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SPORK

The mystical blue fire dances beneath the large metal pot. It’s filled with old familiar smells that can only be bought at the local West African market. I watch as large red bubbles rise and pop. The house is still. The little ones are sound asleep. The men have long since joined them. So here we sit. Round the grey marble island in the middle of the kitchen. My aunt standing tall over the pot, with a pink robe and a wide smile. We sit, skin glowing from the candle light and I listen, to stories thousands of miles off shore. They speak in soothing Liberian accents describing childhoods spent under mango trees in colorful lapa suites.

When the meal is done we all get a bowl. Everyone fills it with rice and soup. My aunt pours us each a glass of juice. I eat the soup and feel the heat trickle down my throat and into my chest. I try to hold my composure while my tongue pulses and sweat builds up on my forehead. For nothing brings out my American more than pepper can. I glance around the table and watch everyone easily take bite after bite. They continue on with conversation.I slowly go for the drink, attempting to appear thirsty rather than ablaze. The fire extinguishing sip would not be enough. Neither would downing the whole glass. I filled up another quiety as the conversation stirred. On my way back to the table I noticed the fork in my bowl and saw everyone carrying the rice and soup on spoons. I had forgotten to use spoons! My mom glances over and smiles. Shaking her head.

I feel this country on my skin, American in West African households is not something to be proud of. In fact most of my friends with families from other countries adhere to the same response. They laugh at the forks, obsession with time, and capitalism. They teach their American born children that their first country is where the family is from. I grew up saying I was Liberian not American.  I took pride in the one lapa suite sitting in the back of my closet and in my beautiful mother’s accent and values. Yet I also grew up with a southern father.

In Rutledge Georgia off of exit 32 down a long winding gravel road sits Cha CHa’s house. I spent most of my summers and Christmases chasing my cousins around the large green field surrounding the house. We would go on adventures in the woods nearby and return caked in rich red clay and thick southern sweat. My grandmother would have the a plate of collards and fried chicken ready for us. Every once and awhile my grandfather would come in and give us a long lecture on common sense. I loved how his accent drew out each sound with purpose. He was country with a small straw hat and toothpick embedded in his gapped smile.  I payed attention to his stories and laughed at his satire. My cousins often tuned him out. “Zoey here knows..knows what I’m talkin about!” he would chuckle with those sagging hazel eyes.

“Right that came on the news yesterday!” I would excitedly respond.MY cousins would roll their eyes disapprovingly. When he and I finished discussing the current news and had ended our political spiral he’d leave the room. I would then be  confronted with lingering questions. “Why you talk so white?” One would ask. “Isn’t your mom white?” another would say. I would feel the weight of my tongue in those moments. I would hate it for betraying me. Just as I had traded time for tom and Atlanta for atlanta it was never enough. Here I had to prove my blackness and hide whatever constituted as white to not be other. Ironically often the conversations that brought out my “whiteness” concerned how to combat white systems. I rarely found the courage after those conversations to meet their rolled eyes with a proud response. I cringe at my fork at the table with southern spoons.

I am a spork. Not fork enough for southern ham hocks not spoon enough for LIberian peanut soup. MY tongue cannot hold pepper the way my grandfather’s does every morning. I can translate but not converse. My tongue trips over the words i once so confidently spoke because at the african table i am the american. The laughing stock. At the southern table i am the city girl, the philly girl, with the west african mom-“So that’s why she says ashe”-and white grandma- “no wonder she talks so proper”.

I'm told i'm inconsistent by some and they ask… “How do you do that.” Speak Philly to my friends and southern when I'm passionate and a hint of palm butter in my tone at home or amongst other africans...code switching to proper english once around my superiors. I grew up learning this quickly. Saw my mom do it in the blink of an eye without stuttering with the answer of a phone call conversing with those back home. Watched as PuertoRican poured from dad’s lips amongst family friends, said Sunday when in atlanta and spoke precociously around his whiter baby. Aaah maybe this is what it is to be me. Black. Well read...taught and practiced being well spoken. Liberian. In west philadelphia born and raised. And yes I’ve mastered the merengue too! Woops. Remind me again though...why that bothers you. I’ll admit at times it bother me too. I cringe and hear myself speak and wonder. If it's really me. sInce at the end of the day no matter which word I end with when I pray or with whichever company I share the meal with. I still stick out. Never fully mastered one I am the jack of all tongues.

Introduction

My goal in this essay is to understand what having experiences can do to shape a person and their passions. I am most proud of my analyzation to my scene, since I actually found this most difficult to create. An area for improvement is possibly more expansion and making more connections to themes.

The Essay

While looking through my bookshelf in my bedroom, I spotted a subtle shining object behind the generations of old, dusty books. It was a trophy, which read "UYRS (Urban Youth Racing School) 2010 Participation." And on top, there was a depiction of a racing driver driving a go-kart. The day when I first boarded the tired-looking yellow school bus with a broken head gasket was when I experienced first-hand what it would be like to think and drive like the racing drivers you see on the television. In the weeks leading up to this first day, we attended classes, where we learned about the most important aspects of racing, like finding the best driving line, ultimately leading to faster and more efficient driving.

Now, just four classes of sitting at a table, we would convert those lessons to reality. I went through the doorway to the briefing room, where we put on our neck braces and racing helmets. We were then given a run-down of the first lessons, where a "pace kart" would drive around the track so we could learn the track. We were led out to the cold warehouse-like building where the track was located, and though it was a relatively small space for the job, there were still tight chicanes, fast bends, and everything in between. Finally, we were sent out on our own. The first race came, and I started in the fifth position out of about seven or eight other drivers. The noisy lawn-mower engines echoed wildly on the walls of the warehouse when the green lights lit up. My kart's wheels struggled to get traction on the slippery, polished concrete floor, but I eventually adjusted to the driving characteristics. One by one, I overtook one driver, then the next. I held a steady second place as I started to pass the first place driver on the fast left. Then, all of the sudden, the back wheels lost all grip, the kart spun around, and I found myself facing the drivers coming up from behind. The back of my kart finally hit the tire wall with a thud. The yellow flag waved in the air, and one of the instructors rushed out to check on me. I sat in complete confusion. It all happened in a blink of an eye. It wasn't until after the race that I realized I was pushed by the driver behind me, fighting through to get to first place as well.

In my first actual experience in go-kart racing, I faced both the highs and the lows of motorsport. Sometimes you enjoy these first experiences, and other times you wonder how you even decided to take the risk. In my case, I enjoyed the go-karting experience. The thrill of high speed, wheel to wheel driving still resonates with me now. Even after having the crash, despite the fact that it disrupted my race, I knew that I could refine my driving in the future races. When you get to say, "I did this thing for the first time," you find something new about yourself. You may find that this experience falls right in line with your passions, or you may find a whole new passion altogether. Or, you may find that these first experiences do not fit your passions.

These unfitting puzzle pieces, however, can give you more chances to find the pieces that do fit. When you have these "unfitting" experiences or experiences that you may not have enjoyed or found interesting, you will keep searching for the experiences that fit. When solving a jigsaw puzzle, you keep looking through the pile of pieces, setting the ones aside that don't quite solve it, putting the ones in that connect seamlessly. Each experience is a new potential piece to solve your jigsaw puzzle. When you pick up a piece and it doesn't fit, you set it aside and look for the next piece. In the case of my go-kart racing experience, it was a piece that fit. This allowed me to find more pieces that connected to my passions for cars. A few of those pieces were ones that held my interest in engineering. This piece connected directly to my interest in cars, since in order to build a car, from the simplest of cars to the Formula One machines, you need engineering. When you take the opportunities to do something, you may find that in some way or another, that experience will open new doors to getting the chance to further your career.

Introduction

To be honest, I had no idea what I was doing when I started this. After so much thinking, I decided I would compare the bond between patience and impatience to fire and marshmallows. I think I worked pretty well. This essay is one of the most descriptive one I wrote, and I'm proud of that. However, I feel weird that I almost hit 1000 words. For the future, I'm going to try to be as descriptive as possible and not go overboard.

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From the Fiery Depths of Impatience

As a kid in elementary school, dismissal time was always something to look forward. I could never wait to go home, make a snack, and play on my phone or sleep before doing my homework. Well, maybe not the homework, but everything else was enough to keep me anxiously waiting for the clock to strike 4. However, there was always one thing I had to go through before I could enjoy my afternoon.

My friends and I would always stand outside the door to the school as we waited for our rides to come pick us up. Until then, we’d always talk about simple things, Pokemon, games, how mean our teachers were, whatever what was on our minds. One by one my friends waved their goodbyes as they got into their parents’ cars and drove off. I’d always have to wait a little longer to get picked up. My dad was always either upstairs talking with teachers or on his way here. He was usually upstairs. He collected my two brothers and I and we walked out to Cubit (One of the cars we had was a Nissan Cube).

The car ride ride home was always something I truly dreaded. It was the time where my dad took the opportunity to ask me about my day. He always wanted to know everything about everything! “How was your day?” “Did you say hi to John?” “Did you see Mr. Sheehan today?” “Do you do your homework?” “Did you turn it in?” “When?” “Did you eat your lunch?” “What was it?” “Did you like it?” It drove me crazy. My impatience kicked in immediately.

I wanted to get these questions over with as soon as possible; the car ride home was valuable sleeping time. Quickly, I answered yes or no to every question my dad bombarded me with. “Yes. No. No. Yes. Yes. Yes.” The fire of impatience was burning inside me. Rage was building and I tried my best to hide it, only hinting at it through my tone. I wanted desperately to get the questions over with. When my dad was finally done, I was too annoyed to hide it. “Stop asking me questions,” I said, and turned over in my seat. My impatience always go the best of me.  

I see patience as a fluffy little marshmallow. Sweet and innocent, not trying to hurt anyone. However, right below it is a huge fire. A big, roaring flame. This flame gets stronger whenever my impatience begins to grow. Soon, it gets stronger and begins to singe and burn the cute little marshmallow on top. And when that marshmallow finally melts, I lose it, as I did on the drive home.

That fire is impatience.

On one hand, my impatience has a negative effect on me, but on the other hand, it can be slightly helpful. Ever since I was a kid, I always felt the need to complete things quickly. As one of my favorite video game characters put it, you always “gotta go fast.” So an upside to being impatient as that it helps you do things quicker, which in a way benefits me. It really makes you think about the final product. It’s kinda like a “I gotta hurry up and finish this so the final part looks nice” situation. Though “fast” and “neat” don’t always go hand in hand.

“Marshmallows!” my little brother cried, smiling with glee. My dad grabbed the bag of marshmallows from the kitchen pantry. My brothers and I look on with glee and excitement as he walked back to the stone fireplace where we sat. He removed the metal grid from in front of the fireplace. “Light the wood.” He handed his match to me. I slowly moved my trembling hand into the gap where the old but only slightly charred wood lay. I remember it taking many attempts for me to successfully scratch the wood.

I pulled back as a roaring orange flame rose from the wood, almost burning my hand. Heat and the smell of smoke filled the area. I shrieked a little at the sight, but my father reassured me, congratulating me for lighting the fire. He then motioned my brother to open up the bag of marshmallows. Being the young hungry kids we were, we immediately grabbed a few and quickly ate them up. “Stop! I told you not to eat them!” Dad snatched the bag away. “Y’all some hungry kids. You can wait until we cook the marshmallows.”

We ran and got got the wooden skewers from the back; the fire was slowly dying. I quickly grabbed a skewer and shoved two marshmallows onto it, then put it over the fire. “Let it sit above the fire and turn it. Wait until it’s brown,” my dad guided me. I waited five seconds. Then ten. Then fifteen. Then thirty. Nothing happened. I was getting very impatient, the fire inside me only getting stronger. My marshmallows fell victim to it, both literally and figuratively.

So I was stuck with two burnt marshmallows, looking in sadness as my brothers happily enjoyed their semi-cooked treats. I need to try again, I thought, this isn’t fair. I crawled over to the marshmallow bag only to find that it was completely empty. Looks like my brothers and I ate more than we thought. I had no other choice. I moved the charred marshmallows closer to my mouth and slowly took a bite. Aside from burning my mouth, the melted marshmallows tasted weird to me. This taste was completely new to me.

So even impatience has its upsides, as I found out that day. Like fear freezes you, impatience burns you. I guess I’ll be stuck with it forever, not that I really regret it. This emotion can be good; it helps me to act fast and work faster. Sometimes the worst misfortunes in our lives can lead to our rise in the world.

Introduction

The greatest year of my life was when I was in third grade. That year, I traveled the world and I was homeschooled by my parents. That year, I had many truly legendary experiences that taught me a lot about the world and myself. In this essay, I am sharing two experiences from that year that have taught me a lot. One thing that I was exceptionally proud of with my paper was that I put a lot of detail into the descriptions of the scenes. I am also proud of how much thought and depth that I put into the analysis of what the experiences taught me about the impacts of travel on my life. In the future, I hope to go more into depth into the things I learn from much smaller moments in my life.

Advanced Essay

When I was in third grade, I spent the year traveling with my family. One seemingly unimportant event that has stuck with me occurred when I went with my family to a waterpark near Bangalore, India, called WonderLa. After going down several different waterslides, we decided to take a break from the excitement and head over to the wave pool. When we reached the pool, I noticed that there were actually two different pools. On the left was a wave pool for men that was huge, spanning over thirty feet from left to right. Inside the pool was a sea of men jumping around in shorts and t-shirts through waves several feet high. To the right of the men’s pool was a much smaller pool for women and children. That pool was maybe a third the size of the men’s pool, and the waves were only a foot high.The women were wading in brightly colored saris. My dad, sister, and I decided to swim in the men’s pool since it seemed like more fun. We waded, swam, and jumped around in the pool until a life guard appeared. He told my twelve year old sister that she had to go over to the women’s pool. She begrudgingly left the pool and stormed over to where my mom was sitting. Though I thought it was strange and unfair that she wasn’t allowed to swim in the big pool, I just continued wading around.

In hindsight, I realize that one of the most beneficial things about traveling is the opportunity to observe different cultural and societal norms. When you live in the United States, you tend to think that the American way of doing things is the correct way. However, when you travel, you get to see that many nations have very different customs. When I was young, I sometimes perceived the customs of the places I visited as unfair, inferior, and ridiculous, and in some cases, that was certainly true. However, the same thing can be said about a lot of social rules in America. In the years following that year of travel, I would sometimes view American culture and society through the lens of a foreigner. I realized that social rules are never completely logical. Though to my nine year old self, and to many other Americans, the gender segregated wave pools may seem unjust, unnecessary, and somewhat illogical, I later came to realize that the same thing can be said about many societal rules in America, particularly those regarding gender. In addition to allowing me to view American culture from a different perspective, travel has also increased my sense of connection with and interest in the larger world and the places I visited, even years later.  

One day, when I was nine years old, I hiked up an active volcano with my family in Guatemala. We got up incredibly early and drove for an hour or two until we arrived at the base. When we got out of the van, we were swarmed by a bunch of young boys trying to sell us walking sticks. We rejected their sales pitches one by one until we reached the path up the volcano. We then started our hike up.

The path up the volcano was incredibly steep. It was a dirt path with greenery on both sides. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought that I was just hiking in the forest. After hiking up for an hour or two we finally reached the highest point that we were allowed to go. As we exited the vegetated portion of the mountain, I was hit with a sudden wave of heat.

“The sun is so hot up here,” I complained.

“It’s not the sun, it’s the volcano,” my dad answered.

The area near the top was a barren wasteland of pumice. There were rocks of many different sizes piled up everywhere. I looked to my left and saw flowing lava.

“Oh my god, that is flowing lava!” I practically shouted. I found a gap between two rocks, and my sister and I roasted some marshmallows. After hanging out at the top for a while, we descended down the volcano.

A few months after I had left Guatemala, I heard my mom shouting. “Come upstairs, you have to see this!” I ran up the stairs and hopped on my mom’s bed. Vulcan Pacaya, the volcano, had just erupted. I stared at her laptop screen as red molten lava shot up from the crater of the volcano. Though the only person who had died was a foolish reporter who got too close, the damage was devastating. In that moment I realized that the new understandings and emotional connections with the places you visit last long after you leave. I thought about all of the boys that tried to sell us sticks, who lost their homes and everything they owned. To me, the volcano was an exotic attraction, but to them the volcano had been a force of destruction that they had been living next to for years. Had I not been to the volcano, I doubt I would have cared much about its eruption. In America, when we hear about devastating events that don’t affect us, we tend to say “That’s horrible” and then continue on with our lives. However when you actually visit places you start to pay attention to events that occur in those places. You pay more attention to the news about those places and actively seek out new information.  When you travel to places you get to learn about the culture and society of that place when you are there, but, it also increases your investment in the events of the other countries in the future.

Introduction :

This past summer really took a toll on my writing skills and one of the goals of this paper was to get back into the groove of writing. At the beginning of the year, Mr. Block asked us to write a journal entry on how we view ourselves as a writer, and I wrote that I felt like I was a really bland writer. To combat this, another one of my goals was to try my best to be creative throughout this essay. Some parts that I am proud of are my scenes and my larger idea. I put a lot of effort into my scenes and I think I did a really good job creating a larger idea. However, I do feel like need to work on keeping a consistent idea throughout my essay.

Growing Up?

My mom, brother and I were in the car, the sun beating down on our faces, only to be relieved by the clouds that drifted past. I took a quick glance to the left, then to my phone, then to the side of my mom’s head. We had just gotten in a huge argument and her face was as red as the chilis growing in our backyard.

“Hey Mom” I whispered

“I don’t want to hear it.” My mom had made her point clear.

In the midst of silence, our car started to slightly angle right. As our car rumbled down the street, everything seemed well. Well enough to not see what was coming. At the speed of a jolt of electricity, our car suddenly veered hard right towards the side of a truck.

I shouted “ WATCH OUT!”

In a split second, all I could do was brace for impact. I shut my eyes closed, hugging my bag so hard that my knuckles turned white. All I could hear was the horrible sound of metal crunching, the terrible screeching sound of the cars sliding against each other, and the crack of my window. Opening my eyes, I turned to the left, my mother struggling to get control of the wheel, then to my right and to my feet, the window like a balloon popping, a million pieces of glass covering my body like a blanket on a cold night.

Miraculously, my mom got ahold of the wheel and managed to get our car to the nearest curb. Escaping what would’ve been the tragedy of having our car stuck in the middle of the road, the emotions finally got to us. Like a choir joining in unison, we all broke down. The morning was already tense and the car crash did nothing to help.

In that moment, I figured my mom was just going to continue crying and hopefully everything would work itself out. Boy was that not the case. She was on the phone for what it seemed like hours, phone to ear, the hot summer sun dripping down all of our faces. Adulthood wasn’t waiting for her. My mom couldn’t just sit in the car and wait for life to figure itself out. She had to take control of the chaotic situation and take responsibility.

My mom has been a great role model in my understanding of responsibility. 16 is a weird age to be. You feel you’re old, but not that old. You’re two years into high school, and only have two years left. You feel like you can make smart decisions, but then you go off and do something really dumb.

I have messed up one too many times when dealing with responsibility. Every year my friends and I run our church summer day camp. Once campers, we became counselors, directors, financiers, and whatever else was needed to run a camp. On the second to last day, we were all feeling like cars with only a half of a gallon left in the tank.

I remember one moment distinctively. Amidst the loud booming bass coming from the speakers that rattled the floors, there was one little kid who was crying in the corner of the room. Body swallowed by the superman cape he was wearing, I hesitantly peeked through the cracks of his cape and tried my best to assess the situation.

“Hey Jaden, what’s wrong”

“Me and Marlene were playing tag and she pushed me.”

“Jaden I’m sure it was an accident.” I was trying my best to calm this kid down.

“No it wasn’t! She laughed afterwards and went to play with some other kids.”

After 5 minutes of he said she said banter, I decided that the best way to handle the situation was to let the kids handle it themselves. It didn’t seem like a big deal and I had more important matters to attend to.

What I thought was a small matter, quickly escalated. Jaden’s parents got involved and my friends and I tried to resolve the situation, but nothing was working. It was only until my father got involved that he was able to apologize for our mistakes and convince the parents to let the kid still come to the camp.

Growing up, I always thought I was ready to be on my own. I could handle the big things in life. All I had to do was hit the check marks : go to college, get a job, start a family, go through a midlife crisis, and retire. It seems as if that’s not the way life works. It's not linear, not exponential, but it's chaotic. A chaos you can't really prepare for, but a chaos that requires a great deal of responsibility, in both good times and bad.

  Introduction:

My goal was to explore experiences of my friendships and how they've shaped me and caused me to grow. I feel that my scenes are very descriptive and strong and I am most proud of the picture they create. However, I struggled with finding a unique takeaway in my reflection. I did come to some conclusions, but I could improve on expanding those ideas to make them more prominent takeaways.

Facing the Storm

Laughter from people on the now abandoned lifeguard chair echoed across the mostly empty beach, one of the only sounds besides the lapping ocean. The full moon streamed down and lit the cold sand as we walked, and we were occasionally spooked by a passing floodlight from a house, resembling the pattern of a lighthouse. Drowsily, we sat in the sand, leaning, laughing, flicking sand onto one another. They both knew about my fear of the dark, Avery mocking, him giving me empty haunting looks as they proposed horrific tales. Still we joked as I pressed closer to him, pushing the fears away.

Soon it was almost one in the morning and previous fireworks had faded away, deepening the darkness. Avery, knowing of my new fear of some werewolf type creature, laid in the sand, feigning injury and then transformation. He and I began to run for the dunes, towards home. Falling behind in the half solid ground without shoes I called to him, "Hey, wait for me, and then we can face her together."

I started at him, sprinting with my hand outstretched. His eyes glowed with the thrill of the chase, with real fear hidden in his smile. He paused, then continued to run as she began to charge up the hill. The sand, once packed cooly under my feet, sprayed up from where he ran, causing sharp granules to shoot against my skin. I quickened my pace as he waited breathlessly at the top, slipping my sandals on and my hand into his, laughing fearfully. Avery reached us, panting and snarling with the game. We all laughed and continued down the dune, with me between them, holding hands safely as if we were children crossing a street, instead of teenagers crossing paths with our fears in the night.

We faced nothing but some darkness, some "werewolves", and other shallow mental fears. But as I tightened my grip on their hands, pretending to be afraid of their new jokes, I thought to myself:
Will those we hold closest leave us in our times of need or face the storm with us?
They didn't let go.

In that moment I began reflecting on my life, on the ups and downs and inbetweens. I realize the people who have been there for me have remained the closest to me. As I’ve grown up, those people have shifted from my parents to my close friends. It has occurred to me that part of growing up is creating your own healthy relationships and finding strong support systems for yourself. To me, becoming stronger and smarter with handling my emotions has been learning who is there to help me, instead of isolating and trying to face the storm alone.

I can remember my friends’ shrill singing clear as day.

“On three, one, two, three!”

“Chiquitita, tell me what’s wrong!”, Rose started.

‘I have never seen such sorrow

In your eyes”, Louise responded.

They belted line after line, rehearsed, but sometimes muddled with encouraging laughter. My friends already knew what was wrong, but they sang for the effect. I could see excitement mixed with concern in their faces. They had been preparing this song all summer just to cheer me up in my times of sorrow. Slowly, I felt the strength of their support lifting me and my mood. They were there at my defense, their song creating a shield around me.

“How I hate to see you like this… Wait what’s next?”

More laughter proceeded as they stumbled over their lines, realizing they were all jumbled up. Their perfect performance lasted a good three verses and began to deteriorate, but so did my sadness. The grey of the sky and the cold and the messy rain that drizzled outside faded from my mind. I felt a finalized smile on my face, it had been slowly tilting up throughout the song. I relished in the moment of calm we had uncovered, and stayed in the warm, safe tangle of limbs and blankets. Though my sorrows were to be far from over, I knew that with the help of my friends I could be “dancin' once again, and the pain will end”.

A healthy relationship requires balance, which means I owe it to my friends to help them whenever they need it as well. A friend once came to me saying he felt like a part of him was missing. I rushed to his side immediately and stuck by him even as I learned his troubles were sparked by a bad haircut. I listened and understood that his hair was an extension of his expression, and he just needed love and support to accept the change. As he was there for me in the past, I had no problem being there for him. The love and care my friends have shown me taught me to love and care for others to their extreme extent and to go that extra mile to uplift them in times of need. Before them, my friendships were meager structures that couldn't withstand a fight or a crisis. Now all of my serious relationships are based on mutual support so we can help each other through problems.

I remember how the wooden floor creaks as I put my foot down, the smell of hot Chinese takeout  welcomed into my stuffed-up nostrils. The light from the last bit of the sun going down streams in, beaming off the white, black, and gray countertop, bouncing right back out the other window, but leaving an orange glow to the room. One person crowds the food while the others sit in front of the blaring TV, football storming the whole house as three people cheer and hiss at the winning and losing of their favorite sports team. Rice, splattered sauce, covers the counter, illustrating the frantic attempt to get food during the 30 second commercial breaks. Collecting a plate and utensils, I start my hunt for some food. I first find the spring rolls.  There are three spring rolls in the container, but there are four of us eating. My first thought is to ask if someone has already taken one.  Obviously, I want a full roll for myself, but I didn’t want to cheat anyone out of their portion.  I stroll into the living room, where they are all perched with their food, and stand there waiting until the commercial to ask my spring roll question. A second of silence goes by, then Dad starts screaming at me!  It is hard to understand his pointless, angry, rambling.

I tried to brush off the incident with my father, but it was harder than I anticipated. I’m sure my father has flown off the handle before, but for some reason, this time really had an impact on me.  I think that’s because it actually changed my perception of him.  Prior to that incident, I thought my father was perfect.  I mean, obviously nobody is “perfect”, but I thought he was the laid-back, patient father I had always known.  After a few days, I got over it, but it's not the moment itself that mattered, it was the change in my perspective, the moment of realization. Now that moment is cemented in my memory. When you're a little kid, everything is perfect all of the time; you don't question the boundaries of your parents’ world . The problem is that is not what the real world looks like, and the older you get, the more you understand that the world is not that perfect. That realization of imperfection starts with our parents.  Those moments that push the boundary are the moments that change you, they are the moments that shape your view of the world.

This change in perspective is constantly shifting when you're younger, as it develops. It’s similar to how your physical view changes as you get older.  When you're a baby, you're small and you see everything at your eye level. When you learn how to walk you’re obviously higher off the ground, therefore you have a different view. This continues when you're a teenager. You're taller than you were when you were a toddler, again forcing you to see things differently.  It’s the same idea, but instead of visual changes, perceptual changes occur as you get older.  The cycle is always the same: the older you get, the more your perspective changes; the more your perspective changes, the more you see things differently. I guess this is the cycle of growing into adulthood.  

The change in your perspective isn’t always a huge deal, sometimes it is just about one person who you barely know. An example of this happened to me about half way through tenth grade.  I remember sitting in math class, tapping my foot to the teacher’s endless rambling about a project, the due dates, and a bunch of other stuff that I don’t care about. My ears pique as I hear a long list of people with their partners being listed. Finally, after what feels like a millennia, the teacher gets to me.  I hear my name, Chloe Hart, followed by my partner’s name. Immediately I feel a rush of excitement, not for the project itself, but to hear and talk to my partner.  He is super popular and very smart.  I’m on the shy side, so I don’t get the opportunity to talk to people in the “in-crowd” very often.  This is going to be a fantastic opportunity for me.  Maybe this person will take a liking to me and I will be welcomed into his group of friends.  At the very least, we’ll create a great project together since this person is a straight-A student. Well, It doesn’t take long for me to lose the excitement. It feels almost like a thunder cloud lurks over him as he talks. He is not a nice person.  His words feel like a slap in the face; I couldn't have been more wrong about him. Everyday, he disappears from class, or leaves a little early, to grab a smoke outside. This small, daily action completely captures my new perception of him.

Overall, as a person’s behavior around you changes, so does your perception of the person.  These perceptual changes can be for the positive or for the negative. When someone does something that you don't agree with, or you find offensive, your opinion of the person immediately declines.  But, is the person fundamentally different than he was prior to this behavior, or did it just change your perception of him?  It’s a tricky question.  It’s like looking at someone through another person’s prescription glasses.  All of a sudden, the person looks like someone new, possibly unrecognizable, but you know that he is the same person. That’s important to keep in mind as your perception of people shifts.

Pew, pew, pew! The lasers blasted from my futuristic laser gun. I stood on the porch and in the distance, was my friend Chris. I aimed the transparent gun at him, ready to win. “I got you now!” The shots fired from the series of noises from my mouth. We loved to play pretend as soldiers from 2239, the thrill of battle filling our minds. This was an everyday thing for us, every day was a different story with different characters and a different plot.

“Agh! You killed me!” Chris shouted from the sidewalk. He proceeded to hunch over and dramatically die from being blasted with a laser.

“Oh shut up, it’s not like you’re actually dead. It isn’t like we could actually die now. Actually, I’m gonna live ‘til I am 500 years old!” I said with pride.

“Uh, no you’re not. You’ll die before then.” Chris replied.

“What do you mean?” My head was spinning. What was he talking about? I never met anyone who actually died. I thought people dying only happens in the movies or video games. I had never been so confused in my life. Was he joking?

“Yeah, everyone dies. My mom told me that.”

“Nick! Come here!” My mom called me in, looking nervous. “Nick, I have to tell you something.” Sweat formed on her forehead. “Uncle george has passed away.”

“What?”

Patter, patter, patter. It was raining. The sky was bleak and grey, the air was muggy, and I was sweating in my little suit. I traveled up the stairs, step-by-step, each time, the grip on my hand tightening. I walked in with my mother, not really knowing what to expect. The carpet was a beautiful maroon red and there was a small glass chandelier in the middle of the family room. Family members and familiar faces were all around. I stayed quiet the entire time while my mother spoke very softly with the rest of them. Then, we entered the viewing room, and the atmosphere transformed in a split second. There was a heaviness in the room. Most of the family were gathered in the seats in front of the wooden box, however, there was someone-no, something else that wasn’t accounted for in the room. My mom’s grip tightened even more, my hands turning purple. We inched closer and closer to the wooden box, the heaviness becoming thicker by each step. Half of the lid was open. I peered inside, and saw something I would never forget. My first dead body. It was my uncle. Everything in my childish mind began to fall apart. My mother had mentioned that my uncle had passed away and gone to a place called heaven. I didn’t understand it, what does it mean? I was in denial. I thought death was in video games, and even then, you came back to life. The eternal sleep that the vessel of my uncle faced in his new home. He was a phantom, so pale it made me sick. Now, he wasn’t here, just a ghost in my memories. I reached and held his hand, it was ice cold. I stared in shock, my mouth slightly gaped. I wasn’t looking at my uncle anymore, just a box within a box. Warm streams of tears ran down my cold face. I shivered in devastation, fear. This couldn’t possibly ever happen to me…

Ding! The elevator doors slid open, the muffled scratching of metal against metal emulating from the small opening on the floors. My sister, my dad, and I stepped out into the hallway. There was tension in the air and I felt as if a plastic bag was forcibly wrapped around my head. In the hallway, there were stretchers pushed against the walls, the imprint of its victim clearly visible. Nurses and doctors frantically treading from door-to-door to help any patient desperately in need of patches and painkillers. We walked towards the end of the hall, where to the left of us was the front desk. “Dr. James to the I.C.U, Dr. James to the I.C.U.” said the nurse over the loudspeaker. The hallways reeked of hand sanitizer and a mixture of various cleaning supplies. As we inched closer to our destination, the sound of small wheels frantically rolling could be heard in the distance. A horde of nurses raced down the hall with a patient that had wounds deeper than the uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. Pretty soon, we were a couple steps away. I had made the mistake of turning my head to the left. An Asian woman laid in her stationary hospital bed, her blank eyes facing the ceiling. A man sat alongside her, hunched over, sobbing. I stared directly into a room of lost hope and a lost soul. In a split second, I turned away. Out of morbid curiosity, I looked into the room next to it, and I saw a black man with bruises all over and an elderly standing next to him, praying. I did not make the same mistake again. We were right at the door, the entrance to my aunt’s deathbed. A male nurse came out and advised us to wear scrubs before we entered. We all scrambled to put on the tight, light cyan blue jumpsuits and the white caps. I walked in, scanned the room and saw familiar faces, my two uncles, my cousin, and my two great aunts all with their heads bowed in gloom. And then, I saw my aunt, her eyes wide open and blank just like the lady from before. Her mouth gaped, frozen in shock. Her body was still living, but I could already see rigor mortis taking effect on her soul. This was true death. Not the pale blue body, not the gray pupils surrounded by a green hue, not the breath that fails to leave her mouth. No, death was the lack of a soul. Her soul had long departed her body and it was evident. I felt nothing holding her hand, speaking to her. I felt absolutely nothing from her, not her lively energy nor her warmth. I learned that day, Death doesn’t reap bodies, it reaps souls.

Introduction: I personally enjoyed the making of this essay, I loved writing the descriptive scenes. I feel like i'm better with writing descriptive scenes and creative writing than any other type. I'm really proud of my scenes more than anything, but I think I could improve on my reflections. Overall i'm really happy and proud of this essay.

Dating your best friend must be something different, especially when you know them so well, you know their deepest darkest secrets and they know yours. You both know you like one another but you could never admit it until you drifted apart.  

There he was standing right infront of me, giving me that “love at first sight” look. Each of his arms were in each pocket of his beige joggers, He was wearing a black floral tank top and was looking down at me. He was at least 5’11, his blondish hair was tucked into his snapback.

“You look gorgeous” he says. I smile and begin walking along his side as he holds my hand.

We walked into a pool hall called Seventy Five and found a seat all the way at the back of the hall. I begin fiddling in my purse and take out my charger to charge my phone. He lays his arm around my shoulders and we begin talking about what we’ve been doing with our lives as the waiter comes by

“What would you like to have ?”  

We both ordered drinks and he gets up to pay for two rounds of pool.

“Je ne sais pas how to play pool,” I say, and began laughing

He smiles at me and says, “C’est pas grave, doesn’t matter I’ll teach you, you won’t lose.”

I was leaning against the pool table as he was fixing everything. I was wearing a green crop top with a high waisted mini skirt from H&M with buttons running down the middle. My hair was naturally curled, loose big curls that spiraled so perfectly and evenly.

I could see him from the side of my eye staring so hard at me, it was all so crazy at the same time how close we once were and how we’re finally admitting feelings to each other but it’s like we never left.

“Salsa ready?”

He aims the cue stick at the ball and positions my arms and hands as he’s standing behind me bending over at my height, I turn around and stare into his eyes as he stares into mine.

I never forgot that moment, I never forgot him, and I never forget how it all changed. It marks a spot when lose your best friend because they hurt you. This is someone you always trusted, this is someone you grew up with. It was shocking, Shock like the shock I felt when I was told I might have had cancer. Last year I broke my ribs, dehydrated, had an inflamed liver, and a mass all at the same time. I couldn’t walk, breathe, sleep, sit, turn, stand, laugh, and 12 hour pain killers didn’t work on me. But Thank god I didn’t have cancer and I am back and healthy.  I’ve explored many different kinds of shocks in my life that really changed me as person.

Four years ago I almost died… It made me a stronger and a braver person than I was before. We were at JFK International Airport and ready to go back to Morocco like every summer. I couldn’t wait to see my family and friends and spend time with them. I was about 12 years old at the time, holding a baby blue suitcase ready to have the summer of my life. Who knew what fright was awaiting us that day.

The weather was completely different when we got to New York it was really windy and it seemed as though a storm was heading our way. I was wearing a white Nike hat, high waisted shorts, and a plain, white, cropped shirt.  

“Ladies and gentleman I am sorry for the delay, but we are now taking off,” said the woman over the intercom, thank you for choosing Royal Air Maroc,” she continued. “Please enjoy the flight,” she finally said before ending the announcement.

After getting situated I began watching Frozen with my little sister,

They gave the orders to the pilot to take off after keeping us in a plane for 2 hours because of the turbulence  

“Let it go, let it go I can’t hold it back anymore,” Elsa started to sing.

My head bannged into the ceiling, the food in the back spilled, and all I could hear were people screaming and crying. The flight attendants started running towards their seats to put on their seat belts.

“S’il vous plaît, calmez vous. S’il vous plaît! Calme toi!” said the flight attendants.

I couldn’t think, everything was going by so fast and I couldn’t register what was going on but all I could do was wait and see how it ended. If I didn’t go through this all I feel like I wouldn’t be the person I am today.

Introduction:

This paper, to me, was intended to express my fear and love of time. I wanted to demonstrate the fragility of a moment, and how something so meaningless to one person can be the result of a lifetime for another. I think that I did a good job using description and painting a picture for my audience, but I think I could do better at tying my ideas together in the future. I wish I’d done a better job of getting my message out the way I see it in my head because I think it got a bit blurred. My future writing will reflect that, but overall, I am pretty happy with what I created.

Small cafes and restaurants line the sidewalk. It is getting dark and we are trying to pick the perfect place to eat. A street light blares down on us and illuminates the concrete. At my feet, I see a man and woman together, in love, trailed by a sea of green. Smiles like no other envelope their faces, the corners of their lips creeping to their ears as they look out of the carriage to the brand new scenery. Above them, words stretch across the tree coated sky. One yellow followed by white, alternating like the sun peaking through clouds, reading “honeymoon in manhattan.” The couple’s gaze travels up and lands on the “moon,” awaiting their adventure. I reach down to get a better look, and realize that what I thought was a newspaper was really a stack of record covers. Beautiful colors and fonts and patterns lay abandoned on the street with their musical partners sitting neatly beside them. I let out a shriek of joy and stop my family.

“Look!” I say. “There’s tons of them!”

They follow to where I’m squatting and leaf through the antique records on the curb. We grab as many as we can hold, and carry them with us to dinner.

Back in Philadelphia, I pin up each record cover with care. They line the wall below my window and each one brought a little magic to my bedroom. Antiques are special in that way. They are from a different time, were used by different people, and bring their stories with them wherever they go. Who knows where these records started, but they ended up on the streets of New York, and now they’ve come to bring their stories to Philadelphia.

Time blows my mind whenever I think about it. There are different time zones, which means while I’m waking up, other people are fast asleep, others are eating lunch, and other people are going to bed. When I travelled this summer, I experienced this first hand. If I got up early enough in the morning, my friends might still be awake, and later in the day they would just be rising. All of this was happening at the exact same moment, but it was technically different times. How could it be two times at once? How does time stop? Why does time stop for me? Who else was wondering about this with me? I often think about the people who are doing the exact same thing I am doing but around the world, or people who have stood in the same places that I stand. Regardless of what currently covers the land, someone was there, someone came before me, and someone will come after without ever knowing I existed. These records made me think about their stories that I’d never know, and the one I will leave behind. Everything happens at the same time and people cross paths without ever realizing, and I want people to know where I’ve been. Not for my own fame, but because I helped someone. I want for someone’s life to have changed for the better because I was in it, regardless of if the world remembers my name. When I found those records, I couldn’t help but feel the connections they’d had with past owners. First kisses to the soft tunes of a musical soundtrack, angry nights spent listening to loud rock. The life events of another left behind and leaving their mark. When my time is up, I want my accomplishments to leave their mark so that I too can be remembered.