At my house I opened up the draw and got the jersey whether it is old or new I always get excited when I put it on. Then I get the extra stuff such as a hat,wig,beads, and rally towel which makes me extra pumped. Then the next thing is me calling my dad to tell him I am ready to go. We begin to talk about Stats on the game and how they are going to win which always helps us stay positive.

Then that moment when I enter the subway and see the logo is very cool everyone is talking about the game and your pulse begins to rise up. Then the train speaker says Next stop AT&T Station and sports complex then they announce the stadium names. Everyone begins to stand up then the station comes into sight and then when the doors open it is like sharks smell blood they come out. You go up the escalator and then walk out the door and bam the stadium is right there you begin to walk up and you see more and more orange.

Then you walk in the doors go through the metal detectors then you give your ticket to the usher he scans it then you are in you hear that beep of the scanner then you’re in and it is the best feeling ever. When you go up the escalators it is cool you see all the players names and numbers then you start to feel excited. So as you get through that entryway and you feel that blast of cold air it is like the best AC ever and you’re not hot anymore. Then you see that beautiful rink and wherever you sit you can see it which is cool as well. Then the game starts to begin and those red seats start to turn to orange and more orange which is awesome.

Then the players start to come out and the crowd is getting into it and my pulse begins to rise. Then the players are introduced by the Lou Nolan and then the national anthem by Lauren Hart Which during the season is The star spangled banner and during the playoffs god bless america with a split screen of Kate Smith which is great. Then everyone is is so happy and cheering. Then the mohawk puck comes and says flyers then the road team and then now so an example of this would be flyers rangers now.

Then Lou Nolan says let’s get ready for some hockey than puck drop starts. Then it is officially game time and then I am excited. You hear all of those great sounds the hits on the boards,the players stopping on the ice and then the ice shaving going everywhere then the tape to tape passes and then the players shooting the puck to the goalie the 2nd best sound ever but the best sound ever is when the puck hits the crossbar. The fans start to cheer which also makes me excited during the game.

The worst part and most exciting part of the game is when the players shoot and shoot and shoot on the goalie and the fans keep saying ooh and aah like a thousand fireworks are going off below their feet. Then when the period comes to an end my heart can now rest for about 20 minutes we walk around and get some drinks such as the best ice tea ever that always rest on my taste buds because it is so good. The next thing is the crab fries which do have a kick to them that is why there is a cheese sauce with them. Then the game starts back up.

Then After the game finally starts back up and my heart is kind of back to normal now the other team scores which is a sword through the heart. Then as Lou Nolan announces the name of the goal scorer and then the fans start booing and booing. After that the players are getting scruffy and mean so of course we get excited and we wait for a fight so then as you can guess it comes the fight. It is over and then the crowd is energized and pumped up as well then Lou as you know announces the penalties then the game continues Then the end of the period.

As we wait 20 minutes my breath smells like crabs,cheese and of course ice tea the 3rd starts. The fans are rowdy and excited then finally after about 20 hits that looked very painful there was the tying goal. The game went to OT which means overtime the most scary experience ever it is 3 on 3 sudden death hockey for 5 minutes but it is the worst 5 minutes of your life. After that if no one scores the 2nd most scary experience ever is the penalty shot shootout a 1 on 1 shooter vs goalie. 1st round no 2nd round no 3rd no and then 4th the flyers score and they win 2 to 1 I am so happy and so excited. Then the sad part I half to put my jersey away for next game.

The air was crisp and clean. There was not one cloud in the sky. The sand was warm from the beaming sun and soft from the tide. We were so happy to be out here together. My mom loves the beach the feeling of sun in her skin is her favorite thing and she thinks that the best sun is beach sun. We walk up to the water. It is the beginning of summer so we have a sure idea in our heads that the water would be warm. The water was so cold my mom grabbed onto me in shock. I heard her let out a very uncomfortable scream. I would have reacted but the ice cold water froze me into place. We both laughed as we shivered. My mom, she likes the beach but, she doesn’t like the water, the shriek of seagulls or, the taste of salt water. I just don’t like the smell of salt water. If you get too close it goes up your nose and causes a sting kinda like when you eat wasabi but definitely not as bad. One of the best parts was that she hadn’t been to the beach in a while. The last time she had been here was with her best friend.

She was so cool. She didn’t have any kids my age. Heck, she didn’t have any kids at all. I loved hanging out with her so much. My mom’s best friend Ms. Tisha. She was my godmother and truly cared for me. I remember we had a great time together on the beach. Our family went on a vacation to Jamaica and we had went to less rowdy part of the beach near the bungalows. The sun was beaming and the water was clear. Clouds threatened at the edge of the sun rays causing shade and sun to alternate. We were relaxing and wading in the clear blue island water. I remember her asking, “Take a picture of me and Des?” It isn’t the best photo but it is one of us and that means the world to me. 

The moment my mom pulled it back up from our dusty Toshiba computer I was in shock. Five years can really change a person. I have grew a few inches. I’ve leaned out a lot especially in my face. My chubby cheeks are no more and I’ve matured since then . Looking back, I didn't think too much of this picture and forgot about it often. It wasn't until I saw it again, last week, in her obituary. It had been printed out into a small grainy image in the center. It felt weird being there but it made me realize how important she was to me. At the time life was moving fast around me. It was the first day of school, I had a good amount of friends, everything was fine, until it wasn’t. We had known she was sick but the shock of her gone left us shook. There would be no more game nights at her house. Those nights were fueled with laughter and smiles. Chips and dip spread across the table. Alongside the food were pokeno boards and decks of cards ready to be played. It always smelled of chicken that someone had brought from the store or fried themselves. You could hear the laughter all throughout the house as well as the jingles of quarters. Everyone bought all their change hoping that they would win it all back plus some more. I miss it now more than ever. I would never be able to be on her CatchPhrase team or be neck and neck in Scattergories. I would never be up past my bedtime yearning to call the cards as well as her in pokeno. I miss her. The last time I had even seen her was a year ago when she first got sick. I didn’t know how to miss her because I already hadn’t seen her in a year. I had never felt so conflicted on how to feel in my life.

No one really tells you how to feel when someone you love dies. In some ways it is rude and insensitive to tell someone else how to grieve but, in some ways it can help. I’m still really unsure on how to grieve when someone dies. I don’t take death well. It is kinda of like when you get a paper cut. It happens it heals but if you keep picking at it, it’ll leave a scar. I don’t want to forget about her but I don’t want to dwell on the past. Yes, it did happen but, she’s in a better place, probably teaching angels how to play CatchPhrase and making unforgettable beach days. People always say life isn’t a game, but isn’t it? We play around with death until it finally takes us. It could be quick and painless or full of suffering and failed treatments. For some reason I used to think that all adults had the game of life all figured out, but I guess they don’t. My mom is pained the most by her death. They were friends for over 20 years. I could almost smell the tears on her face through the phone because I knew she had been crying. The taste of salt welled up inside of my mouth. But, when you look at the bigger picture, she was electric. She left her mark on the world and for that I will be forever grateful. 

What do you want to be when you get older?” I don’t know. “How about hobbies that you enjoy?” Hobbies? “You look like you’re going to be a doctor. Or maybe a lawyer?” All eyes were on me. My feet were shifted towards the other side of the room, ready to run. My mother peers at me out of the side of her eye awaiting my response, along with the rest of my family. Their eyes are fixed on me, necks stretched outward and heads tilted to the side to exaggerate their anticipation, half smiles on their faces. I can feel my stomach fill with butterflies, but in this situation, replacing the butterflies with matches would be more of an appropriate fit. My body sparks a fire and spreads quickly. My heart beats in my ears and my underarms burn. I was running out of time. I hated to have to think on my feet, especially when I couldn’t come up with an answer that would prove satisfactory.

“I guess I want to be a nurse.”

The room is brought back to life and everyone quickly returns back to their own conversations. I bolt to the bathroom to catch my breath, replaying that moment over and over in my head.

Why hadn’t I told my family what my true interests and passions were? Why didn’t I mention my journals, my poems, my books full of short stories and notes full of ideas? How I saw it: If I had told them flat out that I wanted to be a writer, I could already hear the sympathetic “reality checks” and looks of concern. Enjoying writing and wanting to take it up as a profession simply isn’t seen as legitimate, at least in my case. I started to feel like I didn’t belong with my classmates. All throughout elementary school I’d sit for hours trying to figure out what exactly was wrong with me. All of my peers wanted to be architects or veterinarians or just something that was generally praised upon. By 8th grade I’d concluded that I was going to have to find another passion to throw my energy into, because writing was just something you had to do when the teacher said so. Of course I loved assignments that required me to write, but they weren’t ever really as fulfilling as I wanted them to be. I was following a list of instructions to get me an A, and then that list was thrown away and the essay was thrown away and nothing was ever looked at again. I was gaining nothing. So, I took it upon myself to start writing whatever I wanted.

By middle school I had gone through one and a half journals that I had used to write stories. Whenever I had the free time, I was writing. I would grab my belongings right before lunch began, head for the gym and up the back stairwell. Dropping my bag below me, I’d blow the dust off my throne and try to get as comfortable as I could on a cold concrete flight of stairs. I would write about anything, really. It all depended on the type of mood I was in. If I had been out of focus all day, I’d find myself writing fairytales or fictional stories with myself as the main character. If I was feeling overwhelmed, I’d write a story that contained anger or even mystery, something that would keep me engaged with my own thoughts. The real reason I kept and still keep my writing to myself is because of the demand that would come out of publicizing everything I wrote.

It was my 8th grade graduation. I sat in the front of the stage and stared off into space as they called out awards for my classmates. A tight ball formed in the pit of my stomach. I had won a couple awards for theatre, but that was expected—they gave those out to everyone. What I did not expect was to hear my name called again. I turned to my english teacher standing at the microphone, smiling. She waved for me to occupy the spot next to her. My dress slid across the floor behind me, and I prayed for it not to get caught in my high heels and cause a complete disaster.

“This girl has written her way into my heart. She creates one of the greatest pieces I’ve seen in the 8th grade class!”

She looks down at me. I search the audience, locking eyes with my mother. She doesn’t look proud. She doesn’t look disappointed, either. I couldn’t read her expression.

“I’m proud to give her this award, but also sad to let her go. I’ll miss her constructed responses.”

The crowd clapped, my mother smiled, my peers praised me.

In moments like that, all the attention and positive feedback would have me thinking of ways to put myself out there and get someone to read and publish my writing. I still struggled with doubt, and had so much to learn. Even now I’m trying my hardest to be confident about the poems and papers I write. What I want to do, I don’t have a solid idea on just yet. But I’m hoping that it never requires me to stop doing what I love.

“Line up to start heading downstair!” I was second in line with twenty dollars in my pocket. Everyone was fairly excited for the biannual book fair in the library at my school. I had seen from walking by the room earlier that day what they had in store this year. I was really excited to buy a poster with my favorite show on it. As we were walking down the steps, i asked all my friends what they were going to get. Many said books, a pen for their brother or sister, some said posters like me, and some said that they didn’t even have any money. It was just a way to get out of class, honestly. I was wondering where i was going to put mine in my room. Near my tv? Next to my closet? Behind my door? My teacher instructed us to be quiet while on the steps, but i wasn’t really concerned about that. Should i buy someone a present? But who? I don’t have a sibling who would appreciate it. I knew if i got something for my parents, it’d be small. “Where should we put our stuff when we get back to class?” someone asked “In the closet with your jackets, it should be okay there” the teacher said. As we got to the bottom of the stairs, i was so excited to be first in the book fair. I walked in, but was now conflicted. I always remember my classmates talking about their brothers and sisters; how they walked with them home or just their lives in general. Simply adding them into conversations or talking about how old they were. My school was set up in a way that if you had an older or younger sibling, certain things would be set up just because your family consisted of more than one child. When we would do things like the book fair, all of the kids in my class would talk about how they were going to buy things for their younger siblings and I didn’t understand why. Why would you buy something if it wasn’t for yourself? I have always had that mentality and i think it is strictly because i am an only child. I am not exactly an only child, i have an older brother. He’s fourteen years older than me and moved out when i was really young, so I just live with both of my parents. I don’t necessarily remember when he left or even how old i was, but i just know it felt like my house my emptier. My brother was always very reserved, so when he left the house was still quiet. I remember when i came home after school one day and his room was empty; all the furniture was gone and it looked like no one had ever lived their teenage years there. My family is very split; i have about five sides to my family. My brother is actually my half brother because we have different dads. When my mom and i would go to Harris family events, i felt as though i didn’t exactly belong there because i wasn’t related to anyone by blood. They made me feel welcome, though, everyone would kiss and hug us when we walked in. Christmas would be a loving exchange of presents and hot food that brought everyone together. Bright red and green twinkling lights hung on the tall tree in the corner of the living room. The dim lighting and candles would make the mood even more festive.

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.1) Types of feedback that would be most helpful for the author: Use more descriptive words nice flow write more 2) Feedback from peer #1: Use of words Seems to have the transitioning of ideas down pact Can link together non relating ideas ? Can you relate it back more to the topic? ? How is this important? ? Does it have a bigger meaning? 3) Feedback from peer #2: +NIce story + Engage the senses + Structured well ?When did this take place? ? How can you make it more descriptive? ?

5) Author’s plan for revisions: I plan to read over my entire essay and fix any errors that i made. I read the feedback and i will use it to make my essay better.

Getting up that morning was the most stressful and difficult morning for me. Not wanting to go to this funeral, but this was my great grandmother we’re talking about. Finding all black clothing to put on was sad to me. Sitting in the car thinking about her, but everything wasn’t clicking, everything was a blur to me still. Seeing you laying in your casket tears my inside apart, tears run down my face nonstop. Seeing my grandpa, and uncle on their knees crying in front of their mother was the most depressing thing to ever witness. “I’m sorry for everything, I’m sorry for putting through so much as a kid” as my grandpa said in front her mother on his knees. “Addison…” my mother called me “everything will be ok.” Looking at her with tears running down her face makes me want to cry even more. But knowing that my great grandmother is gone, I know that there’s 1 less angel in my life. Knowing that the lady who took care of me as a small child is no longer here but up there. As I stepped up towards her casket, flashback started to race across my mind, memories that I had with her began to all come back to me. Eventually, I dropped to my knees, cried and pray that she’ll come back. But it would be selfish for me to keep her here, just to make myself happy. “Please, please take good care of her” as I mumble beneath my breathe. I got up off my knees and I walked towards my seat as my uncle guided me. As people got up and say what they got to say to her, each one of them got onto their knees and cried. Seeing all these people that crying really showed me and my family how many people cared about my great grandmother. As they were about to close the casket, everybody stormed towards her and tears began to gush out of people eyes. “Mom, mom! Noooo…” As my grandpa and uncle cried. “Watch your hands,” as one man told everyone before shutting the casket. Everyone gather around the casket putting their hands on top of it, as the two men struggle to carry it out. People gather around the outside of the funeral home because of the loud band that plays as we carried the casket to the hearse. It took forever for us to get the cemetery. But as we drove into the cemetery there was bands playing songs. As I got out of the van, I saw a deep hole where the my great grandma is going to go. “Well this is the last time where we can actually be close to her” my cousin said. I looked up into the sky knowing that she’s back with her husband and she now looking over us. As the casket was being lower into the ground, all I wish for was for my family and friends to know that it has been a good life for my great grandmother.

One Christmas morning I sat on the edge of my bed kicking and swinging my feet back and forth. “Cover your eyes” She said. I placed one hand in front of each eye, trying to peek through my small hands. “NO! Don’t you dare peak” she yelled. I sighed and closed my eyes. My little anxious body was uncomfortably moving. All I could think is what could it be? The room was still for a moment, darkness filled under my eyelids and the only thing you could hear was the shuffling of feet from the other room. After minutes of impatiently waiting. She entered the room and placed an object down that made a loud thud.I opened my eyes to see my mom standing in the doorway and my dad with a camera in his hands, recording every moment of the big reveal. My sister was standing behind the big box that had been perfectly wrapped with Santa Claus Christmas paper. “Are you going to open it?” she asked with a smile. It was a box slightly bigger than me at the time. So I had to stand on my toes to reach the top.

 I started to unwrap the wrapping paper slowly because even then and  still now I loved the anticipation of opening a present. I peeled back the wrapping paper  strip by strip, tearing the clean tucked wrapping paper into many small pieces. “Come on, Sandra, open it already, Do you need help?” my sister barked. I shook my head fiercely no as I opened up the last shreds of paper. My dad grabbed the last pieces of wrapping paper to put into a big black trash bag. I stood there in astonishment to see a big pink cinderella vanity set in front of me. “Open it!,Open the box mom!” I yelled in joy “ Thank you so much.” I hugged my sister tightly as she hugged me back,kissing my forehead. Then I heard a loud thud from above, i woke up to see my dog Trixie on the floor spread out because she just fell off the bed. I look to see that it’s not Christmas morning and I’m not six anymore. I look around to see their is no vanity set and the picture of my sister is still sitting on my dresser and realize  she is no longer with us and tears fill my eyes. I can’t go back to sleep anymore. The memory was way too strong for me to handle. So instead I listen to music. Music that lets me drift away from those memories as I look at the picture on my wall  and get lost into the grey and whiteness of it all. 

Holding on to the past has always been a speciality of mine whether it was good or bad, something about holding on to the past helps me gain a little more power on my life. This probably is how most people feel and a big reason why a lot of people don’t let go of their past . It can be looked through many different perspectives which can shine a light on why holding onto your past can be a good thing and why it can be a bad thing. Holding onto your past can cripple your chances of having a good future but it can also help guide you so you don’t make the same mistakes you made in your past in your future. Is learning from your past the same thing as holding on to it? Is holding onto your past more of a yearning to go back and change what already was or is it letting yourself dwell on something that already happened? Is letting go asking you to forget your past or telling you to move into future? Letting go is something we personally define for ourselves but all us must build up on a general idea of what it is before we can actually do it.

All of us has had either someone or ourselves do something or say something that has affected us in a good or bad way. This something that has happened to us in the past can either had been dealt with and processed in a healthy or unhealthy way. It all depends on our personal processing but those who deal with these things unhealthy are more bound to not to let it go.People who hold onto the past are the people who are dwelling in a moment that can not be changed. They are simply replaying the event over and over not just not in their heads but in their day to day life. When people can’t let the past go they tend to usually apply the good or bad things into their daily lives because if you can’t let go of the past you’ll probably repeat it . We can’t relive the pas7t we bring the our past into the future. It’s a coping method, even though change is relevant to all of our lives not everyone can handle it. Moving into the future is not a task it’s a mission.

Letting go is not asking you to give up your memories or your past, far from it. It is asking you not to focus on it forever. Remembering and learning from your past so that you can transition into the next state of your life is what letting go is asking you to do.You can’t be in one place and want to go to another and not move a step. You’ll remain in that same place until you go. Now time will move on without you weather you like it or not. You can’t stop time but stopping your life is easy because you just stop living it. Living in one moment forever will literally stop you from living life. You’ll be too invested into that moment that you won’t realize the wonderful things you’re missing out on. Moving into the future means to continue with time,letting life take its course without trying to change or alter it to go back. Moving into the future means seizing opportunities to make to progress and be at your best. Moving into the future and defining what that looks like for you is up you but defining how you remember your past in a healthy way is also up to you.

You have to find and define what that means for you, what moving into the future and remembering the past is to you. No one else can define this for you because well all operate, think,breath, and move in different ways. There are the basic steps on how to let go but to make them your goals and make it something you actually want to do you must make it personal because your past and future is personal. How do you make it personal to you? How do you define what letting go means to you? You must define it, first by setting goals for yourself. Aiming to change the ways of your past day by day. Breaking bad habits and finding healthy ones to replace them with. Surround yourself with people who support you, know your struggle and are happy to help you go through it. It has been time for you to you to let go of your past and move into your future. A pause or a break is for vacations not your past.

Introduction: I wrote this piece to help people understand my problems being a woman of color in a white southern family. Although I love my family, I have problems with them concerning issues of race. In this essay, my main goal was to highlight my relationship to them and show people a perspective on interracial families that is often now shown enough.

During February of 2015, my family and I went down to Virginia to spend Easter with my Aunt and Uncle. During the third or fourth day of our visit, my cousin Walter walked downstairs with a Nerf gun. He asked me to play nerf battle with him, to which I reluctantly agreed. He turns to my uncle and asked if he could get his terrorist hood. When Uncle Teddy replied yes, Walter ran upstairs and gets a green shirt, tying it around his face. His eyes were poking out of the neck hole of the shirt. Ruby and I look at our uncle in shock. He was just sitting there, laughing. I mention briefly to him that it was racist, to which he said that it was just something funny that Walter did. As I have gotten older, I cannot ignore these incidents with my white family, being one of the only black people in a family of white people. Family gatherings usually consist of all white people, along with my sister Ruby, my father and myself. I remember when I was four or five, when my Walter was born. Aunt Ann and Uncle Teddy, my grandmother and my mother all in my grandmother’s living room to welcome the baby. Being surrounded by my family with only my father and sister, wasn’t as weird as you think it would feel for a child. So from a young age I had grown accustomed to being surrounded by people who loved me but didn’t look like me. This left it on the shoulders of my almost non-existent black family to expose me to black culture.

Apart from my father and Aunt Helen I have no black relatives in my family. My dad was the only child, born to Ruby and Arthur Anderson, an older couple living in inner city Pittsburgh. My grandparents moved from Mobile, Alabama to Pittsburgh in the second wave of the Great Migration. They didn’t keep in contact with their families as there were few ways to do so. My Aunt Helen married my Great-Uncle Kenneth, a white relative. She is from Trinidad and I’ve only met her once. These things didn’t start to bother me until I was older. When the Trayvon Martin case really began to get a lot of national attention, it was a heated debate topic amongst my immediate family. We, being my parents and sister, agreed that George Zimmerman should be indicted and found guilty. All of us followed the case and discussed it avidly during dinner, each of us chiming in with our opinions. When we talked about it, I knew it was an issue that uniquely affected my sister, father and I more than it would my mother. She didn’t have to experience that fear that comes with being a black person watching these cases. Although she could relate them to my father, worrying about him and how he would survive around police officers, she never had that fear that we had of police officers handling us. The Trayvon Martin case was really the first time I really remember feeling like I was really different from most of my family. With all that has happened in the years since the Trayvon Martin case, I have become uniquely aware of who I am in American Society and how my experiences as a woman of color will be different from my white family members. What I’ve always wanted to do is find the space to explain to them my situation in a way that wouldn’t make them get defensive. In everyday life, I don’t concern myself with explaining oppression to white people. When I used to explain, it always ended up with them saying something about this is America reverse racism blah blah blah. But it’s different with my family. I want them to understand and be able to play their part in the movement. Being a black woman in a family of white people, makes me feel like I should be able to explain to help them, like it’s my job to include them in my experiences. Today, despite my best efforts to the contrary, I still feel like a welcome stranger in my family.

Introduction: My goals for this essay was to make it as detailed as possible and I wanted it to be really interesting for the reader. I tried my hardest to make sure that it didn’t sound repetitive because that was one of my biggest problems during m process. I’m really proud of the final product and the comparisons I made in piece. I hope you enjoy it and give me some feedback on what I could improve on because of course there is always room to improve.

I’ve waited 4 years and it’s finally here. y heart beat rapidly as the words changed from downloading to play. I immediately rushed my headphones into the headphone jack and pressed play. The music was blasting. It was the only thing I heard and it was like coming up and taking a breath of fresh air. The first song was entitled Nikes like the sneaker company. The first beat dropped and I felt my body jolt with the music. As I looked up from my phone I saw the abstract painting in my living room. The shapes intertwine, making a beautiful melody. Seeing that gave this song a visual. I saw the complexity of the entire thing. The complexity of the 17 beautifully written songs. The 7th track enchanted my mind as it wrapped itself around my inner soul. It brought out how I felt about myself. It opened my mind to the sheltered soul who doesn’t like to let anyone in because they’re too afraid of being hurt.

I listened to the rhythmic melodies. “I came to visit cause you see me like a UFO. That’s like never, cause I made you use your self control” Thinking they were empty, little did I know they were about me. My fear of letting someone in started at the tender age of 3. I didn’t know my left from my right or how to tie my shoes but I knew what love was. The cozy yet comforting feeling of being loved by someone. It was like falling but knowing you were always going to be caught. I felt that feeling with my dad. I knew him all but 3 little years but our bond was like no other. I clung onto his leg as if it was the last thing I was ever going to hold. But on October 31st he was taken away from me. The news struck me like a bolt of lightning. I felt my body start to run out of water and my throat felt as if someone was clawing its way to the top. My fear of abandonment began there. When meeting new people I always carried my shield of armor with me making sure not to let no one enter my inner soul. I couldn’t be torn down again. I built a great wall of protection. It was covered by fake smiles and endless lies. But who could ever know?

My mind was clouded with the idea that nothing is forever. Love had a round trip ticket into my feelings. As soon it entered my mind I kicked it right out. I never wanted to feel the gut wrenching feeling of being lost and losing my control. The great wall of Nadya was guarded by agony and alienation. They made sure that my body never endured their pain and suffering for I would never come back from it. It became so easy not to let anyone in, it was almost like an alarm clock. It ticked for a while but when time was up I could hear my fears clawing and screeching in my mind to let me know that it was time to let them go. I let that become a norm to me because whenever I let someone in and try to feel that warm feeling of being loved my heart always gets ripped from my chest and torn into little pieces. Then I’m stuck trying to piece my heart together and what went wrong? I always come to the conclusion that it was my fault. I knew better. I heard common sense in the back of my mind begging me not to fall but I didn’t listen. I always fell, and I always fell hard. But this time there wasn’t anyone there to catch me and pick me back up, it was just me this time. Everytime I let myself lose my self control I fell the wall getting taller and taller and my mind starts to lose oxygen, start to lose the sense of life and just become another heartless being walking through the pathways of betrayal and hurt. Love always seemed to wander its way back into my life always trying to convince me to let someone love me. I remember when I finally let someone in, I showed them the real me. I poured my soul into every breath I took when I was with them. I got attached, and once I got attached there was no going back and no letting go. I lost myself, and I lost who I was. It felt like I could finally breathe. The feeling of being loved filled my whole body with warmth. Everything was great but then they decided that I just wasn’t enough. I remember staring at the crisp white screen as it went from those three little grey dots to “I’m not cheating on you, but I can’t promise you that I’m not going to.” It turned my insides out, I felt my heart drop to my feet. I thought to myself “not again.” I felt the tears race down my red cheek as I sobbed into my pillow making sure no one could hear my hurt. My pillow was full of broken hearts and broken promises disguised as wet stains from my tears. But I knew those stains all too well to believe they were just tears.

I seem to always lose who I am in the midst of losing my control. When I let my wall down I lose who I am. I’ve always kept my feelings and when they are finally brought to light it’s never enough and I always lose the person I love and myself. I keep my feelings locked away in a tower and they sometimes try to peek out but I always make sure that they are never to leave. It almost feels like I’m trying to balance an equation. Trying to balance an equation of my life.

I remember the first time I read breakfast at Tiffany’s. The old colored paper and the distinct smell of an old worn in book swirling into my nose, there’s nothing like swiping my finger across a page until it reaches the corner and the other side reaches my thumb, as I hang on to every word in anticipation before I flip It. Sitting in class the world around me seemed to dissipate and I kept anticipating the main character to be named Tiffany; since I never even read a review. I became so intrigued by Holly Golightly, the real main character. Her metaphors and analogies intrigued me. The world around me began to blur, my eyes saw black words printed on what used to be white paper, but what I saw was a woman and man at Tiffany’s, everything became so clear the heat of the mean reds, the smell of cracker jack’s and the sound of a cat named cat. I was there. I was falling into a world that didn’t belong to me, or anyone else but lived in my mind, and I was reminded by that when my teacher tapped on my shoulder and told me it was time to go.

I always found myself in what my mom called “lala land” speaking of how a child gets distracted and/or sings while they do things, however I never sang. Instead the world around me would disappear and time froze, or at least it feels like it would. I was never aware of it freezing. It’s not a adrenaline nor a day dream, but a calm. The worst part of it all is always coming out of lala land and facing reality. It’s like being woken out of a beautiful dream right before something spectacular happens. I never know when I go into the zone, I am usually just doing something and once my passion and imagination start spiraling nothing else matters.

Like in those old movies when someone is kissing someone fully in love, Imagine that like getting lost in them, this is usually where the movie cuts off and happily ever they live. But they never show the part when they are snapped back in from their fantasy. Hearing something that makes them realize times not frozen and although they may be alone together, the two aren’t alone in the world. My mind is probably the only thing that has been returned from the Bermuda Triangle. I get so lost in myself, someone or something I cease to realize I’m falling back in, just like the couple. Not that it’s a bad thing, it’s like falling in love; the only part that sucks is when you hit the ground, that’s kind of how I feel when I get snapped out of it.

An October Saturday on a New York street felt my heart with joy and I heard a solemn song play in my ear of cars, yelling and people talking because I am and always will be a city girl, no matter what city i’ll be at home. I pulled my grey hoodies sleeves down on my fall frozen red hands and hood over me, in an attempt to fight the new york wind against flipping my hair in a tornado. Lit by a street light, I saw this women painting and man on the sidewalk making names out of wire. It was I looked to the right, a photo for my breakfast at Tiffany’s themed room in Philadelphia. The women put the posters in black thick frames, as my mom watched the man bend wire into our last name, I handed the Asian woman $15. I carried the three photos in a big blue bag, towards my mom with both of my hands, using it also as a shield for the wind. Towards my mom getting the perfect trip nick nack, watching her drift into the same place she’d always catch me in, I paused. Gazing at her hazel eyes glazed over and illuminated by the city, watching the man’s hand bend wires with a tool, almost in second nature, attaching a piece of artwork like the statue of liberty, the women dipping color onto a brush then on a canvas, watching them both. I was watching the three, I could tell none of them were there. She was lost in their movement and they were lost in their art.

It was then that I realized that everybody has their own place of fantasy. Imagination is limitless. Whether it’s movement, dancing, creating or getting lost in our moment. It’s a private island of wealth in imagination, that everyone has a chance to submerge into the boundless ideas, people, places and things. No one’s lala land is the same and never has to stay the same, the one thing it has in common is the part where you get snapped back and reality and realize that these are only black words on what will be only white canvas and there’s more going on then you reading my paper.

Memories come to me at random times, in random places. They play in my head like a flipbook; multiple images creating a familiar scene. Sometimes I want to go back to that scene, and sometimes I just want to leave them alone but my brain makes me think about them over and over despite how many times I wish I could forget. I am taken to some places more than others multiple times. One place I never seem to lose is the home I grew up in; a small apartment in Germantown, top floor, apartment A. There were two front doors: the outside door and the actual front door. Beyond the outside front door led a long stretch of stairs, speckled green and black like a cat’s eyes. They wound to our actual front door. It was a tall, red door; the poppy-colored cover of an old book of an apartment with walls the color of browning pages. A plump sofa and matching loveseat sat invitingly at either side of the living room with satin and knitted pillows. The floors were fuzzy and tan like oatmeal, I used to think. Below us was a small pharmacy where we spent quite a lot of time, when we would get a $1 or $5 if the tooth fairy was generous about front teeth or molars. Out back was a large tree my sister and I used to climb; it’s limbs large arms that bore delicate bunches of pink petals that fell in our hair and pockets.

I can recall a number of pleasant childhood memories in that place, but I can also remember vividly the times I just wanted to leave. I used to feel cramped, sick of the beige walls and the beige carpet and the narrow hallway that felt like a two-way street. I banged my head against the pages of that aging book and filled my pillow with tears silently because I hated being stranded on the top floor and watching the city pass below. Music blared, people shouted and sang at all hours of the night, sirens whirred and cars screamed, but I floated above it all, craving to escape the chaotic scene. I would always ask my parents “When are we going to leave?” but they would never reply. That angered me, but little did I know that they secretly dreamt of leaving too.

One day, my dad came home from work, the same way he always did, but today was different. Today, I sat on the couch with my mom and sister like we always did also, but outside, peculiar streams of auburn and ginger ribboned the evening sky. It was also strangely chilly for springtime and the quilt was pulled up to my neck. “Did you hear what happened?” my dad asked. My mom sat up. “No.” “They bought out Fred’s store,” he began. “Who?” “Some realtor company. They said he has thirty days to pack all his things and leave…and so do we.” My mom and sister gasped. I froze. Hearing those words gave me a nervous rush in my gut. Was this how God was punishing me? For all the times I was angry at him for putting me in this tiny apartment, and for all the times I thought my parents hated me for making me live here: was this how I was being repaid? I didn’t know how to react. For so long I wished to leave this place…but not like this. As we sat in silence, a harsh winter tumbled and raged beneath our roof. It was still cold went to bed that night and it gave me a deep shiver that shook every part of me. I couldn’t eat. I tossed all night. I worried for my parents because for the next few nights, I know they didn’t get any sleep either. The lights would be on for all hours of the night, and from the living room I could hear them shouting and talking, and then I realized: I was no longer above the scene that I longed to flee from, I was right in the middle of it. It had called me to it without calling my name. It knew me, followed me. I had dreamt about it before; what it was like to be in the midst of the frantic city. But here I was: staring it in its red eyes. My sister felt it too. We turned away from it, but it was everywhere we looked. We shut our door tight and covered our ears with pillows but it was always there…until one day, it wasn’t. The chaos inside and out had ceased for just a moment it seemed, maybe two. Either way it was quiet and the lights were off, and I was asleep. The next day we learned that my parents found a house.

Finally, they day had come where we could no longer stay in our apartment. Our chairs and tables and beds were gone, and our lives had been sealed into brown boxes that lined the hallway. I had never seen it that way before. I had never seen the living room without our bookshelf or the glass coffee table. I had never seen the room that my sister and I shared without colorful blinds or toys on our beds. In that moment, I wished I could have it all back: the keyboard in the hallway, the small radio in the kitchen. They were in some box or another, but they weren’t where they belonged. There I stood, in the middle of the silence and it was what I always wanted…but it was too silent. The chaos had been driven out from the street and from inside but I couldn’t recognize my surroundings. I couldn’t place the feeling I had because I never had it before and it startled me. It also saddened me. I was headed to a place I had never been, in a house I had never seen. When I could no longer take the desolate atmosphere of my now empty home, I turned to face my mom. “I think I’m ready to go now,” I concluded. We both headed toward the door, and she too took a final look. “Alright. Let’s go,” she said doing her best to conceal her sadness. With that, she shut the red cover of our ten-year novel.

Sometimes I wish I could go back to my old house. Sometimes I wish I could revisit the room I grew up in and run around the kitchen in footy pajamas because of the sound my feet made against the plastic tile or climb that giant tree with my sister the way we used to do every summer. Looking back on the day I left, it’s easy to recall the hurt and anger my parents and I endured. But with it having been almost eight years since leaving my childhood home I have acquired a bit of wisdom and can actually see it as a positive experience. When I got to my new house, the movers had brought in the couches, tables, lamps, and few other items from the apartment. It didn’t feel the same of course. The floors were wooden, the walls the color of fresh pages rather than weathered ones. To this day, the same couches from my old house remain in my current one, and it gives me a sense of comfort. Even as it took some time for my home to feel like home, I had something that I could recognize which made everything feel grounded. I think of this often, especially when I am trying something new or am not excited about change. This memory tells me that yes, change is a process and it’s always up to you. It can be the chaos of the city street or the quiet atmosphere of a small home. Either way, it’s inevitable and at times frustrating, but it gives you the chance to narrate your story on the fresh pages of a new book. Now, I guess it’s even safe to say, being driven out of our home was actually…a good thing.