Advanced Essay

I am going to start this paper with a scene from my life. This scene is from when I was playing in a football game when I was eight years old. I was well under four feet tall and weighed less than fortyfive pounds. I was the smallest kid on my team. This is interesting because my last name, Gorski, means mountain. So anyway, it was the second quarter, first down and ten, the ball was in the redzone. Ironically, I was playing right guard, a position normally played by one of the bigger players on the team. I lined up against my opponent, a defensive tackle two full heads taller than me. The center snaps the ball and I struggle to block my opponent. Eventually he knocks me down and gets to the quarterback sacking him. He was fast getting up off the line but I knew I was faster. Next play and the center snaps the ball. Then, almost instantly, I am in my opponent’s face. I get my forearms under his shoulder pads and push up with all my strength. This time he goes down, his face frozen in astonishment. The quarterback makes the throw and… Touchdown! At the end of the play stood over my opponent and said, “Don’t get back up or I will knock you down again.” At that moment his coach pulled him off the field and didn’t put him back in the game. In this scene I did not expect to knock down the other kid. Especially not after he knocked me down the play before. I knew I could block him. So I did do better than I had expected. After reading this scene some people might say that I can be a little arrogant at times. They are right but also wrong at the same time. It may seem like I am being arrogant but if I put my mind to something, most of the time I can do it.

At my old school there was a mentally gifted program. It started in fifth grade and went to eighth grade. You have to take a test to get in and if you get a good enough score they put you in the program. I was able to take the test and I had been the only one to get into the program with a one hundred percent that year. I knew I was smart but I didn’t know I was the smartest kid in my grade. I thought that someone must be smarter than me, but nobody was. However that didn’t surprise me too much.

This scene is from when I was playing lacrosse in seventh grade. I had been playing lacrosse for two years prior to this and for the second year I played goalie. In this game I played goalie for the entire time. The referee blows his whistle and asks the starting line up for each team to line up at mid field. He asks the goalies, me and the other one, to shake hands and then go to our goals. Then the rest of both teams shake hands and it was time to start the game. By the end of the first quarter my team was winning and the other team still hadn’t scored on me. The second and third quarters ended the same way. However towards the end of the fourth quarter the other team scored I was disappointed in myself because it was an easy shot to stop. The game ended and my team won. While I was still beating myself up for letting that shot go in. Then the head coach for Father Judge High School’s junior varsity team called me over. He said that their goalie didn’t show up for their game starting in a few minutes and that he saw how good I played in the game before. Then he asked me to play for them. I was really tired at that point so I respectfully declined the offer. So the backup goalie for my team played for them. In this scene I also did way better than I had expected. However this scene is different because I was not thinking about how well I did. I focused on the negatives instead of the positives. Everyone from my team was happy we won except for me. Until the coach from Father Judge High School showed me that I did really good. Good enough to play with kids two plus years older than me. I do regret not playing in that game but if I did I probably would have done well.

SPORK

The mystical blue fire dances beneath the large metal pot. It’s filled with old familiar smells that can only be bought at the local West African market. I watch as large red bubbles rise and pop. The house is still. The little ones are sound asleep. The men have long since joined them. So here we sit. Round the grey marble island in the middle of the kitchen. My aunt standing tall over the pot, with a pink robe and a wide smile. We sit, skin glowing from the candle light and I listen, to stories thousands of miles off shore. They speak in soothing Liberian accents describing childhoods spent under mango trees in colorful lapa suites.

When the meal is done we all get a bowl. Everyone fills it with rice and soup. My aunt pours us each a glass of juice. I eat the soup and feel the heat trickle down my throat and into my chest. I try to hold my composure while my tongue pulses and sweat builds up on my forehead. For nothing brings out my American more than pepper can. I glance around the table and watch everyone easily take bite after bite. They continue on with conversation.I slowly go for the drink, attempting to appear thirsty rather than ablaze. The fire extinguishing sip would not be enough. Neither would downing the whole glass. I filled up another quiety as the conversation stirred. On my way back to the table I noticed the fork in my bowl and saw everyone carrying the rice and soup on spoons. I had forgotten to use spoons! My mom glances over and smiles. Shaking her head.

I feel this country on my skin, American in West African households is not something to be proud of. In fact most of my friends with families from other countries adhere to the same response. They laugh at the forks, obsession with time, and capitalism. They teach their American born children that their first country is where the family is from. I grew up saying I was Liberian not American.  I took pride in the one lapa suite sitting in the back of my closet and in my beautiful mother’s accent and values. Yet I also grew up with a southern father.

In Rutledge Georgia off of exit 32 down a long winding gravel road sits Cha CHa’s house. I spent most of my summers and Christmases chasing my cousins around the large green field surrounding the house. We would go on adventures in the woods nearby and return caked in rich red clay and thick southern sweat. My grandmother would have the a plate of collards and fried chicken ready for us. Every once and awhile my grandfather would come in and give us a long lecture on common sense. I loved how his accent drew out each sound with purpose. He was country with a small straw hat and toothpick embedded in his gapped smile.  I payed attention to his stories and laughed at his satire. My cousins often tuned him out. “Zoey here knows..knows what I’m talkin about!” he would chuckle with those sagging hazel eyes.

“Right that came on the news yesterday!” I would excitedly respond.MY cousins would roll their eyes disapprovingly. When he and I finished discussing the current news and had ended our political spiral he’d leave the room. I would then be  confronted with lingering questions. “Why you talk so white?” One would ask. “Isn’t your mom white?” another would say. I would feel the weight of my tongue in those moments. I would hate it for betraying me. Just as I had traded time for tom and Atlanta for atlanta it was never enough. Here I had to prove my blackness and hide whatever constituted as white to not be other. Ironically often the conversations that brought out my “whiteness” concerned how to combat white systems. I rarely found the courage after those conversations to meet their rolled eyes with a proud response. I cringe at my fork at the table with southern spoons.

I am a spork. Not fork enough for southern ham hocks not spoon enough for LIberian peanut soup. MY tongue cannot hold pepper the way my grandfather’s does every morning. I can translate but not converse. My tongue trips over the words i once so confidently spoke because at the african table i am the american. The laughing stock. At the southern table i am the city girl, the philly girl, with the west african mom-“So that’s why she says ashe”-and white grandma- “no wonder she talks so proper”.

I'm told i'm inconsistent by some and they ask… “How do you do that.” Speak Philly to my friends and southern when I'm passionate and a hint of palm butter in my tone at home or amongst other africans...code switching to proper english once around my superiors. I grew up learning this quickly. Saw my mom do it in the blink of an eye without stuttering with the answer of a phone call conversing with those back home. Watched as PuertoRican poured from dad’s lips amongst family friends, said Sunday when in atlanta and spoke precociously around his whiter baby. Aaah maybe this is what it is to be me. Black. Well read...taught and practiced being well spoken. Liberian. In west philadelphia born and raised. And yes I’ve mastered the merengue too! Woops. Remind me again though...why that bothers you. I’ll admit at times it bother me too. I cringe and hear myself speak and wonder. If it's really me. sInce at the end of the day no matter which word I end with when I pray or with whichever company I share the meal with. I still stick out. Never fully mastered one I am the jack of all tongues.

Introduction

The greatest year of my life was when I was in third grade. That year, I traveled the world and I was homeschooled by my parents. That year, I had many truly legendary experiences that taught me a lot about the world and myself. In this essay, I am sharing two experiences from that year that have taught me a lot. One thing that I was exceptionally proud of with my paper was that I put a lot of detail into the descriptions of the scenes. I am also proud of how much thought and depth that I put into the analysis of what the experiences taught me about the impacts of travel on my life. In the future, I hope to go more into depth into the things I learn from much smaller moments in my life.

Advanced Essay

When I was in third grade, I spent the year traveling with my family. One seemingly unimportant event that has stuck with me occurred when I went with my family to a waterpark near Bangalore, India, called WonderLa. After going down several different waterslides, we decided to take a break from the excitement and head over to the wave pool. When we reached the pool, I noticed that there were actually two different pools. On the left was a wave pool for men that was huge, spanning over thirty feet from left to right. Inside the pool was a sea of men jumping around in shorts and t-shirts through waves several feet high. To the right of the men’s pool was a much smaller pool for women and children. That pool was maybe a third the size of the men’s pool, and the waves were only a foot high.The women were wading in brightly colored saris. My dad, sister, and I decided to swim in the men’s pool since it seemed like more fun. We waded, swam, and jumped around in the pool until a life guard appeared. He told my twelve year old sister that she had to go over to the women’s pool. She begrudgingly left the pool and stormed over to where my mom was sitting. Though I thought it was strange and unfair that she wasn’t allowed to swim in the big pool, I just continued wading around.

In hindsight, I realize that one of the most beneficial things about traveling is the opportunity to observe different cultural and societal norms. When you live in the United States, you tend to think that the American way of doing things is the correct way. However, when you travel, you get to see that many nations have very different customs. When I was young, I sometimes perceived the customs of the places I visited as unfair, inferior, and ridiculous, and in some cases, that was certainly true. However, the same thing can be said about a lot of social rules in America. In the years following that year of travel, I would sometimes view American culture and society through the lens of a foreigner. I realized that social rules are never completely logical. Though to my nine year old self, and to many other Americans, the gender segregated wave pools may seem unjust, unnecessary, and somewhat illogical, I later came to realize that the same thing can be said about many societal rules in America, particularly those regarding gender. In addition to allowing me to view American culture from a different perspective, travel has also increased my sense of connection with and interest in the larger world and the places I visited, even years later.  

One day, when I was nine years old, I hiked up an active volcano with my family in Guatemala. We got up incredibly early and drove for an hour or two until we arrived at the base. When we got out of the van, we were swarmed by a bunch of young boys trying to sell us walking sticks. We rejected their sales pitches one by one until we reached the path up the volcano. We then started our hike up.

The path up the volcano was incredibly steep. It was a dirt path with greenery on both sides. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought that I was just hiking in the forest. After hiking up for an hour or two we finally reached the highest point that we were allowed to go. As we exited the vegetated portion of the mountain, I was hit with a sudden wave of heat.

“The sun is so hot up here,” I complained.

“It’s not the sun, it’s the volcano,” my dad answered.

The area near the top was a barren wasteland of pumice. There were rocks of many different sizes piled up everywhere. I looked to my left and saw flowing lava.

“Oh my god, that is flowing lava!” I practically shouted. I found a gap between two rocks, and my sister and I roasted some marshmallows. After hanging out at the top for a while, we descended down the volcano.

A few months after I had left Guatemala, I heard my mom shouting. “Come upstairs, you have to see this!” I ran up the stairs and hopped on my mom’s bed. Vulcan Pacaya, the volcano, had just erupted. I stared at her laptop screen as red molten lava shot up from the crater of the volcano. Though the only person who had died was a foolish reporter who got too close, the damage was devastating. In that moment I realized that the new understandings and emotional connections with the places you visit last long after you leave. I thought about all of the boys that tried to sell us sticks, who lost their homes and everything they owned. To me, the volcano was an exotic attraction, but to them the volcano had been a force of destruction that they had been living next to for years. Had I not been to the volcano, I doubt I would have cared much about its eruption. In America, when we hear about devastating events that don’t affect us, we tend to say “That’s horrible” and then continue on with our lives. However when you actually visit places you start to pay attention to events that occur in those places. You pay more attention to the news about those places and actively seek out new information.  When you travel to places you get to learn about the culture and society of that place when you are there, but, it also increases your investment in the events of the other countries in the future.

Introduction :

This past summer really took a toll on my writing skills and one of the goals of this paper was to get back into the groove of writing. At the beginning of the year, Mr. Block asked us to write a journal entry on how we view ourselves as a writer, and I wrote that I felt like I was a really bland writer. To combat this, another one of my goals was to try my best to be creative throughout this essay. Some parts that I am proud of are my scenes and my larger idea. I put a lot of effort into my scenes and I think I did a really good job creating a larger idea. However, I do feel like need to work on keeping a consistent idea throughout my essay.

Growing Up?

My mom, brother and I were in the car, the sun beating down on our faces, only to be relieved by the clouds that drifted past. I took a quick glance to the left, then to my phone, then to the side of my mom’s head. We had just gotten in a huge argument and her face was as red as the chilis growing in our backyard.

“Hey Mom” I whispered

“I don’t want to hear it.” My mom had made her point clear.

In the midst of silence, our car started to slightly angle right. As our car rumbled down the street, everything seemed well. Well enough to not see what was coming. At the speed of a jolt of electricity, our car suddenly veered hard right towards the side of a truck.

I shouted “ WATCH OUT!”

In a split second, all I could do was brace for impact. I shut my eyes closed, hugging my bag so hard that my knuckles turned white. All I could hear was the horrible sound of metal crunching, the terrible screeching sound of the cars sliding against each other, and the crack of my window. Opening my eyes, I turned to the left, my mother struggling to get control of the wheel, then to my right and to my feet, the window like a balloon popping, a million pieces of glass covering my body like a blanket on a cold night.

Miraculously, my mom got ahold of the wheel and managed to get our car to the nearest curb. Escaping what would’ve been the tragedy of having our car stuck in the middle of the road, the emotions finally got to us. Like a choir joining in unison, we all broke down. The morning was already tense and the car crash did nothing to help.

In that moment, I figured my mom was just going to continue crying and hopefully everything would work itself out. Boy was that not the case. She was on the phone for what it seemed like hours, phone to ear, the hot summer sun dripping down all of our faces. Adulthood wasn’t waiting for her. My mom couldn’t just sit in the car and wait for life to figure itself out. She had to take control of the chaotic situation and take responsibility.

My mom has been a great role model in my understanding of responsibility. 16 is a weird age to be. You feel you’re old, but not that old. You’re two years into high school, and only have two years left. You feel like you can make smart decisions, but then you go off and do something really dumb.

I have messed up one too many times when dealing with responsibility. Every year my friends and I run our church summer day camp. Once campers, we became counselors, directors, financiers, and whatever else was needed to run a camp. On the second to last day, we were all feeling like cars with only a half of a gallon left in the tank.

I remember one moment distinctively. Amidst the loud booming bass coming from the speakers that rattled the floors, there was one little kid who was crying in the corner of the room. Body swallowed by the superman cape he was wearing, I hesitantly peeked through the cracks of his cape and tried my best to assess the situation.

“Hey Jaden, what’s wrong”

“Me and Marlene were playing tag and she pushed me.”

“Jaden I’m sure it was an accident.” I was trying my best to calm this kid down.

“No it wasn’t! She laughed afterwards and went to play with some other kids.”

After 5 minutes of he said she said banter, I decided that the best way to handle the situation was to let the kids handle it themselves. It didn’t seem like a big deal and I had more important matters to attend to.

What I thought was a small matter, quickly escalated. Jaden’s parents got involved and my friends and I tried to resolve the situation, but nothing was working. It was only until my father got involved that he was able to apologize for our mistakes and convince the parents to let the kid still come to the camp.

Growing up, I always thought I was ready to be on my own. I could handle the big things in life. All I had to do was hit the check marks : go to college, get a job, start a family, go through a midlife crisis, and retire. It seems as if that’s not the way life works. It's not linear, not exponential, but it's chaotic. A chaos you can't really prepare for, but a chaos that requires a great deal of responsibility, in both good times and bad.

I remember how the wooden floor creaks as I put my foot down, the smell of hot Chinese takeout  welcomed into my stuffed-up nostrils. The light from the last bit of the sun going down streams in, beaming off the white, black, and gray countertop, bouncing right back out the other window, but leaving an orange glow to the room. One person crowds the food while the others sit in front of the blaring TV, football storming the whole house as three people cheer and hiss at the winning and losing of their favorite sports team. Rice, splattered sauce, covers the counter, illustrating the frantic attempt to get food during the 30 second commercial breaks. Collecting a plate and utensils, I start my hunt for some food. I first find the spring rolls.  There are three spring rolls in the container, but there are four of us eating. My first thought is to ask if someone has already taken one.  Obviously, I want a full roll for myself, but I didn’t want to cheat anyone out of their portion.  I stroll into the living room, where they are all perched with their food, and stand there waiting until the commercial to ask my spring roll question. A second of silence goes by, then Dad starts screaming at me!  It is hard to understand his pointless, angry, rambling.

I tried to brush off the incident with my father, but it was harder than I anticipated. I’m sure my father has flown off the handle before, but for some reason, this time really had an impact on me.  I think that’s because it actually changed my perception of him.  Prior to that incident, I thought my father was perfect.  I mean, obviously nobody is “perfect”, but I thought he was the laid-back, patient father I had always known.  After a few days, I got over it, but it's not the moment itself that mattered, it was the change in my perspective, the moment of realization. Now that moment is cemented in my memory. When you're a little kid, everything is perfect all of the time; you don't question the boundaries of your parents’ world . The problem is that is not what the real world looks like, and the older you get, the more you understand that the world is not that perfect. That realization of imperfection starts with our parents.  Those moments that push the boundary are the moments that change you, they are the moments that shape your view of the world.

This change in perspective is constantly shifting when you're younger, as it develops. It’s similar to how your physical view changes as you get older.  When you're a baby, you're small and you see everything at your eye level. When you learn how to walk you’re obviously higher off the ground, therefore you have a different view. This continues when you're a teenager. You're taller than you were when you were a toddler, again forcing you to see things differently.  It’s the same idea, but instead of visual changes, perceptual changes occur as you get older.  The cycle is always the same: the older you get, the more your perspective changes; the more your perspective changes, the more you see things differently. I guess this is the cycle of growing into adulthood.  

The change in your perspective isn’t always a huge deal, sometimes it is just about one person who you barely know. An example of this happened to me about half way through tenth grade.  I remember sitting in math class, tapping my foot to the teacher’s endless rambling about a project, the due dates, and a bunch of other stuff that I don’t care about. My ears pique as I hear a long list of people with their partners being listed. Finally, after what feels like a millennia, the teacher gets to me.  I hear my name, Chloe Hart, followed by my partner’s name. Immediately I feel a rush of excitement, not for the project itself, but to hear and talk to my partner.  He is super popular and very smart.  I’m on the shy side, so I don’t get the opportunity to talk to people in the “in-crowd” very often.  This is going to be a fantastic opportunity for me.  Maybe this person will take a liking to me and I will be welcomed into his group of friends.  At the very least, we’ll create a great project together since this person is a straight-A student. Well, It doesn’t take long for me to lose the excitement. It feels almost like a thunder cloud lurks over him as he talks. He is not a nice person.  His words feel like a slap in the face; I couldn't have been more wrong about him. Everyday, he disappears from class, or leaves a little early, to grab a smoke outside. This small, daily action completely captures my new perception of him.

Overall, as a person’s behavior around you changes, so does your perception of the person.  These perceptual changes can be for the positive or for the negative. When someone does something that you don't agree with, or you find offensive, your opinion of the person immediately declines.  But, is the person fundamentally different than he was prior to this behavior, or did it just change your perception of him?  It’s a tricky question.  It’s like looking at someone through another person’s prescription glasses.  All of a sudden, the person looks like someone new, possibly unrecognizable, but you know that he is the same person. That’s important to keep in mind as your perception of people shifts.