My parents split when I was younger. I was my fathers only child, now I have four brothers, three younger brothers  on my dad's side, and one older brother on my mom's side. Growing up being the only girl was always fun and helped me become stronger. Technically, all my siblings are my half brothers but I consider them my brothers.

In fifth grade my favorite project that I had to do was make a collage of the things that were important to me. On my project I had pictures of things like my phone, my clothes, my friends and my family. When the project was due we had to present to the class what was on our board and why. Presenting was really easy  because I knew why I put everything on the board, the part that felt funny was when people came up to me and asked questions and pointed. I got asked the same question at least 5 times by different people. Most people asked me are they really your brothers which I found interesting because I thought I made it pretty clear that they were my brothers when I presented. I got specific questions about every single brother. My older brother Samad has green eyes and sandy brown hair, so everyone assumed he had albinism. Samad looks nothing like me and I heard that forever but it wasn't something I really cared about.

After my classmates wrapped their fifth grade minds around the fact that Samad did not have to look anything like me to be related, they questioned my first little brother. It seemed as if they totally forgot the previous twenty minutes before because it was exactly the same discussion except they thought they had a solid reason on why we could not be related. Tristen was my first little brother we shared a dad. People questioned me because they assumed Tristen was white. Back in fifth grade having to explain to my friends that Tristen’s mom was white and our dad is black seemed like too much to do but, as I got older it became something like an uniform when I spoke on all of my brothers. I distinctly remember many of my peers saying “That can't be your brother he’s white.” When people said that to me it made me question what him being white had anything to do with being related to me. How could someone who had not even knew where I was from tell me who I couldn't be related to because of their skin color.

Now that fifth grade had come and gone I can look back on the project and reflect. Ignorance is what was shown but solely because they didn't know any better. For a while I didn't want to share with people my family because I felt as though answering questions about why me and my brothers didn't look alike was not something I wanted to do. As much as I love my brothers I knew people were not going to accept my family. Being older and learning new life lessons I now understand that what people think of my family doesn't matter as long as my family and I love each other that the most important thing I must remember. Even today when I tell people they have this big idea that your family members are supposed to look like you or have to have the same race as you. Family can come in all shapes, sizes, and colors so why try to categorize or make a uniform on what a family is supposed be like or look like. Race is something made up by people to separate everyone, but I know skin color will not separate my family it will bring us closer.

A lot of people asked me “How old are you?” and that’s annoying sometimes, even today.

For example, One day a few weeks ago I was in a store with my mom on 52nd street.

As soon as we walked in the cashier stared at us.

“Is that your daughter or a sister?” He asked.

“Why?” The question made me feel shy.

My mom answered, “What you think?”

The cashier didn't say anything.

Mom said, “ It’s my daughter.”

That’s why I don’t want to be in the store with my mom or dad because I'm too tall and they look young.

I just looked at people sometimes, if they asked me random questions we don't even answer their question sometimes. Some people will just be like

"What! That's not your daughter because you look young for having her.” I just stared at them without saying anything. Anytime me and my mom when to the store they keep asking the same exact question.

One day when me and my mom went to a store on 69th street. This man stared at me so hard and I was looking at him like what happened! he asked my mom in

"Is that your daughter?" he asked my mom in Madingo.

My mom [laughs.]

She said, "Why?"

"Because of y'all look alike and have the same reactions.” He answered.

She [laughed]

"No is a sister."

"Are you sure about it." He asked.

"Yes ma'am." She answered.

whenever Malinen people saw me outside they be thinking about getting married to them. They thought like I'm 18-20 years old. Like I’m only 14 years old, I'm just tall. When they try to talk to me I just ignore them. Some of the people even went to see my mom about me.

My mom [laughs.] anytime they want to talk to her about me because they wanted to marry me.

I was going to my aunt's wedding. When I went there in the afternoon one of my aunt asked me to passed the food to the guy waiting outside in the car. I took the food and passed it to him.

"What is your name?" He asked

I looked at him [laughs]

"My name is Koule." I answered.

He responded, "Okay"

When I walked away, knew why he asked me that.

In a few days after the wedding, my aunt told me that someone said they like me for marriage and I was like “What! So I just ignored her because that was going to make me think about something I don't want to be interested in.

My mom feels bad about me for taking her personality because I copied everything from her. She was so confused about how people come to house wanted to marry me. They called my mom from Africa asking for marriage and  I was like, “I’m just 14 years old, leave me alone and I'm not getting married to nobody until I finished school!”

Sometimes I feel like going to the hospital to cut my legs off because of people. I don't want to be with my mom because we look like sister next to each other.

That's not the only thing people were asking me about. Some people judging me about how tall I’ am in general. Whenever I heard people talking about me I said,

"You are just jealous of me because I'm taller than you."

I learned about people think about "When you are tall, you are old." That makes me feel bad about myself. It also makes me feel different with others around me, anytime I looked at them I look at myself.

Heights

Ever since  I was young,  I was always afraid of heights. I will never forget an experience I had at an amusement park I don't really  recall anything in particular   that   made me afraid of heights until riding my first roller coaster  When get on a ride I would have a  type of  feeling that would make me feel like  I was falling. Before entering an amusement park, , I would get out  of the car feeling nervous, terrified, and  anxious.  I would  see  all these rides,  and  while everyone  would  have a smile on their face  I  would have a straight face because of my fear.  As I was walking through the amusement park, I  wondered  about and observed  all the rides  as I  tried  to relax my mind. I tried to focus on having fun so I can enjoy all the rollercoasters.  After eating funnel cake and ice cream I think about  maybe  putting my fear aside and getting on one of the highest roller coasters   in the park. all I see are high roller coasters surrounded by me.  

As we walk, through the park I  hear  my cousins say how they want to get on all the rides while I'm shaking in my shoes. I look at the superman roller coaster but decided that  it would be too scary for me  the green lantern.  Im standing in this long line with my cousins waiting to goon. While I was waiting all I hear were people screaming and I  saw  a upside down loop  that made  me want to get out of line. “Come on mayah your getting on the ride you’r not going to get out this line  my cousins said I’m going to get on the ride”.  We got closer to the front and before I knew it,  we were up next.  I stepped on the roller coaster and sat down. I was so scared that I zoned out and couldn't wait for the ride to be over  I heard them secure the lock and then tell me to put my hands while   hey double check the locks.  The roller coaster started going up slowly and when it reached the top it paused and everyone including myself was screaming before it dropped . I was holding on to my cousin’s  hand so hard that I thought for dear life.  While waiting for the ride to drop my eyes was closed through the whole entire ride and screaming like I never going to screamed again I opened my eyes for one second and closed them back up as soon as I knew it the ride was over. When I got off the ride I felt so good because I overcame my fear.

even though I got on one of the most scariest  rides.

I learned to overcome your fear you have to try it. After that rollercoaster ride I felt more comfortable on other roller coasters  Still feeling nervous  but I felt really good overcoming my fear of heights.  Some people may look at you and feel that someone my age shouldn't be afraid of a roller coaster ride  Fear has no age limit. By the end of the day,  I felt so good leaving the park and my family had a great time because I was ok and was enjoying myself. Its really great when you are fearful of things and the people who you're with don't force you or make you feel embarrassed about your fear but instead be patient and care about how you feel.   Even though I overcame my fear of that ride I will take my time to get on it again.   To me fear means being frightened by something you are afraid of by overcoming having fear is not always a good thing to have because you don't want it to hold you back in life.  I would never want my fear to hold me back from my dreams and goals. I can't imagine allowing heights to keep me fearful because after college pursuing my professional career. Just always remember try to overcome your fear and to work through it.

I was 13 years old in 8th grade and it was the day of my trumpet performance at Kipp Philadelphia Charter School right next to the broad street line on Leigh. Earlier that day I woke up realizing that today was the day that I would be playing an original solo to the entire school. I was so nervous, that I was sweating a vicious storm of sweat. I went to the bathroom to wash my face and brushed my teeth. I looked in the mirror and let me tell you I could see the sweat dripping off my face.

I wiped the intense sweat off with the bathroom towel and walked down stairs to get some breakfast. After I ate breakfast I gathered my bookbag, my trumpet, and my rain jacket because the news said it was going to rain. I walked to where my school bus usually stops and it started to rain. When the bus came, I got on and went to sleep half wet. As I awoke from my slumber, getting ready to get off the bus, my back was so stiff I had to stretch until my bones screamed. I got off the bus and saw my friend Jordan, who was also my rival. He played the flute and we competed in almost everything except grades. My rival in running speed, solos, you name it. When he played that flute his style was unique from the style of a flute normal flute player. Instead of the exquisite soft sound you would get, a rock and roll harsh sound came out of it and, people liked that about his solo. I personally liked his solos as well because it was a style of where you wouldn’t expect that coming from a flute and the flow of the rock solo was amazing.

”What’s up Charles?” Jordan said.

“Nothing much.” I said, knowing that I was extremely nervous.

“Cool, you ready to perform today?”

“Yeah.” I said in a calm tone, trying to convince him and myself that I was ready.

“Cool, see you at the performance!”

“See ya.”

Later that stressful day as I was warming up with my powerful trumpet, my best buddy John came over, and he was the best saxophone player at my school, and his solos were the flows of a jazz tune that makes you sway your hands and hips to side to side. His creative improvisation would always get you to smile. He’s unpredictable and I love that about him. Also right next to him was the best Trombone player in the school and his name was Tyreeq. When he played that Trombone it would produce such a rich, deep, and powerful sound. His solos were simple but his technique on the sound of his instrument was why he was the best.

“Hey Charles!” said John and Tyreeq happily.

“Are you ready for the solos, the performance starts in 5 mins” Tyreeq said.  

 “I guess.”

“I’m just so hype!” John said with a huge smile on his face.

“Same!” Tyreeq said.

They both went to their band section and it was finally time to start. It was a massive crowd of the whole school gathering together to watch the performance. We played “Get funky”(We called it Get funky but it’s called Get lucky”) Last but not least we played Superstition. Everyone was screaming and cheering when we played superstition, which by the way is a classic soul song by Stevie Wonder. I was the first to play the solo. I got up there and I started to sweat so much that it was literally seeping down my back and my legs and it was really uncomfortable, but as soon as I blew into my trumpet I lost myself in a jazzy solo that I didn’t know I was capable of. It felt like I was in a whole different world because when I played that solo it was the nicest, cleanest, and most majestic solo I have ever created in my life. After my solo everthing was a blur because I was lost in the majestic flow of music but, I can say that all 3 of my friends, Jordan, Tyreeq and John did just as good as me with their own amazing styles. From this  performance, I learned that if you try your best and have fun then you may discover a hidden talent that you never knew you were capable of. I also learned that I was the best trumpet player at school.

Madelyn Malloy

Being the Tallest

Starting in Kindergarten, I was always the tallest amongst all of my classmates, and I would constantly receive comments and remarks about it. Even all of my teachers joined in on the endless remarks about my height, like I was completely oblivious to the fact that I had an unordinary height for my age.

I get my height from my dad, and not only did inherit that, I inherited his appearance. This was another thing that people would comment about. I also was a twelve pound baby at birth, so there was something special bound to happen to me in the future, which was in fact my height. I also was born with scoliosis which was a downside to how big of a baby I was. My growth spurts also made my scoliosis progressively worse.

All the comments and remarks about my height have started approximately in the fourth grade at a five-foot height. Mind you, I always had been the one to help out my teachers so they could decorate their classroom in ¨hard to reach places¨, and before you know it, my assistance became widespread to all the floors where my classes were. At least once every other day teachers had wanted me to help hang up their decorations corresponding with every season, or any holiday, which was annoying, but I also had the opportunity to be called out of my classes which was not bad at all. After a while, I was kind of used to being asked to help out teachers in ¨hard to reach places¨, until the comments came rolling in.

¨Wow, you are so tall,¨ was one of the comments that started this whole ongoing commentary of my four-year middle school series. At first, I did not mind, but after four years of hearing the same remarks repeatedly, it gets tiring, and also frustrating. My favorite one, though is ¨How tall are you, you are so tall for your age, I thought you were in high school.¨ To be honest, I do not really know the exact height I am, unless I go to the doctors, and also how are you supposed to respond to a comment like that? Usually in these types of situations I laugh it off and give the person an approximate height just so I do not feel rude leaving them with an unanswered question.It does become annoying, but I have to admit, I did enjoy the attention a little.

My classmates were not the only ones who were informing me on my height; my family was too. At almost every family gathering I went to, I received at least one comment from each family member regarding the estimation of my age because I was so tall. The estimation of my age ranged from senior in high school to a sophomore in college, which was insane to me because I would think that my family would at least have a sense of what my age is. Toward the end of the day though, my age was clarified to all of the members of my family that thought that I advanced twenty years or so.

Even though many of the obvious remarks I have received from others were annoying, I enjoyed the fact that I looked more mature for my age. There were many ups and downs regarding comments about my height, and although the majority of them were highly irritating, I enjoyed the assumptions of how mature I looked. I also did enjoy the special attention of towering over others and having the ability to laugh at others for how short they were too me. As I started to adapt to my life as towering over everybody, eventually everyone caught up to my height and my confidence and maturity slowly deteriorated because I no longer held the title of ¨Tallest in the Class¨.

A large part of my identity comes from me being Muslim. When people see me the first thing that they notice is that I am a Muslim. I’m different from average public school students. I wear the hijab and make sure I’m covered up every time I step out of the house.  

The one thing I like to make sure everyone knows is that I am not Middle Eastern, I am Bengali. Just because I’m Muslim it doesn’t mean I’m from the Middle East. Many people assume that I’m Middle Eastern. During freshman year this girl asked me, “Are you from the Middle East?’’

“No, I am from Bangladesh,” I said.

“Well that’s technically in the Middle East, it links up there,” the girl said.

“No, we have a totally different culture and different religion. Bangladesh is in South Asia.” We had an argument. Muslims could be from any country it doesn’t matter. When you see a Muslim nobody should automatically think that he or she is from the Middle East.     

I always feel different when I’m at school. It’s because I wear the hijab and I’m always covered up while the majority of the schoolgirls has their hair out, wears shorts and tanks. I know that I’m not the only Muslim in the school but I still feel different.

Hijab? Most people ask me, “Samera what is a hijab,” or they ask me, “Samera why do you wear that thing on your head?’’

“This is called hijab. I wear it because guys can’t see my hair,” I answered.  

“Why can’t guys see your hair?’’ they asked.

“When girls have their hair out it causes attraction. Guys get attracted. If guys get attracted to my hair then I get sins. I also have to cover up my body because if I wear shorts and show my body off guys gets more attracted. For example, imagine there are two girls walking on the street and one is a Muslim and she’s covered up and the other girl is wearing shorts and a tank up. Who do think which girl is guys are going to come after,” I answered?  

“Obviously the girl that’s wearing shorts and a tank top,” they said.  

“Exactly, that’s why we have to cover up,” I answered.  

“Oh, I get it now.”

I’ve always been mistreated because of my identity. I’ve gotten so much hate because of who I am. Not just me but also my mom. There are some racist stories that happened my mom never talked to me about. The first story happened to us when I used to live in New York. My mom and I were in the elevator on our way to our apartment. In the elevator, there was a group of girls, about 4 girls. They were eating chips. For “fun” they threw chips at my mom and started laughing. They said something under their breath that we didn’t understand. The second story happened after I moved to Philadelphia. I was at the grocery store and a lady put the middle out and said, “Fuck Muslims.”

The third racist thing someone told me in Philadelphia was “Get out of our country.” In my head, I said, “How am I supposed to get if I am born and raised here. I have nowhere to go.”

There is one thing that someone said to me and still hurts till this day. This happened in Philadelphia when I was in 7th grade. During history class, my classmate said to me “Samera you are going to be a terrorist when you grow.”

After I heard that person say that to me my brain just switched off. Everything just turned dark. The tears were rushing to come out of my eyes. I tried to hold it in because I didn’t want to make myself look like a fool in front of the whole class.I was hurt to the point that I couldn’t forget. Being called something bad for who you are, hurts. Now I feel like I have a small hole try my best to look past it but once in awhile that sentence just hits me.

I regret a lot of things. The one thing that I regret the most is not speaking up. I really wish I spoke up when I was called a terrorist. I didn’t because it would just start a huge problem. I never told my parents what happened because I was scared they would put me out of public school. The reason why I didn’t speak up was that Islam means peace. I thought that if I keep silent that’s would be the peaceful way to handle it.

I really wish people would understand that this isn’t funny this is serious. This is serious because talking bad about a someone's religion it disrespectful. For most Muslims, religion is what makes us who we are.   Now I started to realize that I should speak up so this why I decided to write about it. Even after all this hate, I don’t care what people say about who I am. Being Bengali is very important to me it’s because of parents. Bengali is also what makes me who I am. My culture is important to me. Even after all this hatred, I am very proud young Bengali Muslim.

“...And It’s Not Funny Either!”

“Ughh, I know and I just can’t help it”,

“What, but I wasn’t even… nevermind”

“Aw, thanks.”

I respond to remarks such as those on a daily. I hear them at school, dance, and sometimes even outside of those two main places. The last response is usually what I say to people who enjoy my personality and identity. The responses I make to people leave me feeling as though my smile and upbeat personality is a curse and joy. Throughout my life, I’ve always had questions and incidents where my smile and cheery personality caused chaos and joy.

The day I realized my uppity personality and smile caused trouble was in 7th grade. I got in trouble by the new math teacher in her class one afternoon. It was a day of school were we attended mass, since I went to a private catholic school. The mass service was divided in two separate times, grades k-4 attended first then 5-8. One of the boys in my class, Dan, happened to be apart of this mass as an altar server, someone who assists the priest during church. It just also happened to extremely hot that day, and there was no air conditioning.Math class is finally over and to conclude our day we were about to walk over to church. As we were wrapping everything up, putting books away and talking amongst ourselves and...

“Oh my gosh, Dan passed out in church! ” Said one of the fifth grade girls while passing through the hall.

The whole class immediately started mumbling talking to each other about the new gossip. Then in walks one of my close classmate friends who wasn’t up to date on the recent information we just heard from the fifth grade girl, and of course being the excited person I am,  I wanted to tell her. I explain to her exactly what we just heard then, suddenly  all I hear is:

“Did you just laugh, Kennedy?  This isn’t funny at all. He could really be hurt.”  

I was totally confused in the moment seeking for someone in the room who also felt the same way for self-comfort. I questioned myself in my head asking,  “What in the world is she talking about.” Then just by looking at her facial expression I realized this was serious, enough for me to get in major trouble. The teacher and I then went back and forth:

“I never even laughed,” looking around confused trying to find a witness to agree with me so i didn’t feel uncomfortable.

“Yes, you're over there smiling and happy that he just fainted, this isn’t a joke he could really be hurt,” the teacher claimed.

It took my close friend to explain to me that my face did seem a little happy, but she knew I wasn’t making fun of him because this is how I looked when I talked to her majority of the time. After, I realized this out about myself It seemed as though I  started getting more bad than good comments about my personality from others.

Growing up as a kid, I always received positive notes on my identity and how people enjoyed my enlightening presence. They all told me  how my smile was nice, and my goofiness  wasn’t a problem. As I grew older the more negative comments there became.  I guess this was because I started getting to  know more people. Yes, many people take my personality the wrong way. Sure I can be silly a lot, and keep a smile on  my face, but sometimes I feel as though people suspect that as weakness. I say this because people get the idea that I can’t focus or take things serious because I like to laugh and have fun, and it annoys me. I tend to be perceived this way a lot in school and at dance school (the two places w here I spend most of my time).

The dance studio is my happy place, I love what I do as a hobby the only thing I don’t love are comments.I tend to get yelled at alot for taking my happy energetic personality into class. For example; Say I mess up on the dance routine by an accident, and get called out on it she’ll then proceed to say something along the lines of “...and it’s not funny either!”

Sometimes, I may get a little out of hand when it comes to goofiness, but I can manage to control it. I feel as though my goofiness is what makes me, me. It’s a part of my natural identity. I love my personality, I’m someone who likes to bring in fun energy. I’ve come to the point in my life where negative comments on my “bubbly” personality become something where I respond, “Well, I can’t help it.” I’d rather go through life being the person who you can always count on to make a slow weary day come alive. I want people to know just because you laugh, joke, and act silly it doesn’t make you less of an achiever. My self-identity is very meaningful to me and don’t ever want to have to change my personality.

Helayna Hoffman

9/29/17

                             The Creature

The rain started at 12 am. At that moment in time,I was on watch sitting in the center of the sailboat in the cockpit. Our crossing was 14 hours that night and we were 8 hours in. The he bubbling sea was an alluring dark blue. The  rays of the bright moon struck it with force, almost causing it to shake and splash. My eyes widened as the cold drops of pure and utterly beautiful rain fell from the dark sky. My shoulders were bare and I could feel each drop as it hit me with vitality. My body told me to take cover but I stayed, betraying myself. I was content. I was already soaked from the long day's  treacherous sail. The salt from the warm ocean waves that sprung up the side of the boat was now in a thick layer on my skin, the cold rain slowly and steadily brushed the salt from my arms and legs. My surroundings became very clear to me. The bright sail flapping in the unforgiving wind was in front of me. Beside me sat the round wheel that I turned every so often to point us in the correct direction. Above me was a star, it was being launched across the shadow-filled  sky. I stared at this amusement for what had felt like hours but had, in reality, only been seconds. Those seconds were lit up by that bright creature soaring across the sky. This creature had wings, I thought to myself, to be able to exist in flight. My thoughts went wild as I  explored the characteristics of the ball of bright lights. A stream of luminescence gleamed behind it like children following their mother. The object was gone in seconds but the memory of it is almost as vivid as the moment.

My father sat beside after the rain stopped and handed me a warm blanket. He talked with me about the island that we were headed to that morning and the sights we would be exploring. His words brushed my ears but never fully dissolved into my mind. The thought of the bright creature still filled my thoughts with questions begging for answers. His voice was calming and warm. My feet were numb but I stayed by  my father's side until we reached our destination.

The island was small and not one person lived there. Asi  walked along the unbeaten path through bushes and under tree branches I started to think about that creature. I wondered if it was a warm creature or if the presence of it was warm but if you reached out to touch it, it would punish you with pain, that is cold. This thought soon drifted off to be with the forgotten thoughts and my legs carried me elsewhere. The sky was bright and clear with no evidence that a storm had once passed through.

My feet sunk into the light sand and crushed beneath my heels, the water brushed over my right foot and I felt a chill go up my leg. The wind was still a repetitive motion through my hair, it pushed it back behind my shoulders and slowly but gently started to tangle it, a task for when I arrived back on the boat. I loved the fresh smell of the ocean, the sound of the waves crashing continuously on the shore. I did not want to leave this sacred place, but just like the islands before, I was forced to go. I took a deep breath and leaped  into the chilling water to swim to the boat. Climbing up the ladder  i  was greeted with a splash of clean rainwater from my father.  ¨Get that salt off you and dry off before we set sail.¨

I did as I  was told and we were off. The creature. It was all that swept through my mind that cloudy night, and the few nights to follow. The brightness followed by complete darkness amused me and drew me in closer to the object. The thought of seeing it all over again thrilled me and gave me hope for the next one I see, if there is a next one.

The first and only time I've seen a shooting star was on a cold and stormy night in the middle of the ocean on a 33-foot  sailboat.

Throughout my life, mind you that I am fifteen, there had been four deaths that had taken place. Each death proving to be of great significance in my life. And, although, the lives that have been taken from me had given me great sorrow at the time, one particular death of a family member would change what I would proceed to do with my life.

It was the summer of going into eighth grade, and I had spent most of my time at the place of my second cousin, who in general was a replacement for my grandmother. This reason being that she was an elderly woman at age of seventy-four. This aged woman was the certainly the utmost perfect example of a grandmother, in fact she encouraged me to dub her so plenty of times even though I was not her grandchild. But, during that time where the sun was of broiling heat, I was struggling on what to do with my life because I figured that I should begin to be aware of what I would like to do career wise. I seeked the help of my grandmother 2.0, and her answer of course was, “Become an Optometrist like me,” though,  I was not very keen on that advice because it was not what I wanted to become, for I was stuck between two career paths that utterly differ.

The situation itself was distasteful to my soul. There was the option of choosing to take the career path of an Artist, and there was the career path of a pediatric surgeon. Both requiring passion, but one requiring to save the life of another human being who can possibly diminish at your hands without the right care.

Of course, I expressed my problem to my family members, especially the grandmother in which I spent most of my time with that summer, and all but she and my own mother were the only individuals that  gave significant advice. My grandmother stressed on the fact that I should not subject myself into a career path in which I would regret later. She said “Seeing as you have two career paths you are passionate in, await the moment where you know- have the more inspiration in one than the other? No doubt she was right, but I would not come to the realization of what that meant until after her death.

          “I am going to head upstairs call my name if you need me for anything,” I said.

She replied with, “Thanks doll.”

It was whole two hours after I went upstairs, so I came to ensure everything was going fine, but unfortunately it was the opposite. She was laying in bed calling my name, saying that she could not move her left side of her body which included her arm and legs.  Of course, I immediately called 911, speaking with a sort of hoarse voice, then proceeded to call my mother afterwards. Fortunately my mother was at the grocery store, which meant she would be able to get there quickly. Mom was able to get to where I was around three minutes after the ambulance had arrived. While being brought up into the paramedic bed she saw me trying she said a few words to me. She accepted her own fate, while I was at the side trying to deny it, but denying it did no justice.

Every individual takes control of such situations differently while, at times, simultaneously gaining a sense of unusual wisdom from it.  I was struggling to grasp the fact that an individual who I  greatly appreciated was gone. After the incident had occurred I was filled with grief, but I feel as, since I have had to deal with multiple other deaths prior to this event, I was able to not let such an incident get in my way. Although I had a tough time accepting the fact that she was no longer alive, it was also helpful that I was in summer, which meant I was able to process my sadness without other individuals other than family members. That was the time I figured that I feel more happiness when I have an amount of time to think to myself and rationalize.

            Summer of that year proved to be good, while being bad, with multiple mixtures of  emotions in which intensified at different moments. After she got into that paramedic car, I was able to visit her a couple days before her death; she was paralyzed through half her body and her heart failed after those couple visits.  Then, I came to the realization of why I wanted to be a surgeon. Generally I am hoping, that surgeons join the medical field in hopes of saving lives, to be able to spare the grief in which one feels, because, at times, even for artists, the greatest inspiration for insight is that of sorrow and grief.