In 6th grade, I was in a leadership course. In the class, there were three of my former best friends along with their popular new friends. My only confidant was a fat girl named Paula. Paula and I were the outsiders always feeling threatened by the prominent and pretty girls. One day, our beautiful twenty-something year old teacher presented us with a dream board project. The task was to cut out shapes, pictures, or words from magazines that exemplified our greatest hopes and dreams. The popular girls immediately started conversing with each other and creating their boards in beautiful ways. Now, Paula and I were more pressured than before to make our projects perfect in order to fit in with the other girls. We scavenged some magazines and began cutting out …show more content…
Fear set in as I came to the realization that my board wouldn't be as luminescent or impressive as Jamie’s, Morgan’s, or Darcy’s. The day of presentation felt like the most stressful hours of my adolescent life. We were called on, one by one, in alphabetical order. Having the last name Valentine was usually useful in situations like this as I would be the last one called. Jamie, Morgan, and Darcy all presented before me as I became more insecure about my deformed and stolen board. They had glitter, and floral bubble letters, and lace outlines on their board—I had plain words glued next to each other and badly cut pictures of babies. My stomach drop to the floor when my name was called. I looked at the beautiful teacher with terrified wide eyes hoping she meant to call someone else—but she waved me to the front of the class. I sat there with feet glued to the floor, hopelessly pleasing for help with my watering eyes. She brought me tissues and asked me a couple of questions without care for the answer. She said I could present tomorrow and called on the next student. Ashamed of myself, I went home that night and completely re-started my dream board for the next
It's hard for me to say where I'll be in the years to come, already my life has strayed from the path I once thought it would follow. However, that doesn't change my motivation or determination to reach and excel at my personal goals. My whole life I've endured a system that dictated what should be important to me, and while it's helped me learn the practical skills I need outside of an academic setting, I have a passion to grow further from what's expected of me, and so with much enthusiasm I look forward to attending college in which I hope to achieve more by constantly learning and expanding my personal knowledge.
Everything for a year had been leading up to this point and here I was in the middle of the happiest place on earth in tears because my friends had abandoned me in the middle of Disney on the senior trip.
The unpolished floors and graffitied lockers with pictures of the Beatles glued to them indicated to me that no summer cleaning had been done at school, for what seemed like several years. As I walked, a neatly folded piece of paper, which I placed in my pocket earlier this morning, grazed my outer thigh was not letting me forget its purpose. My palms were sweaty and all I could think of was that on the first day of school, I had decided to tell my crush that I liked her. What a stupid decision. I decided to wash my hands and then put my plan into action. My walk across the hallway continued till I reached the guy’s bathrooms. Just as I was about to push the door, it opened and out ran a blonde and petite girl. My crush. Her face was surprised and her hazel eyes were
His teacher, Miss Jolly, was a great teacher who sang and did a lot of activities; however, Tom did not like the reading and writing part of the day, and he has grown to dread it. Ms. Jolly pulls Tom aside and tells him that people have different ways of learning but everyone has attributes that make them unique. Tom asserts that just because he has dyslexia it doesn’t mean that he isn’t as smart. The principal announces that the school’s 50th anniversary is approaching, and that there will be a competition for the greatest representation of the theme ‘Celebrate our School.’ Sam makes the winning entry, which a panting that highlights everyone’s best talents.
Personally Saturday nights are my favorite, and I followed the same routine every weekend. So why would this weekend be any different? My room felt cozy as I looked up time to time to see my twinkling Christmas lights I leave up all year. I loved how the sweet scent of vanilla filled up the plain air of my bedroom. Wearing my biggest sweatshirt that dangled at my fingertips, I sat on my bed leaning comfortably on my pillows. Every now and then, the sound of a notification would break the sound of silence. This is how I preferred my Saturday nights to be.
At Ridgemont High School an average student knows at least three people. First, everyone knows Mr. Heckles, the principle. He is known for his morning announcements that always go a little like “Good morning students, yesterday 13 people died”. Second, Frankie Coppelman’s name goes around quite a lot. He is that kid who peed himself in eighth grade while running to the bathroom. These two are known merely for infamous reasons. However, when the last student’s name is heard, it seems like a flower grows a petal. Vicky Frame is this name. Vicky Frame is also the name that goes next to “Why can’t you be more like… ?”. She is that girl that wins every award and everyone goes “AGAIN?”. She isn’t, however, exclusive to one stereotype. She is that girl who everyone wants to be friends with. Every time she walks past all the boys sigh and all the girls say hi. She is the girl that comes back from Europe with five math medals and also five possible boyfriends. She basically seems like the perfect everything. However, this perfect student, daughter, friend, girlfriend is not so perfect as a sibling.
As the dull scent of chalk dust mixes imperceptably with the drone of the teacher's monotone, I doodle in my tablet to stay awake. I notice vaguely that, despite my best efforts in the shower this morning after practice, I still smell like chlorine. I sigh and wonder why the school's administration requires the students to take a class that, if it were on the Internet, would delight Mirsky (creator of Mirsky's Worst of the Web), as yet another addition to his list of worthless sites. Still, there was hope that I would learn something that would make today's first class more than just forty-five wasted minutes... It wouldn't be the first time I learned something new from the least likely place.
I would always dread even presenting a project in class. It would make me nervous for the whole day. But back to the story. Like I said, it was just going to be a normal day. About a week before the event, we had a rehearsal for the induction in our gym. There, we practiced how we would walk down the rows with the new members and pass candles to them. While we practiced, Ms. Birmingham, our NJHS director approached me.
A bead of sweat trickled across my neck like an ice-cold drop of rain running down a windowpane. I stood anxiously, juxtaposed to ten of my fifth grade classmates on a dusty six-inch high platform, each of us in our lint-free suits, as I stared forward to meet the unforgiving eyes of the students and teachers of Main Dunstable Elementary School. A steady stream of parents entered the gymnasium, and I heard chatter as parents and kids conversed noisily with each other. I felt my throat tighten and wished for the emcee, Mrs. Paradis, the principal of our school, to take up the microphone and begin the ceremony.
I walked in and my stomach made a flip-flop like riding “The Scream” at Six Flags. Everyone was staring at me! With their curios eyes and anxious to know who I was. I froze like ice and felt the heat rise through my face. My parents talked to my teacher, Ms.Piansky. Then my mom whispered “It’s ti...
I had just gotten back from lunch. The half hour alone had helped calm my nerves: that poor Walter Cunningham and wretched Jean Louise Finch had flustered me. Undermining my authority in front of the entire class on my first day! I had cried my eyes out, not that I had let the children see—I must maintain the image of a perfect woman. Oh well. It was no matter, I tried to convince myself. A slight mishap, that’s all it had been. Now that lunch was over and class had begun again, I would finally be able to be the perfect teacher.
Personal Narrative - My Dream I picture myself center stage in the most enormous and fantastically beautiful theater in the world. Its walls and ceilings are covered in impeccable Victorian paintings of angels in the sky. A single ray of light shines down upon my face, shining through the still, silent darkness, and all attention is on me and me alone. The theater is a packed house; however, my audience is not that of human beings, but rather the angels from the paintings on the walls come alive, sitting intently in the rows of plush seats. Their warmth encompasses my body, and I know at that moment that it is time to begin.
We listened as Mrs. DeCostia enumerated the names of those involved. “Kat, Tara, Kelly, Alexis, Rob, Joe, Matt, and John.” She announced with annoyance. How is it that all my friends got in trouble for the greatest prank in Fairfield’s 75 year history, but my name was left off that prestigious list? I watched my friend’s proud faces as they walked to the front of the room and I laughed as I heard Matt say “So you caught the people, who perfectly reconstructed your room on the roof of the school, but you will never know who the genius behind it was, and as long as that stays a secret, we’ve done our job.” Then Mrs. DeCostia grabbed him by the shirt collar and dragged him outside. Soon there was a wave of people standing and clapping for their hero, the only person to show Mrs. DeCostia what a horrible person she really was. Apparently since my name had been left off the list, they had no intention of revealing it. But still I got the greatest prize of all, even better than being called up there with them: knowing that it was my idea to take every item out of her room and put it on the roof. There was a loud slamming of the door and soon the classroom fell silent. “Whose idea was it?” shouted Mrs. DeCostia. She was answered by silence. “I’ll ask one more time: Whose idea was it?” She said, speaking ever so slowly to ensure he understood. This time she was answered by a deep voice that could only be recognized as John’s. “You’re never gonna know so you might as well give up now.” “Oh, I will find out and when I do that person will be expelled! Now who is it?” Then in a voice that always seemed to say “What are you looking at?” Kat said “Listen lady, I don’t know who you think your dealing with but you’re never gonna know. We’re like...
“Why don’t you use your locker? You’re going to have back problems before you even graduate”. These are words that are repeated to me daily, almost like clockwork. I carry my twenty-pound backpack, full of papers upon papers from my AP classes. The middle pouch of my backpack houses my book in which I get lost to distract me from my unrelenting stress. The top pouch holds several erasers, foreshadowing the mistakes I will make - and extra lead, to combat and mend these mistakes. Thick, wordy textbooks full of knowledge that has yet to become engraved in my brain, dig the straps of my backpack into my shoulders. This feeling, ironically enough, gives me relief - my potential and future success reside in my folders and on the pages of my notebooks.
Throughout my life, I’ve always had big dreams and goals set for my life just like everyone else. I would constantly daydream and picture myself fulfilling my dreams. But, when the time came to actually plan out how I was going to reach my goal, I couldn’t figure out which path would lead me to my desired future. Every option I would contemplate on doing and try would somehow fail and crumble before my very eyes. After several attempts, I began to question if I was even good enough or qualified enough to go to college. To me, it seemed like the people who had a chance to make it in life were the ones with resourceful parents or the students who were in I.B or in numerous A.P courses. The possibilities of a little Hispanic girl like myself,