I bolted through the clear door of a small, earth-colored high school, practically slamming the door behind me. Catching my breath, I stood in the school completely drenched and shivering. Rain pounded on the clear door behind me. I stood awkwardly on a mat in front of the doorway, trying not to get the floor wet. I gazed around the hall in front of me. I couldn’t see staff in the office, nor were any students in the hallway or in the classrooms. The entire school was empty.
Must be a day off or something, I thought, blinking in surprise.
Suddenly, I recognized the building. Just last week, I had visited the exact same campus. My eyes explored the hall in front of me for the second time. It’s Early College High School, I realized. This school is extremely academically orientated, I recalled.
I think I would be a good student at this school. I knew from visiting that the school itself held a warm, home-like feel to it. The academic and home-like environment seemed like a great place for me; I think I might be able to excel here. And here I was again, just a week later, except cold, sopping wet, and disoriented. Why was I even out in the rain? I wondered. I couldn’t seem to remember what I was doing before. My memory was foggy until the moment I stepped through the door.
Abruptly, I felt something on my shoe. Looking down, I saw a stack of red towels with a note on top. Trying not to drip too much water on the floor, I leaned forward to read the note on top. Written on it was the following: “Feel free to use, Savannah! P.S. Good luck on that essay! – ECHS.”
Essay? I thought. And how would they know I would be here? Curiously, I plucked a towel from the stack, and then draped it around my shoulders. Tightening the towel aroun...
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... the essay; everything was burned into my memory. I lay back down on my bed in disbelief. It all had felt so real. As I reached to pull the covers back over myself, I heard a something brush against paper, and metal rings pressed into my arm. Cautiously reaching with my hand, I pulled out a notebook, open to the first page, with a pen slipped in the spiral ring. On the page was written the following: “Thought you might need these! Can’t wait to read your essay!—ECHS.”
Everything rushed back haphazardly. When I had visited ECHS last week, they gave me a complimentary notebook and a pen. They must have written the note before they gave it to me, I thought. And my subconscious was trying to spur me to write the essay with a dream. The slots do fill up fast.
Laughing in disbelief, I flipped to the next page and uncapped the pen, as rain pelted against my bedroom window.
As I walk to the front of the classroom, time seems to slow to a crawl. I take a glance at a sea of blank faces staring back at me. You would have thought I would be use to this sensation by now. I know what to expect and have been through these motions a hundred times, but as I walk up to the stage, determined not to cower in defeat, the notecards I grasp firmly in defiance quiver slightly exposing my sense of dread. So while I often triumph over this battle, I now stood atop that classroom stage preparing to recite the merits of James Madison that I had poured myself over the past few weeks. I had the lingering thought that throughout the sea of faces there were those who were paying less attention to what I was saying and more attention to how I was saying it.
"When she first showed me the paper, I'm like, 'What is this?'. I read it
I stared at the blinking cursor, unbelieving at what I had just done. I was indeed done; done with a paper I agonized over for 6 hours. The paper was due in a scant 4 hours and I had all week to do it. The radio had stopped working because my brother got on the Internet and thus cut off my connection. That was the least of my problems working on this paper. I got it done, though. My life changed with one trip of a teacher to the chalkboard and one phrase, narrative essay. God, I hate narrative essays.
When the time was up to stop writing, I looked around the classroom and noticed some of the students appeared a bit confused. The assignment was not a difficult one, not for me anyway. When the teacher began asking students to share what they had written with the class, it was interesting to find that only a...
The day was hot and dry, unusual for mid Fall. The school was cooler inside than out but we, the students, still felt like grains of sticky rice in a steamy pressure cooker. Finally the little Catholic school let out just around three or so. Kids scrambling left and right, caos struck the halls like hurricane Katrina. The whole school rushed out the doors to get home and so did my siblings and I. Three words to describe my mood at that moment,
My first essay introduced me to the new style of the literature course of academic writing. I had never took a writing class that was just focused around literature. This essay challenged me to critically analyze one of the short stories that we have read.
Suddenly there was a rustling sound and I saw my bed shake a bit. “ Who's there?” I called out nervously. A grotesque hand slid out from under my bed and quickly tossed the bill back as well as a wad of cash. I stood there frozen for a moment trying to comprehend what exactly had just happened.
Let’s flash back in time to before our college days. Back to then we had lunch trays filled with rubbery chicken nuggets, stale pizza, and bags of chocolate milk. A backpack stacked with Lisa Frank note books, flexi rulers, and color changing pencils. The times where we thought we wouldn’t make it out alive, but we did. Through all the trials and tribulations school helped build who I am today and shaped my future. From basic functions all the way to life-long lessons that helped shape my character.
I scarcely snoozed at all, the day before; incidentally, I felt insecure regarding the fact of what the unfamiliar tomorrow may bring and that was rather unnerving. After awakening from a practically restless slumber, I had a hefty breakfast expecting that by the conclusion of the day, all I wanted to do is go back home and sleep. Finally, after it was over, my dad gladly drove me to school; there, stood the place where I would spend my next four years of my life.
I kept thinking back to when I saw my friend's expressions when I told them the news. The disappointment in their eyes was painful to look at. I arrived to school, feeling troublesome at the thought that this will be the last time I will attend Rutherford Elementary. As I stared at the interior of the school, I spotted the big clock that hovered above the library. It was 8:20, and I realized that I got to school earlier than usual.
It was the second semester of fourth grade year. My parents had recently bought a new house in a nice quite neighborhood. I was ecstatic I always wanted to move to a new house. I was tired of my old home since I had already explored every corner, nook, and cranny. The moment I realized I would have to leave my old friends behind was one of the most devastating moments of my life. I didn’t want to switch schools and make new friends. Yet at the same time was an interesting new experience.
As my alarm sounded at 6 in the morning on a hot August day, there was a different kind of feeling I had in my body. I knew once I left my house in Poland, Ohio, nothing would be the same after that. I knew there some of the things that were normal at home, would never be the same again when I got back. But I was ready for the challenges college would bring to the table.
Over the period of time that I was in this course, I thought it would be a very simple and easy to finish class. But as time went on, I found myself to be demanded more of what I think, what I feel, what must be relied on my ability to understand the concepts and conventions of not only the essays, but of what goes on in the writers mind when writing.
The moment my pen was poised over administrative transfer papers, the affliction that my efforts at school were just like the neglected canvases I’d seen so many times made me pause. Just a scribble of ink, and off I’d go to different school- a new project, a blank canvas. One brushstroke and a future in front of me would open, another behind me would seal shut. But I
Having spent twelve years of my school life in just one small red brick building, the years tend to fade into each other. But the year I remember most clearly and significantly is my senior year of high school, where I finally began to appreciate what this institution offered to any student who stopped to look. Before, school had been a chore, many times I simply did not feel motivated toward a subject enough to do the homework well, and seeing the same familiar faces around ever since I was 5 years old grew very tiring soon enough. But I began to see things from a different angle once I became a senior.