It was Saturday morning and today was a good day for me. It was 8:30 AM EST and in 3 and a half hours I was supposed to be ready for an invite to a raid (end game event).

To those who think I waste my time playing video games that’s not the case. I only complete raids once, then that’s the end of me doing that raid. I only do the weekly activities, then there’s nothing else for me to do until next reset day (Tuesday).

I got out of bed, went to the bathroom to pee. I washed my hands then left after drying them. It was 10:30 when I got on the PS4, after I ate breakfast. I went upstairs and grabbed my headset from my room. I had nothing to do on my characters as I already have done the weekly events then I remembered about Xur. Xur is a weekly vender that shows up on Friday and stays until the weekly reset. This week he was on Io (a moon of Jupiter) so I went there and went to the fast travel (a quick teleport to a location) that was closest to him.

When I found him he was selling Vigilance Wing as the exotic weapon being sold but his exotic gear is what caught my eye. For the Hunter (One of the 3 playable classes) he was selling the Orpheus Rig. I was in awe at the timing of it. The Orpheus Rig was the one exotic boots you needed for a NightStalker (One of the 3 ability trees depending on class) as they give you extra super energy (Ultimate energy) for all tethered (suppressed and increased damage from players) targets by your tether. After buying them I infused them with my Stomp-EE5 (a pair of boots) as I didn’t need it for anything. I just went on doing strikes (multiplayer activity) and public events (an activity when in a explorable location) for faction tokens for the faction rally (a monthly event) for an hour and 15 minutes. I went to the tower to decrypt engrams I had and went through my gear before I got an invite. Minutes after going through my entire weaponry I got the invite. I plugged my headset in, put it on and went to join the party.

“Hey how’s it going?” I asked signifying them I was on.

“Oh you know doing what we always do, lead people to victory.” Josh said as he was a co-sherpa (Sherpas are in a subreddit and help those who want to learn the raids of Destiny) for the raid.

“Ok all were waiting on is Tek then we can begin.” Marvin said wondering where Tek was. “Also join up on us when you’re ready while we’re waiting for Tek.” Josh said.

“I'm all set, got my Merciless (an exotic fusion rifle) ready to go.” I said clicking join session to join the fire team.

After a minute or two Tek joined in and we were off to the Leviathan (Location of raid).

“Ok everyone if you follow me we’ll be going through a short cut to our first encounter.” Marvin said as we saw his and Josh’s characters start moving to a hidden tunnel to our right.

As we followed them, we were lead to a forest like area full of enemies and some lights shining on high rocks.

“Ok for this first encounter after we kill all adds (short for enemy) and pick up 2 prisms the WarBeasts (dog like enemies) will spawn in…”(I don’t want to say the entire encounter) Marvin said explaining what was going to happen and where we need to go.

“Does everyone know where they’re going once we begin damage phases?” Marvin asked just to make sure we knew what to do as we all responded with a yes.

“Also make sure you don’t use your supers until we say so.” Josh said adding onto what Marvin asked us.

We started the encounter and we were already prepared with our 4 spores and 2 prisms in hand. After 3 minutes of gathering damage buffs from glowing flowers it was time to damage.

“Alright drop your spores and get to your flowers!” Marvin said as we ran to our respected flowers and with full powered Merciless’ we killed all the WarBeast fast.”

“Ok that was pretty good so before we head to the next encounter were going to take a 5 minute break before we start.” Marvin said as we heard the thud of him lightly putting down his headset. I was already pumped for the next encounter I played my favorite emote (A action you can play/change with a press of a button).

It was August 25, 2015. A memory that will live in my mind forever. I woke up that morning from a deep sweat, because I was drowning in my dream. As I sat on the side of my bed to recollect, my father called me down stairs. I stepped down from my bed slowly because I was weary, and I started to walk down the stairs.

¨Just get washed and dressed, we have to go file some papers,” My dad said as I nodded my head. I went upstairs to pick out some clothes. I threw on some sweatpants and a hoodie because I wanted to dress comfortably for the muggy weather. As I was walking down the steps, I caught a glance of myself in the bathroom mirror. I stopped, stared in the mirror and said,

¨You are going to have a wonderful day,” I had to remind myself to have a positive mindset every day because I was being stalked and harassed by people who lived around me. My father and I got into our big, old, sturdy jeep and drove downtown to file some papers. We made a criminal complaint against the family around the corner which only resulted in us going to court a few times without the problem going away. Since court didn’t work, our last step was trying to get a restraining order. Unfortunately, we were having troubles filing the restraining order, so we just let God take manners into his own hands.

We left downtown and we went home only to find out that our cousins were staying over for a while. My cousins were hungry so they told me to run to the store for them to get them something to eat.

When I was walking past the park to go to the store, I saw the family who was stalking me. All three of the sisters followed me until I arrived at the store. When I purchased my cousins food, I walked back home, but this time, cautiously just incase the three sisters appeared again and wanted some trouble. I walked past the park, and the three sisters were standing at the gate, staring in my face taunting me. Evidently, the three sisters had a problem with me not caring and went back home to tell their family. An hour or so had passed and my family and I were sitting on the steps. We saw my aunt go around the corner a few times and the three sisters plus the oldest sister came around just moments after my aunt returned.

We were all dumbfounded because we wanted to know why our family was communicating with people who didn’t like us. Before I knew it, 15 people came around one corner of my block, and 16 came from the other. They approached me and asked if I had a problem with their ¨Family¨. I said no and then some girl hit me with a cheapshot from behind. In less than 5 seconds, I blacked out and started banging that girl head into something hard while I was getting hit by 5 other females. I got away from those girls and I saw my brother, who was in the Police Academy at the time, getting jumped by 6 men. I wasn’t going to let my brother get jumped, so I jumped in there with them. Somehow, I pulled off one of the men and held him against the wall. I had recognized him.

¨You don’t have to do this.¨ I said to him.

¨Fuck you lil’ girl,¨ He replied as he threw me into the street. I fell on my head and looked around because I felt like my world was falling apart. I saw my brother getting jumped, my mom trying to help my brother, my dad and uncle hitting people with chairs, my other brother fighting off people with sticks, and a very sketchy face with whom I identified as my aunt, just standing there not helping us at all. No loyalty. I felt like I was drowning, only this time, I wasn’t in water. Eventually, I snapped back into reality and started fighting anyone and everyone. I ran in the house to get a knife and when I came back, everything was frozen, still, and silent. The fight was over and nothing could be heard except for the sound of police sirens coming our way. Could this be police coming to help us? No! Apparently, the family who jumped us called the police and said that we harassed them. The police believed them which does not make sense because they were on our property!

Charges were pressed and since then, I have been in a deep depression. I learned that you cannot trust people, not even your own family because at one point, we were all close. That situation affected how I love and how I trust, and it shaped me into the person I am today.

I never expected to be a true poet in high school. But once I came to SLA, Philadelphia Youth Poetry Movement lured me in like a neon sign hanging above my head that beckoned, “this is where your destiny lies.”

After writing a group poem for a month, I edited, memorized, and practiced performance repeatedly, until my first real slam arrived. When I stepped on stage, I was a nervous wreck. My fingers shook, I kept wiping my hands on my jeans, and I couldn’t look anyone in the eye. Instead, I looked out to a crowd of blurred faces.

“Wait for quiet!” Mr. Kay said.

Each person on stage introduced themselves to the crowd. Then we tipped our heads down, and locked hands. My teammates slowly slipped their hands out from my grasp to signify that they were ready. All I had to do was take the unifying breath. I placed my lips before the microphone and inhaled. We all exhaled. Then our words came tumbling from our mouths, crashing and falling into the air.

I can still remember the faces of poets in the audience; the applause, snapping, and laughter at lines we wrote. All eyes fell on me, and it reminded me of what I wanted to do in life.

In elementary school I loved writing, because it allowed me to have total control of my voice, in an enclosed space. I created stories in my head that were later forgotten. I loved receiving validation, and leaving people hungry for more of my art. My 4th grade teacher imparted some wisdom on me and my mother.

“One of your daughters, or both, are going to be writers.”

She was right. From that moment on I kept the reminder that someone recognized my talent in the back of my head. I wrote poems in middle school, and performed in classroom slams that were mediocre open mikes. I didn’t know exactly what this passion for writing would turn into, but I knew I was headed somewhere.

SLA’s poetry team called to me at the freshman activity fair. I etched my name into the signup sheet, declaring I was becoming a poet. By December, I had already gathered close friendships with poetry members, and was working hard at the craft.

I’d spend endless clubs writing in the empty halls of school, and later finishing poems on the curb of the parking lot, when the building had closed. We’d huddle together next to the dumpster, fishing for ideas and potential lines to write. When we’d come to a lull in the thought process, I’d run around the parking lot and dance, reviving my energy. After we finished the drafting stage, the long editing process began: lines got chopped up, chewed up, and spit out until they were perfect.

During these sessions Mr. Kay always tells us, “I will never let you go on stage without saying something.”

Part of why poetry means so much to me is credited to writers who continue to assure me of my talent. The acceptance and love that poetry club emanates allows me to put my thoughts to paper, and truly be myself. Our poetry t-shirts have an image of a pen touching a heart, which reminds me where all our writing comes from. We all have a story to tell, and luckily we have the opportunity to do such a thing.

PYPM provides a safe, welcoming space for poets to share art. I proudly stand on stage every chance I get, holding in my heart a love for the people that sit before me, with eager ears and eyes.

My last slam meant the most to me, because it was the citywide Championships. Each time I reached an unfamiliar stage, my anxiety increased. I rubbed my jean shorts continuously, with sweaty palms. This was a performing ritual, the wiping away of my nerves. The tips of my fingers vibrated uncontrollably. The dirty, rusted mirror leaning against the wall backstage revealed my face, and that didn’t help. I wasn’t ready for such a looming crowd to hear my words and watch me perform. This was not the small audience I was used to. I put on a facade, but inside my stomach somersaulted out of the theater.

“I’m gonna pee my pants this time, I mean it.” I said this every time I was backstage.

My teammates gathered around me, and I nervously wrung my hands.

“Wait, ready for our chant? 1, 2, 3!”

“BOOCHA!”

We whisper-screamed the inside joke in unison. Background mumbles of daunting words drifted to my ears.

“Coming to the stage right now is S, L, A!”

With my pen in hand, I point onwards to my future with poetry, ready to hack at yet another piece of paper.

¨Dad, what are those?¨ I asked.

¨They are called ¨Bung Bungs,¨ my dad replied, as we crossed the street away from the subway station.

My family and I were in the busy streets of Beijing, China at night. We had just visited one of our immigrated American friends and were on our way back to our apartment building. My dad raised his hand in the air when we reached the curb of the sidewalk. As a little kid with only a few weeks in a foreign country, I had a lot of questions.

¨We're going to ride in one of those things?¨ I said. Then a small, boxy, three-wheeled vehicle enclosed in a dark green tarp pulled up to the side walk. My dad went to the front of the ¨Bung Bung¨ and started talking to the driver in Chinese, telling him the address of our apartment. I stared at the odd vehicle from the sidewalk for a few seconds until my mother beckoned me to get into the back of the Bung Bung. I climbed in through a small rectangular door in the back of the Bung Bung and saw the dimly lit interior. My family and I all crammed in on one seat in a small compartment. Then I started to feel the ¨Bung Bung´s¨ motor come to life from underneath our seat and the vehicle started to move.

¨Why didn't we take a taxi?¨ I raised my voice over the roar of the motor and the wind blowing through the open windows.

¨Because these are cheaper than taxis for going short distances,¨ said my dad. ¨They're also good with getting through places that are too small for cars and taxis.¨ He added.

¨If they are cheaper for going short distances than we should have these in America.¨ I thought. ¨But why don't we?¨ It wouldn't be until I got back to America when my father would tell me that the ¨Bung Bungs¨ were unsafe. He told me that the ¨Bung Bungs¨ were not very protective during crashes because of their non-solid exteriors and lack of seat belts for passengers.

Then I wondered what other exotic vehicles there could be in other countries. I recalled back to when I lived in the United States to try to remember if I had seen any ¨Bung Bungs¨. I remembered from visiting cities that I had seen taxis, although I never ridden in one until I lived in China, but I still did not remember seeing Bung Bungs on the U.S. streets at any time. ¨They may have been in American cities that I have never been to.¨ I thought, but I also argued with the fact that they very might be only in Chinese cities. I pondered this thought up until I fell asleep in my bed, in our apartment.

Bung bungs were not the only way I had seen Chinese people get around Beijing. I had seen merchants and salesmen ride around on bikes, pulling carts of different sizes behind them. In these carts, there were items and products waiting to be sold. Some of the other people used these cart pulling bikes to transport their families through the city. I had seen mothers and fathers on bikes and their children would sit in the carts. Outside of the cities, in more rural areas, I saw carts being pulled by animals from oxen to donkeys. I have also visited Thailand and there some of the people living in the rural places rode on the backs of elephants to get through nearby jungles. I even took an Elephant ride with my family and friends while visiting. Also, in Thailand there is a larger and more open, vehicle that is similar to the ¨Bung Bung¨  called a ¨Tuk Tuk¨.

Now that I am back in the U.S., I have had some time to reflect. In different areas of the world people use different modes of transportation that can be very distinct from somewhere else in the world. However, in the end, transportation is the same everywhere: whether it be taxi or a ¨Bung Bung¨, bicycle or subway, it is still a form of getting around.  People everywhere want to get from ¨point A¨ to ¨point B¨, no matter how different the animal or vehicle that moves them.  My hope is people in America can create a small and affordable vehicle like the ¨Bung Bung¨,  but safer to ride.

My first concert I played at made me the most nervous, anxious I’ve ever been. “All of that practicing, for what?” My teachers would say to get us ready. My friends and I were no older than 13 and we were performing our first concert as a classical orchestra. Ever since then, we were accepted into the orchestra Play On Philly in 5th grade. The teachers would have us practicing two hours after school, everyday. That first concert, so long ago was when I realized I was now part of something big.

When we took the stage at West Catholic high school, I felt nervous. My orchestra was performing for hundreds of parents. I made a lot of musical mistakes that day, but nonetheless, I was proud of myself. Performing in a concert and attending one are two completely different things. I never realized what people went through when they had to give it their all, to impress the crowd. “Show them your worth!” My Viola teacher would say. I’ve played viola for 6 years, nearly every day after school. I wouldn’t say viola isn’t the hardest instrument to play, but it’s more about being consistently good. Being as though it’s a string instrument, it requires a certain mindset where everything has to be perfect. From playing the correct note, following the tempo, remembering scales, and either playing loudly or softly. The viola is like a violin but just a little bigger. I’ve alternated between 3 different teachers, each one was different. My first teacher taught me the basics, but after that she left to go work with a different orchestra. The music system is a competitive one so even teachers have to go their own ways to improve. My third teacher was half strict and half easy going. My second teacher was Ms. Andriana, who I consider a friend. She was the one who elevated my peers and I, to the next level. She really cared for us and made sure we would impress everyone with our skills.

I was now part of the classical music system in Philadelphia. Being apart of this system is surprisingly hard. Once you get involved, there’s a lot of dedication and discipline to insert in with playing instruments. For example,every instrument player was competing with other students and other organizations for a spot in the orchestra. There’s either cooperation or competition between other orchestras. Stores, museums, centers, even government officials give out opportunities to play at their sites, specifically to Play On Philly. The perks of the music system is being able to meet widely known, famous musicians. Being offered scholarships, college tours, and being able to travel the country.

I was in a big system as an small individual. I learned a lot from being in the music system. Being a team was the main part of playing with in an orchestra. It is an experience that is very unique. There has to be chemistry between the player, the conductor, other players, and teachers alike. Everybody either follows their own rhythm or links up with other’s rhythms. Extreme focus and dedication is required otherwise, that person who doesn’t have that will drag down the orchestra. There is always a way to improve, and the conductor will always make the orchestra improve. For that reason, myy feelings toward the music system is both negative and positive.

They work the players hard. I loved that and hated it at the same time. Learning an instrument isn’t easy, as which is what most teachers would imply. That was the main reason why they had us working so hard. I admired their ambition for them to get their students to learn and improve. However, they didn’t take into account that we were just kids. Just transitioning into a competitive system and having us work work nonstop. It’s been 6 years since then. Playing the viola for that long payed off. By the end 8th grade I was nominated for multiple rewards for being best musician. That feeling of appreciation and recognition is none like no other. I was given my last reward in front of hundreds of people. That was when I realized why the teachers pushed us so hard. It was to make us know, kids like my peers and I, young African-Americans could achieve great things. The music system is a hard, competitive one. However, I found a way to be apart of that system and reap the benefits from it. I would not take back those 6 years of hard practice and concerts because I learned dedication can take me to soaring, new heights in life.

“Happy Birthday!”

To most people this is a normal phrase mainly said on ones birthday. For me however, it’s a whole other mess of a day, because my birthday falls on December 27th. Every year, on Christmas Eve, my family has a party celebrating both Christmas, and all late december birthdays, considering there are three: me, my aunt Michelle, and my grandmother.

“Thank you! I haven’t seen you since last year!”

I’d say these things without knowing half the people I talked to. The whole tradition had just become so routine.

Stage 1 always starts with us arriving either first or third, greeting our grandparents and a possible close uncle. My grandmother would be freaking out running back and forth making all the food. She’d spend hours and sometimes days into making the food, usually lots of pasta and Italian dishes. The rest of us would just sit and watch TV, only moving for each guest that arrived. Each family that arrived would go through the same greetings. Stage 2 starts with usually the father of each family, the only exception being my godmother, would present the 3 winter birthdays with their gifts. I purposely would plant myself closer to the door for this reason as well as the fact I could greet first instead of awkwardly standing and waiting. Following a perfect pattern, with a few late arrivals and those giving gifts when they parted.

Stage 3 can be either the worst or most entertaining part of the night. As the oldest “children,” my sister and I would have to take care of the younger children in the sweltering basement. Even though it was winter, the basement always felt like ninety degree temperatures. My sister, as per usual, was of no help, sitting on the steps talking to the third oldest. Meanwhile, I would always attempt to play a boardgame or something with the fourth oldest, who is about 8 or 9 at this point. The four youngest toddlers would throw anything they could pick up, and would scream and yell at each other. At times it’s a lot of work, but it can be entertaining to watch them play.

Stage 4 always favored those who got there early. All the best meals and dishes would go very fast. Especially the holy grail of Italian food: the Stromboli. My sister, father, and I would devour the entire stromboli before the majority of the guests could even arrive. Other than that, I'd really only scavenge the tables for spaghetti, meatballs, and plain rolls of bread. The food was also a useful tool to keep the children stalled.

Cake is usually the 5th and final stage for most of the guests. There are typically 2 or 3 cakes, depending on whether my aunt, Michelle (the 2nd christmas birthday), comes or not. Usually my aunt and grandmother would have cakes that were average, but never truly compared to mine. The ice cream cake, chocolate and vanilla ice cream with a layer of crushed oreos in between. That is the kind of cake that could only be described as perfect. Luckily, because it was always my cake, I could make sure I’d get a big slice first, before the little kids could get their grubby little hands all over it.

Finally, the part of the night, stage 6. This is where the parents start rounding up their kids and trying to get home so they can get a good night's sleep and set up their presents. Others wait for the end, either due to how closely they are related to my grandmother, or to make sure that when they leave there is less people to have to say goodbye to. This is where I finally get a bit more relaxation before having to leave. My main core family, I would usually see the next day due to the order of houses for Christmas. That order being, mother/grandparents, father, grandparents.

Christmas Eve is probably one of the biggest nights of year for me, in terms of family traditions. It’s something that I can really enjoy throughout anything that happens that day. Most people might be unhappy sharing their birthday, but compared to other family events, none come close and I feel special being a huge part of it. I never really get or want to do anything for my birthday considering it's over winter break and people are busy. Which is why I enjoy Christmas Eve and the rest of winter break so much. Of course I'd still have birthday cakes on my actual birthday, but the Christmas Eve party just feels like mine, so many people are there for my birthday.

I was in Gym class. 6th grade. It was Friday, and on Fridays we had we got to do whatever we want. The only thing was, we had to be moving as in doing something physical like jumping rope or playing basketball. I was playing basketball with one of my friends. As we were playing, my friend said I was pretty good at it. Her not knowing this was my first time really playing. A little later the gym teacher came over. He asked me if I was interested in playing for the school team. I considered going because I needed to get involved. Honestly I thought he was asking me to play because of my height like most coaches do. There wasn’t really a tryout, he just picked some girls that could play.  In my eyes I seen that he picked people who were tall and fast. Including me.

I went to the first practice and not being as big as a fan of basketball I liked it and I learned the concept on the game pretty easily. Some of my close friends were on the team too so it didn’t make me as scared of nervous as I should have been. At one practice and gave me and my friend a piece of paper with an address on it. “On Friday I want you two to come to this practice for an outside team.” I was surprised! It was just the first few practices and I’m here.

The practice my teacher invited me and my friend to was an  outside team. This team was at a gym on 34th & haverford. A gym I was familiar with. There weren’t many girls but my coach from school was there and introduce my friend and I to the team. The practice was really simple.  We did laps, basketball drills, challenges.  After that cool experience, we started having practices and games at another . On the team,was a starting playing as a power forward. The basketball season started around fall into winter time  for school and the team I played on for outside of school as well. The school games we played were easier. Not as competitive as the outside games were. The outside team was kind of like a traveling team. Every Saturday or Sunday or both. Which wasn't great because this caused me to cancel some plans for me to hang out with my friends. I was upset because I couldn’t hang out with my friends as much, but . I was having fun playing in the games and with my friends there. Some games we would lose but  we didn't give up nor lose our positive attitudes and played as best as we could.

Some games I would get hurt like my ankle and my knee but “what’s a game without out pain” my mom would say. If I complained about my ankle hurting she would say “you ball so hard.” I played basketball for about 2 years after that. Then one Saturday things changed. I got into an argument with my mother on how I didn’t want to play anymore. It wasn’t my teammates neither was it the games. I just felt as I was done with it. Yes I loved the sport but I felt as I had had enough. I did continue to play or the rest of the season in school of 8th grade but I stopped going to practices at the outside team.

A few weeks after that I went to play volleyball for an club outside of school which I used to go to before I played basketball. I rarely got hurt and I  enjoyed it very much . It also involved more girls and we got along with each other very fast. I liked volleyball more because basketball was more of a contact game, it was another  reason why I told my mother I wanted to stop. Till this day I still play volleyball for the club team I am with and also my school. My team mates are the best and we still play with a positive attitude. I don’t plan on quitting volleyball like I did basketball. I want to play in college but I know after college, it might not play anymore. My mother has pointed out to me that there are no 40 year old volleyball players, so I’ll enjoy it while I can.

In my middle school years, I had the same teacher for history class, or as they called it then, social studies. My teacher and I had a lot in common, we are the same race, had some of the same interest in music, and the main thing we shared was step, but we did not always see eye to eye. She once told me, she was so hard on me because she knew that I would go places and not lower myself to what the system says. High expectations I guess. Even at such a young age, I always knew that there were going to be situations when I don’t reach people’s expectations. In a moment of my life, a moment of failure, and a moment of disappointment to myself and to someone I thought I could look up to, I am going to share with you this story of how expectations and distractions can lead to judgement and failure.

The day every student in school would get their report cards. We would receive a grade for every class we had and our responses would be unpredictable.  As I walked quietly into my social study teacher’s classroom, she stops the lesson and in an authoritative voice says to me, “Teyonna why are you late to my class?”

Great, all eyes on me, I thought to myself.

“I stopped by the dean’s office on the way up. I have a note.” I handed her the note and took my seat. She continued the lesson. About 10 minutes later, I raised my hand.

“Can I use the bathroom,” I said.

“You have 2 minutes,” She said to me.

Her classroom was always just across the hall from the girls bathroom, so if she was to look out of the doorway, she could see and hear everything that was going on. I did my business in the bathroom and walked out. Then I got distracted. The dean’s office was one of the most popular places to be on the 4th floor near the first stairwell, also in looking distance of my social studies teacher’s classroom. I made my way towards the dean and the people sitting near her desk and suddenly I heard a distant shout. It was my teacher. “Teyonna get in this classroom” she said. I turned right back around and went into the doorway, but she pulled me aside. This won’t be good, I thought.

“If you continue to worry about what’s going on in the halls instead of my classroom, then you won’t like what you’re grade will be or what I have to say at the report card conference ”, she said to me in a calm, but stern tone. I just walked away.

Report-card conference time came and my aunt and I went through each floor where we talked to different teachers and discussed my behavior and grades in their classroom. Everything went  well until we got to my social studies teacher. She was the last teacher we were seeing that day, with the worst grade on the report card. We walked and she was sitting there with the biggest fakest smile I had ever seen. She greeted us, then we greeted her. My aunt looked at my report card and straightforward she said, “why do you have a D-minus?”, looking at me. Then at my teacher, “why does she have a D-minus?” My teacher went through the whole nine yards of why she failed me. One of the main reasons was because I was letting people influence me with the wrong decisions and my interests was always somewhere else when it came to her class. I admit to being distracted, but I also believe in second chances and not failure as a lesson. In order for me to have gotten that grade back up, I was assigned 3 packets of work.

There was always something about my teacher that bothered us, I say “us” because it wasn’t just me who she bothered. There were other students and other parents, including mine. My  teacher is a young black woman who was great until she tried to teach me a lesson. I promise, my intentions were not to disrespect or put down her or any other teacher that may find themselves with the same bothering personality, I am just simply sharing a small piece of my life. The reason I am sharing this story is because, there would be times when a distraction comes and there will be times when you may miss a few lessons that was supposed to be learned, but there should never be a time where an intentional failure comes because someone else believed that you needed to learn a life lesson.