Kankoue D. Folly

Ms.Pahomov

English 2

18 September 2018

                                                  The Pain Microaggressions Cause

It really started two summer ago, racial profiling that is. It began once I started to grow taller and taller. First, it was the unintentional staring and the pulling back of purses that occured on the bus and public areas. At first I didn’t care, however things start to get annoying over the course of time. I thought it would go away, I thought I would soon be safe from the stereotypes that come with the color of my skin, this never happened it never got better if anything it worsened. I eventually got used to this daily mockery is what I considered it.

“Goodbye.” I said to my parents before I exit the house.

“Have a good day.” My mother answered back with a heavy accent.

It was a chilly morning so I put on my hood as soon as I got out of the house, put on my headphones and started walking to the bus stop. When I  finally reached the bus stop there was no one there except for a lady with a handbag and cigarette between her fingers. I walked past her and stood behind the bus stop, mostly to avoid the smell of the burning cigarette.  As soon as she saw me I could see the fear she had instilled in her, she held her bag closer to her, I ignored this.

“She’s just worried about her belongings, it's normal” I thought to myself. I took out my phone in an attempt to make things less awkward. Then,I started to get anxious,

“Whats taking the bus so long?” I started thinking to myself. The bus seemed to be nowhere near us so there I stood with this lady that would look back at me every fifteen seconds to make sure I wasn’t going to rob her. The bus eventually came and when I got on I sat all the way in the back, to avoid making any more people second guess their safety because of my color and size. The bus picked up more and more people at every stop, then we eventually reached the transportation center. I walked down the stairs and went into the terminal and there I waited for the broad street line southbound express to arrive. The terminal was pretty packed I could tell that the train would be packed as soon as it arrived, I shook my head in discontent.

“Doors are opening ” Said the robotic voice as when the train arrived and started opening its doors. I entered the train and unsurprisingly it was packed. I made my way over to the closest empty seat and unfortunately for  me it was an older civilian. This resulted in the usual response of gripping the bag and facing the window to avoid eye contact. I sat there and pretended not to care or notice, but the longer this went on, and the harder I tried, the  angrier I got. It wasn’t normal anger, rather it consisted mostly of confusion, I was angry about how I was being treated and I had no idea as to why I was being treated so.

“Why do you clench your bag?” I thought to myself. As the train stopped in Race-Vine, I thought about asking the lady the question, however I decided it was not worth my time. I got  off at the next stop and took off my hoodie. I took off my hoodie as if it was going to make any difference. As I was walking it came to the conclusion that people will always judge me based on the color of my skin, no matter how hard they try. This made me understand what I was going to have to endure everyday for possibly the rest of my life. Something not only unique to me but to every other black male out there. It made me think about how I was a lucky one, the fact that I haven’t been shot, or killed like some black males my age. I was lucky that I was alive.  Now that I look back on certain incidents, I do not blame people for what they do, rather, I blame their surroundings, for people are a product of their surroundings. People do not just act towards me the way they do because I am black rather it is because of the things I, a black male, is portrayed as in society. To this day, I still undergo racial profiling on a day to day basis. Everytime I see that my presence causes the squeezing of belongings, I too squeeze my eyes shut, and I think of a better tomorrow.

Michal Czapla

9/21/18

E-Band

POL-ish

“What’s that weird food?”

I mindlessly closed my SpiderMan lunch bag. It was a new week of Kindergarten, and I thought that I would bring one of my favorite meals for lunch that day. Polish potato dumplings, or “pierogi”, were quite literally heaven in my mouth. The soft, doughy shell enveloping a pile of toasty mashed potatoes danced on my tastebuds. I always ate it at home, as my family would always make them every now and then. It was normal to eat them. So, when a kid named Brendan pointed them out, goosebumps tingled down my skin. My mind felt hollow. All those years of chowing doing on my beloved pierogi were now shameful memories.

“I don’t know,” I replied,”My mom put it in my bag.”

I felt the sweat oozing out of my pores. Brendan, however, simply spinned around and waddled along his way.

It seemed that I always had trouble with being open about my Polish heritage. I felt like an alien around all these Americans discussing about things I didn’t grow up with. While they were talking about ‘Tom & Jerry’, all I could think of is ‘Bolek & Lolek’, a Polish show about two brothers fighting with one another and getting into trouble. Playing football was news to me, since Poland’s main sport was soccer. I practically had a ball by my feet at all times, which most didn’t understand why. No matter what, I could never fit in. So naturally, my solution to that was acting. If they saw me as on of them, they wouldn’t judge me.  

One day, everyone in my class was hyped up. The wooden desks were shoved to the corners of the room, and the big red beat box was brought out. As soon as “Teach Me How To Dougie” came on, the class went nuts. It was a flood of 6 year olds shuffling their light up sketchers all over the dusty plank floor. My mind spiraled out of control. My heart pounded from under my chest as though it would burst after every beat.

What on earth was going on?

I was so used to hearing Polish Disco: a lot of bass drops and catchy choruses. My type of dance was hopping up and down, or taking a pretty girl and twirling her around. This was nothing I had ever experienced before. Lifting up my feet felt like a dumbbell was pulling it to the ground. My legs tangled and intertwined as I tried shuffling my shoes, which turned out to look like me trying to kick the ground. My limbs were just flailing in every direction. It was almost as though I was in a different body.

The funny thing is, I probably received more weird looks trying to do the shuffle rather than suggesting my own music. I continued not to realize that, though, and I kept on shuffling. It wasn’t until one day, while we were in a reading circle, that everything changed. I had a select group of friends in my class, so anyone else who wasn’t part of it was just a stranger to me. That included the girl seated next to me. Our teacher, Ms. Gudis, assigned us as reading buddies. Naturally, as we sat down and started reading a picture book, I asked a bit about her.

“So, what’s your name?” I questioned.

“Karolina.”

My eyes widened, jaw cracked open. That sounded just like a Polish name. I had to be sure, though, so I pressed on.

“Where are you from, Karolina?”

“Oh well I was born in Philadelphia…”

Why would I get my hopes up?

“...but my family come from Poland.”

I nearly let out a screech. My slouched posture on the pillow underneath me had now turned into straight one. At that moment, I did the unthinkable: I told her about my Polish heritage. For the entire class period, we shared countless stories about how we struggled to fit into the crowd. We discussed things such as not celebrating April Fools Day, but rather Smigus Dingus, where boys would pour water over girl’s head on Easter Monday. With each story, I grew more and more excited about the topics. For once I felt proud of my culture.

I am not going to sit here and say that everyone loved my Polishness, thought I was a cool cat, and I lived happily ever after. However, school life did become more enjoyable. Everytime I opened my lunchbox, I could munch on my snacks in peace and even give a little story about them. Every now and then, I would sing a tune from a ‘Disco Polo’ song. The world didn’t end, and people simply accepted that it was me. A few kids even loved it!

The point is, you shouldn’t be ashamed of your roots. Your culture is just part of the building blocks that make you, you. Sometimes, it even spices things up. Not everyone is going to like you for it, but not everyone is life is going to like you anyways. You just have to express yourself the way you’ve always wanted to, and the positive people are the ones that will be attracted.

Randy Le

Ms. Pahomov

English 2

September 21, 2018

911, What’s Your Emergency?

The aching sounds from my father was painful. I felt like it was looping through my mind as I tried to sleep. I wondered if closing my eyes would help, but it only made the sound louder.

I got off the bus and walked along the sidewalk to my house. I was feeling the scorching hot rays from the sun that laid upon me. Every step, I could hear a different noise that resembled the painful sound from my father and would never stop—until I stop.

I finally arrived at my house and went directly upstairs. My father was lying on the ground, next to my bed. I looked to see if he was okay, but I couldn’t tell because he was sleeping. I went back downstairs, put my bookbag on the couch, and proceeded to find some food.

When I was younger, I was not entirely focused on anyone’s well-being. I was loud, energetic, and only wanted to play around. I remember my father doing some heavy-duty work, but it was nothing that I really cared for. Most of the time, I would be at  my grandma’s house, playing with my cousins. Until I got older, this was the story of my relationship with my father. Eventually, all the heavy-duty work built up and caused some wear and tear on my father’s body. It was not until I was age 11, where I could see the detrimental side effects of the sciatica. It would come back every year and strike my father with excruciating pain. I wasn’t the only one witnessing his pain, but that didn’t make me feel safe with how my father’s welfare was going.

My dad shouted from up stairs, “Randy! Randy!”

“Yes? What’s up?” I said, rushing upstairs to his room.

My father asked, “Can you get me a bottle of water?”

“Sure, no problem.” I replied back while rushing downstairs to grab a bottle from the fridge.

“Here you—” I said as I walked in the room, shocked at what I seen.

My father started to groan in pain while I stood there in shock. He was rolling on the ground, pointing towards his back and left leg while my muscles tensed up.

My brother, Kenny, rushed in and asked “What is happening?”

“I don’t know!”

Kenny and I panicked as he told me to go get his medicine from downstairs. I searched through multiple plastic bags, in hopes I could find a bottle of pills, but no luck. I went upstairs with a disappointed look on my face as I saw Kenny holding a phone to his head.

I unintentionally shouted, “Who are you calling?”.

“Keep it down, Randy. I’m on the phone with the ambulance.”

I sat down on my bed and waited for Kenny to be done talking. I wasn’t sure what was going to happen but the thought of my father being gone shadowed over my mind. I tried to not think about it but, the pain I just witnessed was like no other. I felt my throat begin to choke up and my face becoming numb. The ambulance finally arrived as I could barely watch the process of getting my father into the truck. The ambulance team had to act quick and needed certain requirements to bring my father from the second floor to the first floor. The first step was to check if my father was in a suitable position to be placed in a mobile chair. The team had to work together with my father so no one else gets hurt because the team must lift my father down many steps. At some moment the agonizing pain would build up to my father as he began to yelp in pain.

“Sir, we need you to stay still so we can transport you to the vehicle,” said one of the ambulance workers.

Eventually, my father would be brought to the ambulance and my brother joined them to make sure he was okay. My mom told me to go to sleep because it was getting late, but I just couldn’t. The thought of my father wouldn’t go away. There was a indefinable sound that I couldn’t put my mind to, but it haunted me for the rest of the night.

Ever since that day, I wish for sciatica to never strike back at my father (or anyone). He had returned from the hospital in just a few days after, and he’s in good shape today. I found that, just in an instance, one thing could turn anyone’s life in any direction. Without my parents, I wouldn’t be living the life I have now and the days without my father being home were the worst. After being seperated from my father, it made me realize that my parents were the most important people in my life.

I peer out of the cramped window as the skyline of Toronto comes into sight, my field of view increasing as the plane descends.

I hear the captain on the PA system, “Flight attendants prepare for landing.”

The first thing I see is the CN Tower, the tallest building in North America. I feel overwhelmed with excitement as the small wheels come out from beneath the plane. I get to experience the cultures of a new city!
As a present for my 15th birthday, my mom gave me the choice to visit either Chicago, Washington D.C, or Toronto, Canada. At the mention of going to Toronto, my heart fluttered. I had been to Canada once before and had desired to go back since then.

“I’ll let you think about it,” she said when I didn’t respond.

“Toronto!” I exclaimed.

“Well, you’re enthusiastic. I’ll look at plane ticket prices tonight.”

A few weeks later, I was setting foot on the train that would take us from the airport to the city. A video plays when the doors close and the train starts. “Whether you are visiting Toronto for the first time or are returning home, welcome!” The calming voice of the recorded message plays. I lean back in my seat and stare out of the window. We pass a friendly looking park as the video names famous attractions in the city. All I could think was that I could not wait to visit all of those cool places!

I sit at the table next to my mom, her computer set in front of us.

On the screen, it reads, “Top 20 things to do in Toronto, Summer 2017.”

We read the travel blog’s article together. It lists the typical things you find on a travel site, such as museums or landmarks. However, one thing catches our eye.

“The Canadian National Exhibition: Celebrating 150 years.”

“I forgot, Canada is celebrating its 150th anniversary this year! We have to go to this,” my mom tells me.

After they scan my ticket, I walk through the turnstile. I gasp at everything I see, trying to take it all in at once. A huge banner, with every color imaginable, announcing the 150th anniversary spans my vision. Many pavilions stretch across the 192 acres set aside for this festival. My mom and I are not sure where to go first! Perhaps the food pavilion? How about the petting zoo? I wish there was something like this back in Philadelphia; I could stay here all day.

“What else should we do in Toronto?” I asked my mom. “We are spending three days there, but there is only one thing we’ve planned.”

We were going to the Canadian National Exhibition, but so far that was it. While we both had ideas of what to do, nothing was permanent.

“We should visit my dad’s cousins,” my mom mentions. “I haven’t seen them in a long time. They do live in Toronto.”

“That sounds good. We should meet them for dinner one night,” I respond.

We climb out of our Uber and head towards the restaurant. I am excited to see my family for the first time since my Bat Mitzvah, two years ago. I wonder if they’ll even remember me, I think to myself. Of course they will silly, you only saw them a couple of years ago, I reassure myself

A hostess greets us and brings us to the table with my family. The butterflies in my stomach flutter, making my insides churn. Why am I so nervous?

“Hi! It’s so good to see you! You’ve grown so much!” My great-aunt Vera stands up and embraces me in a warm hug. The butterflies fly away, and I immediately feel more relaxed. We eat and talk for what seems like forever.

Finally, my mom looks at her phone and announces, “It’s Ten o’clock, we should be heading back to the hotel.”

I am so happy I got this time to catch up with my family. I am also glad to get back to our hotel and rest. This vacation has been so much fun. I really got to see cultural differences between Toronto and Philadelphia. Even though the city is just a short distance away, the culture is still different. Toronto is focused on the environment and urban improvement so much, I quality I would love to see everywhere. Everyone there is so kind to everyone they meet, from passers-by to new friends. I can’t wait to come back to Canada.

It was July of 2017, in Cambodia, where it was always a scorching 98 degrees almost daily. That day was no exception, and it felt even more humid than it ever was. Still, I wasn’t going to let this weather ruin my day of walking and sightseeing one of the most famous landmarks in all of Asia: the Angkor Wat. I was born in Philadelphia to a Khmer family, and I’ve only visited Cambodia once before then, but I don’t remember much of it. Now, I’m visiting the once rich, and flourished country again. To get there, we took a car, and during the ride, I could not stop but smile and think about the marvelous ruins and luscious plant life that is found in Angkor Wat. As soon as we parked the car, I hurriedly opened the door and took a step outside, breathing in the fresh air and smelling hints of river water and various trees and plants. All around me were other tourists; some were locals who took annually flocked to their most prized source of pride in the country while others were tourists who came internationally, from countries such as China, Mexico, America, India, France, etc. It appears to me that they were all here for the same reason that I am.

There is an old stone bridge that would normally take me towards the main entrance of Angkor Wat, but its status and shape are so bad that it has been closed for renovations and examination by Cambodian and Japanese experts. Instead, I cross a temporary floating bridge that is able to contain hundreds of people walking on it at once. As I walk closer, I can see birds flying around on the jungle-like trees and various tiny insects crawling on the old stone ruins that leads up to the bridge.

When you start to walk on the bridge, there will be officials on the bridge who gives you a simple test; they say Hello to you in Khmer. The catch here is that if you respond to them in a language other than Khmer, they will stop you and ask for your “ticket” which is essentially a tourist admission fee. If you say hello back in Khmer, they will assume your of Khmer ethnicity or a local. I know it may seem like a shady practice, but believe it or not, hundreds of thousands of people visit the Angkor Wat every year, and about 65 percent of them are tourists, which makes this a very lucrative source of money for the government and officials. Luckily for me, my family is all Khmer and we had no trouble getting past officials. Looking back, I saw a lot of officials talking to foreigners and at the time, I didn’t know why we were not stopped and all my dad simply said to me was “They are just looking for directions.” Being born in America, I never really witnessed an event similar to this, but today I understand now why my dad didn’t tell me the truth and I respect him for that.

Walking on the temporary bridge did not take long and soon, I was ready to explore the Angkor Wat in all its glory. As I headed into the main courtyard, I visited one of the shrines and was given some money and a piece of silk fabric which acted as a gift for which we were supposed to give to the shrine and the monk that was present. The monk said some blessings and prayers and gave me a red bracelet, which means good luck in Cambodian culture. After this, I headed to the main courtyard that led to many different small and various temples.

The courtyard had a rustic charm to it, and the atmosphere was archaic but in a cool way. All around me were guides, vendors, and photographers, all of which were implemented to generate income for the country, which relies heavily on tourism so it was no surprise that every employee was bugging us to buy their services. We just ignored them as we walked by. I kind of felt guilty because these people are usually people in poverty which is a common sighting today in Cambodia.

After that, the entire day usually went on as normal. I took many photos, and read plaques that were scattered along the walls of the temples, which detailed the history of a particular part of the ruins. For example, there was a huge wall in which there were thousands of carvings that depicted heavenly nymphs and it was a sight to see. I also happened to get the chance to ride an elephant! Not many people can say that and it was such a riveting experience. The elephant ride was slow and calm, but I was very high up as we went around the main courtyard in a circle. I even got to take some photos along the way. It just felt like a magical and exotic experience that you could get nowhere else in the world.

In the end, it was a truly magnificent experience that lived up to my expectations. The breathtaking views of the ruins combined with the majestic and dense jungle-like vegetation made it feel like you’re hiking on an expedition and it will be a journey that I will never forget.

Skrrrrrrr. The train comes to a complete stop and a cluster of people gather around the door to enter, myself included. The train is empty except for one man standing, walking cart to cart while holding clear bottles full of perfume. I take a seat and increase the volume of my music to enter my own little world, as my chain dangles and dances around my neck. A couple years ago my mom married a muslim immigrant who shared his culture and beliefs with us, which lead me to find a new meaning in things. I began to share the same beliefs as him as he took me under his wing. As the years went by my family took a trip to Egypt, without me, to meet my step father’s family. They brought me back a necklace that says “God is one, Muhammad is a profit” to show a piece of my religion. I haven’t taken it off since the moment I got it.

The man enters my cart, eyeing the amount of “future customers”. He’s wearing white Air Force ones with nike sweats and a Kufi (an islamic prayer cap), we share something in common. I see that he is holding clear bottles of perfume, trying to sell them to an open customer. I put my head in my phone trying to avoid eye contact because I’m not interested in buying any perfume.  

Social media has had a big impact on the way I think about things. I’ve seen multiple posts on my timeline warning me about people trying to sell perfume, when you sniff the scent it causes you to pass out and allows the person selling it to kidnap you or you not be aware of your surroundings. This causes me to be alert at the sight of the man.

I bury my head in my phone avoiding all movements. I’m scrolling through my instagram feed and suddenly a blue tinted clear bottle gets put in front of my phone. My heart starts racing as I lower my music, take one earbud out and lift my head to make eye contact with the man.

He proceeds to make an argument on why I should invest in his perfume, I make eye contact but I’m not really listening. I then acknowledge the kufi on the man’s head and look down to make eyes at my chain hoping he realizes the sign. I raise my head to see if he has caught the sign I was trying to make and he did. He then places out his hand and greets me “As-salāmu ʿalaykum”. I shake his hand as I respond “alaykum as-salām”. He then leaves me and goes about selling his scents to other people as I put my earbuds back in and go back to my daily train ride.

Later in the day, while I’m daydreaming during class I think about what occurred on the train. It lead me to think that the man on the train only went away because we shared something in common, our religion. It lead me to believe that once he realized we were almost one of the same, he wasn’t interested in selling me his product but he was interested in protecting me from it.

I then started to think deeper, people take it upon themselves to figure out how you identify, white, black, muslim, asian, male, female, but who said that’s how you identify? I realized that the man on the train was eager to sell his product to me while I was looking like any other ordinary white boy on the train, but after seeing we shared a common belief his mind had changed. I believe people are more prone to protecting people that they share a common belief with, especially if what they believe in leads them to discrimination. Although it’s comforting to feel united, we associate ourselves with the ones we’re comfortable with, leaving the others to be on their own.

“Nicola Breedy-Caesar please board the plane at gate C”

My body froze, I knew it was time to finally face one of my biggest fears and hop onto the plane. I had never been on a plane before and 6 year old me, listening to all my older cousins the night before talking about how birds love to fly into engines and cause the planes to crash, my imagination began to run wild. I started to imagine all the possible ways the plane could have crashed into the ocean. My mom yelled at me and told me to hurry up before we missed our flight. This was a big opportunity for me, I told my mom that I had to go the bathroom. I was trying to find anyway to make us miss the flight, my mom said that there were bathrooms on the plane. I knew that there was no way to try and make us miss the flight, if I had tried anything else the belt would have made sure it didn’t happen again.

The flight attendant had passed us our boarding tickets, and I wanted to just throw it away. The flight was booked and because we were riding on standby, I wasn’t going to be able to sit next to my mom and sister. This made the ride even scarier, I got onto the plane and went to my seat nervously. I got the window seat and sat next to an old man and his wife. The flight attendant had gone over all the things to do in case of an emergency. When they said it was time to buckle up, I grabbed the seatbelt and tied it so tight to point it felt as if I was stopping my blood circulation. We were on the runway just waiting to go into the air, and we soon began to takeoff.

When we got into the air, I had felt some turbulence and it made me go insane. I started yelling, “We’re going to die, we’re going to die!” I had caused a scene and all the other passengers had started to look at me. I kept going on and on for about 5 minutes, until the co-pilot had came up to me. I thought that I was going to get kicked off the plane, but he smiled and told me that everything was going to be fine. I didn’t believe him, and said that we were going to fall into the ocean. He laughed and told me to follow him into the cockpit. I was a bit skeptical at first, but still decided to follow him.

“Woah this is amazing” I said.

The cockpit was beautiful, there were so many buttons and I was able to touch the wheel. It was a lot of fun and the pilots were really cool to me, the kid that had caused a bunch of hell on the flight. I had almost completely forgot my fears and that we were almost 30,000 feet in the air. Those kind pilots had taught me to not be afraid of airplanes and that you should always face your fears. When we had gotten off the plane my mom had reminded me of what was going to happen once we got home, because of the scene that I had caused. I didn’t really care at that point, I was really happy, because I was able to face my fears and get a cool experience to brag to my cousins about, except for the crying and yelling part. From that somewhat embarrassing experience, I learned that you shouldn’t let your biggest fears haunt you, and that you should try to think about how to overcome those fears instead.

.

Ari Burstein

English: Ms. Pahomov

Gold Stream

E-Band

September 21, 2018

Word Count: 688

Beep Beep, Beep Beep. Beep Beep, Beep Beep. I turn off my alarm and slowly roll out of bed. Nine o’clock is too early to be getting up on a summer morning, I think to myself as I pull up my black jeans. I go to the bathroom and splash my face with water. I get ready quickly, and I’m out the door by 9:35. I unlock my bike and get ready to head towards 19th and Market, where I will be working for the summer. Marathon Grill. I wonder what it will be like as I begin my three-and-a-half mile trek from West Philly.  

I am full of excitement as I try and anticipate the day ahead of me. Although being a busboy isn’t the most glorious job, it will be a good learning experience for me, as well as a way to make some money. I can’t wait.

I get to my Marathon Grill at 9:53 A.M.; 7 minutes early. I take a few moments debating whether or not I should go in early and decide I should. As I walk in, I sense the other employees notice my aura of nervousness.

“Are you Ari?” an older woman says from the Employees Only door.

“Yes,” I reply uneasily.

“Hi, I’m Cheryl. Have you ever worked in a restaurant before?” she says as she hands me a black shirt with a neon green M on it, the Marathon Grill Logo.

“I have not,” I respond unsure of what this would mean for me.

“Poppa,” the woman yells into the kitchen, “I need you to train someone.”

A few seconds later a burly man comes out. He is about 6’1 with a trimmed beard and dark skin. I shake his hand. It is rough, calloused by many years of manual labor.

“My name is Poppa,” he says with a thick Haitian accent, “In the next hour, I am going to train you to be a busboy.”

The next hour consisted of me following Poppa around and learning about the tasks that were required of me and how to do them. I changed the trash bags, filled up each serving station with ice, wiped down tables, and cleared dishes. By 11:00 I had a pretty solid understanding of my role in the restaurant. Now I am ready to go off on my own.

“You will be in charge of bussing the outdoor tables and keeping them clean,” Poppa says.

I nod at him and prepare for the onrush of lunch customers. I walk around, inspecting each table to make sure they are clean. I walk back to the bussing station as the flow of people starts to increase.

The day goes on, and I do my job well. I am amazed by how smoothly everything runs, from the kitchen, to the food-runners, to the waiters, and finally to the busboys. Everyone has a role to play. Two o’clock comes by. I clock-out and begin to bike home.

When I get home I take a long, hot shower. Warm water rolls slowly down my tired body. I feel relaxed. After the shower, I go to my room to watch American Horror Story.

“Ari,” I hear someone saying faintly, “Ari, wake up.”

I open my eyes to see my dad standing over me. I must have fallen asleep.

“What time is it?” I ask my dad in a flustered manner.

“It’s almost six o’clock,” he replies. “It’s time for dinner. We’re going to SangKee.”

We get to SangKee and are seated rather quickly. However, I can’t help but look at the restaurant with a different perspective. I watch the waiters taking orders and the runners taking food out from the kitchen. I see the hostess seating people and the busboys clearing tables. I now have a greater appreciation for those who I took for granted before.

We finish our meal, and my father gets the check. As we begin to leave, I get $3 from my pocket and leave it on the table.