She peered at the floor. I knew her moods by now, so I rushed over. “What’s wrong?”, I said. Sarah stammered, “Umm. Jenny just ...” She stopped. I looked at her, smiled, and asked her what happened. She explained the latest incident in which one of our classmates criticized one of her feminist beliefs and embarrassed her in class. We walked down the hallway, and I encouraged her to continue standing up for what she believes and not to let anyone silence her. The bell rang, and we hugged, Sarah squeezing a little harder and longer than usual. I love Sarah, but our relationship was not always this close. I have attended the Latin School of Chicago for 13 years. Growing up was easy for me. I was the type of boy who was always picked first …show more content…
I was not always sensitive to people who were different from me. I was more interested in making my friends laugh, even at someone else’s expense, than I was in [.....]. Sarah had been a classmate of mine since I entered Latin in junior kindergarten. She was always different from the other girls. On top of that, she was exceedingly insecure which made her an easy target. In a class of only sixty kids, there is nowhere to hide when a bully sets their target on you. For many of my early years, I am ashamed to admit that I was that bully to Sarah. In music class, I laughed when she sang. My friends and I called her names behind her back. In my most regrettable incident, in sixth grade, I typed an inappropriate message on her computer that resulted in me having to write an apology letter to Sarah’s …show more content…
I realized that I am not the only person in this world with feelings. Most people have this feeling, not everyone. In nature I was finally granted with something greater than my ego, greater than my name. Sarah was nothing but an innocent classmate of mine who just wanted to smile and laugh like everyone else did. All she wanted to do was get through school without someone having to make a rude comment to her. I was now stuck in this unique position to now want to fulfill her life with happiness and not tear her apart. From that day forward, I resolved to understand that I wanted to be her favorite place to go when she was having a bad day. I wanted to live up to my peers expectations. Because when people see good in one, they expect it. Not only did I want to be the “mayor” but seeked enjoyment in making others
It was a sunny day with a sweet aroma of blooming tulips. The sunlight glittered on their faces as the breeze rattled the chestnut tree above. There was an occasional giggle as they talked, but there was also a hint of discomfort and awkwardness between them as they peeked at each other’s face and recoiled when the other looked up. When the bell rang twice, I saw them say goodbye and walk away from each other. In the darkness of the crowd, a glimmer flashed into my eyes from Hannah’s cheeks.
In fifth grade, I had a teacher by the name of Mrs. Sera. Even typing her name gives me this cold feeling inside; she eerily resembles Miss Viola Swamp from the children’s book Miss Nelson is Missing. Viola Swamp was “the meanest substitute teacher in the whole world.” Mrs. Sera, on the other hand, my full-time educator and seemingly just as mean. She had a long pointy chin, a fairly large nose, and extremely thin lips that rarely ever smiled just like Miss Swamp. During this year leading up to middle school, I struggled in every subject: math, science, social studies, and language arts. The only parts of the day I succeeded in were recess and lunch. I remember one day, I had a test in science. I received a 23%. This is still the lowest grade
Everyone is guilty of it. even those who claim they're not. think about it! EVERYONE cares about appearances. I care about appearance. I care about how I look, and though I try not to, sometimes I judge others on how they look.
In my words, Sociological imagination is a way for a person to look at their life as a result of their interaction with society. It can explain why a life is lived with way it is lived and all events, decisions, successes, and failures that have occurred. In my life I have encountered many situations, problems, opportunities and events. I can use my sociological imagination to examine these and figure out why I am the way I am and also why I have chosen to do certain things
I have always considered myself a very promising student. I have worked extremely hard and received high grades. I have a close knit group of friends and my teachers and I have mutual respect for each other .Although I would consider myself at this present stage ‘fulfilled’ something was missing. I realized it wasn’t a materialistic aspect of my life. Through a tragic incident I finally discovered what fit perfectly in that vacancy. The consecutive hospitalizations of my grandparents evoked great pain and sorrow. However, out of the scorching intensity of this tragedy I was warmed and comforted by realizing what I was devoid of: community service.
A secret agent. A professional football player. A fire fighter. These would have been my responses when asked that inevitable question, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" Family, Media and Peers are said to have influenced my views concerning the role I am to play society. All of these factors had one thing in common. They all were influencing me to behave according to my gender. Everything from the clothes I wore to the toys I played with contributed to this. Even now as a young adult my dreams and aspirations are built around the gender roles that were placed on me.
The summer before my freshman year, I moved to Eagle County, Colorado from Evanston, Illinois– a town adjacent to Chicago. While it was a drastic change, there were some striking similarities in the socioeconomic disparities seen in both Chicago and Eagle County. Chicago is notorious for the inequalities that are represented between the inner-city neighborhoods and the suburbs. Still, I was surprised when I moved to the mountains– I hadn’t expected there to be such socioeconomic differences between the wealthy and less fortunate in the Vail Valley. Unfortunately, the less fortunate group of people in Eagle County are the Hispanics.
Everybody on the planet has their own personal struggles. Whether that’s a life-threatening situation or something that may make only a minor impact, we all have something that’s on our minds a lot of the time that can instantly bring our mood down. As humans, we’re desperate to escape from all the grief that fills our brains and we’ll do whatever it takes to relieve such pain. Growing up, something I struggled with the most was my ability to fit in. My main concern was to feel liked and to be approved by others. I believed that if I did what everyone else did, dressed like everyone else dressed, and acted like everyone else acted, I would be accepted by my peers. I craved that feeling of joy I witnessed in fellow classmates who were liked
What’s the most common word that comes to mind in a week? Mine is sorry. Most common phrase? Always beginning in under, less than or lacking. You are underrepresented in society. You are lacking in the opportunities many other people have had. You’re less than prepared. Sorry for letting you down. But those are just words. Seeing is believing.
“I am standing in the hallway looking out the window for my ride home. I turn around and my suitcase is gone; Joe and Bill from down the hall are laughing as they carry it away. I follow them. I hear a door lock behind me. They let go of my suitcase and grab me. I am lying on the bare linoleum floor of Joe's bedroom. In the room are a group of Lambda Chi and KDR pledges who live on my hall; several of them are football players. Some are sitting on the bed, laughing. Two others are pinning my arms and my legs to the floor. Joe is touching me while the others cheer. I am a friendly fellow-classmate as I reasonably explain that I'm in a rush to catch a ride, that I'm not in the mood to joke around; that I'd really like them to please cut it out.
Wait. Be still. Don't go over the line. Don't let go. Wait for it. "BANG!" My reactions were precise as I sprung out of the blocks. The sun was beating down on my back as my feet clawed at the blistering, red turf. With every step I took, my toes sunk into the squishy, foul smelling surface, as my lungs grasped for air. Everything felt the way it should as I plunged toward my destination. I clutched the baton in my sweaty palms, promising myself not to let go. My long legs moved me as fast as I could go as I hugged the corner of the line like a little girl hugging her favorite teddy bear. The steps were just like I had practiced. As I came closer to my final steps, my stomach started twisting and my heart beat began to rise. The different colors of arrows started to pass under my feet, and I knew it was time.
My name is Victoria and I am 33 years old and live in the city of Chicago. I have long brown hair, a thin physique. I have always been an extrovert, as opposed to my younger sister, Gloria, who keeps everything to herself.
As much as I enjoy listening to what's going on in politics, I need a new hobby. Unfortunately, after listening to the news over a prolonged period of time it has had a negative impact on me.
As I heard the gun shots outside the glass window, I ran terrified behind the old, brown couch in our living room and hide myself there. My heart beating increased, and currents of panic and fear ran through my body. I made an effort to connect my shivering hands and started praying, hoping that my mom and siblings were safe since they were out buying some groceries at the store that was five blocks away from our house. Fortunately, nothing happened to my family, they got home within an hour later after the shooting was over. Minutes later after their arrival, a neighbor came to our house warning us to stay inside the house until the police announce that things were back to “normal”. I was six years, and living in a neighborhood where there were daily confrontations due to gang violence and rivalry wasn’t easy. However, my family and I aimed for something better, and that meant moving to a new country, starting from zero, struggling economically, and gazing into my parent’s heartbroken expressions every time they couldn’t afford a new pair of shoes for me.
I’m not someone you’ll know for my actions. I will not be given medals for honor or recognition, not be written on a plaque or statue. Maybe in a report my name will be mentioned in a footnote, hardly legible.