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Advanced essay #1: My unraveling web

Posted by Sanaa Scott-Wheeler in English 3 · Block/Harmon · B Band on

Introduction:

My goal in this essay was to make the reader feel as connected to my family memories that took place in my house as I was. I realized it was mot possible because no one´s memories ever feel exactly the same. The spider analogy came to me when I would leave the house to go to school early in the morning. One  morning there was a big spider web that the sun hit perfectly and the sky had these beautiful soft rose gold tones the weather was neutral and for a moment I felt at peace, I tried to take a picture but when I looked on my phone it did not look the same, when I came back home the web was not there. I stood for a few seconds looking for the web wondering if spiders care when their web is gone or if at this point it is just routine for them. I´ve never been apart of the moving process, it has happened to people around me but never people I live with. Everything felt like it would never be the same.


What happens on an emotional level when a spiders web is ruined? When their homes are destroyed by visitors. Are they irritated that they have to start over or do they adapt well? We don´t take notice to their creations crafted built for them, never taking time to admire each silk strand catered overtime to their comfort. In actuality they just aren't us, so they don´t matter as much. Spiders, the ultimate nomads of the ecosystem, moving to various locations when time has proven the moment has come for them to continue on.

The only thing separating humans and spiders is the simple fact that they are individuals, not members of a pack or flock. They invested time into building their forts lacking sentimental value. Relocating is a necessity for survival, but I get attached too easily.

I had overheard them talking about it for a while but always thought it was talk.

¨Sanaa take these empty boxes to your room¨ my aunt called to me from the garage.

¨Coming!¨

I usually act before my mind is ready to process everything. My hands stacked souvenirs of my time here and piled them into boxes. When one box was full it was closed off and pushed to the side.  I sat on the bed in that room and looked around. Stared at the brown boxes against the white wall, without all my things, it was a blank canvas.

I had spent countless hours writing, eating, and laughing in this house, my safe place. I sat on the bottom step, to my left the living room and memories of the holiday shows my cousins and I would host when we were 5, but abandoned when everyone got ¨too cool¨ for talent.  To my right was the Kitchen and Dining room, I remember the thanksgiving I migrated to the adult table, it was only a few inches but it meant something. Half of what I knew about my family was uncovered in this house. My aunts competitive side during scrabble, countless stories of lives before my cousins and I came along. The stories would stay the same but the background they were told in would change.

The oldest tradition for my cousins rolled around with the holidays. Our staged performances as toddlers and adolescents can probably still be found with a few hundred camera roll scrolls, even though they faded away throughout the years as we all advanced into individuals, the shows were our bond. Our black history shows where I played Rosa Parks every year up till 2010, our easter shows where we once rapped about jesus but shed the idea of organized religion like dead skin in 2014 while still using it as a cloak to hide our real selves from our parents. Our Thanksgiving talents shows deceased after we all realized none of us would be the next American Idol, Gabby Douglas or Misty Copeland. Then our Christmas shows where I once played rudolph but lost interest in the ruby face paint and glowing antlers. The New years parties we threw reduced to a quick

¨happy new years <3¨

since we seemingly grew out of eachother.

All of these memories I dug up will feel gone when we relocate. My web is unraveling around me. ´Maybe they'll ask for a refund´ I always think begging my mind for reassurance. I pause reminding myself that´s an unrealistic scenario I created to keep myself here.

I´ve always been the type of person to hold onto memories, I've saved previous text messages from tainted friendships to read and look through on my emotional rainy days. Maybe I´m not holding on to the house as much as I am holding onto everything familiar. Everything is changing. My english teacher, my schedule. I'm a junior this year, next year i'll stress about colleges, then the year after that i´ll be gone.


Was I ready to leave? It didn't matter in a few days trucks would come to help us move on.


Advanced Essay #1: Decisions and Journeys

Posted by Michaela Lieberman-Burak in English 3 · Block/Harmon · B Band on

Introduction

Throughout the process of crafting this essay, I learned the value of concise and descriptive writing. Prior to this paper, I firmly believed that strong descriptive writing was the key to a successful essay, and that it was necessary to sacrifice all other criteria (such as the word count) in favor of it. My perspective on revising my writing has changed, as I now see that the removal of excess description is not done solely in the interest of meeting the word count. It also serves to increase the overall quality of the final product. Even if the words paint a beautiful image, the essay might still be so abstract that it only holds meaning to the painter. This is the goal of my personal essay: to communicate a concept, experience, or lesson to the readers, and to push myself to improve my writing skills instead of masking an average paper with excessive decorations.


Decisions and Journeys

Taking action, making a decision and acting upon it, can feel impossible at times. I remember a time when indecision and not taking action took me far from home.

It started as I stood at the platform in 30th Street Station, the crowd bustling about. The loudspeakers burst to life, bellowing out the name of the train I was eagerly awaiting. A train pulled up to the platform, and I followed the boisterous crowd aboard, plopping down on a half-occupied two-seater. I sat with a man who stood up two stops later, announced he no longer needed his all-day pass, and abandoned it on the train.

When the following stop was announced, I felt the first inkling of uncertainty. The station names were unfamiliar, and I did not recognize the somewhat familiar faces I usually saw on my way home. With each passing stop, I argued with myself: should I ask what train I was on? Or could I be on the right one? I made up reasons why scenery I passed was so different: “It’s incredible,” I marveled, “I must pass these trees and houses daily, yet only now am I truly seeing them!”

I spent a few more stops debating whether or not I should ask which train I was on, getting further and further from home, trapped in indecision. Before I could ask anyone the name of the train line, it came to a halt at its final destination: Trenton.

My heart pounded with the speed of the roadrunner and the force of a hydraulic press, but then my panic was disrupted as I recalled the discarded all-day pass. Saved! I used the pass to travel back to 30th Street Station, and then home.

Would I find taking action easier in the future? I soon had an opportunity to put that to the test. I had the chance to have my nose pierced. Should I do it? Would it hurt? Would I regret it? This time, perhaps strengthened by previous experiences of acting or not acting, I was ready to take action.

My journey began on South Street, inside the back room of Infinite Piercing. I hopped up onto a table exactly like one that you might find in a doctor’s office… a sturdy wooden frame topped with an oblong, pine green, pleather cushion. It took up most of the room, and was set dead-center, as if it were a stage. My mom sat down in the chair on the right side of the door. The person who was to do my piercing closed the door behind us. The person wiped down my nose with a cool cloth and it felt as if my nose felt like it was trapped inside a closed tupperware container full of hand sanitizer. Then came the piercing. Suddenly, a peculiar sensation started at a single point on my nose. The feeling was like a tiny sparkler. It was pain.

“Yep. There is a needle in my nose. A needle is going through my nose,” my brain stated matter-of-factly. The rest of my face melted away. It was as if my consciousness was a duck, and my awareness of everything except my face was water flowing off of the duck’s back.

And in that moment, I was witness to a bizarre phenomenon; a rare exception to what would generally be considered a faux pas. There was a stranger’s finger in my nose.

Then it was done.

I looked in the mirror, and for the first time in a while, I liked my face. Taking action had brought me closer to home, to feeling like myself.

Ultimately, decisions result in action. Whether positive or negative, actions have consequences and result in experience. I am beginning to trust my ability to make decisions based on a gut instinct. On the train, I froze and ignored my own misgivings, my inaction taking me away from my destination, my home. On the green table at Infinite Piercing, I trusted my ability to make a decision, and my action took my toward my destination, self-confidence. Whether it’s a train to get home or a nose piercing to feel more at home in myself, I am learning to navigate my existence on many levels.


Advanced Essay #1: It’s Not Me, It’s You

Posted by Monie Duong in English 3 · Block/Harmon · B Band on

​Introduction
My goals for this essay was to express my emotions and memories for the readers to feel and see. The story I wanted to share was about my own insecurities and how my environment has helped shape me as me. I also wanted to share the idea of how opportunities can affect someone's life. Something that I am proud of because of this piece is being confident enough to share a part of myself to the world because this is something that is very personal. One thing that I want to improve on is being more concise while being descriptive. Lastly, I want to improve on writing better conclusions.

It’s Not Me, It’s You

The most insecure that I felt with my body was when I was 11 years old. As my body was changing into a young woman, my mind and feelings remain innocent. I didn’t know how to protect my confidence from bullies or unfavorable opinions because I never had to until I was 11. The other 6th grade girls didn’t wear training bras anymore and had a fuller bum, but that didn’t matter to me. I was jealous of their pretty hairless arms.

My father is covered in thick-curly-dark hair from his chest, to stomach, to arms, hands, legs, back, toes, and even his ears. I’ve always been mad at him for giving me his hairy genetics but my mother has been telling me, since I was five, that having hair on your arms means you will have a easy life. I have always believed her until I entered middle school.

My middle school didn’t have central air condition so it was usually humid during the warmer months. Because of that, I would always wear short sleeve shirts. This boy, who we will call Keith, came up to me for the first time during recess near the playground. “Why do you have so much hair on your arms? You have more than me and I’m a boy. Look,” he said as he puts his right arm and my left arm side by side. I shrugged my shoulders to tell him that I didn’t know why I do. Then another boy, who we will call Anthony, chimed in and teasingly said, “Yeah, you have hairy arms. You’re more of a man than me,” which made the other childish boys and girls giggle. Their echoing laughter shattered my heart and self-esteem. I felt the tears in my eyes begin to creep up so I flusteredly hid away. This was the first time that I was embarrassed of my own body.  

That day scarred me for months. It was the only thing that the boys would point out about me in 6th grade. I became so self-conscious that I wore long sleeve sweaters for the rest of the year, even during the hottest school days. As June came around, another traumatic incident happened again. I sat at a desk with my best friend. A table away sat Keith and Anthony. It was my last class in the most sweltering room of the building. The air was grilling us as we sat in the classroom. All the boys and girls had short sleeves shirts on but me. “Can you take your fricken jacket off, you’re making me even hotter just by looking at you,” Anthony mocked towards me. Everyone turned their heads like an owl spotting a baby mouse. My best friend followed, “Yeah, it’s too hot to be wearing that.”

I didn’t know what to say and I didn’t know what to do but my body decided to take off the sweater. Then Keith chuckled, “She wanted to hide her hairy arms,” which made some kids laugh as usual. I looked at my arms with hatred eyes and buried them under the desk. I leaned in, pushing them further under so nobody, including myself, can see the disgraceful hair.

For years, hurtful names have been ruminating subconsciously whenever I run my hands along my arms. Hairy, hairy girl, little boy, monkey, ape, and Chewbacca. I didn’t even know who or what a Chewbacca was until someone called me it. That one stung the most. After a while, it became an old joke and people left me alone. Once in a blue moon, someone would intrusively comment, “You have hairy arms,” and I would bluntly reply, “You think I didn’t know that already? I get it from my dad,” and walk away. I slowly stopped caring even though my self-esteem was shattered like an iPhone screen.

Entering high school was a door made and held opened by a butler for me. No one knows you and you know no one else, except your best friend of course. As a freshman, I expected everyone to be more mature and not make insulting comments about my body. And thankfully, I was right. Instead of remarks on my hairy arms, I’ve been receiving compliments just about me. People have been telling me left and right that I’m pretty, gorgeous, perfect, cute, etc. High school was the strongest glue that fixed my broken pieces.

My arms isn’t going to kill me or others, and it rather became an idea of luck in my mind. I learned to be grateful for my working body and that it is just hair. It also made me realize that not everyone gets the opportunity to change their perspectives about themselves. Sometimes the insecurities continue to haunt you for many years of your life. In some cases, insecurities don’t develop until you’re older because that’s when you start to care. What people fail to realize is that you are not the problem, it’s the people around you. At sixteen, I can say that I love myself in every way, shape, or form and nobody can tell me otherwise anymore.


Advanced Essay #1 - Mold

Posted by Horace Ryans in English 3 · Block/Harmon · B Band on

The goal for my essay was to show growth through experience and time. I wanted the reader to understand that I've gotten to where I was because of the things people have with shared me and said to me. Change is okay. You be who you want to be and sometimes we get wrapped up into what so many other people say and they try and shape us into who they want us to be. Yeah, sometimes that cool, everyone wants to fit in. But we should be comfortable with ourselves. Peace. 



Horace Ryans III

08/06/18

Earth


MOLD

I one day hope that in the future, when I reflect in my days in high school, I can say that these were the moments where I truly began to discover myself.

A million thoughts raced through my mind, colliding with each other, one overlapping another, screaming, “pick me, pick me!” a thousand times over. Most of them lost because I’m overwhelmed. Some of them cut in half exploding into white dust and abandoned letters in my head because I can’t grasp on to them quick enough. I miss those thoughts, my best work fragmented into little pieces and tucked away into my mind. And that’s when I first woke up. The only thought that stood out but seemed to be the question that I could focus on, “what am I wearing today?”

“Joggers and a tee shirt sounds about right. I can’t go wrong with that.” I said in my head as I considered and imagined all the correlating colors and outfits I could wear that day. I put on the pants that hugged my ankles so tight they’d leave marks and throw on a solid t-shirt that had been washed one-too many times so you could see the color fading. That’s what I thought was cool and enticing my freshmen year. I was more interested in anything about what people said about my clothes. I more interested in to what they said about the outfit I spent a half hour planning. If the people thought I looked good, then I looked good. I was okay with that. I even had a beanie that I would wear occasionally all to fit the image of who I wanted to be. I broke away from my regularly scheduled haircut on tuesdays because I wanted a part of it to hang out. All to become someone else.

The adoption of this new character was how I spent my freshmen year. High school was a way to remold “Whore-race” into “Horace”. That didn’t stick though, more on that later. It’s no surprise to me now. In elementary school I was surrounded by students that had the same skin color as me, this is how it was; or actually...that’s is how it felt. I gravitated towards the White kids. I don’t know why, but it  was easier for me to just talk with them. I would ease my way into their friend groups, everybody wanted a black friend. But, with that came its’ own consequences. To this day, I can still hear my classmates laughing at me, and me thinking they were all laughing with me. Their taunts went a little like, “Horace...haha Whore-race” “Horace you’re a horse” “Horace, you’re basically white.” They said that one so much, it was engraved into my conscious. I  believed it.

As a lighter skinned Black kid, I knew that if I said, “Oh, my great-grandfather was white.” They’d believe. They already thought it, so why not just tell them. But I didn’t.No matter how bad I wanted to feed into their assumptions about who I was, I never could build up the courage to lie about my family like that. Claiming to be someone I’m not. Instead I would say, “Yeah, I know.” And  I kept it moving no objections and no questions. Up to eighth grade I was the whitest-black guy I knew. I claimed that title with pride even. To me, it was so ridiculous that it was a joke. But that’s who I thought I was.

High School was a fresh start. I could be, whoever I wanted to be. I imagined a Horace who was confident, kind, thoughtful, opinionated, eager, attentive. And I got what I wanted. Except I did all those things, but surrounded by white people. I sat with them at lunch, I hung out with them after school. Anywhere my white friends went, I was there. I began to talk and behave like them. My skin color and my history as a Black slowly erased itself from my mind as I became one of them. Of course it never escaped me that I was Black, I just never cared, I was having fun being someone I wasn’t. I gravitated to them naturally. It was subconscious at that point. I didn't realize I was the only Black friend. I didn’t realize I was the token, the token black friend that is.

If you didn’t already know what that is...it’s when a group of white people have one black friend that is “white on the inside, and black on the outside.” That’s who I was and I was okay with that.  I really was. I started to realize though that that’s not who I wanted to be. After a year of listening and observing their conversation, one thing stood out to me: they will never understand what it means to be black. We talked about gentrification, poverty, mass incarceration. Whenever these topic were brought up, it was never a question of “who this affects?” but “why should I care it doesn’t affects me.” I would sit there fuming because they didn’t see it from my point of view, they could never see it from a black man's viewpoint. They were stuck looking through rose colored glass looking in.

I distanced myself from them. At first slowly, but then as their words angered me more and more, I began to sever ties that were being held down by a frayed knot. I don’t regret it. I became the me I am today through understanding why they can’t understand. And I am so okay with that.


Advanced Essay #1 [Where Home Is]

Posted by Valerie Berta in English 3 · Block/Harmon · B Band on

Introduction

     What I am proud of in this essay is that I was able to portray how I was feeling in more than a just a few sentences. I was able to connect how I was feeling before and how I feel now, to create a paper that shows my emotions overall. Another thing that I am quite proud of is my use of descriptive sentences. Before, I have never really been able to embrace descriptive language as much since I was quite afraid, however I realized that it was not that bad.

When I came back to Philadelphia after living in California to finish the last year of middle school, it felt like there was nothing there for me anymore.  I got used to the sun's reflection on my skin, and the cool breeze along with the night sky that was blank like an empty canvas. Eventually the feeling of the humid days in Philadelphia made me long for the suns kiss, but I know it would not come as soon as I wish it would. This is where I lived for half of my childhood, and yet I did not have the feeling of home.

          The first moving experience I had was when I moved to America from the Philippines. My home in the Philippines was abundant in free space, so I was shocked when I saw that our new home was not. It was placed in the city of Los Angeles, and although the towering buildings glistened with a kind of mystical beauty, I longed for space to grow and be free. I was convinced that the space would not help me mature, until of course I was convinced otherwise by my sisters. But even though the apartment did not welcome me and my family with the same space that we once had, what it welcomed was possibilities.

“America has many possibilities so work hard” my mom always said.

“We sure will, after the long process to get here” my eldest sister always replied.

After a while, I felt more free than I was in the Philippines and For two years I thought that I finally met my people and I was home, until of course it was not my home.

     “Come to Philadelphia, there is more work here than there in California…” my aunt said on the phone. “Yeah, but I can’t just leave everything here behind” my mom replied.

     “ Do not worry I will help you, I really just want you to come here already. Im so lonely”

      “Okay”

         In that short five minute conversation,a decision was made. I moved to Philadelphia in the third grade. Now the days were not as idle as they were in LA, where there was only the sun's warmth to comfort you, with the cool wind only introducing itself in the early mornings, and nights. The seasons changed in Philadelphia, and so did I. My second sister moved back to LA, and my Eldest sister went to travel around Europe. I felt alone. That is when I came to the conclusion that home is not just comprised of a place, but the people that make up the place. The “place” was more of an environment, while as the people was what made that environment adaptable.

        As I continued to converse and attach myself to people who I considered as friends, I progressively changed as I got used to Philadelphia. After four years of playing hopscotch on the concrete pavements cluttered with chalk, I considered Philadelphia home. At the time there was no longer the feeling of wanting the sun's rays when looking at the white blanket made by the snow which could warm me just as much. But as you can expect this feeling did not last.

      When the the fall leaves began to dance towards the grass of our home, my mom deemed it right that we go back to California, where my sister stayed, and come live with her, and so we did.  I was without siblings in Philadelphia, so when I arrived in California the amount of company I had received for my nephews was overwhelming, yet lovely. I got to once more bond my friends, and silently watched as I saw how their behavior changed...how I changed. The hazy fog that childhood set to ensure our innocence was gone, we no longer knew nothing, but we also did not know everything. The months passed and seasons changed, but we still remained the same somehow in the inside. As childhood friends, we still shared the same influence we had gotten from each other as children. Because of that, I know that if I left, we would always be connected, since the influence that I had received from them would always be with me.

   The plane ride back to Philadelphia, after eighth grade was an emotional one. I realized at that moment that home is home when there are people you bond with, since the company from others is what makes a place worthwhile to stay.. That to me is the rough definition of a home. Since I moved so much, home was never a place, it was always the people, and the experiences. Because of this my home became my whole being. Whenever I get lonely, I can just remember, that I have been affected by every person that I appreciated, so even if I recall those that have left earth that they are always there with me.




Advanced Essay #1: Acceptance

Posted by Briannie Matos in English 3 · Block/Harmon · B Band on

Taking one step at a time

My goal was to show people how I felt throughout the process of accepting my height. I talk about ways that helped me accept being short and the disadvantages and advantages that helped me overcome everything.  I also go a little into how it is okay to be different and not everyone is capable of everything. Lastly, the writing skills I would like to improve on is always making sure everything flows and being very descriptive so the reader won't be confused. 

Acceptance

The word acceptance means “the action of consenting to receive or undertake something offered.” Now everyone has to learn about acceptance in their life, but me, I had to learn very early. I didn’t get to learn the easy way and being short is something that wasn’t offered to me, it is something that I am now stuck with for the rest of my life.

I sat there on my bed, staring up into the ceiling. I looked at my little legs and said to myself, “Why am I so short?” I tried to think of all the reasons, such as not eating the right foods or maybe it was my family genetics. I couldn’t stop pondering because I needed some closure. Everyone around me would not stop talking about the fact that I was so short. They made it seem like it wasn’t normal being short, and I didn’t want to be the girl that wasn’t normal or be the short girl at all. My height took so many things away from me, like standing in a big crowd waiting for the next celebrity to take the stage.

“Hey Briannie, you good?” my friend asks me while we are in a big crowd where everyone is literally on top of one another. “I guess,” I say knowing that I am not good. Concerts can be a pain sometimes, especially when you are only 5 feet tall in the middle of the crowd where there is no air to breath. In my head, I was thinking, “Is Nicki Minaj really worth passing out in the middle of all these people?” It was like there was no air down around me. Since I was so small and there were all these giants surrounding me, there was so much body heat on me. At that point, I gave up and left the crowd.

Being short interferes with these life activities and that is when it becomes a struggle. I can’t fully experience things like this because there is no way to fix it. I feel like the outcast, and I feel like I’m missing out. When there are disadvantages I can’t solve, it would be used against me and that was the hardest part to accept. Whether it was a joke or not, being teased would hurt. I always wondered what it would feel  like to be tall and to be able to actually see. The best way I did learn to accept it was short people aren’t the only ones who get teased about their height. There are things I can do that others wouldn’t be able to do because of their height as well. Although, there are some disadvantages that I could solve unlike this one.

“Briannie!” I rushed downstairs to the loud sound of my name. “Yes?” I asked very calmly. “Can you grab the two bowls on the top shelf?” my mom asked as she pointed to the shelf where the bowls were placed. “No problem, I got you.” As I walked over to the cabinet, I picked up a chair from the dining room table and placed it right against the cabinet. I hopped onto the chair and grabbed the bowls. I handed them to my mom, got down from the chair and put the chair back at the dining room table. “You’re a lifesaver,” my mom said with a little grin on her face.

I had to be very open to all options when trying to solve most of my disadvantages as a short person. Not being able to reach things that are high up can be frustrating. When I would finally solve some of my disadvantages, I didn’t feel like the outcast or the girl that wasn’t normal. It helped me come over the insecurities of being short. It opened my mind up that there are always solutions to most things and when there isn’t, it’s okay. Not everyone is perfect and there are always gonna be people who have higher advantages than others.

Experience after experience, my height has defined who I am. There are always gonna be disadvantages that I won’t be able to solve and have learned to accept that. I feel if I wasn’t short, I wouldn’t be the same person. Watching all of the tall people, and seeing how the struggles I went through were so easy for them made me feel a certain type of way. It made me wonder and hate the fact I was short. All of my life, everyone has used my height as a joke towards me or teased me or even use it as a description. I am not sad anymore when someone jokes about my height or teases me, I just laugh with them. Whenever someone does use my height to describe me, it gives me a feeling that I am different from most people and it is okay to be different. My height is something I love about myself and no one can take that away from me.


Advanced Essay #1: No shortcuts

Posted by Charles Langley in English 3 · Block/Harmon · B Band on

Introduction

The goals of this paper is to just tell people that they if they want to achieve their goals they should practice so you can be capable of achieveing your goals. I want people to just understand that if you taake time to imporve your skills it'll pay off in the end. I really proud of what I wrote because it gave me an oppurtunity to reflect and see how much I really grown from this experience.

No Shortcuts

I started to slow down and then... I started to walk...

“Don’t stop running keep going! I DIDN'T SAY STOP YET!!!!” said my coach ferociously.

You could hear the screams of agony fill the room. Everyone was feeling the ache and pains in the hamstrings and I saw the sweat dripping off of everyone. Everyone was putting in the work they needed to succeed in the upcoming track meet, and it was made apparent when we was done running up and down the steps because the smell spoke for itself. All I could think about during practice was pushing myself to go even further beyond, thinking that I could finally reach the gold. Then we started to get acquainted with push-up and all I saw was the dirty, the dusty, and somewhere in between, white floor as I continue to elevate myself to new heights. I started to close my eyes because of the dust but, also of the pain my arms had to endure. All I saw was the blackish red of my eyelids thinking to myself is this enough to get me to my goal.

The following day...

The day of the track meet, I remember it well. It was in the middle of March with a few clouds in the sky but, with the comforting sky blue and shining yellow sun that I know all so well.  It was almost my turn to run the 100 meter dash I heard a guy with confidence saying,

”I’m about to cook yall!”

I started to second guess my abilities...My heart started to race and started beating faster than my legs even move. I could feel an uneasy feeling in my stomach and a nervous drop of sweat starting to drip off of my already hot face. I could hear the the forbidden words from the guy who uses the pistol to start us off saying,

“Next runners take your spots!”

At that moment my heart dropped and I felt my body slowly inching forward to lane 5.

“Runners on your mark!” the man with the pistol exclaimed.

I got into the running position that I practice constantly during practice.  The runners beside me did there own forms and had determined expressions on their faces.  

“GET SET!!!” I slightly lifted my body up and my mind started to go blank like a white piece of paper not yet filled with the colors that makes it was it is.

“POP”  the gun wailed.

I launched myself forward and I can see runners beside me but, most importantly the end in front of me. I could feel the wind hitting my face and how much force applied to each step, quickly getting me to my destination with each second that goes pass. I could even feel my breathing trying to regulate itself to compensate for the speed I was going. Each second that went by I started to not physically see the other runners but, I could still hear the sounds off their feet hitting the ground. Even though my mind only had one goal as I was running, which was to get to the end, I still saw the red color track and the green turf in my peripheral. My arms were moving vigorously, matching the pace of my already tired legs. I was approaching the finish line and my brain started to fill itself with color instead of black and white. I started to remember what the guy said about cooking us in this race and I had a huge smile on my face. I crossed the white line which put a relief in my brain and my heart even though my heart was still racing. I then saw the guy who was talking trash come up right after me with a disappointed look in his face. He didn’t say anything. I started to come back to my senses and I could hear a lot of cheering. I was back in reality. I had a smile on my face but, I could still feel the impacts my feet had sustained from running. Nevertheless, I was happy because I realized that the shining yellow sun was shining on me because that was the first time I heard the golden words.

“You…...Came…...in……..first” my teammates told me.

I was ecstatic. I could not stop smiling my golden smile as my teammates kept trying to congratulate my victory.    

To sum it all up, there is no shortcut to greatness.  If you don’t practice how will you expect to succeed? The answer is you shouldn’t expect it because practicing allows you to improve one’s self and get more skilled at what you do. You need to practice to achieve your goals and watch in the end how all the work you put in it finally pays off. If you try to finesse your way to your dreams you only cheating yourself because when there’s a situation that demands your skill and you have none what then? Where do you go after that? This is why practice pays off because if you practice even the tiniest bit each day you’ll at least start to generate the skill to accomplish your goals.


Pneumonia...

Posted by Samera Baksh in English 3 · Block/Harmon · B Band on


Introduction: 
My goals for this essay to be able to express my feelings about when I had pneumonia. I never talked to people about this dreadful time I had. I felt like having this assignment helped me express it. This is something I won't forget. One thing I would like to strength is my vocabulary. Lastly, I would like to improve being descriptive.   

Shivering in the inside but extremely warm on the outside. For the past three days, my mother has been checking my temperature and there is no change.  My fever keeps on increasing. Each day goes by and I start breathing faster and faster. It was like I just ran a marathon. During the cold nights, my bed was wet because of sweat. My mom would bring me my favorite Indian food biryani and I wouldn’t eat it. That’s when I realized I lost my appetite. My face would get red my eyes would water like I was crying. Everything got worse.
I was rushed to my hospital. My mom was there to comfort me. As I lay down on my mom's lap in the emergency room all I see are kids coughing, sneezing, runny nose basically they were sick. 
I started to ask myself, “What if they are sick like me?”
As the doctor calls my name “Samera Baksh,” I stood up and my head started feeling dizzy it was like some type of pressure was on my head. I slowly walk up with my mom holding my hand. I walked up to the doctor wearing light blue scrubs. I tell the doctor all the symptoms and she ran all the tests. 
After getting the results of the tests she tells me what’s the problem. I don’t know why but I had a bad feeling about it. 
“Samera you have pneumonia. You are going to be hospitalized until it's gone,” the doctor explained. My look on my mom’s face was horrifying, she turned pale. Everything around me turned dark.  
A nurse wearing pink scrubs came into and took my mother and me to a different room. As I walked in I saw kids my age breathing in the ventilator. 
The nurse gives me the mask and commanded, ¨I need you to breathe into this mask.” My mom puts the mask over the head and adjusts comfortably for me all though it was extremely uncomfortable. 
I took a deep breath slowly in my head I said to myself, “Inhale, exhale.” Tears started to drip from my eyes down to my chin. I didn’t want to do it. 
The doctor with the light blue scrubs came in with this shot, I didn’t know exactly what it was. The nurse put the needle in my hand. I started to scream, it was very painful. That needle stayed in my hand for a week. 
I changed out of my blue shirt and my black jeans into a yellow hospital gown. I put a white mask on my face so I don’t get anyone else sick. A nurse with a hello kitty scrub pushed me to my room while I was sitting on the wheelchair. When I get into the room all the way at the end of the hallway isolated from everyone else. The room walls were green. On the right wall, there was a kid playing soccer painted on. A very small box tv was on the upper right-hand corner of the room. As I slowly got up on the bed, I said to myself, “I wish this was a nightmare.” 
A couple of days goes by and I get sick of the hospital. My family came to visit me many times at the hospital and they brought me my favorite dish biryani. Every time I opened the container of food my face would light up because of the joy of having biryani. When my grandma, dad, and my aunts are here I would look around the room and one person was missing. That person is my sister. She was not allowed to visit. When she wasn’t here it always felt empty, boring, and quiet. 
  “Good progress, Samera is getting better,” the doctor said. 
    “Can I go home now?” I demanded.
  “Not yet sweet, but very soon,” the doctor said.
I tried to be very patient which was the hardest thing for me to do. The only thing that was keeping me going was my Nintendo DSI also the show “Wheel of Fortune.” My mom and I really enjoyed watching that show. It would help us forget the fact that I have pneumonia.
Two mornings later, the nurse came in more tests so I can be released. My test came back good I was perfect to go home. 
“You are good to go! At 5 o'clock pm today you can check out. The doctor will come to check one last time,” said the nurse excitedly. 
After I heard that my heart started to beat very fast because of the excitement of going home. My mom started calling my whole family.  We were so excited. As I started packing some of my stuff I said to myself, “This has been the longest and dreadful week. I will forget about this.” 






Advanced Essay #1- Queerness Counteracting Culture

Posted by Mary Lamb in English 3 · Block/Harmon · B Band on

Introduction

The goal of my essay is to educate people on how they are contributing to discriminatory culture without even knowing it, and to show them that their complacency can be violent. I want my reader to notice how nothing stopped a young me from buying completely into the normalization of heterosexuality, even when I wasn't part of that majority. I am proud of how my paper flows nicely from my descriptive scenes to my analysis. I am also proud of how I engaged the senses in my first scene as well. In the future, I would like incorporate more dialogue into my descriptive scenes and stop using passive language in them. I also want to become more concise in my writing without losing any of my description.


Advanced Essay- Queerness Counteracting Culture

When I was 5 years old, I wanted to marry my best friend Lola. Now I know what you’re thinking- no, I didn’t know I was gay. I just thought gay people were really really good friends who happened to live together. No one had told me otherwise. The years passed and I eventually rectified that ridiculous childhood story, but something always kept me from ever thinking queerness could ever fit into my life. One day in the fourth grade, my classmates and I were playing 4 square in the recess yard. The giant oak trees that towered over us were full of dark, shiny green leaves. Through the gate, we could hear cars whooshing past, and the air smelled like the steaming asphalt beneath our feet. I let my mind wander as I stood in line for the game. I stared at my friend, her long black ponytail shining in the sun. I watched it swing, hypnotized, as she ran to get the ball when it went out of bounds. Then, I thought a thought. “

I really don’t like when she talks to other girls. Does that make me a lesbian?”

I had never even considered this before. My heart started pounding in my ears until it was even louder than the sound of the 4 square ball bouncing against the blacktop. I brushed the thought off. People just around me just weren’t gay. So I wasn’t. Settled. In a world where the only story ever told to me was a straight one, being gay wasn’t an option. Even though I didn’t recognize this yet, my young mind craved some sort of validation- to know that who I was was right and real. Perhaps for the first time, I was experiencing not being the default.

By the time I was in middle school, I had come up with a list of excuses. I’ve had crushes on boys before. I don’t want to cut my hair. I don’t like any of my girl friends. I would sit in bed, staring at my dark ceiling, running my list over in my head until I fell asleep. And even when I finally gave into the fact that I was queer, I couldn’t fathom telling my parents. One night, after hours of stewing in my bed, I wrote my parents a letter in green pen. Hands shaking, I folded it over and wrote their names on the front. I pulled back my blankets and walked cautiously down the hall to my parent’s room. I opened the door slowly and placed the little paper in between their sleeping bodies, my heart skipping beats. The next morning, I was a ball of nervous energy, but my parents didn’t even mention the note. I went into their room and found it unopened on the side of their bed; they never saw it. I lost my courage and tore it up.

My parents never told me they hated gay people, but they didn’t need to. They didn’t say anything, and that was enough for me to hate myself for who I was. The culture around me that only normalized heterosexuality had left deep grooves in my psyche that couldn’t just be flattened out by me finding out I was queer. You can’t put a bandaid on a wound that’s more than skin deep, and it wasn’t enough for the people around me to not be homophobic. My parents never sat me down when I was a kid and told me that if I was gay, it was alright with them. Maybe if they did, it would’ve made my wounds easier to heal.

In this period in time, it is very easy for people to trot out all the reasons why they are ‘not bigoted’. They constantly bring up the fact that they view all humans as equals. But phrases that mirror this mentality such as “I don’t see race” are actually perpetuating bigotry in a unique way. By saying that we are all equal, they are implying that we are all treated equally; that since women now have to right the vote, or since that gay marriage has been legalized, or since slavery is ‘over’, these groups don’t experience deep systemic discrimination, and damaging mindsets stemming from that oppression that are hard to shake. So people don’t do anything. They sit, comfortable with the fact that in their eyes, they’re not bigots. But in this culture, it isn’t enough just to not hate. You have to take action; you have to educate children about identities they might have not even allowed themselves to try on. You have to actively work against the ideas that have been put in people’s heads from when they were children.  So that little girls know it’s ok to want to marry their best friends, in a ‘gay way’.


Advanced Essay #1- Relationship with parents

Posted by Kishara Erwin in English 3 · Block/Harmon · B Band on

Goals of my essay
​My goals for this essay were simple. I wanted to express the importance of a relationship with anyone. Also how hard it is for that relationship to change. I am very proud of my essay. My memories connected well together. My bigger idea/ reflection is the best part. I love the way I ended the essay. It related to a lot of people . Also they liked it which made me happy. Lastly I would like to strengthen my writing with better vocabulary.

                                             Importance of a Relationship

Spending time with my family was always most important. Especially having my father by my side, but that would be like  a dream. Sometimes relationships can grow distant between a child and a parent. Particularly if the child and mother or father are miles apart. It’s hard  being really close with someone then suddenly drifting apart. I’ll always love my dad but I know my relationship with him won’t be the same. Family matters so much to me and having my dad and mom together was awesome.

One of my favorite memories of my dad was on my sweet 16. I walked into flashing lights. It was the most amazing night ever. Everyone smiling and cheering as I entered the room. I had been waiting for this night for many months. It was finally here and I couldn’t be happier. My father stands by my side. I  was full of joy and happiness. All of my friends and family gathered to celebrate the night.

Most importantly my father there with me. The birthday girl was dressed in a purple and gold dress. I was smiling at every moment for every picture.  My cousin sung happy birthday to me while I silently cry. My tears were happy tears, tears of joy. Everything was perfect until the end of the party. I enjoyed everything and let loose for one whole night. Then I realized it was time to go back to reality.

The night was ending and it was time for him to go. My father had to leave to catch his flight in the morning. Goodbye was always bittersweet with him. I knew he had to go but why now? Knowing I wouldn’t see him for a long time brought me to tears. It was hard to have him here with me one moment, then gone the next. This type of pain is understandable for anyone whose separated from a parent, family member, etc.

It’s always difficult when a child and a parent are separated. When my dad left, I was disappointed and hurt. I knew our relationship would never be the same. However, seeing him in person always makes me happy. The first time I saw him after he moved away was when I was 10. It was a while before I ever saw my dad again.

In the month of June I was going to see my dad for the first time since he left my sweet 16. I had a mixture of emotions. Some of those emotions were nervous, happy, upset, and anxious. Part of me was happy to see him. Another part kept wondering, ¨Why did he leave me?”  That question played repeatedly in my head.


Everyone was anxious and nervous to board the plane. I was excited to see my dad and scared to ride an airplane. We admired the view above the clouds. The plane took off “Whoosh,” I said while gripping the handle seats. I held onto those seats for dear life. We were all so eager to our dad .

Lots of cars honking as they jump out the car. They run up to him with their arms wide open open wide. “ Dad! “ they screamed with excitement. He was smiling from ear to ear. It was the happiest day ever. We were seeing our dad after such a long time. He lives in San Antonio and we were finally visiting.


My stepmom waited for us at the airport. When we saw her she says, “Hey,” while smiling very hard. I gasped when I saw her stomach. I leaned over to my dad and asked, “Is that baby weight?“ He burst out laughing saying, “No, she’s pregnant again.” In that moment I was shocked. I told her, “Congratulations,” and she said, “Thank you.” On the other hand, I was upset because my dad didn’t tell me himself, especially after the many conversations we had and he never said anything.

My relationship with my dad changed the moment he left. Nowadays, I barely hear from him. There are moments I wish things could go back to the way they were. My number one guy left. I started to notice my dad becoming a different person. People change and sometimes it can be good or bad.  

Relationships between anyone can always change. What’s important is if that relationship can be put back together. It is never easy to drift away from someone you love. There is a constant pain that comes and goes in the relationship. Sometimes it’s easy to repair a relationship. Other times it may not be worth it to fix.



ENG3-030

Term
2018-19

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