us. Just as easy as everyone wearing the same things in different colors. Performing certain tasks to be a part of certain group just to “fit in”.  Not being apart of the world to me means to be yourself. To not follow anyone and allow yourself to think for yourself. You should not have someone think for you and make your decisions.
Certain years in our lives there special stages we go though, such as making friends, finding best friends and realizing who will always be a friend.  However, being yourself and not following the world is the biggest milestone of all.

Revised Essay

Sitting lonely in my bright, empty kitchen, licking the peanut butter off my face from my snack, I open the laptop to surf the web. The clock ticks and it was 3:45pm. I heard the garage door open and the jingle of my mom’s work badge. She walked in the door from her day shift at work.

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

“Usual,” I responded.

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

“Sorry, here I got it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Middle school years are in your memory for a long time, especially the good times. All the friends you watched grow up become your family. From the day I started 1st grade, to the day I graduated Green Woods Charter School, it was an amazing adventure. My friends, teachers, and my parents helped me get through the good and difficult times of the unique school.

My Two goals

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Descriptive Essay

Keith Moody
9/16/11

                                                    Descriptive Essay

Do people just write to write, does that make that person a writer. How can you just wright something random like this paper. If people just wrote because they felt like it would everyone get published or would only certain people get published. I believe that to be a writer your story has to be a person not just a story. Which means that your story must have human characteristics. when you give a story those characteristics it allows it to connect to people. The writer must make his/her story have emotion, rules, looks. Anything that will connect with the reader bind with the reader. The reason why I say this is because a story without feelings is a story with no problem. Most stories have a problem even though you can’t see it it’s there because in every ones mind they think differently. What a person sees as a problem is what a person sees.

I wonder can I be a writer can I really?. I think not. The reason for that is because I don’t have emotion and good grammar in my writing and that's one of the key points in books that are published. To just publish a book must feel wonderful so everyone gets joy and every connects.

On the surface there is a bunch of leaves, tree leaves. There is a car above those leaves, red car. It's like a Lamborghini. In the background area there are two trees. That tress is very bushy so it covers most of the background area. The car is like an inch away from both sides of the picture. It's outdoors of course. The front of the car is flat. The leaves are small and mostly brown. The light beaming down on the car coming from the bright and powerful sunlight, striking once again to prove that no other light can be brighter. The oval shapes of these leave made the surrounding feel a lot different then it used to. Where did that car come from? It’s just there out in the wilderness all by itself taking up all the tropical breezes and rain, but still no damage done as if the car cant be touched. It’s rare not something you see everyday a stranded car not need for rescue, but what if the car need that rescue no one would care. When you see a car you knew that 3 ton metal on wheels. People always expect a person to be there. Not today there isn’t there is just a car.

One day I got a present it was very important to me. Red ropes and Black ropes they all were there. That ring they fight the one where all the dirty mess happened hand to hand combat, foot to foot combat. It’s weird how you can lose one of those ropes in just a blink of an eye. It was there i tell you it was there i remember it and up to this day I wonder where it went. I cant believe I lost that rope now all i have a hard mattress for those sweaty men to wrestle on. I looked for that rope forever I couldn’t find it, but i wonder where that rope would've gone. The picture of that ring was not complete without that rope it didn’t make sense to have that piece missing. With all the digging and searching I’ve done for that rope. Boxes and boxes i went through looking. When you can’t find that missing piece the set fells empty the present feels empty.

Did you ever get a present for Christmas? Then it broke that day, how did you feel. Let me tell you about my gift. Wrapped in red and green paper so fragile. First the tape then the wrapper off it went flying. into the air floating to the ground. A bright light shined out of the box. I dug my hands in there and took out that bright light. The light dimmed down and I saw it my present 4 wings custom paint it was there. I wondered what did I do to deserve that gift. I also didn’t want to argue with it. a box with an antenna was used to control as it hovered into the area. Of course I didn’t know how to use it so it hit the that hard floor above you. SMACK. My mouth dropped just like my gift in my eyes it fell so slow like a movie when they make a dramatic scene. SWOOSH and that was it. I tried to fix it, tape I thought to fix those four beautiful wings. Once i was finished I felt success. An eager smile went across my face.

Descriptive Essay Revise (Briana Hicks)

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Descriptive Essay Rewrite

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

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

“You want to make some YouTube videos?”

“About what?”

           “We should make up funny excuses for why we didn’t do our homework”
           “…That’s genius!”

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

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

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

Through the eyes of a woman


By Isabela Aznar

English

Mr. Block

9-20-11

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Lobbying- Education Reform

The United States of America. Hearing these words used to make other nations tremble, but now we are falling behind on education because the students don't feel compelled enough to learn. Comparing America to Asia and Europe our primary and secondary education standards have been increasingly decreasing. For example a school in Asia had a higher rate in test score then one in Europe. Several places in Asia require students go to school year round, in South Korea the students are in school from 8am to 5pm everyday and many stay much later for study. Europe ranging from around 4-8 hours per day.

I want to lobby for the better education reform so that the U.S will once again be the greatest nation for education. We all know that the universities in the U.S are the greatest, but I believe that fundamental education should be just as important. We know that we have Harvard, Yale, Princeton and many more incredible universities but we are laking in elementary, middle and high schools were the students will feel secure and willing to learn instead of  feeling forced to. 

There are of course high schools that graduate students that end up attending these Ivey League universities, but what about the rest, what happens to the students that don't get into big named school, and not to mention the students that drop out of high school all together. I believe there needs to be an education reform, we need to create more schools such as Science Leadership Academy were the students feel welcome, were the teachers are first our teachers, our friends , our councilors, our back up, our safe place. 

In January of 2010 violence erupted at South Philadelphia high school  where off-campus and lunchrooms attacks targeted about 50 asian students, injuring 30, primarily by African-American students. The Asian students, boycotted classes for more than a week after the attack, stating that they had endured relentless bullying by African-American students while school officials did nothing about their complaints. I want there to be a change in education and in schools because there are many kids that come from "The Hood" or bad neighborhoods, and I believe that schools should be a safe haven as much as a place of learning, kids need to have a place or person they trust and I believe that this is a part of a teachers job. 

Some of the main supporters for my lobbying idea are the Education Reform Center, and the Education Reform now Foundation. One of the biggest posing challenges for this however, is the budget crisis, schools have had to lay-off teacher because they cant afford to pay them, and some of the neighborhood high schools cant even afford supplies needed for every student let alone higher teachers. The United States needs to spend more money on education because it is one most important things that keeps the nation together. And it is necessary for the continues growth of a nation and the well being and comfortable life for its people. 


 

What we need to change:

Screen Shot 2011-10-16 at 10.42.12 PM      Screen Shot 2011-10-16 at 10.42.26 PM




What we need more of: 

Screen Shot 2011-10-16 at 10.41.11 PM    Screen Shot 2011-10-16 at 10.47.06 PM     Screen Shot 2011-10-16 at 10.47.18 PM  Screen Shot 2011-10-16 at 10.47.30 PM

 http://www.edreform.com/http://www.edreformnow.org/


http://www.usatoday.com/news/education/2010-01-22-asian-bullying-philadelphia_N.htm


http://www.cfr.org/education/education-reform-us-competitiveness/p25816

The Good Friends

Anna Roman, Shelby Harcher, Markia Johnson, and Elisa Hyder are coming together this year to form The Good Friends. The Good Friends is a TV show pointed at SLA events and world events for our Capstone Project. The show will air once a week at the most. At least 3 of us will be on screen talking with possibly a guest at all times. The topics will vary week by week depending on the season and anything interesting going on at the time. Our first episode will be out in the upcoming weeks and will be posted on SLA's homepage (SLATE).

Lobbying: Advocating For Homeless Youth In Philadelphia

 

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

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

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

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

Links:

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

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