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Descriptive Essay: Poor Unfortunate Souls

Posted by Melanie Harrington in English 2 - Block on

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“I’m scared”, Trisha whispered to me as we stood on the side of the mountain, looking down at her brother, Josh, who was eagerly encouraging us to ride down. It was getting late. The wind was blowing, penetrating my gloves, chilling my hands to the bone, slightly harder than it was five minutes ago. “I’ll go with you” I promised, sounding just as terrified as she did. Giving eachother a look of understanding, we pushed off of the snow covered hill.

We’re going too fast! We’re going too fast! Those were the words that ran through my head as soon as we pushed off. I felt the wind nick at my face repeatedly. It felt like my face was being stretched and pulled apart. Josh’s laughing could be heard over the wind howling in my ears. Trisha fell and lost her ski polls as she slid down the hill, her skis popping off due to an emergency default setting. I kept going, screaming at the top of my lungs. Oh no...
My eyes grew wide and my screaming grew louder and more urgent as I saw the tree line approaching sooner than I would have liked it to. “Josh!” The sound was ripped out of my mouth by some unseen force and carried backwards towards the boy I had just passed, left standing on the bottom of the hill, dumbfounded, wondering what was going on.
BAM! I felt pressure on my legs. My vision grew dark spots and the breath was shoved out of my lungs. I laid face down on the snow covered gown, mouth open, unable to breathe. My vision returned and I flipped myself onto my back. Past the tall green tree tops, that seemed so far away, I could see the beautiful sky in the distance. Terrible thoughts ran through my head. Staring at the sky, the cold dampness seeping through my clothes, I laid there unable to move, wondering what was going to happen next. I grew tired, each blink seemed drawn out. For those few minutes I was at peace.

I realized that this moment was terribly beautiful. Even though I was injured and most likely would have died, fellow skiers kept passing by, simply overlooking me as if they couldn’t see the contrast between my bright blue snow jacket and orange helmet, and the white, icy ground. But at the same time I was, in a way, forced to see the world around me. This time I couldn’t get distracted and I couldn’t overlook things anymore the way that those skiers overlooked me. I had a real chance to actually see the world for what it was. I finally understood something. Terrible things happen everyday, and no one cares. The world in all it’s beauty carries on. The sun still shines and the rain still falls and people get up and get on with their lives everyday. Everything I once knew, everything I was taught since childhood was lost. I am alone. I have always been alone. It only took me up until now to realize it because I was so blinded by the ignorance of the world.

It all spiraled out of control from there. It was like I was stuck in a never ending freefall, and every time I thought it was over I would fall again. The feeling of helplessness and hopelessness consumed me most days. Little things started to get to me. I would cry a lot and I couldn’t take a joke anymore. I think everyone has those days where they just feel like nothing. They act like nothing and live the whole day in silence, simply consumed by their own thoughts. Terrible thoughts that eat away at your mind, telling you how worthless you are. You can’t escape. How do you outrun something that’s a part of you, something that you can’t control?
Each day is a struggle. Like a war between you and, well, yourself. Memories that you thought you had forgotten or never gave a second thought to suddenly flood back, and you become mortified even though you try and convince yourself that no one remembers. People go on with their lives and seem to forget you. It’s like you’re only here to be here. You’re here as a rock for other people, but as they become strong, they leave. It’s like waking up from a spell, cast by the world and people and influences around you. You don’t see things the way you were taught. There is no one answer anymore. Things become less clear, less ignorant, less narrow-minded. Unlike the people around you. They don’t see the way you do. You’re different now. An outcast. A simple organism in a vast sea of conformity. Everyone talks the same and acts the same and looks the same and pretends like they know what they’re talking about. But if you ever dare say something different, you are shunned and perceived from that day on as “rude” and “stupid” and my personal favorite, a “freak”.
We live in a world where “children don’t own opinions”. Where people are looked down on and bullied because they don’t “look right”, because someone’s idea of beauty weighs more than someone elses. Where you have to be skinny and wear the right clothes and have the right things, just like everyone else. People wonder why children kill themselves. No one really cares unless you’re pretty or dying. That’s just how it is, and that is sad. Very, very sad. Just the thought of someone slitting their wrists, skipping meals or even just consuming and doing things they shouldn’t feel the need to do, just to make up for the fact that they can’t “fit in” is sickening. We’re teaching kids that it’s okay to torment and attack other people because they’re different. If everyone was the same it would be a pretty boring world and even more conformed than it already is. When you tell someone that they’re ugly, fat, annoying, stupid, and/or any other type of insult, they will start to believe it. Because that doesn’t go away. If you feel the need to hurt someone, then maybe you should try and seek help of your own. That’s not a bad thing and I think both you and other people would benefit from your doing so. You can’t outrun your mind. You could try and ignore it and pretend it isn’t there, but in the end it has a way of ruining your life and reopening old wounds.
Depression can be triggered by many types of things and in many different forms. Most happen through traumatic experiences, just like the skiing accident I wasn’t so fortunate to experience. It’s like a domino effect. Once it’s triggered it never really passes. The dominos keep falling, knocking over one another as they go down. And the last domino to fall is you.

Descriptive Essays (The Unexpected)

Posted by Jasir Massey-Campbell in English 2 - Block on

This school-day afternoon would be one of the memorable days of my life. Today taught me how to always expect the unexpected. It all started when my classmates and I had just walked  into our classroom from our 11:35 lunch. Still filled with energy, we are going through a tough transition from a fun intense game of good’ole american football to a quiet learning environment. Smiles were painted on everyone’s faces, laughter filled the air and the 6th grade classroom smelled of old furniture. We all stood around chatting to our friends, waiting for the teacher to instruct us to sit down. Most of us were in the corner of the room where our small library was. No one really reads there, but it was a nice place to hang out because of the couches. Not all of us were misbehaving, there were the “goodie two-shoes” the “teacher’s pets”, Jake, Annie and Jamie,  who sat diligently waiting for the teacher to arrive. We didn’t really like them much, they made everyone else in the class look terrible, even though in reality it was us who made ourselves look terrible. Our teacher June Ghondi, walked in the room. She was from Kenya and had a deep accent where she said every word deeper than normal and held on to the last syllable of the last word she said for a second too long. In her thick Kenyan accent she yelled.

 “Class! Please take your seats!” Everyone quickly sat down at our assigned desk. Now, class, please take out your creative writing pads.” 
We all did as we were told. Our “creative writing pads” are plain bright yellow note pads. Everyday we were expected to write for a hour and half. It could be a poem, short story and anything inbetween. I picked up my yellow no. 2 pencil and began writing my thoughts down. Line after line I was writing about life and how life just wasn’t fair. Some people were born rich, privileged and some, out of their control were born poor and into poverty. I began rambling about where I stand in this spectrum and realized I was extremely privileged. “What to write about now?” I asked myself. “Shhhh!” yelled some students. When people do this it makes me ponder on the fact that by them telling me to “Shh”, not only did they make more noise than I did but they are simply making noise. So should someone tell them to Shhh? If so, then there would be long never ending “shh-ing”.

“Jasir!” June yelled.

“What...”

“Stop your daydreaming and get back to work!”  

“My god...”

I looked over my shoulder and you can see the other children smirking. I don’t get it though. There are 20 plus other kids in this classroom and she only picks on me. I know that I am not the best student in the world, or the most respectful, but I don’t do anything that no one else has done. From the first week I stepped in this classroom I knew that she had it out for me.  Other kids were talking, actually there are some talking right now. But of course June does nothing to them.

Ironically after I said that June began barking to some kids at the table on the west side of the room.

“You! Get out of my classroom!”

“I’m sorry I’ll-”

“No,  Get out now! I told everybody to not say a word. C’mon now, get moving.” She said sarcastically.

The whole classroom grew wide smiles, but did not dare to laugh out loud in fear they would be the next person being sent out. Three children began packing their bags. There were 5 clusters of desk in June’s room, and each cluster was made of 4 desk. This left Annie, one of the teacher’s “dolls” all alone. As they were exiting the room, you can hear all of them talking under their breath.
“If anyone wants me to give them feedback on what they have written, you can come to my desk.” June said.

Liliana, who is also apart of the teachers pet clan, quickly sprung out of her seat and ran to the stool next to June. The rest of the class began to acquire the desire to speak with her. Twelve of us had our hands raised. June knew our hands were raised , but she didn’t turn her head, trying to give us the impression that she doesn’t recognize us and no one wanted to speak because they did not want to be sent out. My question was simple. I wanted to know when our next draft of writing was due. My arm was fatigued from football so I dropped my arm and picked my pencil up after. My friend Imani was holding her hand up the longest. You can tell she was impatient because she kept saying  “Spss” and frantically waving her arms back in forth, in hope of capturing June’s attention. She began to whisper to Hoshea who was sitting on the desk across from her.

“Imani! Go outside if you want to talk to Hoshea. Hoshea you join her so you can finish your conversation.*
“I was asking her-”
“I don’t care. I said no talking. If you had a question you ask me.”
“But you-”
“I am not trying to hear it!”

This time people were not laughing or joking. I am not going to get kicked out. I told myself. Minute after minute someone was being kicked out of the classroom. Anand who was one of June’s favorites was even kicked out for saying thank you to someone who picked up his pencil for him when he dropped it. This kid named Rich, who was usually a troublemaker, and a person who talked during class was just as silent as me. Some kid next to him was talking, I couldn’t tell who, because I didn’t want to be falsely accused and get kicked out.

“Rich get out!” June yelled.

“THAT WAS DONAVAN!”

“That was me” Donavan said.

“Donavan get out too!”

Rich sat back down and continued his work.

“Rich I thought I told you to get out!”

“But Rich just admitted it was him?!”

“OUT! you’re talking now aren’t cha?”

“Oh my GOD!” Rich replied  

Rich was silent but because of his reputation, he was also thrown out. I looked up at the clock. 2:25, ten more minutes to go then I am out of here!. I looked around the room and you would not be able to tell there was a class going on in here. Only 4 kids remained in the classroom, me, Gabby, Liana, who was still hogging the teacher and Annie. At the end of class, June walked to my desk.

I thought to myself. What does this bat want now?
“Jasir.”
“Yes June” I said in an innocent voice
“I am very very proud of you...”
When she said those words to me I was astonished. She was proud of me. Those words caught me off guard. I would never bet on her to have ever said to me.  I did not only learn to expect the unexpected but I learned that I am a good student. I learned that being the cool guy is not always the “cool” thing to do. A smile arose on my face and a sense of accomplishment filled me.
"Wow” This was all I could say.  

Descriptive Essay: Into the Hole

Posted by Kennedy Coverdale in English 2 - Block on

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“Tag! You’re it!”

“No way man! You didn’t even touch me!”

“Please, I got you by the back of your shirt. Plus, I’ve been it since for - ever!”

“Fiiiiiine, I’ll be it.”

“Kennedy! I need you here for a moment.”


Hearing my name, my head turned sharply to the right and looked in front of me. There was my mom, standing in the doorway with her blue jeans and orange shirt. My breath sharpened and became quick; I wondered what I did wrong. The tone of her voice when calling me was swift and piercing. Nevertheless I quickly ran to my mother’s side, waving at my friends signaling that I was going to be back soon in order to play some more.


Once I was in the door, I followed my mom from the foyer to the living room; where the stairs were located. The sight of black carpet took me in like a hole of complete darkness. I always felt afraid when stepping on the carpet because it looked like it could suck me in at any moment. Because of that fear, I bypassed my mom and trotted quickly to the stairs on the other side of the room. My black shirt floated at the bottom while my light jean shorts stayed tight at my thighs. I hopped onto the first pale purple step and took a glance at my mom. My mom sighed at the feat and I just smiled weakly, shrugging my small shoulders. I crawled up the stairs with my mom in tow, except she walked normally. Once I reached the top of the stairs, I stood there, temporarily towering over my mother, who was still near the bottom. I felt like a king until she reached the top where I was at. Then I took a couple of steps to the left, silently questioning my mom if we were heading to her room or otherwise. She gave me a look that said ‘Duh.’ I made another weak smile and headed down the hall to her room.


Reaching the doorway, I peeked in to the right and saw my dad sitting on the side of the huge king-sized bed that covered most of the room. I slowed my pace and started to make my way through the doorway with my mom in tow. She settled into her favorite pink chair, right next to the doorway. I settled for sitting next to my dad on the bed. So I jumped up, placed my feet on the frame, and climbed up. I took a peek at each of their faces, just to see what was up. I first took a look at my dad. His face was quite solemn and very upset looking. My brows furrowed at his expression and I offered him a small smile but he just glanced away instead. I frowned and glanced at my mom who did the exact same thing. I was about to open my mouth and ask what’s wrong, but my dad suddenly interrupted me.


“Me and your mom are getting a divorce.”


Suddenly, my mom snapped back almost instantaneously “Howard! Let her down easier! She’s only ten!” My dad was about to retaliate, but he stopped himself and looked down at the carpet underneath his feet. My mom cooled herself down and then looked at me, who was shaking. Tears flooded my eyes, my vision became blurred, and my words became non-existent. I started to sob softly, which turned into a full on cry - fest. My throat felt dry and my mouth felt salty. My hands fumbled to my face to quiet my sobs, but my dad suddenly grabbed me and pulled me into a tight hug. The room was filled with silence, except for my muffled sobs against my dad’s chest. I heard a soft ‘Sorry’ from my dad, and a quiet sniff from my mom.


I never knew that one minute and eight words could affect me to the point where it changed my life forever. Just in one moment, everything can change and the worse part is feeling like you can’t do anything about it. I felt helpless and weak, like all I could do was crawl into a hole and die. Actually, that’s what I preferred to do at one point. All it took was a minute out of the millions of minutes that I’ve lived through.


What hit me the hardest was the change involved in all of this. Not only were my parents not together anymore, I had to move out my decent-sized twin house into a small row home. I wasn’t used to the tight, cramped spaces in the bathroom, or random knocking on the walls from crazy, noisy neighbors. It was a big downgrade. Money became tighter and my mom couldn’t continue the luxuries I had when I was smaller. Things became worse when my mom introduced her own  spouse, who I didn’t take a liking to. It was just too much change happening at once.


Don’t get me wrong, change can be a good thing. Like changing your normal hairstyle or hanging out with a different social group than you’re used to. But in my case, it was a bad, bad thing. It took it’s toll on me significantly. Soon, more children from each side of my ‘new’ family appeared, craving and receiving more attention than I did. I was so used to being the only child and being the only thing in my parent’s eyes. I began to seep into the hole of depression, feeling like I wasn’t wanted and I was a waste of space. My parents were so into their new, separate lives that I felt neglected. I thought that nothing good could possibly come out of this. At one point, I thought that change couldn’t bring anything good with it.


Despite what I thought, change comes with opportunities. Once I got older, I realized this. I just happened to be coming home from a long day at school. It was in the middle of last year, around the third quarter of my school year. I was on the 4:02 Norristown train on my way up to my dad’s for the weekend. I sat in the two - person seat, alone and staring out the window with my earbuds in my ear, blasting some music. My cheek was rested against my loosely curled fist, with my elbow using the window seal as support. The scene the window was giving me was quite boring. It was just trees, more trees, and even more trees. It was like a family reunion of trees. I started to drift off in thought, completely ignoring my surroundings. I started my thoughts off in what to expect when I arrived at my father’s not-so-humble abode. I thought of my little step-sister, who was ridiculously annoying for being nine. Then my attention settled on the thought of my little half-brother, who only at two was being sassy and acting like a teenager. I smiled weakly at the thought and went onto my step-mom, with her thick Dominican accent, bossing me and my siblings around. I frowned a bit at the one but nevertheless, I was content.


But then my thoughts wandered to my two families as a whole.


Despite what I’ve been through with each side, I felt like I grew to love all of them. In the beginning, it was tough getting used to all the major changes taking place at once. But in the end, I got to learn about another culture with my step-mom, meet new and wonderful people, and learned what it felt like to not be alone.

Descriptive Essay: Grief freed me.

Posted by Gabrielle Arnold in English 2 - Block on


My mom picked me up at four thirty on September 30th, a Thursday.  Four Thirty, way earlier than usual. Dressed in blue jeans and sweater, this was not her work attire.  Perhaps she just had one of those awful migraines she gets at least once a month.  Walking through the burnt orange leaves my mom and I pass the main building, and the middle school building. My mom has not said a word.  She hits the “unlock” button twice to enter her Mercury Mountineer.  As I sit down to buckle my seatbelt, she parts her lips to speak the unfathomable.  “At around one o’clock today, Aunt Jackie died.”   Aunt Jackie, my mom’s stepsister was possibly the most angelic person I had ever met.  As my mom struggled holding back the tears to speak again a wave of numbness ran through my whole body.  “She, she had one of those attacks again. She called 911, and went out to the porch.  It was too late she collapsed face first to the ground and died shortly afterward.”  I didn’t know what to think.  My mother, already small in stature, curled up in a ball on the driver’s side and cried.  I couldn’t look at her.  I stared.

Like a car wreck that was so horrible that you couldn’t look away.  I stared at my mother.  For her to cry was so unlike her, for her to sob, life was not real.  After 30 seconds of staring, I came back down to reality.  She was gone.  Our plan to go to the library would never happen.  She couldn’t make fun of my mother for how we “organized” our Tub-a-ware anymore.  She was gone.  I broke down, I hadn’t cried so hard in all my 13 years of life.  I grabbed at my jeans, like my mother I had curled into a ball on the passenger’s side of the car. By the time the rage unraveled me from the tight ball I was in, my blouse was half stained with the eruption of anger that poured from my eyes.  I could have screamed.  My faith in God was tested that day.  How could He have let a person who had done so much good in her life, leave life in such a short, random, painful manner.  Sarcoidosis had claimed her, took over her body, and took her away in one fatal swoop.  

My mom told me she was laying in a coroner’s office.  They found her in a pool of blood on her front porch.  The time I wanted to scream, let out my anger. I was in a parked car, on Coulter Street.  With a completely inconsolable mother, and a face marked red with anger, grief and shock.  These were the worst ten minutes I have ever had in my life.  This was my first time grieving.

Death was never a fear of mine until I was thirteen years old.  The day she died.  I never ever wanted to make anyone cry and seeing what death had done to my mother, from this point on I wanted to be immortal.  I crunched through the leaves and walked up the two sets of stairs and into the house.  Throwing my bag down on the antique couch in my living room, I swiftly ran up the stairs to get to my room. I peeled off my homeroom sweatshirt, kicked off my nikes and sat down on my bed and I cried.   

The worst part of grief is from the second of notification leading up to the funeral.  No closure, no celebration, just sadness.  Nothing feels right, the next couple of days I would sit in the unshakeable feeling of death.   I walked through school with fake smiles and conversations that felt unbearably long.  I walked into the computer lab the day after she passed, to find my best friend Sarah, who coincidentally was dealing with grief as well.  We cried together in the dark computer room that friday morning, until Rhonda, our computer teacher walked into the room.  Rhonda then told my advisor and thats how word spread around and I dealt with the pity party for another good week.  Grief, grudges with God.  I couldn’t understand why my Lord took her away so soon. I could only wait for the funeral to come, and then hell would be over.

I stood there, pain stricken, trying to understand why she was gone.  I creeped into the church, slowly, timidly.  My eyes wide with fear of what I was about to see.  My aunt, adorned in white linens and lace, laid undisturbed, untroubled in a white casket.  I walked slowly down the shaggy tan carpeting, passing rows and rows of people.; to look at Jackie for one last time.

She laid there as I stood looking at her, face to corpse,  niece to aunt.  Now to be honest, for a dead person, she still had color.  She didn't have an eerie gray coloring. Perhaps that was the makeup that they put on the deceased to make sure they just look like they are sleeping.  They kept her hair short, she usually hid it behind a hair scarf.  Her skin was still the color of caramel, except for the swollen parts of her lip from when she had fell onto her patio. Those were stained with the obvious color of concealer and foundation, which when looked at thoroughly, was black, blue and blood red.  I began to feel uncomfortable in my own skin.  

My lips were locked together by the shear antipathy that this would be my last encounter with my aunt Jackie, for the rest of my life.  My MaryJanes carried me back across the old carpet as I promptly took my seat next to my mother, who had been a wreck for a week.  And my uncle, who had been a wreck for a day.  I felt frigid, numb, and cold to the touch.  I felt like I had died, my stomach dropped as I was about to be consumed with grief for the next three and a half hours of my life.


As much as funerals bring closure to loved ones, it is the most uncomfortably painful yet healing part of the grieving process.  Looking at my aunt for the last time, felt like saying goodbye to a piece of me.  My eyes attempted to avoid her, I didn’t want to come to grips with the fact that she was gone.  The funny thing about death is it brings out the sheer delusion in all of us.  The night terrors, the visions of her sitting right next to me in school.  It is something you can never escape.

For the most part I had blacked out through a majority of the funeral.  I didn’t cry, thats all I knew.  The expectations for grief is to cry, scream, break something.  Let all the pain out in one blow.  This was all I saw in the movies.  This is what I expected of myself.  I never knew I could feel so cold, numb, heartless.  The last memory I have from the day of her funeral was lowering her casket into the burial plot.  I can honestly say, as painful as that was to watch, the amount of closure I received in those few moments was incredible.  I now know that I may not get her back, I won’t ever get her back, but she is wrapped around me in every step I take.  In the words of my aunt; “In death the only thing that dies is the body, the shell.  The spirit stays around us all for ever, even as we move on to new adventures. Everyday the spirits of our ancestors look down upon us, to guide us through life.”  I was freed from grief.  Or perhaps grief freed me.

ENG2-012

Term
2012-13

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