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Alternative punishment for juvenile offenders
Alternative punishment for juvenile offenders
Alternative punishment for juvenile offenders
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The Bus Ride Little did I know at the time, but this was going to be the longest bus ride of my life. A bus ride that was going to take me halfway across the state of California, it was going to feel like I was traveling through the last four years of my troubled teen life. It was May 1, 1989, and I was finally getting released from O.H. Close Youth Correctional Facility. I got up in the morning feeling excited because this day was going to be incommensurable from any other day in the last eighteen months. On this day, I would be free. I jumped out of bed and got “suited and booted.” I thought I looked good in my brand new, ironed down, and creased up, state issue trade shirt. I was the proudest of my spit shined state issue boots. The tips were so polished that you could see your face in them. Nobody in the dorm had things “hooked up” like I did. When I hear “McKinney report the the main office” booming out of the intercom system, I know it’s time to go. Maze, my close friend, hollers out “You will be …show more content…
I had no place to call home. My mom had not come to visit me one time, and I had only received a hand full of letters from her. She told me in those letters that she was sick, and I couldn’t live with her (She died of cancer a little over a year after my release). My twenty-three-year-old brother was a drug addict, so I didn’t want to live with him. With no place to live, I would end up in a state halfway house or some other type of group home. For someone who was about to turn sixteen, this was a lot to deal with. The last two hours of my bus ride, which were supposed to be the happiest part of the trip, turned into the worst. The tension in my heart was almost unbearable now. It felt like someone had reached into my chest and was clinching my heart in an angry fist. My eyes teared up from the
Of course, as any other young girl, I didn’t really know what real pain was. I mean the type of pain when losing someone, more specifically, having someone taken away from you. I remember everything like it had just happened this morning. Long story short, I had my dad pulled away from my arms due to immigration issues. I wasn’t easy going through that. I had to go to school with a smile on my face and let no one know what had just happened. Up to this day, I get choked up just thinking about it. It wasn’t easy then, and it's still not easy today. With all the pain going around, I never stopped to realize I wasn’t the only one who had experienced that. As I got older, I became aware that many of my fellow classmates had the same thing done to them, sometimes even worse.
The career of a correctional officer has always captivated me in a way that is difficult to explain. Even as a child, I recall tuning into shows such as Lockup and Lockdown. In fact, my earliest, most vivid memories consist of me sitting in front of a TV screen with my eyes mesmerized by the hardened criminals visioned on the screen before me. It may seem peculiar, but I’ve always pictured myself inside the prison walls. What’s even more peculiar is that I’ve seldom visioned myself as a correctional officer; in fact, I’ve almost always visioned myself as a prisoner.
Maybe it’s the fact that I tend to stay in my room all weekend, which leads to people thinking I’m studying when in reality I am probably binge watching a TV show or maybe it’s my glasses, but most people who don’t know me too well assume that I am smart. Now that is a great thing for me because I don’t have to try as hard to impress them, but I end up finding myself in a bit of a problem. The problem is that everyone thinks I enjoy admiring school textbooks. But the truth is I’m usually admiring my Justin Bieber poster on my bedroom wall. Ever since I was in sixth grade I’ve been a huge fan of Bieber. His music always brought a feeling of calmness and back in the day his “never say never” motto, was what I lived by. I might still be living by that motto because I’ve decided to write this essay
I am an undocumented student at UC Davis. When I am asked a simple question such as, "describe your personal experiences", I ask myself: Where do I begin?
One Sunday morning, early, I’d say around 5:00am or so I was laying in my bed sound asleep in my nice, cold, dark room all snuggled up in my blankets and about 8 pillows surrounding me. I was woken up by my mom and with a voice so soft but with a hint of excitement she says, “Sarah time to wake up, we have to be at the airport in an hour”. I moaned and groaned because I stayed awake most of the night just so excited about what the day had in store for me replaying situations in my head over and over again! Soon enough me and my mom are in her car driving to Kansas City to get on a plane to West Palm Beach, Florida. Our car is packed to the celling of all our bags filled with clothes, shoes, blankets, some kitchen ware, bathroom stuff and other essentials and that’s when it hit me, wow I’m leaving Kansas City. Or more like I’m leaving all my friends, family, my dog, and the house I grew up in for most my life. I took my last looks of Missouri and with every emotion running threw me I didn’t know if I was exited or scared or both to be moving to a different state!
Some people like to stay in control of their life and avoid any amount of extraordinary risk to protect their self-disclosure. Other people don’t shy away from challenges as they are confident that certain obstacles are nothing more than just another thing standing in their way from living life to the fullest extent. Through personal experience, I’ve realized that personal comfort is nothing more than a variety of fears that limit me from challenging myself.
I opened the front door, I did not even bother knocking I practically grew up in this house, walked straight into the bedroom of Lex Blassingame. After a two hour drive I was tired, but seeing the look on her face instantly woke me up. The look of confusion, surprise, happiness, and a little hint of contentment danced across her face. I was carrying flowers that I picked from the side of the road and her favorite meal from Chick-fil-a, but that didn’t stop Lex from embracing me in the biggest hug I’ve ever felt. She needed someone. Lex had a hard and long day, I needed to make her smile. So I did. I drove two hours and four minutes just to make my only, and best, friend smile.
The day i was taken away from my mum i had no idea. I was taken to fresno and i thought i was going home that day, but i was wrong. I knew my way back home but then i asked where we were going and my heart sank. I was thinking of running away because my aunt lived down the road. I also had a plan to be “nice” to my temporary parents just to go back home. I knew deep down that i couldn’t do that to someone who offed to have me there.
The big day, it was finally here. Two weeks of training on my own and putting in extra effort to sharpen my soccer skills, all for a two-hour evaluation. Sure I’ve been to soccer tryouts before, but I’ve never been to one where I’m so nervous that I could pass out. After a little pep talk from my dad, I was ready to go. I pulled my tryout jersey over my head and set off for the deep green pitch. As I approached the other girls that were already passing, juggling, or just talking with their friends, every single one of them turned their head to stare. Of course, there were other girls that didn’t belong to Sc Waukesha and were trying out, but nobody even glanced at them. Everyone's attention was on me, and I didn’t know why.
In the book, Parallel Journeys, Helen Waterford, one of the three authors, explains how she as well as millions of other Jews appreciated the smaller ‘gifts’ in life because they faced such a punishing lifestyle. After having to consume unsatisfactory food for many months, Helen talks about one extraordinary night. “‘There was one special night on Christmas. That was the first and only time we had meat for dinner. The meat was a freshly killed horse, and it tasted delicious to me. For this special occasion, each person's meal was put into a separate brown bowl. On other days, four of us had to share one bowl. Of course we had no knives or forks, no tables or chairs, but we did have meat”’ (145). Subsequent to Helen and Doris’s arrival in Chicago and reunion with Helen’s parents, the two arrived at their new house. “‘It was a single room, and I was
“I think she has depression, something's wrong with her.” I had been listening to the hushed murmur between therapists and my mother for weeks. It seemed as if I was going through the motions with every doctor giving me a full diagnosis less helpful than the last, insisting I take medication regularly to suppress my emotions. Answering the question “What’s wrong?” became more routine than a mailman delivering mail. The truth of the matter was that no therapist would fill the isolation and emptiness I felt inside with their rubber smiles and positive catchphrases. In fifth grade I overcame the biggest obstacle I have ever been challenged with. I was always a hard working student, who was friendly and had many friends. But it takes one nasty comment from a jealous individual for the rest of your classmates to conform
I am by myself wearing my blue jeans and an old flannel shirt. It is cool outside but I decided to leave my gloves at home, feeling comfortable with my warm shirt and my sturdy boots.
The journey of life follows a predetermined pattern; we evolve from needing influence and guidance to finally reaching that point where our lives are up to us. I consider myself very lucky up to this point in my journey. Some people become sidetracked and wind up on a far different course than initially planned, but the detours I made have only assisted in embellishing the individual instead of devouring it.
I was an orphan as a child, I never knew my Dad; and my Mum died at birth. My foster parents didn't love me, they used me as a tool, just saw me as an extra pair of hands to use around the house. I ran away at the age of sixteen, join...
I often think of Robert Frost’s phrase, “I took the road less traveled by” when brushing against dirt, rocks, or grass on a trail. While following a single stretch of a path, whether that road leads in a curve or in a straight line, I notice a myriad of branches to trails that I normally classify as detours. Is that what Robert Frost means when he says he traveled a road less traveled by others?