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Transition from childhood to adulthood essay
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The fleeting changes that often accompany seasonal transition are especially exasperated in a child’s mind, most notably when the cool crisp winds of fall signal the summer’s end approaching. The lazy routine I had adopted over several months spent frolicking in the cool blue chlorine soaked waters of my family’s bungalow colony pool gave way to changes far beyond the weather and textbooks. As the surrounding foliage changed in anticipation of colder months, so did my family. My mother’s stomach grew larger as she approached the final days of her pregnancy and in the closing hours of my eight’ summer my mother gently awoke me from the uncomfortable sleep of a long car ride to inform of a wonderful surprise. No longer would we be returning to the four-story walk up I inhabited for the majority of my young life. Instead of the pavement surrounding my former building, the final turn of our seemingly endless journey revealed the sprawling grass expanse of a baseball field directly across from an unfamiliar driveway sloping in front of the red brick walls that eventually came to be know as home. My childhood was a playground for imagination. Joyous nights were spent surrounded by family at my home in Brooklyn, NY. The constantly shaded red bricks of my family’s unattached town house located on West Street in Gravesend, a mere hop away from the beach and a short walk to the commotion of Brooklyn’s various commercial areas. In the winter, all the houses looked alike, rigid and militant, like red-faced old generals with icicles hanging from their moustaches. One townhouse after the other lined the streets in strict parallel formation, block after block, interrupted only by my home, whose fortunate zoning provided for a uniquely situa... ... middle of paper ... ...resence of my parents upstairs, despite the brain scrambling heat of the sauna, I suddenly felt homesick, and realized I yearned to be in my basement. The pitted feeling in my stomach grew stronger as I realized it is not the basement of my childhood that I miss, it is the basement of my fraternity house where Kegs littered the floors like toys and pledges were hazed like the violent was games my youth. I found another cycle came to a close, and I found myself separated from what I had once known. The basement used to be my sanctuary, the place I could dream in. Standing just outside a basement no longer mine while still profusely sweating from the sauna, a crisp late August breeze gently cooled my body. I deeply inhaled the last moments of summer knowing full well that fleeting changes that often accompany seasonal transition were no longer of any concern to me.
The “other America” Kotlowitz describes in his book is the public housing complex at Henry Horner Homes in Chicago. By following the lives of two boys, Lafeyette and Pharoah Rivers, we are exposed to the misfortunes, turmoil and death that their lives are filled with.
Inner-city life is filled with glimmers of hope. The children had hopes of leaving the dreadful streets of the ghetto and moving into an innovative and improved place. There are times when Lafayette states, ...
On Thanksgiving night in 1931, Elkrose Drive was the quietest that it had ever been. Elkrose Drive was always a quiet, private neighborhood located in Ohio. This neighborhood was home to the Ambarson’s, the Breac’s, and the MacUsbaig’s, only the most wealthy in Ohio could afford these houses. The Ambarsons owned the biggest and most expensive house on this street. The house was made of bricks and wood sliding with a very large portion of land. And now, only the Ambarson’s were home today, and they had no idea that they should’ve left.
Standing on the street corner, eyes closed, head tilted skyward, my ears consumed the sounds of the day. Cars whizzing by, dogs barking, wind swirling dried leaves across the sidewalk. A faint greeting, “How’s your mom and ‘dem?” I did not immediately realize it was directed towards me. The second time I heard it, “How’s your mom and ‘dem?”, the volume had been turned up. Peering through the maze of azalea bush branches, I see a weathered old man, straw fedora sitting percariously atop his slightly tilted head. I fear the wind, that whips my hair, will claim the hat as its own. It only slightly rises, quickly stayed by a long-fingered, weather-wrinkled hand. We share smiles; a tip of the hat, and a nod end the encounter. Sunglasses raised, I squint into the glaring afternoon sunlight – shuitters tap the cypress siding, protesting the intrusion by the breeze, on the side of the Queen Anne cottage. I realize I am channeling the essence of the Historic District of Thibodaux, LA – “Where yesterday welcomes tomorrow.” (City of Thibodaux, LA)
Often times I find myself reminiscing about my child hood. I recall driving throughout the prominent metro Detroit neighborhood in which I grew up, Rosedale Park. See in those days my community was a gem which shone bright toward the edification of the Motor City. On streets like Piedmont, Grandville, Stahelin and Artesian one could drive by almost at any time and see children outside playing, adults on porches and sidewalks fellowshipping, and houses abounding with vibrant lights, laughter, and with life. This was my community; moreover, this was a facet of my adolescence that I ignorantly took for granted. Today desolation has grown sovereign over this beautiful gem. Today the sounds of laughter have all but faded into a resounding restless silence. One could even say that abandoned houses and boarded doors and windows have become indigenous, not only to Rosedale Park, but to every part of the metro Detroit area. However, one thing has remained constant; Rosedale Park, no rather Detroit as a whole is still my community.
There are about twenty lots in our neighborhood; all consist of close to three and a half acres. Most of the lots have houses now, all of them are big and well kept; a perfect place to raise an upper-middle class family. Just outside of Richmond, the Boscobel neighborhood gives individuals a constant taste of the southern country air, a place to grow a garden, to sit out on the porch at night and look at the stars.… The neighbors are kind as they greet one another in passing. Families come together for picnics and cook-outs and mothers go on walks together with their dogs while the kids are in school. The kids of the neighborhood love to play by the creek in the back yard. They build forts and huts, find pretend food and crayfish in the creek, and play hide-and-seek in the woods beyond the creek. It is the peaceful, everyday life in the Boscobel neighborhood.
Popular contemporary author, George R.R. Martin, once said: “Summer will end soon, and my childhood as well.” The six poems discussed explore the different aspects of childhood, and portray childhood as a brief but magical ‘summer’-time, especially Piano and Hide and Seek, which emphasize this by alluding to the constrictions of adulthood and the warmth of juvenescence. While Gareth Owen’s Salford Road avoids any portrayals of adulthood, it might map the progression of childhood to adulthood like Vernon Scannell’s Hide and Seek, and thus accentuate the carefree lives that children lead. Meanwhile, Half Past Two by UA Fanthorpe and Houses by Robert Hull focus instead on the freedom and creativity childhood brings, and therefore presents the theme of childhood in a more playful light reminiscent of Martin’s summer. Finally, Soap Suds by Louis Macniece brings the briefness of childhood into focus, much like summer in the span of a year.
Standing on the balcony, I gazed at the darkened and starry sky above. Silence surrounded me as I took a glimpse at the deserted park before me. Memories bombarded my mind. As a young girl, the park was my favourite place to go. One cold winter’s night just like tonight as I looked upon the dark sky, I had decided to go for a walk. Wrapped up in my elegant scarlet red winter coat with gleaming black buttons descending down the front keeping away the winter chill. Wearing thick leggings as black as coal, leather boots lined with fur which kept my feet cozy.
I knew I was in Camden, New Jersey, when I saw the cracked cement of roads that had been left uncared for. The van grumbled as it stumbled over many scattered bumps and ridges along the light faded road, shaking us in our seats. I knew I had entered when the buildings began to press up against each other, no yard space, and their roofs would start to crumble. When more and more homes with boards covering up any source of life within them would appear between more normal ones, crumbled and shambled. There were empty lots in every street filled with dirt and rubble, the aftermath of the life that had once been there incinerated and gone. Broken fences, either rusted or mowed over, lined each house. In contrast, the sky was a bright blue and the
As I drive up the hill, passing the mailbox and the meticulously groomed lawn, I find myself taking on a transformation. I breathe a sigh of relief and feel the tension drain from my body in anticipation of seeing "my place." As I turn the corner I see it, to anyone else it just looks like a simple field. But to me, it is my sanctuary that I can escape from the hectic world. This is where I can relax and feel like I’m a kid again. In my field, for a short while time stops, and I don’t have to worry what needs done next. This place also holds many wonderful memories as well as making new ones each year.
It was my dream to always own my own home. My wife and I set out to purchase a house on our own. In our process of trying to be first-time homeowners, we looked at so many houses until we were about ready to say maybe now is not the time. One day we were out driving not really looking and stumbled upon a house which we thought would be our home. We got the information we needed and made the call to see the house. The house was a newly built house with all the amenities my wife wanted. Not knowing the ends and the outs of purchasing a house, we thought that it could not be that hard. We went all in for this house, our house. The builder/realtor was not willing to negotiate the asking price of the house. We were even expected to pay closing cost. The contract included a lot of costs which we also found out were non-negotiable. Had we been represented by a agent, things may have gone a little differently. We were then told that there was another contract on the house and it would be taken. We lost the house we considered or thought would be our home.
We loaded up the car and headed out to Route 30. I had made this trip several times before, but this time it was one way. I had been excited to—as I saw it—get on with my life, but this day I was feeling less than enthusiastic. I figured it was the hassle of moving: this would be the second time my parents and I had transferred my things from home to a dorm room. This time my sister was along to lend a hand. We finally pulled up to the institutional-style brick building that was to be my home for the next three years. The August weather was typically hot and humid, but looking at the dormitory’s stark exterior, I suddenly felt a chill.
place I would have to go to before and after school. I have always loved my
I awoke to the sun piercing through the screen of my tent while stretching my arms out wide to nudge my friend Alicia to wake up. “Finally!” I said to Alicia, the countdown is over. As I unzip the screen door and we climb out of our tent, I’m embraced with the aroma of campfire burritos that Alicia’s mom Nancy was preparing for us on her gargantuan skillet. While we wait for our breakfast to be finished, me and Alicia, as we do every morning, head to the front convenient store for our morning french vanilla cappuccino. On our walk back to the campsite we always take a short stroll along the lake shore to admire the incandescent sun as it shines over the gleaming dark blue water. This has become a tradition that we do every morning together
I awoke to the sun piercing through the screen of my tent while stretching my arms out wide to nudge my friend Alicia to wake up. “Finally!” I said to Alicia, the countdown is over. As I unzip the screen door and we climb out of our tent, I’m embraced with the aroma of campfire burritos that Alicia’s mom Nancy was preparing for us on her humungous skillet. While we wait for our breakfast to be finished, me and Alicia, as we do every morning, head to the front convenient store for our morning french vanilla cappuccino. On our walk back to the campsite we always take a short stroll along the lake shore to admire the incandescent sun as it shines over the gleaming dark blue water. This has become a tradition that we do every