“Okay ladies, time for class. Get into your positions. Ready, first position…second position….third position.” The teacher just goes on and on and on. I was never late, always on time. I was the one who really was cool with a lot of people. I was always a part of the crowd that was social we were all stretching and hoping to relax before practice started. Bars are surrounding the perimeter of the rooms and bright clear mirrors around the whole studio. To be a dancer, it takes a lot of endurance, strength, and commitment. I need to use my legs, arms, and abdomen. In order for I to do that, they need to be strong enough. For some people, it can be a way to express your feelings or just do it, just to do it. Additionally, it can be a very good work out and keep you in shape. Taking ballet when I was little was fun. I would dance around at Philadanco in West Philly with my godsisters.

It was a couple years ago. I hop out the car and rush into the studio. Everyone is in their bodysuits and tights. Before everything starts, we are all stretching and talking among ourselves. Then the instructor comes in, “Hello girls, time for class!” Everyone gets up and is ready. Feet and arms move together in the five basic positions.  I’m moving to the rhythm of the music. “Run run run run, JUMP!” says the instructor. It has been a hour in a half practicing our moves, then we take a break. There are so many conversations going on at once. All the chattering from my peers talking about different topics. Then all conversations stop. It was sounded like we were in a library and no one was to make a sound. Shhhh, someone new comes in. No one knows her but me. Long hair, glasses, and tall. I stand there in amazement wondering why she’s there. I knew dancing was in her but I never knew she would want to do it.. Whether it was ballet, tap, hip-hop. Well, I’m not too sure about the tap dancing. I make her comfortable and introduce her to everyone. She’s pretty good. First position, second position and it keeps going on and on. Never ending. She makes friends quick and blends in but is a stand out. “Demi plié everyone”, says the teacher. Tick tock. The clock is moving by fast. Now it’s coming towards the end of the day and yes, I am very tired. The soles of my shoes are worn out. The long, thick straps leaving a mark around my legs. I think it’s time to go home. Hopefully, the new girl enjoyed her first day. Well, she did cause that new girl was me!

 That day was so much fun. For me, it was kind of nerve reckoning with all of the stares and looks only because I was new, but it all paid off well in the end. After walking in the studio for the first time, I immediately fell in love with it. The moves, the posture, and the technique of it all.

Okay, so now let’s move forwards some years. It’s been a long time since I have danced. Whether it was ballet, hip-hop, or whatever. Yeah, I might go on and dance with my friends at church or when we’re all at home just dancing for fun! I see people on T.V. moving to the beat. Whether the beat was slow or fast. It was years ago and now I’m feeling that I should do it again, along with other things. Every time I go out with my mom to the super market, or to the mall with my friends, I always end up dancing, and most of the time, there’s no music playing. My mom always tells me, “Raeven, I’m going to you back into a dance school.” I always blew it off but now that she’s said so many times, I think I would really like to do it. When she’s not home, I will always put on some music and learn the dances of different music videos …well, not study them, but just look at them and see how precise the dancers are with their moves.

It had been a while since I’ve danced. I have always loved doing it. Whether it was hip-hop or ballet. Sometimes, I do it because it can can be a way to express myself and it’s just fun. Now that I am older, I would like to get back into doing it and really becoming committed to it.

There’s a picture hung up in my dining room. The sky is slightly cloudy yet light blue and it looks like the sun is setting. There are a few opaque clouds letting the sun shine a radiant orange, but the sun is painted white. Below the sun, in the background of the picture are distant blue mountains. They seem small because in the front of the picture are houses blocking the right side of the mountains.

They are old multi-colored wooden houses standing on an actual dock. Both houses are wide in the front and slim on the side. The house farther away is very small and has 2 windows on the front, right below a brown roof and 1 on the side of the house. The body of the house is painted white but has aged, so it’s a dirtier white and almost tan. The house which is closer to the front is taller, by almost half of the smaller house. The roof of this house is painted the same color as the middle of the mountains, a light blue, and the body is painted the same as the smaller house, which is white.

From the bottom of the mountains to the bottom of the picture, is calm water. The water has a beautiful color to it due to the sunset spectrum. There are 2 sailboats parked at the dock and the water behind them is a sea blue because it’s the shadow of the boats. They are rather old and look like they have been there for a long time because there is a lot of bird poop on them. The wooden sails on both of the boats stand taller than the blue-roofed house, and the colors of the boats are dirty white also.

In the lower left-hand corner of the picture is a small island-like dock to park boats. It is  made out of grey rocks and 3 short wooden tree logs coming out of the ground to tie the rope of the boat on. This picture is like a glance of vacation to somewhere far away from home, so relaxing.

I love when the funniest things come unexpectedly. My friends, Ben, Andrew, and I were all in my dining room making our own video series that we brilliantly thought of to upload on YouTube. The videos were based on a class setting, and students making up funny excuses on why they didn’t do or forgot to do their homework. We would do this almost every other day when we would get enough excuses to put in a video. Although, today was different, my friends forgot their list of excuses at home so we decided to record a different kind of video. Not to be racist, but since Ben was Asian we wanted to make a random kung-fu fighting episode. Ben and Andrew take out all their stuff from their pockets and set them on a table. Andrew, by the way, is taller and bigger than Ben by about seventy pounds and eight inches. To tell you the truth I didn’t know what was going to happen, it was all improvised and not even thought out. Seconds later, the fight started… Andrew leaned in for an attack, but Ben’s quick senses stopped and countered the slow attack with a swift 360 degree spin to his left and BACKHANDED Andrew to the light-colored hardwood floor where he got knocked out! All it took him was one move to take down someone way bigger than him! And I got it all on camera! It was a funny day, and Andrew woke up about 10 minutes later.

The most boring English class I’ve ever been in. In eighth grade our teacher, Ms. Parks, made us read a really long story in the old torn up textbooks we had. That was normal for us, but what made it boring was the whole room being quiet except hearing classmates read aloud in monotone, messing up words, and reading unusually slow. Half the class was asleep and I was almost there. Out of nowhere, I began to think to myself about anything and everything. Where then I thought about a dog eating homework and how I hear that in movies all the time. It finally hit me; I started thinking of ironic and hilarious excuses that nobody ever thought of. I wanted to introduce the idea so badly. “Ben!” I screamed quietly. “Yeah?” he asked.

“You want to make some YouTube videos?”

“About what?”

From there we planned meetings and had a goal to make a total of 101 excuses. That’s how we came up with the name “101 Excuses For Not Doing Our Homework”. It’s a simple title but we all agreed on it. We also asked around the school if they wanted to be a part of the “classroom”. We didn’t really get much people and we never reached our goal. Although, we had so much fun doing this, and it gave every boring class something for us to do when we finished our work!

These are just some of the great times my friends and I making a YouTube video series. They are connected because they both happened 2 weeks apart, and without making the series the backhand would’ve never happened. I remember when almost everyone in my school knew about our series and they liked it, and when I showed the kung-fu video to my friends and my teacher at school they all laughed hysterically.

I guess we stopped because summer was over and we didn’t see each other as often as we went our own ways to different high schools. Ninth grade past by, and now we’re both in tenth grade, I still wonder when we’re going to get together again, we had a goal... Goals should be achieved, and in life everyone should have laughter and relaxation.

September 15, 2011

Iron stream, B band

                      Descriptive Essay

                   Burden of Memories

When you transfer to a new school, you usually feel stuck up. I had experience this twice. The time I had transferred to a new Elementary school and when I had entered high school. It’s pretty hectic when you’re at a new school. Its like you have to experience and go through the steps all over again.

“Ring Ring Ring!”  The sound of the alarm clock had screeched in my ears. I woke up with a devastated mood to turn it off. There I went, reaching for the door knob sighing in disbelief, “First day of school...” I walked into the washroom and stared in the mirror for several minutes. One litre of tears. I was unable to hold back the silent tears. It dripped silently down one cheek. I suddenly said to myself, “It shouldn’t be that bad. I’ll get through this first day.” I wiped off my tears and got dressed. Forty minutes later,  I went downstairs to put on my shoes. My dad came down and asked if I was ready. My mind went completely blanked. Dark clouds fell over me and I could hear voices screaming in my head.  

He asked again. I jumped and had woken up from an unusual nightmare I had pictured. 

“Yes, I’m ready dad,” 

I said nervously as I got up. Here I go again, turning the door knob. I opened the door and stepped out as the door had closed behind me. One block away till I reached my destination to a new learning environment.

I had transferred to a new Elementary school, entering fourth grade. I remember clearly standing in front of the classroom full of unknown faces on the first day. A lady with thick body, blonde highlights, with glasses came and introduced herself. 

“Hi, I’m Mrs. Mesi and I will be your teacher for the year. Nice to meet you. Come in and introduce yourself to the class.”  

I stepped in the classroom and stood beside my new teacher.  I stood there biting onto my lips as she told the students to quiet down. The room became dead silent. Now, all eyes on me. I stood there panicking. My chest felt like it was caving in with extreme discomfort and pain. I felt like I was receiving death stares from each person. I tried to speak up, but words kept blocking my mouth. Here I go again, 

“Hi everyone...My name is Vannary.” 

There, I said it. The whole class became severely dead. I was drenched in drips of boiling sweats. My teacher then escorted me to my seat. I sat with two boys in my tables who think they were tough enough to fit in the “hood.” I felt as if my back were against the wall. Everyone in class burst into rowdy laughters and joked around. I was extremely quiet. Blood started rushing through my veins causing inside of me a great pain. I was in my own little corner getting caught up in my own day dreams. Several days, weeks, months, and years later, I had gotten used to the school system. I knew more faces than I ever did when I first came to this school. I opened up to people and had became close to them. I felt more accepted than ever. By eighth grade, I had a group of friends who I considered as my “Best Friends.” They were always there for me through thick and thin. 

As I stepped into this building on the very first day as a high school student, I felt as if was experiencing my life in Elementary school all over again. There were teachers, unfamiliar faces passing through the hallways, a different learning environment, in this new school of SLA. I felt as if my life was in crisis again. It was hard to move on from those awesome times I endured. It was burdensome when I had to approach these new faces at this new school. This reminds me of the Elementary school I had transferred to Elementary. I had to go through every single step I had already did all over again.  

Iron Stream

Getting over your fears.

Everyone has a negative mind about something. We all do. We have fear, anxiety, and struggle towards things. That’s what makes us human. But we have to learn how to take that fear and turn it into something we are brave about facing.

Art was always something I didn’t truly understand, but always had curiosity for. I never thought I was good at art. I would fear art class because I didn’t have the confidence within myself. But then I learned that life is full of unexpected moments, and we should just go with it. I started to not fear, but to stand up to the things I wasn’t comfortable with, and go out of my safety zone. I ended up loving art. One time I was taken completely off guard when I did a project that I didn’t want to do, but ended up enjoying it.

It was 8:15am on a Wednesday morning and I woke up anxious to what we would do today. I arose, brush my teeth, put on the clothes I picked out the night before, and took a quick glance at the mirror, not thinking twice about what I looked like. I was too eager to go to school, but not for art class that was first period. I rush into the classroom, passing the morning chatter, heading straight to the stool with my name on it. Ring Ring. “Good morning class, I’m very excited for the assignment we’re doing today.” My mind then jumping to the array of projects we could possibly do. Drawing still life? Going outside and painting? “In front of you, there is a small black bag, in it is clay. You will be making whatever I say to, without looking at it.” My jaw dropped, this is so stupid I thought. We started the project, and it was strange. Not being able to see what you were doing gave you a whole new perspective on art and how to interpret it. The warm clay, soft but fragile in your hands, as you change it into different pictures you realize different views of art. I thought too much on what my peers might think, and it made me scared that I had to try something new. But going through the process, really not knowing that I could see my creation gave me confidence because I had nothing to worry about. It was supposed to be a fun project that reminds you not to take everything seriously, and if your having fun what your doing you will turn out with amazing results. By the end of class, I was in love with this assignment. It taught me to be patient and to never give up on your work, to always listen and go along with different things. And lastly, to always recognize the views of other people.

Art can resemble many other life situations. A lot of times we are so caught up in something, and if it gets ruined we’re devastated. But to me, that’s why we make mistakes, to learn from them and to make the second time even better than the first. I remember one time I worked all year on a painting, and then only had a few hours to make another. But, in the end I was happy I did it, because it was better than I ever imagined.

I wobble as I walk through the door, my book bag taking up my left shoulder, and my equipment bag taking up the right. As I finally get in I drop the things on the floor, my eyes droopy and my back slouched over from the tiring day. When I walked over to grab a snack, a slow smile started to take up my face. My mom hung up my painting, the one I worked all year on, I was so proud.

I remember it. Last Thursday, wait maybe Tuesday? No, Thursday. I went in the art room at 1:30pm. The atmosphere was loud. Chatter, stools screeching, paint splatter, brushes falling, it was a mess. I put my orange, black, and red paint on a pallet with a big fluffy brush and walk over to my canvas. “Hey Sara, come here I got to tell you something.” My art teacher said slowly with a worried look on her face. “Sure” I say shaky, not knowing what was going to happen. “Rachel spilled water on your painting, I’m sorry but it got ruined.” The room suddenly started spinning, my heart, every beat was faster and louder. My mouth was so dry I couldn’t swallow. I was very silent for what seemed like forever, but was only a few minutes. My head was full of anger, frustration, and failure. “Umm, Uhh” were the only things I could get out. My teacher let me work in the backroom because I had to start over, and it would give me some quiet.

I worked there for over 6 hours. Painting, repainting, drawing, critiquing, moving, sliding, everything.

And there it was, completed. It was actually better than I ever imagined. Seeing it on my wall in my house made it even better. All my work had finally paid off.

It’s very hard to get over fear. But once you do, your entire world is open to new experience with great opportunities. Art is like a clean slate, and you can create anything within your imagination and yourself. This reminds me of coming to SLA for the first time. It was first day of freshman year. I was a tiny little freshman that people mistaken for a shadow, I didn’t know anyone. I walked in, looked around, and only talked when I needed to. But when I went into the bathroom I met this tall blonde girl that hated Justin Bieber. Excitedly, we never left each other’s side the entire day. Luckily, I was blessed with a best friend from the start. Friends can always help you get over fears. She has helped me so much from the first day, to projects, to random things I have to get over. Good friends are always there for you and can help so much with your fears and once you overcome them, nothing can stop you from being the best you can be.

Anthony Buchanico

 They say everybody in life has a passion. And if you don’t you simply haven’t found it yet. For those that haven’t, I highly suggest going on a venture to find it for the betterment of your life. My passion has been guitar for quite a while, and even though I’m not the best at it, I continue to aim higher and higher as my practice continues. And if you haven’t found a passion yet, well maybe guitar can be yours as well!

Having a passion can help in a number of ways. In my case, it not only gives me something to do, but something to strive to be better at as well as relieve stress, and get away from daily life. The possibilities of what you can learn or create are practically endless and show no signs of dwindling. Of course, it’s not always so simple finding something one could love to such an intense amount.

The first time I had picked up a guitar was when I was 8 years of age. After listening more and more guitar in the world my interest sprouted enough for me to walk up to my parents and say, “Mom, Dad, I want to play the guitar!” They liked the idea of me taking an interest in music, so within the week my dad took me to the only small music shop around the neighborhood and there I purchased my first and only acoustic guitar so far, A Jasmine, by the name Takamine.  It was a cheap guitar, brown body, black pick guard and lining, and an illustrious fret board. Of course back then I didn’t understand much about what makes a good guitar just that, but I didn’t care I finally had a guitar!

            I Started playing more and more through the days I had it, but no matter how much I practiced I just wasn’t getting anywhere with playing. After realizing this, my parents decided it was time for me to get some guitar lessons. With a quick search we found a local teacher who would hopefully show me where to go. Of course being a young kid around the time, I had no patience and just wanted to start rocking out riffs left and right. Sadly it wasn’t that simple. Contradicting my previous statement, I had an idea of what I wanted to learn, but as with many things, they never go as planned. My teacher was a very “classical” type of teacher. She stuck to the simple form of learning jingle bells and spending a month and a half on the G note. After about 3 months I looked at my past lessons and it hit me  “What am I doing?”  “This isn’t what I wanted at all.”

            After some discussion, I left her teachings and slowly faded away from guitar. I thought I was done with it; after all it was just some old hobby I picked up. So I put my jasmine down in the corner to collect dust for the next couple of years. I thought I was done, the end of just another short chapter in the book of life. But just like a book, you never know what’s on the next page until your there.

            I was 12 and like most twelve year olds all the days were boring and repetitive; Video Games, food and the Internet. I badly needed a hobby, my parents agreed.

“Hmm, what do we have around this house? I need something good.”

I thought to myself with no idea about what to do. Just then I started hearing piano. It was my sister playing again; she’s an amazing pianist! It seems so easy for her.

And then it hit me, I had an instrument, granted that instrument was now a pile of dust in my room it was an instrument. So I hoped up and waltz my way up to the familiar blue and orange walled safe zone I called a bedroom. I looked at the guitar and with a smile on my face thought, “Let’s try this again.”

From then on out I slowly started getting back into it; I practiced more and more, this time progress slightly quicker than last time. Now I was twelve and about to be 13, a teenager! My birthday was coming up and I knew exactly what I wanted, my first electric guitar. So my birthday came, and I got what I wanted, well almost anyway. Being a young kid I assumed I’d be able to just waltz right in and pick out the nearest multi-thousand dollar guitar. I wound up settling for a beginners pack, I was a beginner after all.

Months went by and even though the guitar wasn’t the nicest sounding it got me by. After a while I had the desire to save for a better guitar. Luckily for me I had a little friend named Christmas coming up. I’ll never forget that Christmas morning when I awoke to find a guitar under the Christmas tree. On the cold and silence of the Christmas Eve night my family and I drove home from South Philadelphia after the annual visit and dinner with my grandparents and the rest of our grand family. As we were driving home on the endless road I could sense the thoughts in the air and interest of what my two younger brothers, my older sister and my self would all receive for the amazing holiday of Christmas. About 45 minutes form departure; we finally arrived to the familiar haven we all call home. After the usual tradition of exchanging gifts between the families we all headed off to our rooms ready as ever to receive gifts and everything on the side. No matter how bad of a sleeper I am, Christmas always manages to be the exception with me quickly falling asleep like a sound child each and every time. My eyes shut, and in the feeling of a blink I was back up with 2 familiar faces in my vision.

            “Wake up Ant!”
                        “Santa Came!”

In the early morning confusion, I almost had forgotten what day it was. It was Christmas of course! As my brother and I anxiously stood at the top of the stairs Stephen, my younger brother, went to wake my parents up on this 7 am Christmas morning. As my sister comes rumbling out of bed it becomes apparent she cares more about sleep than gifts at this moment. So we let her go for later. Right after, my parents come shuffling out of their room just as ready to go downstairs as we were. Halfway down the stairs I looked over, and there it was. A black Les Paul waiting for me. Without even as much as giving the other gifts a glance I scurried to it ecstatic as anyone could imagine. And with each day of the month passing by, I could feel myself growing closer to this Black Les Paul. Now it is the only thing I use more than my computer!

            To this day guitar is still in my life every moment. There hasn’t been a single day where I have been ashamed or regretful of my choice as a passion. Although it may have seemed like rambling it was to show how much passion can take over your life and make you a better person. If there were one thing to do, it would be to implore a passion into your life someday. You won’t regret it!

Which takes me here, to Mr. Block’s class, writing a 3-page essay about our memories. Sadly, the ones that I can be really descriptive on are the sad ones. Leading up to this was 2 scenes, a revise, and a “hot words” is what Mr. Block likes to call them. While I was writing I couldn’t really think on what to write until he announced, “ Everyone put ‘Free Write’ on top of your Google document. You have ten minutes.” I had no idea what so ever to put on my Google doc. I sat in class, during last period for about 4 minutes pondering on what to jot down. Words of any kind, non-stop about anything that my two scenes reminded me about a larger part in life.

I stared and stared until I finally thought of a good idea. “Who am I really?” That was a question that I was trying to answer. While trying to haul all my thoughts and words on this page quickly I finally knew what to say and how to say it. For some reason, I’ve always felt sad, the little things I picked out, and sometimes I even feel as though I’m not confident enough in myself.

I know that not everyone is going to like or approve of you but sometimes I just feel this way.  Other times, I feel empty, just as hallow as a log. I feel like I’m hiding behind a mask most of the time. Who am I really? The darker thoughts reminded me of how it all started like a punch to the face. I remembered how I first felt like I was lost in myself trying to find my true self out. It all started when my friend had called my name in technology class during the 6^th grade, “Briana?” he asked.

That’s all I could hear through the thundering of noise of voices echoing off the technology walls. My best friend David had showed me a picture of this fallen angel with it’s back facing the screen and her left wing broken and crippled but the right wing folded in. The picture was very alluring and it drew me in like the smell of a fresh homemade apple pie. I couldn’t help but understand the picture so well. With constant friends leaving, and promises broken, I understood the pain and sorrow that screamed through the picture.

With my speechless eyes I stared at the picture. I couldn’t take my eyes off it. It was if my eyes hunger for the understanding of the photo. It felt as if I needed the reassuring judgment that the photo brought to it self. The power in the photo was overpowering that everything I was supposed to hear, was closed and pushed out.

After being suck into the vibe of the photo I soon heard, “It’s time to go. Everyone line up.” I soon realized that it was time to go back to class with my homeroom teacher. And with that, I pushed in my chair with aching noises of yelling and got in line. We then as a class, left the technology room. Having this whole flashback moment I realized how many bad things must have happened when I was little.

I’ve always had friends leaving me from my side. And I’ve always been so trustworthy, believing everyone that was nice to me. Always being lied to and having to chose over friends, I’ve never really knew who was telling me the truth and who wasn’t. The constants “I’ll always be your friend” or “You can tell me anything” had always been a lie for me. Now I don’t know who’s really being truthful, and who’s not.

I guess you can say I kind of just gave up on people? I still have things to strive for, but now people are just an obstacle for me. I sound like a horrible person to others when they read this, but I’ve always learned that there's a story behind every person. There's a reason why that they’re the way they are. They aren’t just like that because they want to, something in the past created that.

But knowing that I still feel as though I would be hated for being the me that I think is my true self. Sometimes not caring is the only thing that saves you. But if you think about it, I’m not the one completely at fault. Because others didn’t like the way I was, I changed. I learned how to control my tears. I mold myself into the person that everyone wants me to be.

To them, I was the backup. The one everyone looks to in time of need. But what if the backup needs a backup? I remembered one time when I tried to pour out all my thoughts, my feelings onto paper. “Why” was the only word on the page of my spiral notebook.

 Somehow I couldn’t think of anything to say. I somehow wanted to get all the pain out. Sitting there on the farthest of my couch I thought about the happy times that used to be fun and made everyday seemed as though the sun was out and smiling down on us. That’s when I quickly snapped back into reality. I didn’t notice at first, but I soon felt a small marble like tear jump from my cheek and onto the pants of my leg.

I wiped my face with the quickness. I was angry with myself. How could I possibly cry over something that happened so many times already? With my thoughts filled with rage I finally begin to write. When I was done, I still didn’t feel any different.

I was confused with how my coping skills had failed me like my 5th grade teacher tried to do. How could I still be feeling upset if I just poured out all of my feelings on the paper that was trying to keep it hostage? After a while I just sat, and pondered on what to do next. I then noticed that all I could do was just accept all of it. Accept the pain, happiness, sorrow, everything.

And after my friendship of 8 years ended with one of my closest friends, I told my self to shut down completely. Now I can’t tell my feelings from real to fake. I just go with the flow of my life. I follow what people want from me. I smile when I feel it’s a need to, and I try to be sad when everyone else is too.

I’m numb, and I don’t know how to fix myself yet. Maybe it’s better to leave the broken pieces of glass where they are instead of trying to put them back together. So I continue to find out who I really am. Searching for the chance when that one faint light shines to lead me out of the surrounding darkness of my own shell. But until then I still look for the answer to my question, “Who am I?” 

            Today I’m an average American kid who has been very fortunate but years before I was an embarrassed Vietnamese kid who was uncomfortable with my own name, Viet. Now I’m very connected with my culture and everyday I’m learning something new, like different sayings and the different ways of life but also the history of the country, as I go along.

Years ago I used to think about asking my parents to legally change my name to Victor or some other American name that wouldn’t stand out as Viet. When I was in school I was considered an outsider because of my entirely different name. I was different from everyone else because of my name. When I was in kindergarten everyone thought I was Chinese, at that time People stereotyped Asian people as Chinese but there were an abundant amount of different cultures in Asia. I really didn’t care at the time because I was five and I didn’t know that much about anything then and there. My cousin and I were the same age and the same ethnicity but what set us apart were our names and that changed the way people looked at him and looked at me. In the beginning my parents told me to think it over again because I could be giving up something that made me unique from the rest of the kids, my name. They saw my name as something that would separate me from all of the ordinary kids in school and on the streets. They saw it as something special that no other kid could have. At the very least my parents would let me add the American name as my middle name rather than changing my first name. About a month later my parents asked me if I wanted to change my name to something more commonly heard in American like, Victor or John, but I said no. After rethinking it over I accepted my name because it was different from everyone else. I didn’t want to be like the other American kids anymore because I didn’t want to be stereotyped as something I wasn’t.

In the summer of 2011 I went to Vietnam. There I felt at home because I was no different from anyone else there. I fit in, I didn’t feel like an outsider and I felt like that was where I belonged. No one would question me what I was doing because everyone was doing it. It was something natural there rather than something different, where, as most people would just stare at me. In Vietnam it was like being on another planet where I wouldn’t have to worry about someone accepting or someone staring at me. I could connect to everyone else because everyone was the same as me. I wasn’t that other kid who didn’t have an American name. I fit in because I had a name that wasn’t so different from others. Ironically I’ve never visited or seen Vietnam and I’ve never felt more at home when I was there. Even though I’ve lived in and was born in America I never felt the way I did when I was in Vietnam. Although I’ve been raised in America where I assimilated to the way of living here, I still don’t feel exactly where I should be at times. I eat pizza, watch TV, use the Internet, and play games. In Vietnam I sit down and really get to know my family because a lot of things in Vietnam aren’t as updated as they are here in America. I do things that are normal in America. I remember during the course of second grade I had brought coconut as a drink to school for lunch and when I opened my lunch box everyone had seen that there was something I normally didn’t have and they asked what it was. When I answered that it was coconut everyone around me looked at me like I was the craziest and most insane person to drink that. In Vietnam coconuts were extremely fresh or almost any produce for that matter but it would be delightful refreshment. I would be something that was eaten once in awhile and it was enjoyed.

On the way back to Philadelphia I missed Vietnam but I also missed my own house, where I could sleep on my bed comfortably rather than feeling awkward about sleeping in someone else’s room for three weeks. Waking up the next day to visit the family I’ve grown to know all my life. Coming back to see my cousins that I’ve grown up with was nothing like when I came to my aunts house for the first time. When I first walked into the house the majority of my family greeted me on my dad’s side that I was going meet for the rest of this vacation. Only a few other relatives were missing but it felt stuffy in the house. Most of my relatives were there to greet me, it was nice for the first day or two but after awhile it was irritating because I was the center of attention because I was the son of the brother who had the chance to live in America. I was also special because I was the son of the second or third child that was still living. For next three weeks I had become the center of attention. If someone wanted to know something about America they would ask me, instead of asking my completely fluent speaking father. I would always be asked what did I do, what did I have, was there this or that at different times of the day. I realized I should learn more about my culture and language to be able vacation in that paradise of country one day.

9/16/11

 Object to Human Connections

Do people just write-to-write, does that make that person a writer. How can you just write something random like this paper? If people just wrote because they felt like it would everyone get published or would only certain people get published. I believe that to be a writer your story has to be a person not just a story. Which means that your story must have human characteristics. When you give a story those characteristics it allows it to connect to people. The writer must make his/her story have emotion, rules, looks, anything that will connect with the reader bind with the reader. The reason why I say this is because a story without feelings is a story with no problem. Most stories have a problem even though you can’t see it it’s aproblem is what a person sees.

I wonder can I be a writer can I really? I think not. The reason for that is because I don’t have emotion and good grammar in my writing and that's one of the key points in books that are published. To just publish a book must feel wonderful so everyone gets joy and everyone connects.

On the surface there is a bunch of leaves, tree leaves. There is a car above those leaves, red car. It's like a Lamborghini. In the background area there are two trees. That tress is very bushy so it covers most of the background area. The car is like an inch away from both sides of the picture. It's outdoors of course. The front of the car is flat. The leaves are small and mostly brown. The light beaming down on the car coming from the bright and powerful sunlight, striking once again to prove that no other light can be brighter. The oval shapes of these leave made the surrounding feel a lot different then it used to. Where did that car come from? It’s just there out in the wilderness all by itself taking up all the tropical breezes and rain, but still no damage done as if the car cant be touched. It’s rare not something you see everyday a stranded car not need for rescue, but what if the car need that rescue no one would care. When you see a car you knew that 3 ton metal on wheels. People always expect a person to be there. Not today there isn’t there is just a car.

One day I got a present it was very important to me. Red ropes and Black ropes they all were there. That ring they fight the one where all the dirty mess happened hand to hand combat, foot to foot combat. It’s weird how you can lose one of those ropes in just a blink of an eye. It was there i tell you it was there i remember it and up to this day I wonder where it went. I cant believe I lost that rope now all i have a hard mattress for those sweaty men to wrestle on. I looked for that rope forever I couldn’t find it, but i wonder where that rope would've gone. The picture of that ring was not complete without that rope it didn’t make sense to have that piece missing. With all the digging and searching I’ve done for that rope. Boxes and boxes i went through looking. When you can’t find that missing piece the set fells empty the present feels empty.

Did you ever get a present for Christmas? Then it broke that day, how did you feel. Let me tell you about my gift. Wrapped in red and green paper so fragile. First the tape then the wrapper off it went flying, into the air floating to the ground. A bright light shined out of the box. I dug my hands in there and took out that bright light. The light dimmed down and I saw it my present 4 wings custom paint it was there. I wondered what did I do to deserve that gift. I also didn’t want to argue with it. A box with an antenna was used to control as it hovered into the area. Of course I didn’t know how to use it so it hit the hard floor above you. SMACK. My mouth dropped just like my gift in my eyes it fell so slow like a movie when they make a dramatic scene. SWOOSH and that was it. I tried to fix it, tape I thought to fix those four beautiful wings. Once I was finished I felt success. An eager smile went across my face.