Jamira Terrell

Summertime

A few days had passed since I left home. The house’s aura was dull and draining. Words can't explain how excited I was to get a text from my best friend: “Yo Jamira, I gotta show I’m performing at this weekend and I really want you to come.” I replied, “Sure Quil.” Finally some plans! I couldn’t take being in the house for another boring weekend.

There were a few issues. One, finding something to wear and two, getting permission to even go. Finding something to wear was not that difficult for I had remember about the new dress that I bought for my best friend -Nia’s, party. Now asking my mom for permission was another issue in itself because depending on the work day, my mom can sometimes come home with quite the attitude. I had to remind myself that just because I was excited, it was almost too good to be true, so I probably shouldn’t get my hopes up just in case my mom tells me that I can not go.

My mom usually gets home at five o’clock. I hoped that her day at work was pleasurable because I wanted her in a good mood before I popped the big question. I didn’t feel like listening to another one of her lectures about “those boys” and “how to act when going out places.” She always comes home mad and takes the anger that she has amassed from work out on me, lecturing me about “teenage stuff.” I hope she just answers me a with a simple “yes” or “no” and just leave it at that.

I wondered what songs Aquil was going to perform. I love his voice and when he sings it is simply amazing. I remember when he invited me to his last show. It was a night to remember and I will never forget how he brought me up on stage and sang my favorite song to me.

Now that I think about, I really hadn’t heard from him in a couple months up until he texted me. Well at least I’ll get to see him soon.

That day, it seemed like it took forever for my mom to come home. It just felt like the day was trudging by and forgot that I needed my mom to get home. My mom got home around 6:15. I waited for her to get settled to see if she was in a pleasant mood or not. She hadn’t called me down for my lecture yet, so I guess she had a good day. When she sat down on the couch and started watching Jeopardy, I thought it was an opportune time to ask her. I decided to start slowly.

“Hey mom, how was your day?”

“It was actually good J... How about yours?”

“Mine was cool. Aquil invited me to his show this weekend. I know how you feel about  me going out, but mom…..can I go, please?”

“Yeah sure, I love Aquil and his family. You can go. So when and where is this show? How are you getting there? Who else is going to be there?”

“Aquil has to send me the rest of the info, but he did say that his mom would pick me up and drop me off.”

“Okay cool...just keep me updated.”

“Thanks mom.”

I really didn’t expect her to give in so willingly, but I guess it’s best not to question it. I walked up the stairs pleased that she had not attempted to give me yet another speech. I figured that I should text Aquil to inform him that I could go and also to get my mom the information she wanted. He texted me back a couple minutes later, and I relayed the message to my mom. My weekend is most definitely about to be eventful.

The next day came, and I slept in until about noon. I then rolled out of bed, showered, dressed, and walked to the salon to get my hair and nails done.

I walked 2 hours later looking “fleeky.” I should take a selfie because I look really cute right now.

A couple selfies later I walked home so that I could finish getting ready. Aquil asked if he could take me somewhere before the show. So I went back to the house and threw on something cute, and I left my dress hanging up so that it would be ready when I came back.

My phone rang, it was Aquil, I think he’s outside. I answered and he said, “Yo I’m outside come out so we can go.”

I almost tripped walking down the steps. Then I opened the door, and I saw Aquil.

“DAMN YO YOU GOT TALL!”

“Haha yeah I know”

“I haven’t seen you in forever”

“Yeah I know hahaha that’s why I wanted to see you before we went.”

This boy is like 6’3. He wasn’t that tall last time I saw him. I was super excited to see my best friend again.

He said, “We gotta take the trolley because my dad is using my car today because he had a meeting in New York.”

“It’s cool…don’t stress it.”

To be honest I didn’t really care I was just excited to be out of that house. We got on the 34 trolley at 61st & Baltimore, and then we got off at 48th & Baltimore. We walked into this small cafe for late lunch. Hours went by as we sat and caught up on life. Then Aquil’s mom called. He said that she was 15mins away and that we were about to head to the show. I didn’t notice how much time went by.

“Aquil I left my dress at the house.”

“Okay we can take you back to the house, but you have to hurry up and change.”

“Okay.”

His mom pulled up, we got in, and then we rushed to the house so that I could change. A few minutes later I ran out the house in my heels, dress, and I got back in the car.

“Yo you look amazing,” he said.

“Thanks Aquil”

I was kind of blushing, but not only because of what he said, but I really thought I looked cute. We had to drive all the way down Drexel campus to get to World Cafe Live. During the drive, we didn’t talk that much except for the few questions his mom asked me about school, life, work, the usual. For the most part, I looked out the window as the trees whisked past and people ran by in a blur. I kept thinking about the time I had first met Aquil during a summer program around four years ago, and silently laughing to myself because he had the biggest crush on me back then. At the time I was living in California and we never lost touch, but when I moved back to Philly things seemed to just fit into place.

My thoughts were suddenly interrupted as I jumped back into reality.

“We’re here!” said Aquil’s mom.

I’ve never seen Quil move so fast in my life, he jumped out the car and ran backstage to prepare for his show. I knew then, that not only was he excited to perform, but that it was going to be one hell of a performance.

“Good luck tonight!” I yelled after him, but I doubt he even heard me.

His mom and I walked into World Cafe and as I looked around I noticed the large amount of people just mulling around, waiting for the show. I took a moment to take everything in, the scenery, people, colors, smells, etc; anything that would help me remember this very moment.

“I’ll be right back.” someone said, barely audible.

I turned around just in time to see Aquil’s mom heading backstage, mostly likely prepared to give him a quick pep talk and word of advice. Not used to being in this type of setting, I maneuvered myself so that I was close enough to the stage to be able to enjoy his performance, but even closer to the door so that I would not be bomb rushed on the way out. Just as I was about to drift back into my thoughts, the ground beneath my feet started to quiver and everyone around me became a silhouette. It was then that I looked up and noticed that the lights had been dimmed and the spotlight was on Aquil, standing center stage.

The show was about an hour long and once it ended, I went backstage to meet Aquil an congratulate him on his outstanding performance.

“Quil! You did an amazing job out there! Did you see the crowd?”

“Yea, I did, but the only person I was focused on was you.”

In that moment, I felt a rush through my body. I was highly unaware of my surroundings at the time and could only focus on the warmth of his hands as her grabbed me by my lower back and pulled me towards him. I didn’t know how to feel in that very moment because all I could focus on was how close in proximity we were. All the sounds around us were muffled and my vision slightly blurred, but what I knew for a fact wasn’t blurry was the image slowly coming towards me. He kissed me.

The ride home was filled with common conversation and awkward laughter. I knew I was not the only one feeling the weird tension. It could not be more excited to get dropped off at home. It wasn’t that I was unhappy about the kiss. I just did not know how to feel about it and wanted to go home and clear my mind. With what felt like an hour, within fifteen minutes, I was being dropped off at my house.

“Bye Mrs. Dantzler! Thank you so much for the ride!”

“No problem sweetie. I enjoyed your company.”

Aquil got out the car and walked me to my door. Even though the walk was short, we walked

in silence but deep down I knew that he would not just let me go inside without mentioning something about what had happened earlier that night.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yea. Perfectly fine. I just need some time to think”

“I didn’t mean to put you in an awkward position.”

“I know.” I replied. “Thank you for inviting me to your show. I had an amazing time.”

With that, I gave him a small kiss on the cheek and left him outside as I walked into my house.

As I closed the door behind me, I let go a huge sigh of relief. I great breath I felt like I had been holding in for the last hour. I knew from then, that the relationship between Aquil and I would be more or less than mutual, but nothing from that night on would be the same.

Some movies are set in neighborhoods to portray certain hoods like Compton, Queens, the Bronx, Detroit. Some documentaries try to delve into the dynamics of living in the hood, the systems, rivalries, etc. The portrayals and the footage of the busted houses, bullet holes in signs, expensive cars with special suspensions to rock with down the block, thugs giving you side eye. Most of these aren’t the reality in my hood. Southwest Philadelphia isn’t home to any Bloods or Crips, most of the crew's’ names don’t exist. We don’t have cars rolling down the block at 5 m.p.h., bumping to the bass of any N.W.A or Tupac song. We do have busted houses, bullet holes in signs up and down Elmwood Ave, and people throwing out looks that would make you cry. It isn’t all bad though.

My neighborhood affected me in ways I had never realized until this question was posed to me, what is the relationship between the self and a changing world? It raised me, especially the people in my neighborhood. My neighbors may not have always been the most law abiding citizens, they were pretty dangerous. But they are my second family. They helped me with my throwing arm, protected me, teased me like any big brothers and sisters would. More than anything, they taught me about the world and how people work. I learned how to physically and mentally protect myself. They did not have to say anything to me for me to learn. I would watch.

I was a pretty observant child. I would pay attention to all the conversations I wasn’t supposed to, their body language, everything. Just by watching the world around me, I became a very complex person. My neighbors and even my parents were very quiet but loud. I know that sounds kind of stupid. How can you be quiet and loud? They were quiet about relevant details to stories, what was going on with them and their lives. They were loud about things that did not matter, and what made them mad, etc. I never seen any person or adult around me growing up, back down from a fight or a problem. In turn, I was taught how to defend myself with words and my hands. I was taught that my voice and my opinion mattered, and anyone who said differently could get shut up. I was taught to not be a wimp.

Everyone in their life probably has a bullying story, I have a few of my own. My elementary school was very interesting, and I stuck out a lot. I was very intelligent for my age, I was small and thin, basically an easy target. I started to hate myself then. Yet, I never let anyone get away with it. I learned that you never had to put your hands on someone to hurt them. The problems at school got really bad, but I never let anyone see. I never told my parents or my neighbors, or teachers. I would go off, start firing insults back. I can not really remember the things I would say, but I was eight so I doubt any were worth remembering.

I got to middle school and I was the new kid, but I didn’t really care. I had built up this new person I would be, like most new kids do. I became open about anything, but I caused a lot of problems for myself. Everyone is a mess in middle school, no doubt. No one can look back on those years and say, “Wow, those were some fun times.” I got into a lot of arguments. A lot. The new school, new me attitude had a really strong personality. Anytime I felt disrespected, I popped off. I am still really surprised I never got in a fist fight in my life.

I started to be disliked a lot, just because I didn’t take shit from anyone. With losing friends each year, I never lost my love of learning. So I engulfed myself in school even more. Yet, by the end of middle school, I only had two or three close friends. Which was fine with me, because they were loyal and I am still friends with two of them to this day.

If there was anything I learned from growing up in the hood, it was that you only need two or three people to rock with. Telling your business gets complicated and messy, and nobody deserves to know any part of who makes you who you are. If people aren’t worth it, then you cut them off. Of course in southwest people cut other people off in an entirely different way! Even in this paper, I am not opening up in detail about everything. It is permanently etched in my brain to not give a lot of myself or what I go through up.

In turn, everything I went through in middle school tore me up inside. I never showed it, until one mental breakdown in the hallway in 8th grade. After that incident and graduation, that summer became one of the hardest of my life. I had so much going on and a lot of the problems were all inside of my own head. But just as my hood taught me, you do not let people see. So, I breezed through my freshman and sophomore years as smoothly as I could. And I never got to work out so many things about myself.

I have always known I was a good person, that was never a question. But I had so much to get over. So, I did. A lot of people who have major insecurities and self esteem issues deal with it outwardly and even harm themselves. I never hurt myself, but I took my insecurities out on other people. When I got mad, I was furious, because I had so many emotions going on. I would hone in on something that made me mad other than myself, and feed off of it. It is easier to hurt other people than hurt yourself.

A lot of my neighbors and people I grew up with started to get in trouble. A lot of people who were a big part of my life, got locked up. A lot of my close family friends and family started to die. Not from the streets, but losing them nonetheless. This closed me off even more. I felt as though I did not fit in anywhere. Just as the characters in the novel, “The Yellow Birds,” their worlds were changing everyday, and they felt so closed off from society.

There is this Evergreen tree at the end of my street. If you have ever seen any hood movies, or live in the hood, there are not always a lot of other trees than plain oaks. So an Evergreen is almost impossible to come by. I am mesmerized by it every time I am walking home. It is so out of place. The tree is never bare, but it is magnificent and beautiful. Captivating if you stare for more than a beat. I am that Evergreen. I always have my armour on to protect me from the outside world, I stick out in places, but I am magnificent and beautiful. It may have taken me a long time to grow, but I am not going anywhere anytime soon. I thank my hood for everything it has taught me, my home.

Writing a personal essay may be easy for some of you. This topic, in particular, is very hit or miss. It would be simple for someone to, say, write about the relative they have that served in the military. Or perhaps a tale of their move across the country would do. An easy opportunity even exists for me. My paternal great-grandparents and their children were refugees of Hungary’s 1956 revolution, one of many of such events for the oft-ruled Hungarian people.

Of course, that’s what I thought before I checked the official wording of the assignment. Much to my chagrin, the personal essay had to be entirely personal. That is, about the writer. It’s my work. I am the writer. It is me. My silver bullet had been repossessed by the state and smelted into a limited-edition coin, to be purchased by an oblivious grandmother who swears it’ll be worth the mint it came from some day. She gives her grandson the coin, and he pretends to admire it. He knows better than to reveal his knowledge gained from the multitude of gold coins, silver coins, and fifty-state quarter collections. They will be worth no more than what she paid, if a little less. She just wanted to help. But that doesn’t matter. Those people aren’t real. What does matter is that I have nothing to write about.

Eventually, I will need to address the book I read most recently. This book is called The Yellow Birds. It is by Kevin Powers. It takes place during the Iraq War. In it, there is a character called Murph, who dies. The protagonist and a search party find his body mutilated in a bush. The protagonist, Pvt. Bartle, had promised to Murph’s mother that Murph would return. There are many things I could say to connect my life to the story at this point. I could talk about how I have broken numerous promises. Who hasn’t? However, none of my promises have resulted in anyone’s death. I could write about helping people. At least, I could write about that if I were writing a bad college admissions essay. I’m not writing a bad college admissions essay. I’m not even writing a good college admissions essay.

I could also write about my dog. Before I was born, my parents had acquired a Rottweiler named Jake. Jake was a pretty good dog. After I was born, he was very protective of me. Despite being one of the more fearsome dog breeds, he was very gentle. This was in my hometown of Concord, New Hampshire, so he had plenty of land to run around on and other, similar things that dogs like. Next to my old house, there was a frog pond. I used to really enjoy catching frogs and putting them in a five-gallon bucket filled with the water for the day. I realize now that this was not the most ethical way to have fun with frogs. We also had a sinkhole in our front yard. I used to be really scared to walk near it, for fear I would fall in. Before we packed up and headed home, I ended up falling in twice, once with my friend. Both times I fell in, I feared what may have lived beneath. Both times, there was nothing. I got out of the sinkhole, took a shower, and changed. That was it.

Now, we return to my dog. Jake lived to be about twelve, which is a reasonable for a dog. One night, around the time we moved, I was watching TV while Jake relaxed by the fireplace (his favorite thing to do in the evening) when he started howling. He did this periodically, but this was a different sort of howling from the usual. He seemed to be in distress. He fought at the forest-green carpeting with what looked like supreme fear in his eyes. The howling grew and became yelping, barking, and shouting. He flailed around with so little control that we feared he would jump into the crackling fire. His sounds became more pained. That’s when my parents told me to go upstairs as fast as I could. Being little and confused as to what was going on, I ran into my parents’ bedroom. Eventually, I fell asleep there. Jake had been having a seizure and passed away that night. I was sad for a little while. My mom was much more sad. She had trained him. Now, I don’t think of him unless someone tells me to think of something pertaining to death.

There was also a death in my family over the course of my lifetime. I don’t consider pets a part of the family, and I think it’s bizarre that some people do. You are not any more related to your pet than you are to any other animal of that species. Loving your pets is kind of weird to me too, but that’s a personal thing. Don’t call them your family. It doesn’t make sense. My family is very small, so a death is kind of an event. To provide some perspective, I am one of two people under eighteen to attend our family gatherings. The other person is about a year old. Anyway, my great-grandfather and noted singer Don Rondeau, stage name Don Rondo, died. He had cancer. We weren’t surprised.

When I was younger my family was very religious. We attended church daily and I was  baptized by a very young age. Not one Sunday session was missed. I was taught that there was more to it then dying. Once we passed away we would finally be able to sit with our Lord in his holy kingdom. Heaven was the paradise you were seeking for. I was told death should not be frowned upon, it just meant that God was calling you back to him to live your days beside him for eternity. As a child I accepted that. This gave me reassurance that even once everyone I knew would be gone from this world I would be greeted by them once again.

As soon as I woke up I prayed giving thanks for waking up every morning. Even when we went to church I would daydream, imagining angels flying around the building watching us as we prayed trying to answer our calls. At first everything felt very clear to me. There was no higher power than God, he was all knowing and granted life or death. Then around the third grade I began to dive into my learning. Trying to absorb as much as I could. I wasn't like most normal kids I rarely watched cartoons. Most of the time I would watched channels like Discovery Channel, Animal Planet, and the History Channel. The only thing that seemed to peak my interest was how did we work and where did we come from. The bible says the Lord but science says monkeys. I just had to know who was correct . Once I learned that we may not have come from Adam and Eve but actually single celled organisms, I started to have second thoughts on what happens once one dies. There was no evidence to back up that one rose to heaven only an assumption. I felt like I needed someone to tell me that they had been to heaven, it was real. One thing I have yet to understand is how do scientists balance religion with science. They don't go hand and hand and constantly contradict one another. Even now I still believe in God and heaven but I also believe in science.

From ages 6-9 I had problems with sleeping. They did not happen often only once and awhile but when they did they stopped me in my tracks.  You would think it's normal to be scared of the dark for my age. But the reason why I was scared was unique. I was scared not because of the menacing monsters crawling around me but because my mind would wander, and I would ask myself would one day will my family leave me, is this what death feels like eternal darkness. And as I began this dark descent into the holes of my mind. My body would become heavier, with each passing thought the air was sucked from my lungs. My chest pounded, I had beads of sweat running down my face. Then it all ended. As though I was separated from my body my conscious floated in the dark. Until I couldn't take anymore I called out to my mom in that void. The world around me began to reveal itself and I lay in my bed. My mom would wipe my tears away telling me that death is only what you make of it. She would say a little boy your age shouldn't be thinking of death, there are so many more years ahead of you. I told her I was terrified at the thought of not having her or my family around me. She’d lay beside me in my bed and we would lay in the dark talking and telling jokes until I would fall asleep. I guess she realized that I just needed someone to hear someone. I needed to know that I wasn't alone.

Fast forward to my seventh grade year. During this year my grandfather had fallen down the steps and was in the hospital. Thinking it was a little fall I didn't pay much attention to it, I fall all the time and bounce right back up. But in the month of June something happened. I remember this specific day because this was the day that I went horseback riding with the boy scouts. We had finished and I learned I was terrible at it. There was this technique you had to do where you kind hoped on the horse so you didn't bruise anything down stairs. Yeah, I didn't know how to do that so well and ended up only getting on the horse once. But this isn't the point of the story. I had been dropped off home, and as I walked towards my house my aunt saw me and rushed towards me engulfing me in her arms. Two things I noticed. First, I literally couldn't breathe she was practically choking me, and secondly, she had a stream of tears flowing down her face.

I asked “why are you crying.”

She said “I thought you were gone. There was a phone call and they said “he passed away”.” All of a sudden my sister comes out side and joins in hugging me tightly. I felt confused I didn't know what they were talking about. We went inside and I saw that all my family was inside grieving. I learned my grandfather had passed away and the hospital had only said “He” so they all thought I had passed away while on the trip. I saw just how fast death impacted everyone. I had never had anyone pass away yet in my family. I might have heard of others family passing away but it didn't affect me. Until now I didn't really know what it was like to lose someone in your close family. My mind began to start racing again how would I feel once my mother passed away what would I do without her, I couldn't fathom it.

June of 2013 would be the year I attended my first funeral. I was anxious frankly I didn't want to go. Why would anyone want to see a glimpse of their future. But I knew that I had to give respects to my grandfather. As I entered the church I saw him laying in his coffin, a lifeless body. I was staring death in the face. Honestly I couldn't tell, to me it just looked like he was just sleeping in a nice suit. I saw his face, he looked so peaceful. It did not look like he had suffered. I tried to place life back into him. Picturing him like how he used to be. What would he say to me at that moment. I asked my mom and she said to me that he knew his time was up. The day before he had passed away he had told her,

“The dead don't know they're are gone it's the living that suffer.”

I saw him standing over everyone and reciting that line. The dead don't feel sad when they're gone. By constantly thinking of this we only make life more depressing. After the funeral I felt a slight realization that humans have a funny way of always trying to deny death, while animals accept it. Maybe I guess that's what the author of “The things they carried” meant when he said that someone is not dead until you yourself proclaim them to be. People dress the dead up put makeup and make them look alive. Maybe to make it only seems as though they were sleeping and they would wake up in a couple of hours. But animals must understand they're are gone and need to move on. When I see animals they don't seem to make that big a deal out of death than us. Some grieve but none of them go the same lengths as us.

Sometimes I think why did I have be born as humans out of all earths creatures. We are the only ones who are truly self aware and are capable of having deep insight. Animals live day by day only thinking to survive today. But humans don't seem to live for the moment but instead think I must survive in the end. If I were an animal I didn't have to think of my end, it would be that simple. Now that I am older I realize maybe it isn't the thought of death that scares me maybe it's the thought of being alone forever. After many realizations I've come to understand that if one spends their whole entire life fighting their destiny you only make your ending all the more sadder. One must try and experience as much joy as possible and don't focus on that brief moment. Accepting this will only serve to give your life more meaning. For now sometimes that fear rises within me. But I've come to understand it is something that cannot be destroyed. The only thing I can do is give no acknowledgement to it. I must place my faith in my lord and believe that when it is time to meet my end. I will have left the earth an old man who enjoyed the gift of life.

     I remember the times I would get mad at my friends. “Floating Clothes”, that’s what we said to each other. When the person touched me or talked, I would say “Wow, is that the wind?” or “What was that noise?”. Me and my friends did this to each other whenever we got mad. This did not happen in high school though, but actually this all took place in middle school.

  I have been both Middle School and High School, and I have enjoyed both of them. But, they were completely different experiences. They each had things different about them. This was inspired by Tim’s surroundings changed. This is when Tim goes from civilian to soldier. I had a change like that when I switched from middle school to high school.

       One difference between the schools is the type of friends at these schools, and how I hung around them. In SLA, nobody from from my school went here. It would be cool if some if them did, but also the friends were different. They are more chilled out then my middle school friends. In Middle School, I would roughhouse. We would try WWE and other fighting moves on each other, chase each other, tackle each other, play footsies, and lots more. In SLA, the only person I did that stuff with was Marshall. And we eventually stopped doing that. But in middle school, that was normal for me and me friends. Sometimes we would get in trouble for it. They would also get into a little bit more trouble then my friends here. They weren’t bad kids, but they had their little situations. Most of the friends at SLA never or barely get into any trouble at all.

    My behavior has also changed. I wasn’t a bad kid, but sometimes I would get into trouble. It may be arguments with other students, or a situation with the teacher. One of the biggest things were saying innappropriate things One time, I was joking with my friends, and I said “It sounds like your smoking marijuana with cocaine it it!”. The teacher was not happy about that, and gave me a look. The class was laughing at what I had said. There were many times this happened. One time, my friend kicked me in the groin. In a rather crude way, L screamed out what he did. My teacher gave me detention for using innappropriate language in the class. Ther rI got into trouble due to the fact that I was very immature. I didn’t do stuff to be bad, I was just being silly and immature. That’s why I never got suspended. I never did anything that over-the-top. I usually got into trouble for roughhousing, saying innappropriate things, or talking in class. Those were the usual offences. I wasn’t ever trying to be a bad student, I would just engage in acts of immaturity.

In high school, that hasn’t really happened. I also used to get detention for things like saying something innapropriate, or getting physically playful with my friends. But, things changed once I got into high school. My behavior was better. I didn’t get in trouble for that type of stuff, which is good. I am careful about what I say, and who I say certain things around. I changed becuase I was afraid of getting kicked out of the school. I was afraid of messing up all of my opportunities at SLA, which I always try to avoid doing. I also did not want the school to regret accepting me into the school. I also wanted to act properly so that I can get good recommendations for college. I would never want to mess that up, and I also don’t want my teachers to hate me.

     Another thing that’s different is that there are no younger kids around. My middle school had elementary and preschool. There is none of that at SLA. The only grades in SLA are 9th, 10th, 11th, and 12th. In middle school, I would help out after school witht the younger children. i would help them with their homework, and I would also hang out with them and be their friends. I really got along with them because a lot of them were really cool. That’s much different from SLA. I’m not saying that it’s a bad thing, but it is a very noticable detail.

     The rules I’ve had to follow are also a little bit different. I wasn’t allowed to listen to music while I worked when I was in middle school. That would have been really cool to have becuase I love music. But in SLA, all of the teachers said that it was ok to do that. I was so happy about that, and I have been listening to music while I work ever since. That is a change that high school has had on me changed. I have seen people have their phones taken away for using them in class. That doesn’t happen at SLA. As long it’s not a test or while the teacher’s talking, they let us do that with zero consequences. It’s really cool.

      I want to give some crazy examples of how my friends were different. One time in Middle school, I had a book that I was reading. The book was based on the game battlefield 3. I really enjoyed the book a lot, but one of my friends decided to put it in his pants.  In high school, my friends don’t really try that stuff. They usually just relax, and act normal with me. Another example is how when I was going on a trip, my friend either punched or kicked me in the groin very hard out of nowhere. We always did that sort of thing. We liked to play-fight a lot. The friends at SLA would never do that to me. If I did that to one of my friends here, they would think I am crazy, and they would not be amused. But, this one tops all of them. In 6th and 7th grade, I did have a crush on this girl. But I had a friend who liked her, and he viewed the girls he liked as his property, which meant he also wouldn’t tolerate people liking girls that he liked, and that he hated & wished death and terrible things upon them. That included me. He liked the girl, and I liked her. After he said we weren’t friends, I hated him for a while. I thought he was acting stupid and ridiculous. We eventually became friends again, either because he started to hate her, or because I lied to him just to become his friend again. If I acted like that towards one of my classmates, they would probably laugh at me or tell me that I have lost my mind. And they should. Plus, my classmates would never do that to me or anyone. They have way too much maturity to even engage in that type of foolishness. I have never been in these situations before while at SLA, and I probably never will be.

         Another change is the fights. There were fights in my school sometimes, and people got suspended over that type of stuff. That problem does not exist at SLA. I remember seeing a 8th grade boy fighting an 8th grade girl. There was a crowd surrounded around them. At SLA, that would have been stopped within 4 seconds. I have seen a fight where a trash can was used. That would be broken up really fast, and not cheered on at all. That would not be tolerated, and the students would not support that. They would be horrified. Bullying took place at my school before, but it does not take place at SLA. This is a place where everyone gets along and doesn’t hate each other.

       One difference that I notice is that we don’t go outside for recess in SLA. In middle school, we would go outside and play. But in SLA, we always have lunch inside. In middle school, we also had a playstation 2 downstairs. We would play basketball games and wrestling games. It was really fun. SLA does not do that though, even though it would be really cool if they had a game console for us to play.

Am I a different person in my new school? I don’t know. I think I am a more mature person. I was always a nice person. I always liked helping people. and liked making people feel good, so I wasn’t a bad guy. I was just very immature, and I became more mature so that I didn’t get into any trouble while at SLA. And it worked. I have never been in any serious trouble before, and don’t get talked to by the teacher that often. I had to change because it was the only thing that made sense to do. So, I don’t think I’m really that much of a different person. I’m just more mature, and more intelligent.

Coming to Terms with Change:

High school was always a goal for me growing up and I always looked forward to reaching that point in my life. I imagined it being just like the television shows with cliques, nerds, jocks, popular basketball, cheer-leading, and football teams, prom king and queen, etc. I fantasized about how I would be in high and school and where I would stand. I hoped I would fit in. I wanted it to be a time to remember.

When I reached the eighth grade I began applying to all of my high schools. I hand wrote essays, went to open houses, and had interviews. Once I came to Science Leadership Academy I wanted to join all the clubs and sports to be active and involved. Everything seemed so overwhelming, but still exciting. I quickly migrated towards a group of friends who are still with me today.

“Take a deep breath and remember what we practiced. You’re going to do great Yas!” I took a deep breath and shuffled through my papers looking over everything. I could feel the butterflies in my stomach as I was waiting to go upstairs. I remember I wore black pants and a white button down so that I was dressed professionally. I also, remember the principal saying “All students who are interviewing today can now head upstairs to the room number on their paper.” I stood up feeling alert and anxious and the next thing you know I was quickly walking with the crowd clenching my folder in my hands looking around the school and for my classroom. It was finally time for me to show off the project I was so passionate about. They had all the students sitting down and choosing one of the prompts to write about until we were called for our interview. I remember interviewing with one student and a teacher.

When I entered the room the whole setup was different. Instead of having individual desk there were tables that seated four people. The teacher’s desk were planted into the floor and some had sinks built into them. There were labs and other interesting things around the room. Lockers were also on every floor and there were only two lunch periods. As you can see, I had some adjusting to do. I had to become accustomed to the new environment similar to O’Brien in “The Things They Carried”. Instead of working with his father everyday and having shifts, he was fighting in wars. One of my first new experiences was not having school uniform. I’ve always been at a school where uniform was required so it was different for me to see students dressed in all different types of ways. Another new experience was carrying my book bag around to every class instead of carrying my books in my hand. I was use to going to my locker only in the morning and after lunch. Something I had to become accustomed to was traveling places by myself. I was use to a ride in the morning and a short walk in the afternoon, but I quickly grasped how public transportation operated and it became simple for me to travel around.

While reading “The Things They Carried” the author list all the things that the soldiers carried with them. Specifically, O’Brien carried a picture of the girl he was in love with, Martha. I carried a baby picture of myself with my dad in the front pocket of my book bag everyday. O’Brien kept that picture with him and always thought about Martha.  I held onto that picture keeping my dad in my mind and with me all the time. It makes you feel closer to the person and it also makes you feel some sort of connection with them even though they are not there in the flesh.

Tim mentions a quote in the book relating to stories and the impact it has on a people. “Stories are for joining the past to the future.” This book is designed in a way that all of the soldiers have a certain background that they bring with them as there moving on in life. I also, have a background that I carry with me and add on to as I do more things in life. Just to be clear when I say background I mean past life,experience, struggles, lessons, and more.  

Once I was well into high school, around January, I began to lose interest in a lot of my classes. I would find myself thinking about other things and not focusing on my work as much. In the novel, Tim continuously day dreamed about Martha. “He had loved Martha more than his men, and as a consequence Lavender was now dead, and this was something he would have to carry like a stone in his stomach for the rest of the war.” When the time came to take a test or do a project I would have to face the consequences by being lost and regretful. Instead of Tim putting all his attention first towards his men and their needs he was more focused on someone who wasn’t even present in his life and he suffered consequences because of it.

A few months later, I got my letter in an envelope. I skimmed the list looking for SLA and finally I saw it at the bottom of the paper saying that I was accepted. I was thrilled! Immediately, I called my mom screaming and saying “I got accepted”. She was so proud of me and said we would celebrate later that night. Afterwards, I called my brother and stepdad to share the news with them as I was on my way to lunch with my best friend.

So, as you can see O’Brien and I have very different stories, but there are still some similarities between the two. We both experience lot’s of change and learn new things. Also, we both display some emotions that can relate to one another.

I’m not the hero. If asked me if I was the hero, I’d tell you I wasn’t. Perhaps the ease is implicit, wrapped in the word “hero”; if you asked if me if I was a hero, I’d tell you I wasn’t, for I see “hero” as too grand a phrase for a planet mundane enough to exist outside of a comic book. So, even in the context of a vaguely colorful story, there are no such things as “heroes.” But, then, if you asked me if I was the protagonist of said story, I wouldn’t know what to say. It can’t be known before I’ve asked the question of myself. Should I ever claim that I’m the protagonist, let me bite my tongue, for I have not yet been asked if I am the villain.

I drew my conclusions on this topic when I was eleven years old; they are outdated. Consider this essay the grand re-opening of a case five years shut. The case files contain many since-disregarded conclusions that I’d like to shine some light on.  If I tell you that I am not sorry, reject my thesis; I have not researched my topic thoroughly enough.

With all of this in mind, let me introduce a question that can be objectively answered: what happened?

When I met him, he asked the normal small talk questions and I gave him the normal small talk answers. “Nice to meet you, Alec, my name is Harry. This is my second year at Lakota. Yes; that rather racist image on the rock wall does bear a lot of resemblance to the logo of the Washington Redskins. Shower Hour is right before First Shift Dinner, which is right before Free Play.” The answers I didn’t give: “The other bunk is essentially the cool kids’ bunk, as it was last year, so my best friend Zach and I practically feel targeted, that our bunk should be filled with the weirdos, the Europeans, and the European weirdos.”

Zach, the kids from the other bunk, and even some counselors immediately considered Alec to be of “the weirdos,” though I couldn’t see it. Nothing he did seemed especially strange, at least. He asked the questions one could be expected to ask and he laughed when one could be expected to laugh. He was the only person I’d ever met to wear a swim shirt, and perhaps, retrospectively, that fact was very in line with the insecurities he would come to show, but it didn’t strike me as very strange then. Everyone else thought I was blind. Though I’m not known by most to be optimistic, I’d rather attribute it to optimism than to blindness.

Soon, he had taken a clear liking to me, even though I didn’t pay that much attention to him. A counselor that had noticed Alec’s affection towards me and his odd nature, Ben, asked to keep an eye on Alec. It seemed an odd request, but I respected Ben, so ten minutes later, when Alec began to run away from the bunk after yelling something akin to “you don’t understand me!”, I took it upon myself to chase after him. “Wow, you’re fast!” he exclaimed.

I tried my best not to laugh at his amazement with my speed. I was nearly world-renowned for being a god-awful runner, at any distance. “Hardly.”

“Pretty fast,” he insisted.

I moved past it. “Why are you running away?”

“They just don’t get me.”

“Who are ‘they’, Alec?”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter. Did I hear you say you liked tennis, earlier?”

He had heard correctly. It was the only sport that I could be positively compared to my athletically-minded peers in, so I most definitely liked it. In a couple of nights, him and I had taken to having a couple rallies on the tennis court. We kept the tradition up semi-regularly for at least a couple of weeks, and our conversations became rather personal.

“At school, I get really bullied.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. We discussed it for a while, and he eventually asked for advice. “Develop a thick skin; just know not to let everything affect you.”

“Hmm, okay. Oh, and don’t tell anyone this Harry. You promise?”

“Yeah.”

“And don’t tell anyone this next thing, okay? You promise?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. So. You know about the boat when Hitler ‘died?’”

“Yeah.”

“Well, my uncle was a famous German painter. When I went to Germany, I looked inside a painting of his with special glasses that he left behind for me, and I saw the bodies frozen, like, they were stuck to the hull of a metal ship.” This seemed like gibberish to me, so after I challenged every part of it, he said, “Look, that’s not the point. I looked with my glasses harder, and I realized, it was a time ship.”

“Are you suggesting that Hitler is alive?”

“He’s waiting for the right opportunity to come back!”

I later brought up the conspiracy with Alec while Zach was within earshot. Alec, naturally, looked supremely pissed.

“You promised, Harry! I thought you weren’t gonna tell! I thought we were friends!”

The night before Alec was set to go home was the night that it all culminated. I was in bed reading, Zach was in bed reading, and Alec was in bed taking offense to it all. Then, Alec asked to see Zach’s almanac.

“I’m reading it right now; hold on.”

“Dude, I asked if I could read it. Please?”

“I am reading it, so no.”

“But I asked nicely.”

“That doesn’t change anything if I’m reading it.”

“BUT I ASKED NICELY!” Alec screamed. He jumped from his bunk bed onto Zach’s ground level bed and tried to grab the book out of hands. Zach threw the book to the ground and Alec’s hands rerouted themselves towards Zach’s neck. “Why doesn’t anyone like me?” Alec violently commanded.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I came to this camp to get away from bullying! Ah!” Zach had begun to block his body with his oversized pillow. When Alec finally managed to cast the pillow aside, Zach scratched Alec’s neck so that it bled and darted out of the bunk as two counselors, including Ben, walked in.

“What’s going on in here?” Ben asked, which caused Alec to scream and charge at him. The counselors, with their combined, adult strength struggled to push Alec into the back room of the bunk. “What are you doing, Alec?”

“I wanna KILL him!”

“Kill who?”

“I… AH! I came to this camp to get away from bullies!”

When Alec returned from the nurse, very late that night, his eyes seemed to be just black pits. His skin was paler than mine. He immediately crawled into bed where, presumably, he fell asleep. I shuddered the night through.

It has occurred to me that there is an easy way out. I could ask, “are things really so black and white?” Then, things would be so black and white; I could answer, “things really aren’t so black and white.” I could throw away the case without indicting a soul. I could chalk it all up to some untouchable gray territory and I would be free from asking.

I once thought that Alec simply dealt with what the rest of us dealt with. Young boys are cruel to each other, occasionally indiscriminately: some campers would tie him up and poke him with brooms, but they’d slap each other as a greeting; some campers would call him names, but they’d insist that they only do it to him because he’s the only one who bothers asking them to stop. It’s just survival of the least easily scarred. In the summer that this story took place over, for instance, I was berated regularly for the length of my hair and for my inability to play sports, but I didn’t care. Now, I’ve grown to think that such an expectation is not fair. Alec, who, to me, still seems normal, yet was easily broken, shouldn’t have had to be as cold as the rest of us. The standards that we held ourselves to should not have been the standards that we held someone else to. Since that summer, I’ve written approximately three essays on why the SATs are an inadequate gauge of ability, and this seems like a fourth. In ways that everyone else could see, he was not like us: he was a scientifically minded student scoring poorly on the SAT math and reading/writing sections while we were the College Board; he was a visual learner confronted with memorizing an audiobook; he was Murph from “The Yellow Birds,” entirely unprepared for war and death.

I’m inclined to cut myself slack. After all, I was the only one who really attempted to be his friend, and I even succeeded for a while. That’s more than anyone else can say. Still, I failed to keep his secrets and failed to defend him. It sounds patronizing, now, to claim that defending him was my job, but Ben asked me to look out for him and I failed.

So: I am sorry. I am sorry that I spilled the conspiracy stories that he told me in confidence, I am sorry that I stopped playing tennis with him, and I’m sorry that I failed to stop the other kids. I am guilty because I so consistently call those who picked on him “the other kids,” as if to put as much distance between myself and them as I can, even though I don’t know if such a divide truly exists.

These are answers that I am glad to have, I suppose, but now I am aware that some questions are simply unanswerable. I can’t ever know whether or not his explosion might’ve been averted if I had stuck with him, in the same way that I can’t know whether he’d have been better off if I hadn’t shallowly befriended him in the first place. I can rest with a conscious slightly cleared, knowing that I couldn’t have known better. I can say that, although it may or may not have been helpful to him, at least I tried when no one else did. Though I wonder where Alec is now, I’m too scared to Google him. I don’t want to know whether I’d feel huge waves of emotion or cold apathy upon seeing his Facebook profile picture, should he even have such a thing. In much the same way that Private Bartle of “The Yellow Birds” could hardly stand to look at Murph’s disfigurements, I fear Alec. I fear the sunken eyes that we sent back home to his mother. Even though I’ve attempted to clear myself of blame, through the process of writing this essay and otherwise, I still can’t bring myself to look at someone I never knew.

After all of this, I still don’t know if I’m one of the other kids.

Throughout the years, many people are looking for people to trust with or people they can depend on. The word has meaning, it “friends”. Friend is a simple word to describe somebody that has been there in your good and hardest moments without asking or taking the time, out of his/her time to help you when you need it or ask for it. That word, FRIEND can’t be used and shouldn’t be used to describe a person like that. Because after certain point, after helping, messing, being your second thought or giving you the handle when you feel like giving up on everything, they’re like a brother or sister, that is there every step of the way, and you for them. What is a friend to you? How did it beginning? Did he/her become like a brother/sister? How?

Me, throughout the years, i’ve been looking hard, trying to find that friend, but the funny thing is that-that person was also there, right there, in front of me. I was blind. And sometimes you notice it way too late, when their about to leave and be gone for good. Lucky me, I noticed it way before my brother left for good. It was like about a good 6 months before my brother left.

“Oh man, this 6 months were a blast bro” I said,

“Yea, I know!” said Fernando.

Then it was time, the time that I was hoping to never come. The time to move. Move to a different place of the world. My heart disappeared.

“Ya’ll are little kids, ya’ll find a new friend, then ya’ll forget about  each other.” my mother telling me in a humorous voice.

“That’s not true mom!” replying very aggressive and pissed, then stomping my way to my room. Right there and then I had a flashback, about me waiting outside fernando’s house, which was not that far away from mine. I just looked at him on how he folded his clothes and packed in the suitcase. Out of nowhere my heart was punched with sadness and loneliness. I felt empty, something that was hard to explain through words, it was like running in frozen forest, just watching your body freeze till your heart can’t take it anymore and suddenly stop. Then they got in the car, all ready and packed,

“Just have hope!” he told me as they were leaving.

“Hope of what” I yelled.

Then came the silence. This reminds me of a book I read in class, “The things they carried”. In the book, there was a part  where  lieutenant Cross was distracted from his thoughts and one of the comrades got shot and fell to the ground. When Lieutenant Cross saw his comrade fall, he saw him drop, the comrade did not shake or twitch or do a movie-like death. A shot and drop, like when you drop a rock in the lake, the rock sinks to the bottom. The Lieutenant felt the blame was to be on him and felt sad, depressed, lonely, glum. In a way I felt the same things, but in different way, even though we both lost a person.

Trust is a strong and special thing that a person carries with him and can share.Not a lot of people have that. A month later after my brother left, it was hard to find someone else to open to. It was not easy to share my feelings to people because most people would've thought that I was a wussy, a little girl or cry baby. But everybody was like that when they were little, they were sensitive. Well, at least I was. So most of the time, I would keep my emotions inside, show a straight serious face without emotion, without light, without a sign of hope, or the power of believing again. I'd always use that mask to hide and imprison my feelings in a box which never shows or expresses any feelings and that's when my quietness hit and I hardly ever speak. Weeks after my brother left,  I came across my cousin.

“Ohhhh, Hola, Primo!!!” greeting my cousins, which was so unexpected to see in philly.

“Hola, Primo!” he replied.

This was his first time being in Philadelphia. At first when I met him he was awkward and I was awkward, so we were both awkward, but that didn't change the fact that we had to communicate with each other. After a while we started to communicate more, started to hang out more, started sharing more, and doing everything together. After a good while, me and him started getting closer as brothers in a way, and I thought that was going to be difficult. But there were somethings that I had in common with my cousin but our thoughts or opinions were so different. Sometimes being different is the one thing that connected us the most.

I have a question? You know what’s funny? I like when you’re best friend or close friend says

“I got your back, whenever and wherever, I got you!!” but in reality, that’s all a lie They don’t mean. Those words are just fake hope, because when that time comes they don’t do nothing. They be leave you there to get jump.

“Brothers FOR LIFE!!!!” he yelled you to air.

“YEAAAA!!” yelling at the air, as well.

We were on top of a hill. What were we doing there? Nothing. My brother and I would always go there on saturdays, because him and I had enjoyed watch the sun set. Then it got dark. The time flew. We had to leave, cause than our parents would have got paranoded.

“Are we close?” He asked tiredly.

“Yeah, just a 2-3 more block” I replied sleepy voice.

Out of nowhere these other kids came and it third of them. There was one fat kid, and man he was fat, compared to me, he was fat like a hippopotamus. Non-the-less, with two other kids. One was tall and the other was not. He was my height. One of them bumped me on purpose.

“Do we have problem?” said very aggressive and pissed.

“No….” I replied scared

For no reason what-so-ever, he punch the shit out of me. Dropped! It was fight. I was on the ground one of them was kicking me and the other two were going after my brother. I didn’t know what was going on. Beside the kicks I was feeling on my back, my arms and my shoulders. Out of nowhere, it stopped. I shocked. Bleeding, in pain. And a little confused. How did he do to get the other two? Did he beat them up? I didn’t know? I helped me up. I dizzy, weak. I couldn’t feel my legs or arms. I looked at him, he was bleeding too. My ears were pounding.

“RUN?!!” he yelled “They’re coming!!!”

The first few pages of Tim O’Brien’s classic war novel The Things They Carried are focused on the titular idea, as it randomly peruses through the objects the soldiers are carrying with them throughout the war. About 15 whole pages pass by as we learn about what was carried, when, at what time; how Jimmy Cross carried letters from Martha, a girl which he had developed a rather tragic one-sided infatuation for years. How Mitchell Sanders carried a 26 pound PRC-25 radio. How Henry Dobbins carried and ate chocolate bars as he marched through the rough terrain of Vietnam. How Ted Lavender(before he was shot) carried “6 to 7 ounces of dope”.

Some of these random objects come into play later in the novel. O’Brien decides to elaborate on Jimmy Cross’ relationship with Martha, as well as the bible always carried by the soldier Kiowa, as his character’s unyielding faith plays a somewhat key narrative role later on, via truly elaborating the desperation felt by O’Brien(represented by the author, as the narrator) as Kiowa dies one rainy night in a veritable “shit-field”. However, more often than not, no real reason is provided to the trinkets carried by the members of Alpha Company, the squad O’Brien is part of during the novel. We never learn the reason why some of the soldiers carry pencils and pens. Why Lee Strunk carried tanning lotion, or why Henry Dobbins carried 15 to 20 pounds of spare ammunition around with him wherever he went.

I find that many similar odds and ends appear throughout my life, reactions or objects that I cannot find any justification for. I have learned that, for whatever reason, I have to keep my phone in my right jean pocket, and my other trinkets(my ID, my pocket change, my transpass for the train) in my left pocket. If I try to change this order up, for instance, dare I say, put my phone in my right jean pocket, I start fidgeting like someone put an ice-cube down my shirt until I put all of my carry-ons in their correct place. Things like this might indicate to the casual observer that I’m some sort of OCD psycho-path, but then there are things that no matter how much I try, I can’t seem to find a reason for my behavior. I brush my hair out of my eyes about 50 times a day, despite my hair currently being so short that even if I brush my hair downward it probably wouldn’t block my view anyway. When I go to sleep every night, if all of my trinkets aren’t in my line-of-sight on my dresser, I might just freak out because apparently if they aren’t on that dresser, they’ve probably disappeared from planet earth all together. Also, if I’m on an airplane, I always want the aisle-set for no adequately explored reason.

I don’t expect to know my I do these things, neither do I ever expect to learn why Henry Dobbins carried chocolate or why Ted Lavender carried 6 to 7 pounds of dope. Hey, I’m 16, I don’t expect myself to explain myself, and for that matter, I don’t expect myself to be able to when I’m 60. Sometimes, the reasons people do things, or change the way they do are unexplainable. That’s not very satisfying from a storytelling perspective, but that, much to my personal dismay, is the reality of the life we live in. Things happen. People change. I change. I’m a different person than I was yesterday. Sometimes there’s a reasons for that, and sometimes there isn’t. My likes and dislikes change. Sometimes there’s a reason for that, and sometimes there isn’t. And sometimes it’s for a whole other reason I’m not even considering. And though I’ve never personally been another person in my life, but I feel like that is true for everyone, at least on some level. Like how Rat Kiley’s mental state complete deteriorated once he transferred to Japan. For no real reason. Even though he had been more stressing things during the war. The straw that broke the camel’s back was a transfer to Japan. Why? Hell if I know.

I’m 16. Right now I’m a moody, somewhat sarcastic, somewhat condescending person, who is always trying to figure out the reasons for the things I do and the things I think. Which is frustrating, frankly, since I’m always thinking things, so I’m always trying to process those things, which means I miss sometimes the words when others talk to me, which means I start to think about why I missed their query, and you get the point. Why? Hell if I know. Right now, as I write this very essay, I’m copying Tim O’Brien’s writing quirk of constantly remind the reader how old he is, since I’m constantly repeating that I’m currently 16. Why? Hell if I know.

I’m 16, and I spent a long time trying to figure out the question how are we, as individuals, are affected by the world around them. The answer I eventually came to, is that it’s the opposite. Perhaps it’s that the world changes us as we see more of it, but those changes are arbitrary, complete. I’m 16 now, and I hate tomatoes, but perhaps I’ll love those red slices in time. Because… we all change, if you think about. We’re different people, throughout our entire lives. And that’s okay. Because everyone changes, in ways often unexplainable, in ways often explainable. I don’t ever expect to know, for certain, how we change, why we change. But I know that we all change. Because we need to. The person we are now isn’t always up to the challenge of the person you are tomorrow. Just one thing… I think you should remember all the people that you used to be. Perhaps what I’m writing right now will not settle well with the person I am tomorrow. But as long as I remember that person I was, I can perhaps change in ways that aren’t arbitrary, in ways that I actually want to change. So… I’ll try to remember this. This person, I am, right now, the moody sarcastic condescending teenager who doesn’t know what the hell he is typing right now or why. I’ll always try to remember when Quinn Grzywinski was me. Because maybe as I change, inevitably, I’ll learn why I was the way I was. Then perhaps I’ll figure out who I am right now. Who I’ll be tomorrow. Who I’ll be for the rest of my life.