Alan Li

Ms. Pahomov

English 3

20 December 2017

Enjoyment That Would End up Fading

“Hello,” my mother said from a distance as I came home from school. Even after a stressful experience being in the fifth grade for an entire school year, there was some sense of enjoyment within me when I stepped into the kitchen only to realize that my mother was talking with her friend on the phone about something I was not aware of at the time. As she hung up the phone, I asked my mother what she was talking about on the call. She went down and grinned jubilantly at me while I was still baffled by what she was planning. Without any hesitations, she told me that she was planning a trip where she could bring me and my brothers to a bus trip to Boston along with her friend’s family.

Even if it would be my first time going to Boston, I did not want to go to a bus trip due to how much money it would have been for my family to pay for everyone traveling north to Boston. When my mother got up and walked away from the kitchen, my body was motionless with the worrisome thought of having to spend a lot of money just on a bus trip. At the time, I would have screamed or whined about not going on the trip, but I was not able to. That would have just deterred my mother of happiness and enjoyment. As I think of the moment of me standing still in a temporary trance, I was able to recall the bafflement my eleven-year-old mind had and how difficult it was for me to make a decision on whether to complain to my mother about the trip or not. It was as though the consequences of the choices I would have to decide were like barriers to what I truly wanted at the time.

   As my family and I headed towards the gray bus that would take us to Boston, we encountered a lady spotting us from the bus stop with her husband and daughter. While delighted to see my mother, the lady embraced my mother as they both smiled. She turned out to be the person my mother was planning a trip to Boston with. When the girl looked behind to see what was happening between our mothers, my eyes dilated in horror as I realized that she was Susie, who was one of my closest friends from elementary school. She was not a horrible person but having her witness me with the rest of my family made me want to reconsider complaining to my mother about taking me to Boston.

At first, before the entire trip was arranged, I did not think of Susie much besides a person who was one of the people I socialized with within the school building. Since it was my first time having a friend from school witnessing me with my family and what I am like outside of school, my mind felt as though it wanted me to forget everything that ever occurred and go back home. While everyone was getting on the bus, for a moment, I stood still as though it was that time when my mother announced to me that we were having this trip. “Alannnnnnnnn!” Susie called out from the window as I regained my awareness of what life would be like in a place I had never been to.

Like the first night, while it was my last night staying in Boston, I would glance the window showing me the night sky. However, unlike my first night in Boston, the reason why it was hard for me to sleep was not due to how foreign it was. The reason why it became hard for me to sleep was that of how a foreign place like Boston ended up being a place that became familiar to me for the first time. Throughout the trip, since Susie has been to Boston before, her and her family were able to help guide my family time and time again through a big city like Boston. Even with the enjoyment I had getting to this place not only with my family but with a close friend of mine and her family as well, there was still some uncertainty within me on what life can be like leaving Boston and having to get used to life in Philadelphia. Hours went by as I lose consciousness bit by bit and the fears I kept throughout the trip slowly disappearing into the night.  

As the sun was preparing to leave the trip, my family and Susie’s family gathered together near an airport. Her mother wanted to say farewell to my mother. In return, tears poured down my mother’s eyes. I was not aware that I would not be able to see Susie after the trip was over. My mother knew all along that Susie and her family were going to move back to China after the trip was over; however, despite her awareness, tears came out of her eyes as she embraces Susie and her family. I stood still scared of not knowing what to do next. I did not want to say anything so it would not have been as sad as it was. Knowing too well that it was my last time seeing Susie, I decided to give my farewells to her and her family and they head towards the airport.

When I went back home and tried to sleep, I looked up at the ceiling while I was awake without the ability to sleep. Even though I was in Boston for like two months, it felt as though I was used to having a new life different from the life I always have had. However, since I knew that I would never see Susie again, it felt as though the life I had before the trip would not be same anymore. It was almost the first day of school by a few days and the feelings of joy I had during most of the summer quickly faded as the days gone by. I knew I would only end up at the same school—the place that gave me a lot of stress such as the high amount of homework and tests—again but without Susie—a close friend of mine that had been in the same school as me until now.

Looking back at the trip and the life I had after the trip, I realized how enjoyable life can be and that the reason why people can be disappointed is due to how those moments of enjoyment can end. By accepting my mother’s decision to go to Boston over the summer, I ended up learning what it was like being with someone from my school who I did not know would have a lot of significance in my life outside of it. I only realized how much that means to me when I got to see Susie and her family for last time as they were leaving for the airport, which reminded me of how much turmoil could come from losing someone who had a significant part of one’s life. Even though my trip to Boston was not the only moment of my life where I had enjoyment, I think it is significant to my life because I was stressed out before the trip only to end up stressing out again after the trip was over. Despite the enjoyable moments in my life only being temporary, it makes me feel better when I think of those moments of my life and how experiencing new things can even be enjoyable for me. To that, I want to thank my mother for planning that bus trip I would otherwise miss out on if I complained.

Script

After my fifth-grade year ended, my mother was planning a trip to Boston with a friend of hers. After she placed back the phone, I wanted to whine because of how expensive it was for my parents to pay off. However, I could not. I knew I would have only disappointed my mother if I did. Instead of whining, I just stood there, wondering if the trip would be worth it.

By the time we went to the bus stop, I ended up meeting Susie, whose mother happened to be friends with my mother. Since Susie was a close friend of mine from school, I did not want her to think weirdly of me. As I got on the bus, Susie noted that she and her family had been to Boston before. Although I felt awkward at that moment, I decided to ask her questions when it came to Boston. We ended up getting carried away as we talked about random things throughout the first day.

When it was my last time in Boston, I was not able to sleep. I enjoyed being in Boston, which was a place I got to learn more about because of the help from Susie and her family. I did not know she would end up becoming one of my best friends outside of school and how much enjoyment I would have with someone from my school. As we left Boston and headed to the airport, Susie’s family gave their farewells since they were moving back to China. My mother was filled with tears and before they left, I gave them my farewells in return. Without Susie being in my middle school class, my life felt stressful again as sixth grade started. Even though moments of enjoyment can be temporary, the reason why opening up to new moments can still be cherishable is due to the values they can have towards a person when moments like these are gone.

Eli Zimmerman

Ms. Pahomov

English 3

January 8, 2017

I have seen my mother cry once in my life. I remember I was eight  years old when I walked into my parents bedroom, the room was near pitch black and the air was stale it seemed as if the life had been sucked away from the room. I walked up to the lump covered in blankets and pillows, it was my mom. Her face was buried in a pillow and she was crying softly.

“Every year she would call me on my birthday just to catch up and see how I had been.”

“Do you want anything, maybe a glass of water?”

“No I’m fine thank you, I just need sometime to be alone.”

To me my grandmother was someone that made my parents smile, someone who gave me presents she was nothing more yet nothing less. Unfortunately this is all that sticks with me when I think of her. Did I really love her? Should I have loved and cherished the times we had? The simple answer to the deep hitting questions is “I don’t know.”

She died when I was seven. Her name was Janet, she lived in Rochester Minnesota, home to some incredibly cold weather and the world famous Mayo Clinic. The to of us were never all that close due to her sickness she had been isolated from the outside world, including myself. I at the time was much too young to comprehend what had happened, frankly I still do not know the full detailed story because I have been too scared that I will trigger another negative reaction from my mother, which I have no intention of doing.

My feelings of grief are only directed towards those who knew her for who she was, a strong hard working mother of two who was the binding agent in her household. Although I respect these attributes greatly I do not feel a hole in my heart where my grandmother's presence should have been before. I know I have felt love, the embrace of my friends and family, the home cooked meals my mother is always eager to whip up for me, and the passion and drive of my father to make me happy. But love has never been taken away from me. I see friends and family who have gone through the some of the hardest situations anyone can imagine, yet here I am untouched by loss. It makes me feel for the people who have experienced loss. Why have they been selected, why not I? I guess I am greatly fortunate to have not yet been touched by the inevitable effect of loss of someone I love.

I have come close to this event was when my uncles girlfriend of 15 years was diagnosed with a serious form of pancreatic cancer. Once my father had told me the news I cried for a long while. I stayed up, my head churned through the memories of a woman who had babysat me for many years. To think someone who had always been a part of my family may disappear from my life as soon as I woke up kept me up. I had constants butterflies in my stomach I was anxious and weary. This unnerving feeling lasted until I saw her again, when I saw that the diagnosis did not put a damper in her spirit I was finally able to get composure. One who has not experienced this awful disease could not fathom the hardships that a patient must go through.    

This memory of my mother has taught me many things in life, both the imperfections and the good things about death. It has taught me that there is nothing harder than losing the one you love, to have their body and mind be stripped from your grasp brings the person to a sunken low point. But in this pit of despair there is love and compassion for the person that you so dearly care about it results in congregation, like that wonderful ceremony that was held to honor Janet’s legacy. Her ashes were spread in the woods to memorialize her spirit which remained wild and free until the end. The loss of my grandmother has shown me that when people pass they’re remembered through the people that loved them. The time my parents had with my grandmother and even physical attributes, like how I’m constantly reminded I have my grandmother's eyes, blue as the middle of the atlantic. My mother honors the spirit of my grandmother through other things as well, like the fact that she liked marzipan, or long walks in the woods. For not knowing my grandmother all too well she sure has lightened the dark world around me.

The first time I saw my father cry was when we were returning from a basketball tryout that I had completely bombed. At this time I was a small chubby kid that had a bone to pick with running, so when the coach made us run laps I decided to hand in the towel and tell my father to drive me home.

In the car we got into a yelling match for a reason at the time I thought was not deep. He explained that it’s not a good habit for me to get into, quitting at the first sign of difficulty. He digressed as a steady trickle of tears began to fall from his face. I could see the frost from his breath as it intensified. It was 7:30 at night in one of the colder months, like January. He took a deep and began to tell me why quitting without reason was hard for him to tolerate. My father talked about how he started his own architectural firm from nothing. He talked about how he had been fired from many jobs because he was deemed to have a poor work ethic. So obviously the importance of persistence and determination were the key points to his speech.

I at the time was mad at my father for not siding with me and my acceptance of defeat so I remained speechless. The car did not hear another word from either of us for the rest of the night. The only things to be heard were my fathers sniffles and the heater. Deep down I was confused, my mind was racing and I could not conjure up anything to say that would support my argument that quitting is ok. Everything I could think of I knew my father would know how to counter it. It wasn’t till much later that I understood the importance of that lesson.

I didn’t think highly of the things my father explained at the time, in fact it made me want to quit basketball because I felt as if I had to put in a great deal of effort for a sport was wasn’t even that passionate about. In reality the effort I had put in wasn’t enough, my hustle and determination had only shown a mild interest in the sport, I wasn’t even that good but I didn’t notice that at the time.

The importance of my fathers lesson is near priceless to me and the fact that it occured in a time that was swirled with emotion roots the morals in my brain so that they may never be removed. I have learned to try my best and I have learned that the long road of defeats is built to slow me down, but I am aware this is where we strive and push on till eventually we come out successful.  

Amaris Ortiz

Pahomov

English 3

08 January 2018

My Hair

If somebody named a friend of yours, what’s the first word you would associate them with? People think of their friends and just automatically associate them with a quality or something they like.

For me, my memorable quality has always been my hair. One of the first things people thought of when they heard my name is “oh the short girl with the long dark hair." Growing up, I never thought of cutting it. I was always afraid of looking different if I changed to short hair. I would rather just avoid a possibly dangerous or embarrassing situation than face it head on. Except these were just assumptions in my head rather than actual dangerous situations. As I got older, I began to get tired of having the same boring long hair. I tried to get rid of this feeling by temporarily dying it colors like green or red just for fun. But even through these small changes I still felt like a needed a bigger change. The same change that I was once afraid of.

When I was about 10 years old, I was at my abuela’s house in Puerto Rico and a conversation came up about my hair. It was late at night and we were all sitting around in the living room watching TV before heading off to bed. My family was asking if I wanted to continue growing my hair and me, being the person who didn’t want change, said yes. My aunt suggested trimming my hair for the first time so that it could grow healthier. She wasn’t a professional and had never cut hair before. It was a spur of the moment idea but I didn’t really mind. So she grabbed a pair of scissors and only cut about 2 inches off of the end of my hair. Trimming my hair really didn’t make a difference in how I looked because my hair was still super long. Everyone around me seemed to be making a big deal out of what happened. It was the first time I ever had my hair cut even the slightest bit. They suggested saving the hair for memory but I thought that was a weird thing to do. My dad jokingly asked me if my head felt lighter and soon enough we just went back to our nightly routine.

I never thought of this association with long hair as a bad thing until I cut most of my hair off recently. My hair was always something people mentioned in conversations. If I was meeting new people or making a new friend I’d be asked questions like “How long does it take you to wash your hair?” or “Have you ever cut your hair?” These are all things that people have been asking ever since I was younger and since I wasn’t good at talking to new people I didn’t mind it. After cutting my hair sophomore year, I didn’t know what people would identify me with anymore. I started to think that there wouldn’t be anything else that would set me apart from others. I never thought that would be something I’d worry about. I liked the new hair cut myself but I didn’t know how other people would react. I had gotten used to the association and constant questions. Now that people aren’t identifying me with my hair as much anymore, they make other comparisons. “You act just like your brother.”

Right after I cut my hair, the most common reaction I got was “Why?” Almost every person had asked me why I cut my hair or why I didn’t like having long hair. To this day, I still get asked this same question. People seem a bit disappointed when I give them my answer. “I don’t know I just got tired of it and wanted to change it up.” I repeated this answer to different people before I started to realize that they wanted a different response as if there was another reason as to why I did it or I just didn’t like my hair. I started to feel like I had to change my response for people or like I was forced to give them this elaborate story about my struggles with long hair. Of course there were certain things I didn’t like about it but I didn’t feel like my main reason for cutting it required a long deep story.

This summer I cut my hair even shorter than the first time. I was in Puerto Rico again and even though my hair was already shorter than normal, I told my mom I wanted a few more inches off. My mom was a bit worried at first because it was unusual for me to want to keep cutting it. I wasn’t worried about the comparisons people would make when I went back home or the questions I’d be asked, I just did it. I felt more in control of what I wanted after deciding to cut my hair even shorter. That feeling of being in control shows how different my situation was from when I was worried about what people would think to then deciding to focus on myself.

It seems like if a change is made, the people around it will try to adapt to it after a while. It was a shock to people that I cut my hair so short after such a long time of only trimming my hair. But after a while, they just moved on to making other comparisons. These small problems we build up in our mind really may not be that big of a deal to others. I thought it was a bad idea to cut my hair and have people constantly ask questions about why I did it but eventually, you remember that some of the changes you make about yourself are for you and not about the emotions of others around you. They will change or adapt and you will still be the same person you were before that change or even a better version of yourself no matter how big or small the change was.

If you personally identify yourself with something like “I’m known for having bright colored hair” or “I’m the funny one in the class” make sure you don’t get too wrapped up in your association. If you overthink a situation you may start to lose yourself. If you are in a situation where you want to do better or you want to be something else but you feel obligated to follow that thing you identify with yourself or others identify with you then maybe that isn’t really you. I loved my long hair when I was younger but I started to become unhappy when I felt like I was forced to keep it long. I am still that same girl, my hair just isn’t as long anymore. I decided to try new things and you never know, maybe I’ll decide that I want to go back to my long hair. I don’t want to become attached to an association so much that I feel like it controls my decisions.

Paxton Wentzell

Ms. Pahomov

English 11

January 3rd, 2018

Personal Essay BM 2

The world around us is always changing. On a cosmic level, comets are flying and planets are being formed. On a societal level, high-up government positions alternate parties and citizens are angered about the political climate. On a more personal level, I’m making bad decisions and I’m growing up. Or maybe it should be the other way around. It’s not like I can control the decisions that I make. I’m a teenager, I’m a growing boy, and my world is always shifting.

Last year, my world changed. I switched to a new world. Hopping through that portal to another dimension. I decided to make new relationships, completely flipping the dynamics I had with others. My dynamics would continue to switch. In this dimension, things are changing constantly. In this changing world I come across hardship after hardship. No matter how hard I try, I can’t go back to my old world. I’m stuck in this changing world and it’s only given me problems. I’m the victim here. The world started changing causing me troubles that I couldn’t control.

That doesn’t really make a whole lot of sense. It’s not like I came to a new world that’s changing all the time. All I did was change my relationships. I always lived in an ever-shifting world. I feel like there’s something that’s missing. If my changing world is giving me hardships even after I changed relationships, then it always has given me hardships from change.

Last year, my world changed. The rust covered gears just beneath the Earth’s crust started to rotate. Spinning me with them. All my friends abandoned me, isolating me and outcasting me from just about everything I did. As the gears began to crush my entire life, It took all I had not to give up. But I didn’t get crushed. I persevered. I still feel cut off, but, slowly, I’m getting back on my feet. I’m crafting new friendships and forgetting about the past and pushing back on those gears. I’m the hero here. I overcame the hardships thrust on me by the changing world.

What’s this? I’m pushing back on the gears, but I’m still running into hardships. How can that be? My world isn’t changing, so how can it still be creating problems for me? Life didn’t get any easier now that it’s not moving forward. Is there something I’m missing? If I stopped my world from changing and there is still hardship, then the problems must not be coming from the changing world.

Last year, my world changed. Of course it did, my world is always changing, but last year was different because I did something. I took advantage of my relationships with friends and I made mistake after mistake. I tried my best, but it wasn’t something I could recover from. The world did not suddenly shift, crushing me within its gears. And hardship did not follow me around every corner and across worlds. I jumped into the spinning gears on my own and I went looking for problems. I was the villain of the story. And I continue to make excuses for my actions.

What I did is not important. The point is that there is no excuse for the mistakes that I made over and over again. The world did change around me, but I will not keep blaming my problem on such a natural occurrence. With this new mindset I have begun to notice that many and most times peoples’ problems come out of their own faults and mistakes. They do not come because all of a sudden their world changed into something completely out of their control. So, why does that always seem to be the excuse. Why is it so difficult for people to accept that they are at fault and just fix themselves before they cause any more problems? This isn’t something I can answer for everyone. I’m still growing and I can only account for myself. As an individual, you should come to terms with reality and continue to use it to grow.

Animation Script

The world around us is always changing. On a cosmic level, comets are flying and planets are being formed. On a societal level, high-up government positions alternate parties and citizens are angered about the political climate. On a more personal level, I’m making bad decisions and growing up. Or maybe it should be the other way around. It’s not like I can control the decisions that I make. I’m a teenager, a growing boy, and my world is always shifting.

My world changed. All my friends abandoned me, isolating me and outcasting me from just about everything I did. It took all I had not to give up. I persevered. I still felt cut off, but, slowly, I was getting back on my feet. I began crafting new friendships and forgetting about the past. Overcoming the hardship that the changing world thrust upon me, I was the hero of my story.

Although, that isn’t completely true. As I push back on the world, resisting change, I still run into hardship. My world isn’t changing, so how can it still create problems for me? The problems I face must not be coming from the changing world.

My world changed. Of course it did, people’s worlds are always changing, but last year was different because I did something. I took advantage of my relationships with friends and I made mistake after mistake. The world did not suddenly shift, overwhelming and destroying me. I threw myself into trouble. I was the villain of my own story. And even in writing this essay, I continue to make excuses for my actions.

The details of what I did is not important. The point is that there is no excuse for the mistakes that I made over and over again. The world did change around me, but I will not keep blaming my problem on such a natural occurrence. With this new mindset I have begun to notice that many and most times peoples’ problems come out of their own faults and mistakes. They do not come because all of a sudden their world changed into something completely out of their control. I said in the beginning of this “I’m making bad decisions and growing up.” Does growth come because you make bad decisions, or is it the other way around? Does growing up lead to bad decisions that you don’t have control over?

Bettering Myself

My friend Abby untucked herself from under the covers, pulling the blanket off of herself. She slowly climbed out of her bed and was now up on her feet. She took no more than seven steps before reaching the door. She placed her hand on the doorknob, turned it, and walked out of her room. She left the door open, knowing she was going to return to her room eventually. She walked at a normal-pace as she was approaching the other room down the hall. Abby was young, maybe nine or ten years old. She got to the front of the door, in front of the room. She placed her hand on the doorknob, quickly opening the door, pushing it open, and what she saw next, she was nowhere near prepared for.

She didn’t trust anyone with this story, anyone but me, and here I am sharing it. She remembers this vaguely, just enough to understand somewhat of what was going on. It was believed to be a weekend because both of her parents were home, and she barely saw them home together unless it was the weekend. Her mom didn’t work on weekends, only weekdays, and her dad always came home early enough for her to see him before she went to sleep for school, or just to sleep in general. Abby didn’t realize it then, but she realizes it now. Her parents had been fighting more frequently. She guessed it was because she gotten used to them screaming at one another and constantly fighting, Abby constantly ignored it, but she knew how it made her feel, and she knew that she didn’t like the feeling, causing her to ignore it.

Growing up, Abby wasn’t the best version of herself that she could be. She was mean to the students at school and at her program for after-school. She never really cared about how she treated them or what she said to them, as long as she felt she had power. She also didn’t pay much attention to her parents and was usually in trouble with them. It was hard to believe for someone her age, but it was true.

Yelling, screaming, inappropriate words, things being thrown, it started like that. Abby didn’t know why it was happening, but she knew it was happening. Abby was in the other room with her baby sister, her room, the place where she felt most safe, and the only place for her to go. Her parents weren’t in the room with her but in another. She remembers being on her bed, and her baby sister in her baby bed next to her, crying. Abby didn’t know what was going on. Her parents then came into the room. They were still yelling, maybe about the baby, maybe about money, She was not sure, but she knew they were fighting.

Seconds later, their yelling got louder, and Abby started crying. She was scared. She didn’t know what was going on, why they were fighting, or what they were fighting about. She was scared not knowing what was going to happen, she didn’t want there to be a next. The fighting of her parents hurt her, but not physically. Abby tried to yell at them, wanting them to stop, but it didn’t work. Abby’s grandpa then walks into the room and tries to make them stop fighting, but they still didn't. It kept going for a while, but they eventually came to a stop.

Time passed and Abby was now tucked in her bed. The lights were off, but she was still awake. She couldn’t sleep. Abby lay there, awake. There she was in bed, her dad in the other, but not her mother, not her. She didn’t know where her mom was.

Suddenly, noises began. They got louder and didn’t stop. She didn’t know where the noises were coming from, neither did her dad, and certainly not her baby sister, but she knew they were coming from her mom. Her dad then said out loud “go see what your freaking mom is doing.”

Abby untucked herself from under the covers, pulling the blanket off of herself. She slowly climbed out of her bed and was now up on her feet. She took no more than seven steps before reaching the door. She placed her hand on the doorknob, turned it, and walked out of her room. She left the door open, knowing she was going to return to her room eventually. She walked at a normal-pace as she was approaching the other room down the hall. Abby was young, maybe nine or ten years old. She got to the front of the door, in front of the room. She placed her hand on the doorknob, quickly opening the door, pushing it open, and what she saw next, she was nowhere near prepared for.

In front of her was her mom, struggling to get out of the window while crying. She froze, then ran towards the window, yelling and begging for her mom to stop immediately. She pulled her mom away from the window and they then sat down on the floor together, crying. Her mom said, “I can’t do this anymore, I don’t want to do this anymore.” Abby didn’t know what to say or think, but she was hurt and she couldn’t believe what was happening. She didn’t want to lose her mom.

Her grandfather then walks in and does his best to calm them both down. It took a while to get her and her mom settled, but it happened. Abby then walks back into her room, worried. She couldn’t sleep knowing if her mom was now okay or not. She snuck out of her room and checked up on her mom, only to see that she was peacefully sleeping.

Ever since that day, Abby grew up with the mindset of having to watch everything she said, as well as her actions. The thought of losing someone she deeply cared about scared her. She never had to think about stuff like that. She didn’t want the reason for others to feel hurt, was because of her. She didn’t wish that on anyone, even though sometimes it seemed like others did deserve to feel hurt, but she knew that wasn’t right. Abby changed her ways and grew up a caring person. She knew what not to say and what not to do. Although Abby herself has gone through difficult times, not once has she done anything to make it “even.” She constantly did the right thing and let things go, coping in her own ways, and trying her best to move on with life.

After hearing about this story, I realized the person I was. I was a person I didn’t like, and a person I wouldn’t like if I was someone else and I met myself. I didn’t want to lose the people I loved the most due to the way I acted. I didn’t want the things I said and the actions I took to push people away and make them feel terrible, and I never wanted anyone to hurt themselves, especially not because of me. She allowed me to realize the person I was, and that if I continued acting the way I did, I could hurt someone badly.  I began thinking about how I could better myself for myself and for others. I started changing my ways and being more positive. Not everything had to be a competition and not everyone was seen below me. I let people in and I made sure those around me would not feel the negative energy they did before, from me. I only wanted to act the best possible version of myself I could, and to spread positivity. I no longer felt a need for others in the world to feel the hurt I did or do. I was a much better person than that. I constantly grew up thinking I had to look out for everyone and anybody I possibly cared about, which was everyone I met and knew. I looked out for everyone, even those who have done me wrong. I didn’t believe in revenge or anything cruel, just forgiveness and moving on.  I cared more for people and less for myself. I changed for the better, as a daughter, a friend, and as a student.

Hair has always been a hard subject for me. How do you want it cut? How short? How long? Why do you have so much hair on your arms? You missed a spot. Growing up I always thought about hair as something that defines you, that hair gives you character, that hair gives you your identity. My mother always had crazy hair; blue bob, blue and bleached mohawk, and other combinations. Everyone always loved her hair so I thought my hair might mean something to me. You can style it, dye it, cut it, crimp it, you can do anything to your hair. That's what I love the most about it, but of course I was cursed, with dark, thick, hair. This left me with the hairiest arms and legs known to mankind. I was never praised for any of the hair on my body, it was more a disadvantage than anything else.

As I walked up to the lunch line, my young 3rd grade self never saw her coming. I felt a presence near me. My long thick dark brown hair that was to my lower back was lifted. I felt the wind rush to my neck. I turned around wiping the person behind me with my lushes locks. A 5ft tall girl was standing behind me. Maxine. I saw one of my hairs fall from her fingers to the ground. I looked her in the eyes as I said, “Don’t touch my hair.”

The girl stared at me with her short bob of blonde hair and her glazed blue eyes. She replied,“It is just so pretty. I like to touch it.”

“ Well I don’t want you to so don’t.” I was two people away from the front.

I grabbed the boats of crackers and cheese sticks and walked off to sit on the yellow bench of the cafeteria table. That wasn’t the last time she struck. Everyday I would get in the lunch line and like a car trying to start I heard her engine roar then choke out as she stopped right behind me. One touch and I would turn around and smack her hand. Sometimes I was too late.

One day I was standing in line waiting for everyone to get back from the bathroom. As we were waiting, Ms.Johnson would scan over the line of children but she stayed a little too long on three people, Maxine, Joyce, and I. I scratched my head, why are staring at me? Am I doing something wrong? Maybe I should step a little more into line. As I side stepped into line everyone was back from the bathrooms. We climbed up the stairs. I stopped on the platform to turn to go up the other flight. My arm was grabbed tugging me back.

“Shilo, go to the nurse please.”

“Okay Ms.Johnson.” I went through the second floor doors. The nurse looked at me. I looked to my right and what do you know Maxine is here. I sat in the small chair closest to the door. My eyes were glaring in the direction of Maxine as she went up to the nurse. Maxine’s hair was checked for lice. Lice? What is that? Well I found out as the nurse pulled a tiny little 6 legged insect from the top of Maxine’s head. My eyes widened. It was then my turn. I walked up to the dreaded chair. The nurse checked all over my thick head of hair. It was 2:30 pm when she started but as the time passed nothing was found. 3:01pm an egg was found in my hair. I was devastated. After that moment a rumor went around saying I gave Maxine lice. I hated my hair. I hated how thick it was. I hated Maxine for making me hate myself. I missed the last day of school because of my lice infestation. No one talked to me.

As I grew older I realized that the lice infestation that wreaked what seemed like my entire life from then on, didn’t affect my life at all. No one knew or cared about anyone else's past because we were in 7th grade getting lockers and finally being able to switch classes. We were working on a memoir project in english towards the beginning of the year. Mrs.Greenberg, the english teacher from hell, wanted us to all come up with ideas for our memoirs. I have a go to memoir idea, my dog Buster. She let us think for 15 minutes. After those 15 minutes were up she put us into pairs. As she assigned them I knew as per usual that I was going to get the worst partner. “William, Guang, and..” Please not me, “Shilo.” My whole face slouched, gravity took over every feature. Of course I was in the only group of three due to our odd numbered class size. Everyone moved to their partners or in my case, group. We formed our t shaped formation right next to the window and a little away from Mrs.Greenberg’s desk. I started first, Guang went next. He started off with pointing at my arm. I looked all over my arm to see what he was pointing at, I set it back down. “What.” Guang said, “You have very hairy arms.”

I looked at my arms. I never realized how hairy they were, he repeated it, “You have very hairy arms,” I felt like Murph from the Yellow Birds when the chapel collapsed. I just wanted to curl up into a ball.

That evening I went home and shaved off all of my arm hair. I was so ashamed to have it. As I was shaving my arms I realized my legs were hairy too. I shaved them. I just went on a shaving frenzy shaving every visible hair possible. I hid my arms the rest of the week because I didn’t want Guang or anyone else to know I felt defeated. I hated everyone from McCall after that point. My hair had helped cause my downfall. At the end of 8th grade I shaved half my head and was made fun of the whole rest of my time there. I was pointed at and talked about, sometimes in another language. I couldn’t wait to go to high school.

My freshman year, I thought everything was going well, I had friends, a boyfriend,  I felt proud of myself. I shaved my head so that bleach blonde mess of a side was gone leaving my dark brown buzzed hair in its place. I was at 30th street station, where I would normally go after school. I was sitting at a table near the entrance off of Market and 30th. I got up and walked over to the subway. I was looking at all of the drinks they had. I grabbed the Coca Cola. I heard a man's voice as I turned around to walk to the counter, “Is that all you want mister.” MISTER. He just called me mister. My body was paralyzed that I forgot to answer the question. There was a lump in my throat as the answer rolled out of my mouth, “yup.” I paid and left. Not just left the subway but left 30th street station. I just walked home. Mister. Do I look like a man? I could feel the tears building up behind my eyes. Throughout my life, I had been mistaken for a boy a couple of times, due to my tomboyish charm that I embraced when I was younger. I looked like a boy. Do I have manish features? The longer I thought about it the more it came true. I looked like a man. I couldn’t even look in the mirror without thinking of punching the reflection of myself. He could have just made a mistake? But he looked me in the eyes.  

Throughout my life I have changed my hair so many times that the rest of myself changed as well. Everyone would always tell me how amazing it was. How cool I was for dying it or cutting it in a “unique” style. I would always thank them and say I love it but, how did it look good. That is all I could think about, are they looking at me or they looking past me, but I’m the idiot that answered. People either hate it or love it and I never understood how I couldn’t have a straight opinion of my hair. It seems like I just hate it but sometimes I wake up and love it then when I see myself again I hate it. It’s mine, I should have a clear opinion but I don’t think I ever will. I have grown to love it the older I have gotten. All I know is after high school there will be nothing holding me back.

Can two worlds combine into one? As a person whose ancestors, descendants, and parents come from another country from the other side of the world, it’s kind of a struggle growing up. Not as a kid really, but it begins when you hit puberty. That age where you need someone, specifically an adult you feel really close to, to talk to about literally everything and anything. Now this can’t be just any adult, it has to be someone that’s understanding of your situation and helpful, not judgemental. Someone who understands your background and where you’re really coming from, who won’t be judgemental. I’m sixteen and right about now, you’d think that I’m writing about how the world judges me for how I dress, or the amount of makeup I do and don’t wear, or the size of my body, or how I do or don’t have a boyfriend, or how I do or don’t always have an attitude towards everything and everyone. You’re wrong, but you’re on the right track.

The Strength of Values at its Strongest

I follow the scent of turmeric, garlic, tahini, red chilli powder to the kitchen, I spot my dad on the right side of the stove making  roasted tomatoes and kous- kous.  My brother, on the other side of the kitchen counter, mashing the potatoes. My mother and aunts busy themselves on the stove top mixing curry until they get the perfect texture. My uncles preparing the turkey along with my cousins. Soon enough, they all spot me and say, “Are you ready for the ‘Barabsgiving?’ This is my dad's  take on Thanksgiving; the combination of Bengali and  Arabic cuisine.

My mother is from Bangladesh, a place many people don’t even know exists. While my dad is from the land of architecture, the capital of all cars known to mankind. They both come from two very different worlds yet they balance each other out perfectly. Then there's myself, I am a physical and cultural mix ; I am the compromise of both cultures . One with a president and as well as very different political system and as well as culture than the other. Another with Sheikh who has say and control overall, alone.  It all surprisingly works, I am still here in one piece and sane. There differences are what balance me out. The understanding that I have amongst it all is that they aren’t actually that different, their environment and circumstances might have been, but the way they grew up as a family is the one thing that makes them separate but yet so close. My parents are both muslim and find that nothing else is more valuable than family.

I walked through the streets of Abu Dhabi there was freedom, you could dress in any fashion,  but then there is respect, respect towards others, respect towards the culture and respect towards religion. Although there were many others who dressed the way they pleased, which was Americanized, as they call it. I remember their shorts and tank tops . The majority of the people are Muslim, they wear Abayas and or Niqabs, black gown- like clothing that drape their whole body. The niqab which is common amongst females for covering most parts of their faces except for exposing the eyes. Even through the normal 100  degree weather they stay consistent with their traditional and religious values. This is what I see with my mother, no matter what the environment  or circumstance is, she never abandons her religious values.

September 11, a date that will be carved in all of history’s books and works this is also the very same date that will carve into my mothers brain and heart until the day she dies. It was the decision of whether to be safe or abandon her religion. The terrorists who attacked the twin towers were stated to be Muslim “those who wear turbans and hijabs” my mother had to make the decision to walk away from her religion, bow her head and remove her scarf or continue wearing her abaya and hijab and hold her head up high as she did everyday. She wrote in her journal that same night as she did every day the words went as followed.

“This date whether I record it or not will be engraved in my brain forever, many are telling me to loose the hijab and abaya for the sake of my own and my child’s safety, they say I can not walk in  the streets and be looked at the same, life has changed. How can I lose it when losing my hijab and abaya mean losing me, my humanity and who I am? Without these things I will no longer be Romona, wife of Mohammed Ali Siddiquee and Mother of Aysha. If I don’t show respect and hold on to my religion during these times then how will I guide my own daughter and family and set any example, I will be a failure to not only my religion but to my family. Letting go of the hijab and abaya is letting go of me and who I am. So no I will continue wearing my scarf and walking out these same doors holding my head  high, those who committed this horrendous attack are not Muslim, if they were true muslims they could never bring harm to others, they will be punished for their doings they will face tremendous consequences. Putting this scarf down means surrendering and feeding into a false “truth”.

So my mother continued wearing her hijab and never once has she walked out the house without it or feels any remorse, she knows what she is doing she is doing for her religion and herself. Her hijab is what makes her who she is and is a crucial part of her how she was raised and her values.

“Mohammed Ali” Not the world renown boxer but my father. His full name is Mohammed Ali Siddiquee. After 9/11 many people with the name Mohammed were harassed and interrogated since it is a very common Muslim name this however did not impact my father as it did to many others. He was pressured by others a numerous amount of times to change his name to something else since it wasn’t safe and it would make him an easy target. But my father knew a name is one of the most important things that makes a person who they are. It gives them identification and ideas and things to signify them. People hold family titles and as well as accomplishments with their name. To remove a person’s name is to remove their accomplishments and a personality. Making someone who they are. My father's name means more than everything to him, my grandfather name all of his children very carefully each holding a special meaning to him, and my grandfather had recently died only 5 months before 9/11 making the name even more meaningful and special to my father. One of the few things he had left to hold on to from my grandfather. Replacing his name would mean replacing all memories and accomplishments associated with the name and the importance or presence of my grandfather in his life, basically removing a part of him and who he is. His whole life attached to one name.

Changing his name would be stripping him of his identity and what he strived to become his entire life so he stuck to his name and what would come with it.

Both of my parents and their encounters and decisions make me who I am today everything I do, I do for them not out of obligation that they both came to America to provide a life for us, each of their countries individually provided great opportunities but they both knew that in order to live a life with both freedom and opportunity America was the right place. They both sacrificed what was comfortable for them to provide a more opportunistic life. In that kitchen, that day, I realized how we were all from different backgrounds and cultures, but yet, we all shared the same values of family and religion.

My name is Zahira. I’ve had this name since birth it was given to me by my mother. I was kindly named after my brother Zahir, yep how original. When I was younger I realized people would come up to me and say “Hey pretty girl, what’s your name” and I would answer in my oh so cute voice replying “Zahira” with a cheeky smile. I wondered if that’s where it all began, this long journey of insecurity that I tend to wrap myself around like a blanket.

When you’re younger you never tend to realize or care enough to correct someone when they trip upon your name as if there was an imaginary foot there causing them to misstep. You don’t realize these things as much unless your name isn’t your average Suzy, Rebecca, or even Hannah. When your name is complex and tends to cause people to actually use their brains they often tend to be lazy. They pronounce it the way they want it to sound. You don’t want to be rude and make them sound dumb by correcting them and say “ Sorry, it actually pronounced (Za-ear-uh).” So, you tend to brush it off like it didn’t happen.

The bad part is when you constantly have to repeat yourself to someone when they ask your name knowing within a 5 minute span they’ll ask again because they forgot.  The bad part is when you have to pronounce your name again for that person because the pronunciation is what they stumble on the most. The bad part is not feeling like you fit in because everyone around you has a name that you can remember without even trying.

There was a day I was out with my friend and we were going to meet up with some of their friends. Once we go to them they were rather friendly and were easy to talk to. Then came the part for names and I was excited to hear the names of my new friends. Until this day I still remember their names. Their names are Alicia, Katelyn, Avery, Josh, and Troy. Before I started to say my name I told them that it isn’t the hardest name but not exactly easy either. They agreed that it was fine and so I told them I didn’t particularly like my name but they insisted it was okay. Once I had said that my name was Zahira they then tried to pronounce it, they stumbled a couple of times so I had to keep repeating myself. At first it was fine until Alicia said, “”okay, so I’m not going to remember that can I just call you Z?” I looked at her and my expression read “Umm it isn’t even that hard but whatever,” and I’m pretty sure she could tell. She then continued calling me Z throughout the entire time which was by the way rather annoying since we weren’t close. They all followed along with what she did by calling me Z, but then Troy turned around not long after that and said, “Hey, Z so what’s your real name again I kind of forgot?” I then shot him the ugliest glare I could muster at the time and the friend I had came with saw and replied to him instead.

Have you ever thought about changing your name not just for amusement, but for an actual reason? Lola for me is an escape from living within this nightmare of insecurities. I’ve never wanted anything more than being able to fit in and not like an outcast. The funny part is that people only tend to want to change their name not for fun but for a serious reason. It wasn’t that I was getting bullied or anything but It gets tiring and I’m officially fed up with having to repeat myself for people to understand. It makes me feel like someone is playing with my insecurity purposefully even when they have no idea the effect that my name has on me. Does the name Lola make me feel secure? Maybe. Is the name Lola a mask to hide my flaws? Probably.

I was once watching this movie and the name of that movie was LOL and it was about this girl who goes by the name Lola who goes through highschool with many trials ahead of her. She goes through a lot and has many insecurities and a messed up family. I may not relate to the entire movie but the bases of that movie where I struggle and have many insecurities. Can you guess where the inspiration of my name Lola came from?

I don’t know many people who are insecure about their names. Usually when I say anything about my name to my friends they tend to say things like “Oh you look like a Zahira,” but what does a Zahira look like? I believe we say things like this because we don’t fully understand the meaning behind how a person can look like a word and or their name. We were born with that name, our parents didn’t name us based on how we looked. Most of the time your parents already had your name in mind before you were actually born. So, therefore how can I look like my given name? Impossible right? I don’t want you to think I don’t appreciate the so called compliment but it logically doesn’t make sense. I believe this is also a method of trying to make that person feel better.

How is one supposed to cope with having their name trampled repeatedly? How are they supposed to deal with being insecure about the thing that makes them who they are?Some people tend to just suck it up and deal with it unlike me, who actually started with the people closest to me to see how lola would sound. Then, I slowly started using the name Lola instead of Zahira if it was easier for the people. That didn’t make me a coward for not dealing with it how others would but it instead makes me more comfortable with myself.

My family does not know about my name change as of right now but I hope to one day tell them. I want to hope that they will support me but looking back at things like this in the past they weren’t exactly the biggest supporters. I had a cousin who changed their name from Nadia to Aidan and my family still to this day calls them nadia. I believe that’s very disrespectful to not respect a person’s wishes especially if it’s legal.

This problem will be a forever one at least for me it will. I believe you should be most comfortable with yourself and I am not when it comes to my name. I want to either become more comfortable with my name or change my name for good for the reason of making myself comfortable. I don’t try to offend people by getting defensive when I correct them when they mispronounce my name, but it feels like they’re playing with my insecurities if they do it more than once. Therefore, I want to in the future find a solution so I don’t keep feeling insecure about this.