My dad and I were sitting in his dark silver Tahoe. The radio was on but it was low, so the voice of whom ever singing was heard very faintly. We drove to North Philly to pick up his friend from work but he wasn’t coming out the door for another fifteen to twenty minutes. It was cold out so the heat was on and we started talking to so we wouldn’t think about the long wait. “Music is, well I believe it is the best thing ever invented, maybe not some much as invented but you get the drift.It’s amazing how many different genres there are.  I love music and they way it’s made you have the beats and the base of a song. It’s like I become one with the beat and base. Taking me to a place where I completely feel on top of the world. We talk about music so often because it is like our own language in a way. We express ourselves with symbolism, the symbolism being the music. People are always saying how there is a song for every emotion you feel no matte what it is. I’ll sometimes start the conversation off with a song I was thinking of then tell how it is affecting me at that moment. It’s a important topic because, “music is a way I bring my mentally back to reality.” My father and I talk about music a lot I remember it like it was yesterday when I told him that.           

            Then I stared to explain to him how talking to him and talking to my cousins about the same topic causes a big change in vocabulary and more use of slang. If I talk to them the way I talk to my parents they would either get bored with what I’m saying, not fully understand because they would no longer be paying attention, or laugh or ask why am I speaking like a white person. When the say white person they’re referring to Standard English. To them all people of the Caucasian race speak proper. If they see someone speaking proper and they’re not of the Caucasian race they would ask why is that person talking white or not talking the way their race is stereotyped to speak. Most of the time when I talk to them I find myself code switching to make it easier for them as well as myself. If I don’t use a small portion of slang I feel like I don’t fit in with them or they won’t get the significance of what I’m talking about. For me using slang make me feel very uncomfortable but I am indirectly forced to use it at times. Not saying that is it a horrible thing but most of the time I’d rather not use slang. Just in asking a simple question my cousin tends to use slang. We were in my room my cousin sat on my bed an I sat on the floor leaning my ear towards her voice because she was talking to me while I was typing on my computer  “Aja ain’t you gonna go wid us to da mall tomar or you ain’t ask ya mom?” My replay “Well I’m not go”-----(before I can finish my sentence I quickly remember the switch) “ Well I ain’t goin’ cuz I gota lota homework to do and it’s mad drawin’ so ya know I’ma be gettin’ it in.” When I said that I didn’t even feel like myself anymore. For some reason or another using slang shows my maturity level, others see this as not being true. When you go to school and learn the proper way to speak, slag then becomes something that tends to slip out from time to time but not used as much as people thing the average teenager would.

            In a passage Language, a place of struggle by bell hooks she states, “An unbroken connection exist between the broken English of the displaced, enslaved African and the diverse black vernacular speech black folks use today” (298). Some people that are African American tend to use slang but it is often called or considered to be Black English to some people. I believe there is no such thing, as Black English the outside world seems to think so. Just two nights ago I was talking to my dad at the dinner table everybody at the table was finished eating but I still needed somewhere to lead my English paper. So I asked him did he think there was a thing called Black English? He said he didn’t then he started to explain how African Americans aren’t the only people who use slang. The he said, “If you are speaking and it has to be translated because it has such a hard dialect that can not be understood by others then you are speaking slang. There are Caucasian, Spanish, African and all other people of different races who use slang. They have there own way of using it but everybody uses it.” After he said that I had to think for a minute as ask another question that I felt would get me even deeper into writing my essay. “Dad do you think that all black people should know slang? From the video I watched in class, some people in society strongly believe most or all black people use slang. Do you think if you don’t know slang then you don’t know who you are?” “Yes, to a certain extent. I think if you don’t know you own dialect and your own slang then you don’t know your background.” I then had a confused look on my face so then he began to start explaining himself “Not saying you have to use slang but some people are a product of their environment they grew up using slang and always being around it so that is all they know. You should know where you came from.”

            See some people mistake knowing where you came from to stereotyping to speak or have a dialect that they associate with the color of their sink. The first thing that society seems to hit is the vernacular of African Americans. It’s a topic that comes up time and time again because there truly isn’t a wrong or right way to speak nor is there Black English. As you can see when I talked to my dad jumped to the defense of African Americans.

            Have you ever wondered why, when ever dialect is talked about people jump to speaking slang, associate slang with African Americans then say African Americans speak Black English. They evolved that term from saying Ebonics. Ebonics is slang plain and simple. Society on the other hands believes that Ebonics is the dialect of all African American people. Even if you Google search the definition because you have to see it to believe it, it tells you Ebonics in the dictionary is defined as,the colloquial term for African American Vernacular English (AAVE) or a nonstandard form of American English characteristically spoken by African Americans in the United States. This definition matter because it’s so believed to be true that all African Americans speak Ebonics that now it can be researched on the internet for verification. Once something is on the enter net everybody is able to view it. So I figured it all out the reason why African American speak is constantly stalked about because it is the most obvious stereotype that is extremely noticeable. Weather you know a person or not the way they speak becomes very distinctive if you’re not too familiar with it. When you hear a dialect that sounds nothing like yours, you first start to ask yourself why they sound that way and do they know how they sound when they’re speaking. Or if they’re not speaking the stereotypical way of their race the big question then turns into, do they know they’re not talking like their ethnic group. When in fact it isn’t that not one bit. It’s just they way they were brought up or the only thing they know. In my house my dad does not allow a lot of slang because him and my mom both feel that using slag with adults is disrespectful, not the proper way of speaking and most important slag is not Standard English. By Standard English they mainly refer to the way we are taught to speak in school. 

            Sometimes in some way our identities are created for us. By us taking in what we learn from home and the people we are around everyday. They way we speak has different influences on our personality so in some ways, we language allow it to change who we are when we worry about what society thinks. We must forget that society makes an aspect of only Standard English being correct when in reality it is not.

Since the beginning of civilization people have used language to their advantage. When invading or taking over a new land, the invaders had the upper hand because the others could not understand their words.  The invaders saw them as inferior. Language is still used in this same way today, but instead of individualizing and using their own language to an advantage, people find it necessary to change their language to match the power of the invader.

 Those who have power in language are the people who speak the standard form of the language. These people speak in a way that is accepted and understood by all who listen. They remove all traces of accent or dialect. No trace of individuality can be heard. These people give up their identity and individuality to become successful. From their actions one can assume that, to be a powerful and successful member of society, they have to speak in the standard and universally acceptable form of language.  All other ways of speaking and their speakers are inferior. 

My young mind could not begin to comprehend why they thought I was being disrespectful. I simply said, “Can I go to the park with Lucia, please?” How could a simple question be considered as disrespect? I hadn’t asked for anything inappropriate or unusual. So I stood there unsure of what to say, awaiting their next response.

On the heated porch of a small country house in Mississippi sat the children of my now late grandfather Green. Their faces were sent on content and laughter. The daughters all three of them raged in shades of skin color, or chocolate as my grandfather called it. The three girls sat in their rocking chair, rocking at a steady pace so that a light breeze would move synchronized with their motion. On the left was Christine. She was the milk chocolate of the three. Her clothing clung tight to her body, using the sweat that was pouring from her as an adhesive. In the middle was Joyce. She was the white chocolate. She too was sweating, but she made it a frequent habit to dab herself dry. To the right of Joyce, was Deloris. She was the dark chocolate and the heat was doing quite a number on her. Her skin seemed to be melting away from the skeleton it was molded on. The two sons sat on both sides of the group of women looking like dry skeletons.

I stood behind the rickety green screen door watching them. They were fascinating. Never in my entire life had I heard such a “twang” or essence of country in a person’s voice. They took what seem to be hours to me to breath in between words and years to breath between sentences. “Did yall heah wat they says bout Normajean, round down in Winona?” Her voice echoed in my head. My brain being wired by my mother to fix all grammatical errors that are spoken, rephrased the question the way it should have been said. Did you all hear about Normajean in Winona? I was only ten and I was speaking correctly. Why couldn’t she? Or was it me that was speaking in correctly?

I was still standing with my face plastered to the screen door, when Lucia stepped to the children. “ I’ms goin to the river yonder bhinde Ole Duncan’s.” Her words burned themselves in my mind.  Mentally, sparks were flying trying to reconnect find the socket where grammar and articulation were correct. I burst out the door and asked my question. Maybe, if they heard me speak they could see the right way to speak. “Can I go with Lucia, please?” 

It was a simple question. The question only required a simple yes or no, but that is not what happened. Their words came slow, strong, and countrified. “How dares you gon speeak toos us lak dhat. Didn’t yo mama rise you bedder. We’s elder dhan you.” Her voice was over powered by one that was heavier and owned by a man,“I’s kno yo mama teached you sum spect’. Youse a youngin. Can’t be commin round heah an talking like yous bettah dhan us. Talk rhight an doos it nhow. We’s ain’t gon take no despect from no youngin!” His voice faded into the now thick air. 

I stood there frozen. My mouth was open to speak, but not a word could bring itself to existence. I didn’t know how to speak without disrespect. I didn’t know how to abandon the way I had been wired to speak to satisfy another. My mind remained in contemplation and my body stood frozen.

My speech was not disrespect; it was demeaning. The words and the way that they were said, threatened the children. My actions were not intentional, but they were taken as so. A simple question had been blown out of proportion. I could not understand why it was that they saw my speech as disrespectful, but I did know that I did not approve. At that very moment I decided that my way of speaking had power and that because I, and others that primarily surround me approve, it was the right way to speak and I would use it.

The faces of the children were of belittlement and disgust.  I looked into their eyes and regained my innocence. They still stared at me. All of us, dumbfounded. I murmured a soft apology, “Sorry”. All eyes immediately met mine. I stood there unsure of what to say, awaiting their next response.

Standard language leaves people with accents and dialects dumb. Words that once had a specific definition in one dialect are now adopted and added to the standard language and their definitions are changed. The definitions are adjusted to fit the standard. In his essay “If Black English Isn't a Language, then Tell Me What It.”  James Baldwin highlights words such as “Jazz” that once carried a sexual meaning and was primarily used by African Americans, but now means fancy or expensive. The language conformed. It’s meaning changed along with those who used the words. This is an example of how language almost forces conformity upon us. It is not done in a harsh violent matter, but by changing the meaning of a word and its speakers others have to adopt this new way to continue usage. Their ideas about their language have to change to meet the norm, to fit in.

Language has power only because humans have given power to it. We fuel language and in doing that we also promote language inequality and conformity. We strip ourselves of individuality and make a system of superiority. Because we have done this people live their lives trying to reach the status of the invaders. 

Rondel Calloway                                                                                12/14/10

Juniors’  step was where we hung out when we weren’t at my house. It was like our second bat cave.  “Yall drawin.”  Yall always tyrna flame somebody.” (Rondel)  “Chill we only do it if they deserve it.” (Phil) “So everybody who walk by deserve to get flamed.” (Rondel) “Yea depends on the way they look.”  (Savon) Savon is the second tallest of the crew, he is also the second lightest and the second tallest.  Savon is also known “Arab” because he had the most facial hair but he was the one of the youngest.  Savon was best at playing basketball.

 It was probably due to the fact that getting a rebound off of him was like trying to jump and touch the top of a skyscraper.  “You see this bull wit his cowboy stroll, he look like a donkey and a koala bear.” (Phil) Phil was the lightest out of all of us and the clown.  Phil’s about 5’9 and muscular, he always made all of us laugh.  Phil always found   something fun for us to do when we were bored.  Even if meant talking about people who walked down the block.

It wasn’t anything personal; it’s just what Phil came up with when we were bored. “Yo lo…” (Dean) “Chill be quiet it’s my mom.”  (Rondel) “Hello.”  (Rondel)  “Where are you?” (Mom) “I’m on Forrest Ave.”  (Rondel) “Okay I want you home before 12:00 am.”  (Mom) “Okay mom, love you.” (Rondel) “Love you too baby, be careful.”  (Mom) This is what usually happened, when our parents called our speech changed.

  My friends and I would be talking slang then one of our parents would call and there we were changing the way we spoke.  It’s actually pretty interesting, “I can’t wait to get a whip” turned into “I can’t wait to get a car.”  Seeing this change was like a magic trick.  You think that you know someone then his or her speech just changes when a new variable is introduced.  Sometimes you forget where you are and you forget to make that change in your speech.  “Is that you?” (Mom) “Yea” (Rondel) “Where were you this whole time?” (Mom)

“I was out chillin on Forrest Ave. wit the crew.” (Rondel) “What did you just say?” (Mom) “I meant to say I was on Forrest Avenue with my friends.” (Rondel) “You might talk like that out there but you don’t come in here talking like that.” “Especially to me, I’m, your mother and you show me the upmost respect.” (Mom) “Okay mom.” (Rondel) My mom was very strict about talking to her with respect.

To talk to my mom I had to code switch.  Conversations between my friends and I were different between adults and I.  To adults I said “Hi” or “Hey” instead “Sup” because it is the way that society says that we are suppose to talk to adults.  So in some ways society supports code switching, with adults you are suppose to speak “Standard English” instead of, in my case Ebonics.  Many people worry about being their self, but how can you be yourself if you have to code switch depending on who your talking to.  Basically what I’m saying is that Society makes you contradict your self.  By code switching you can’t be who you really are because by code switching you are hiding the way that you truly speak. 

Growing up, I thought being independent at a young age was bad because I felt as though my parents weren’t able to help me. Being home alone and trying to sometimes raise yourself can be difficult. I remember after finishing the homework everyone at school called “hard” during the first grade, I used to sit around in a variety of positions in my couch until I was pooped and eventually thought something else to do in my leisure time. Going to school was the only “pizzazz” thing in my life.
 As I was carrying my navy blue and red backpack through the filthy halls of my elementary school, I walked up the steps to the dull, boring classrooms that I spent my 6 ½ hours in. While going up the staircase, an evil looking boy named Talib say to me, in a very simple sentence. “You’re going to die”. That idea persisted in my head and replayed itself throughout the rest of the day. Death was beginning to be my new phobia. I can’t explain why I felt that way. Or why it scared me even if I knew that eventually we all had to encounter this mysterious event called death.
    I didn’t really know how to react to that the time. Keeping it to myself, and thinking about it over and over, time after time made me insane! “Hey are you okay?” people would ask, as I looked at them with a ditzy look in my hazel eyes which eventually turned into purple hypnotic swirls eyes of a crazy child.
    Mom and Dad were the ones who put me into psychotherapy.  All the counseling was a waste of time in my opinion. I was deeply disappointed in myself for not being able to be stable. But it made me feel better that I had someone to play board games with every Saturday. To me, whoever was on the other side of the Monopoly board, was considered a friend and that friend’s name was Rachael.  The reason I felt Rachael was a friend was because even though I knew she was pretending to care about my problems, she did it in a friendly manner. Little by little the outcome of Talib’s words was decomposing, but I never went back to school as my old social self.
There were times I talked to my parents about my problems, just like any other kid would. We understood each other completely, we also understood each other so well, that sometimes my mom would go to the crowded schoolyard and start those embarrassing talks with the teacher before class.
As I went on to higher grades in school, there were things that Talib could have said, that didn’t hurt me. It’s as my life experience helped me change to who I am today. I no longer needed mom talking to teachers because I was simply to “old” for that, even though other kids my age at that time went home crying because someone said they had a wig on.
    I knew I was a bit different, when I looked at the insanities my friends used to do, I felt responsible for any injuries. Some told me I was scared to do it because I was always the “good kid”. I was far from being a good kid, I did do little sinister things, and held malice towards people I didn’t like, but only to the people I thought that deserved it. The real reason I didn’t do those idiotic endeavors was because I knew people didn’t expect things like that from me. I kept learning in everyday life, and started to comprehend that the reason I was taught to be an independent kid, was to make up for the lack of presence of my hardworking parents. So maybe I could eventually tell the difference between righteous rightness and wicked wrongness, and avoid having to complain about why my parents cant let me do this, or that. Today, they see me as a successful experiment, they trust me with things like staying home alone for hours, and finally this year my mom trusts me 79% with the stove (because last year I opened a can of sprite with a pot of boiling water). I turned out okay, my parents only wish they could do the same with my younger and ignorant brother.

Marina Pyfrom 

Descriptive Essay

My dad passed away when I was about 3 years old. Since then my mom and I haven’t been the same. My dad and his family are originally from the Bahamas. He used to take me there when I was younger. We haven’t visited the Bahamas, or my dad’s family since his death. There are times where I wish my mom and I could visit again. I miss the feeling of running through the smooth gritty sand or watching the turquoise waves hit the shore, with water so crystal- clear that you can see the nail polish designs on your toes. When I visit places such as Atlantic City or Wildwood I am suddenly reminded of home. I miss getting up early to see the admirable, glowing sunrise that would slowly rise across the sky bringing a beautiful radiant light to both land and sea.

            Music, feeds my soul, it helps me in any situation. The soothing sound takes my mind off feeling homesick. To get closer to my Caribbean roots, I listen to reggae. Bob Marley is a well known legend for his life, music, and philosophy. Although he is a Jamaican singer, songwriter, and musician he was important throughout all the islands in the Caribbean area. The rhythm guitarist and the bass drum, make me feel like I'm there, in my home. I remember all the fun moments I had with my mom, when we used to wine to all reggae classics. Now, I rarely see her smile like how she used too. She grins and laughs but I want to see her give me real happy smile!

            “MOM HURRY COME HERE I GOT SOMETHING FOR YOU!!” I screamed to the top of my lungs as if someone was killing me. I stood there patiently waiting for my mom, as she sluggishly came towards me.   She snarled and said, “ What is it?  I’m in the middle of something.”   Quickly, I responded saying, “What are you in the middle of?” She rolled her eyes, similarly to the mean girls in high school and said, “I’m the mom don’t worry what I am doing!”   I just laughed because she says that to me all the time. I could tell she was doing her hair because she still had the skinny orange comb in her hair. With a big cheesy smile I said, “Hurry and open this, and then you can back do your hair.”   She grabbed the box and quickly began to tear it open.  Once the box was completely opened, she smiled and began to sing “And we jamming “ and bops her head.

            I walked over to the television to replace the picture of a woman and her baby that was behind it, and put Bob Marley’s picture up instead. The woman was African. I can tell by her dark skin complexion, and her garb, which is off-white shaded with a little beige. Her garb does not look like the present time African women attire. She quickly said, “No don’t take that picture down.” I began to feel sad because it was almost like she was rejecting my gift. “Why not”, I asked.   She rudely cut me off and said, “Because you can’t, we will find Bob Marley another place.” I rolled my neck in a circle said, “What, my picture isn’t good enough for you!” She said, “ That painting meant a lot to my mom, your grandmother before she passed, so we never moved it.”  I stared at the painting and it brought up memories of grand mom and me. I notice how the artist puts a lot of detail on her face, especially the eyes. She has thin eyebrows, big round eyes, brown pupils, and long eye lashes.The piece of artwork makes me think of the hardships of single moms out there. Then my mom said “ Its cool Bob coming with me in my room, and then she began singing again, “ I shot the sheriff, But I didn't shoot no deputy, ooh, ooh, oo-ooh” I just sat on the couch and laughed thinking, does Bob Marley really want to see mom when she goes too sleep and wakes up?!

            Even though I lost someone close to me, I still find a way to keep a positive attitude. I keep myself engaged in activities that remind of my Bahaman roots. And I try to keep my loved ones close and make them happy. I know one day I will be at my home, The Bahamas.  

Ready, split, swing, recover. Thats all that was going through my mind as I hit the ball as best I could and won each point. This was the day I surpassed my limits by about 200%. It was Canadian Doubles so it was like playing a brick wall on the other side of the court. Drop shot, overhead, volley, half-volley, swinging volley, every shot in my arsenal I used and still just barely won the point. 

I walked over to get two tennis balls and told myself, “Devoid of emotion, don’t let it stick”. Being devoid of my emotions allows me to concentrate better than anything else. Got ready to serve, decided this time to use the abbreviated stance for serving in hopes of surprising them. The abbreviated serving stance was a serving stance I only used if I needed to gain a lot of points in a short period of time since its the only stance that I can hit a kick serve with. Using it too much puts too much strain on my arm so its a sort of last resort shot. I bounce the ball 4 times, have the ball and racquet touch in front of me slowly separating and getting ready to throw the ball up. I release the ball and swing....it goes in the box and out to the left dragging him off the court and opening up the court if he is able to get it back.

He got it back but it is short so I approach the net and decided to use the two-one punch strategy so my approach shot goes straight back to him. The two-one strategy is a strategy in tennis normally used in singles but my doubles partner, Hefei, and I are able to use it in singles and doubles. What it is, is you hit the ball to one side, then if he returns it you hit it again to the same side and if he gets it back again you hit it straight down the middle in doubles or in singles to the other corner. So I hit it back to Andrew who I was able to pull off the court with my serve and perform the two-one punch perfectly, hitting his return back right down the middle too fast for his partner, Andrew G. at the net. 

It was 3-6 for the first set, 2-0 right now in the second set and I realized that the only way I could win is if I used all the strategies and shots in my arsenal. Since it was their serve now I decided to use the creeping split so I could use the return & volley tactic. The serve was a moderately fast ball and I approached after returning and put that ball away immediately. Next I decided to use a system Hefei and me created for doubles but adapted it quickly to singles and told myself 5 groundstrokes than approach as in a diagonal line. I did it and got the point.

Over the course of the set, I was gaining points at an incredible rate. It was now the third set and the score was tied 3-6, 6-0 now so we had three more sets to play out since it’s best 3 out of 5 sets. I was getting emotional again so I had to tell myself again: “Devoid of emotion, there is no velcro on me”. The only way I would get the next two sets straight was if I pulled myself together and focused less on the amount of power on the ball to get in and instead did what one of my coaches told me: “If you get nervous or can’t concentrate, focus only on your feet”. After I did that, games flew by quicker than a bird. After two more gruesome sets it was the middle of the last set and the score was 3-6, 6-0, 6-2, 5-7 with the score 6-6 in the last set. We had to keep playing until one side won by two games. It was my service game and I served kick serves, slice serves, flat serves, topspin serves, everything I had left in order to win the game and finally did. This was it I told myself: “This is it, don’t screw up or it’s 3 extra hours of Cha-Cha training.” I used all the splits and shots I had left in me until it was match point. I felt like I was going to collapse from the combination of the heat and the tiredness from the last 4 hours of playing. Andrew served, I came up to the net and started volleying back and forth with the net person when he hit a lob up over my head. The only shot I had left in me was a Reverse Contact Move. I got into position and hit it...It bounced in and....HE MISSED IT!!! I told myself: “Thank you, Lord” then ran up and shook their hands. 

The ending score was 3-6, 6-0, 6-2, 5-7, 8-6 and it was one hell of an intense match. I couldn’t believe I WON when I was literally out of energy. Cha-Cha came up and told me, “Why can’t you always play like that, man?” I said, “I don’t know Cha, but I do know I can’t be a champion, without you.” and began to laugh. That was the longest match I had ever played in my life; 4 hours and 15 minutes. The lesson learned that day was the only way to win is if I push myself past my limits like I do in Cha-Cha training

Key:

Ready Steps- a foot movement where you move your feet like a pendulum while your waiting for the ball to come.

Split Step- A foot movement where you jump into your foundation once your opponent makes contact with the ball so that you can get the ball quicker.

Recover- After hitting the ball you move back to the middle of the baseline

Topspin Serve-a serve that when landing into the box curves into the body

Kick Serve-a serve that when lands into the box curves out of the court and is used to drag you opponent off the court.

Flat Serve-a serve that is hit with pure power no spin and is normally used as a first serve.

Slice Serve-a serve that lands in the box short and curves into the court.

Drop Shot-a ball hit with so much topspin that once it goes over the net it literally drops in extremely short and is one of the hardest shots in tennis to get.

Half-Volley-a volley that is hit as the ball is just coming off the ground.

Lob-a ball hit high in order to force the person at the net to back away from the net in order to get it or in order to create time to recover.

Cha-Cha Training- My coach’s nickname is Cha-Cha and his training is more intense than any other coach I know’s training so I refer to his training as Cha-Cha Training or Military Training.

September 16^th, 2010. I hear someone enter my room at 6:00 am, when I usually get up. I thought it was my dad so I really didn’t care. But then the character started to come up to me. I’m facing my wall so I can’t see them, yet I don’t want to turn around. I hear them pick up my phone, which is lying on the white drawer next to me bed. Am I being robbed? After I hear them typing and playing with the buttons on my phone, they walk to my dresser and I hear the change on the top moving. So I think to myself, “Dude…who’s taking my money?!” But still, I do not turn around. For some reason, I was afraid of what I may see. As the footsteps dawn closer to my bed, I feel the sudden lifting of the covers on my bed. Instantly, I turn around to see who’s in my room so early, and it was none other than the marvelous and wonderful Cecelia Baez, come to greet me every so graciously on my 16^th birthday.

I always told Cecelia it was one of my favorite dreams to have her wake me in the morning. But as to most dreams require, it was a little hard to do. There’s about a 20 minute distance between our Northeastern Philadelphia houses, 7 by bike (I ride fast), and 5 by car. She gets up at 4 am to prepare herself for the day, which means that she’d have to get up at 3:30-ish to be able to walk to my house. She doesn’t own a bike. And her parents are way too stubborn to give her a ride. Though on some days I occasionally wake up earlier so I can meet her at her house before school. But today was the exception. It may have been a little scary because I thought I was being robbed, but in the end, I’m super glad she did this for me. My dad even went out of the way to pick her up at her house and ride her to mine, crazy right? But in the end, that’s one more dream I was able to experience in my time.

“Dude, what’s Lulu holding?!” Said a curious Olivea at the lunch table with Jenn and I attending.

“Ugh…It’s my birthday present…” I grumbled, knowing it was just one more wackjob ideas of Cecelia. Long Nu, was holding a blue box, approximately the size of her. Wrapped, in blue Christmas wrapping paper. With her, was Bee Noi, filming Long Nu with the camcorder on my black iPod Nano. It seemed they were looking for me…but didn’t see me. I laughed and just waited.

“Dude shut up no it’s not!” Olivea said doubting my statement.

“Alright Liv suit yourself…”

“Gabriel!” Long Nu exclaimed as she finally found me. “Here! It’s a present from Cece! Open it!”

“Oh…you weren’t joking…” Olivea said, obviously feeling a little salty at that point. But regardless, I wanted to open the present. Before I lacerate the wrapping covering my prize inside, I read the notes on the front. Both reading, “I’m sorry it’s Christmas paper…it was all I had <3” and “In hur, had rush” which Jenn later explained to me said, “In a hurry, I had to rush.” So as Bee’s recording, I dig my way into the Christmas paper. And behind the wrapping, was a box, a cardboard box.

“Oh a box! It’s what I always wanted!” I said, obviously jokingly sarcastic. Removing the tape sealing the box, inside the box, was another box. And inside that box, was yet again another box. By the time I opened the 3^rd box, the whole lunchroom had formed a large circle around my lunch table. Box after box, wrapping after wrapping, tape after tape. The opening seemed like an eternity. Until finally…the last box. I unwrapped it and felt…disappointed. “Suede Shoes” was written on the front, and thought it was seriously a pair of shoes. But I was mistaken. Because inside the shoe box, was the final birthday gift… Turtle Tuck from Wonder Pets. I turned bright red, and the large group around me, even bigger from a few minutes prior, was now in stitches about the embarrassing turn of events. To think, I spent 5 minutes unwrapping 10 boxes, all smaller than the last, just for a little Beanie Baby turtle. It may have been embarrassing beyond all recognition, but one thing remains. I’ve slept with that turtle every day since, and I’m glad I had to go through a million and a half boxes to have it!

What is this? Creativity? Stupidity? Love? What is it that one single person can strive so hard to make me so undoubtedly happy? The things she can think of simply baffle my mind. I would have never expected the idea of the whole “box in box” theme. But rest assured, Cecelia did. But why is one person going so far out just to ensure that I’m happy? It’s the feelings she has for me… and that she’d do anything she could, just to make me smile even a little bit. And that’s why she’s made me the happiest person this past year. Random, crazy events are exactly what Cecelia Baez is known for. From enormous cards with my picture tapped to the front. To a box the size of Long Nu with something as unique as a Beanie Baby turtle inside? Something only Cecelia Baez would imagine in that little goofy head of hers. But in the end, that’s exactly why Cecelia Baez, is my favorite person in the whole wide world.

Friday the 13^th that date changed my day for the worse. I was on m way to work, ready to get my check and go do some shopping before going to North Carolina for the rest of the summer. I would always take the same bus route to get to work, the 47 bus and then the 56 bus. Every time the bus would get ready to go onto Broad I could swear I felt the bus go on two wheels because it was turning too fast. Well on the 13^th I knew I had a reason to be scared of that bus ride.

            As the bus was taking the turn onto 10^th street going past the trolley tracks it just sped down the hill and then everything went into slow motion. It felt like a movie the way everything went slow motion. As a car came in front of the bus the bus hit it at full speed. Everyone on the bus flew forward. A little baby in a stroller fell to the side and someone fell on top of him. Two little girls fell and hit the front of the bus. I flew and fell on top of three people. We got up quickly and tried to help all the kids get up. The mother was screaming at the top of her lungs. “ Get off my baby! Help my baby get up!” everything happened in slow motion but so fast at the same time. When the paramedics arrived he asked who wanted to go to the hospital. I didn’t know what to do so I started walking. I just walked the rest of the way to work. Those five blocks felt endless; it felt like the longest walk of my life

            As I walked the car accident kept replaying in my head. It was the only thing I could think about and how much worst it could have been. The way everyone flew forward replayed continuously in my mind.  Another thing that I couldn’t get out off my mind was the way the trolley tracks looked before the car had hit us. It felt like a big rollercoaster ride gone wrong.

            The accident made an impact on every kind of transportation I take. The next day I was on my way to North Carolina and I had to take a plane. I never been scared or nervous of flying before but this time I was a lot more worried.  From the minute I stepped onto the plane I felt as though something bad was going to happen. Nothing felt safe to me any more. My legs were shaking and I was breathing hard.  I was trying to stay calm and even try to sing to myself but that didn’t work. There was about thirty minutes left in the flight and something went wrong.  Out of nowhere the plane had a sudden drop. It dropped so fast I felt my heart go straight to my butt. And then it felt like it was lifted straight up.  It scared me senseless and made me scared to get on the next plane. Even though those past two days were a scary experience it made up for it when I was able to see my dad and have a good time.

Having those two experiences made me a little more jumpy when I’m on public transportation. When a bus turns or is speeding down a street I get a little nervous. I know that I shouldn’t worry as much but now it’s just in me to be a little worried. Also when a bus is crowded or when it isn’t evened out on both sides I get a little jumpy. It’s hard to get on a bus and trust that I’ll be okay. What also makes it hard is when the bus driver is driving fast and makes a sharp turn because that’s how the accident started. It may be a weird thing but those two experiences made want to be more cautious when I’m traveling alone.