EXAMPLES OF STUDENT WRITING FOLDER WORK
The following excerpts are from previous students' work and they have given me permission to share them with you. This will give you an idea of the depth and breadth students are capable of achieving over a semester. The first two exemplars are complete works of two very capable students.
A Writer's Release
I envision my assignment; what to write, how to begin, who to reach. The immenseness of its possibilities excites me. I think about my own desire for words and wonder what inner hunger draws me back, time and time again, to the plain sheet of paper that absorbs the flow of my thoughts. It seems strange to find comfort in substance so passive, so still. Surely such comfort has a past, a history, a beginning.
I am a little girl. I sit contentedly, hidden away in my closet, only a small lamp illuminating my innocent shadow. Here, tongue gently protruding, I am writing little-girl stories bursting with little-girl thoughts, my sock feet dangling above the floor. To others I am simply writing. But in my mind I am connecting with an unknown universe, a desperately sought after place. I am seeking to grow up.
As my fearless fingers grasp the sharp pencil, the clean smell of graphite and wood carries me into a realm where possibilities are endless; a world that fascinates me...and in which I could not otherwise take part. Someday I will be renowned, sharing my thoughts with readers everywhere. But for now I take my time. There is no use rushing something so pleasing.
I am a teenager. I put complete trust in my page, as the paper will not judge or reject me. It only hears my troubles and confusion and listens like an old friend. It knows me better than anyone. I cling to writing as it is my only means of fully letting go of my anger, my frustration, my fear, without, once again, falling under the label of inconsiderate and selfish.
As the tip of my pen flies wildly across the page, my every emotion pours from my mind and spills out shamelessly. Rebellious thoughts that would never leave my lips are safe here, and I trust its loyalty.
I am a future. My closely guarded dreams and passions soar on the surface of the page. I name my children, see my house and live a day in my life-to-be. I am changing and I know it. But even in the distant years I can envision moments of tranquil composition; writing love letters to my husband, crafting stories for my nieces, proclaiming my tender joy and infatuation as I gaze into by babies' eyes. Even here, years from now, I have a pen in hand.
So this is what I choose to share. Writing is something buried within me, a part of my entity...it is in every breath. I do not write to please others, but to polish the glow that flits in and out of my consciousness. I know it is the freedom that entices me. Its alluring liberation draws me in every time, always impassioned to discover more.
Waiting
She squats alone on the edge of the weathered pavement, her tiny fingers tracing pictures, hidden in the uneven ground. This place is the farthest one she can find to sit; farthest from the giggling, the jostling, and the hopscotch. It is removed from the rest of the world, a silent home of the unnoticed.
She does not like it here.
She does not like it, but curiously she stays. Each day she follows the thunderous roar of clamor and clatter as it bursts through the doors and spills out into the schoolyard, her empty eyes fixed on this spot.
She sits here, alone. No one ventures over, as they've long since given up trying to untangle her. She puzzles them, and requires too much work to understand. And so they let her sit, legs curled beneath her, a blank glassiness coating her untelling eyes.
But she is aware.
Gazing at the commotion around her, she wonders what it must be like. The flicker of a smile creeps up to her cheeks as she intently watches them play house. Then, startled, she blinks her eyes as if to push this tought away and silently chides herself.
For what, she doesn't know.
Sometimes she plays games like that in her own room, where she is the mother; a mother who hugs her babies and doesn't yell, even when they get in her way.
She shifts on her feet and glances up to see two small boys inspecting her from the swings. They sheepishly turn their glances as they catch her eye, bending down to examine the rocks beneath their feet, as if they had, just moments before, discovered them.
She knows that they stare.
Self-consciously she reaches up to smooth her tangled, oily hair. She hasn't brushed it this morning, or her teeth.
He told her to get out of the way.
Her stomach rumbles and she wipes the sweat from her forehead. Her baggy sweat pants are hot, too hot for June. They cling to her legs which itch underneath the blanket of cotton. She wriggles to scratch them and flinches as her grimy hands uncover something else. An angry purple bruise, the only reason that the long pants are worn, throbs, and dares her to roll up the leg. She tries to think of other things, fingering the ragged ends of the cuff.
There is not much to do on her own.
She squeezes her fingers into her left sneaker and pulls out a coin; a shiny quarter from class that day. She has worked hard for it, studying her multiplication tables until she was the fastest in the class.
No one at home had helped her.
He said she was too stupid and She worried; She was always worrying. Carefully she pushes the coin back under her clammy sock, dreaming of things it can buy. But she knows that it must be spent soon, or He will find it and take it for cigarettes.
The sounds have faded away, reminding her that she is late. Frightened, she hastily brushes off her knees and gathers her things, wincing as the strap of her bag rubs against another fading bruise.
The walk home is too short.
Coming up the steps of the house, she hears the screams, as loud as the ones in her head. She hesitates over the door handle, waiting for the last possible second...waiting for anything.
When I am a Grandma
I will carry the scent that a grandmother should
Of flowers and lipstick and thyme
My purse will be brimming with all that is good;
The peppermints, tissues and dimes
I will whistle old tunes as I ready my tea
As I bake I'll be waltzing around
I will cackle and giggle whenever I please
I'll have lived for too long to keep down
I'll enjoy going out every night of the week
I'll play cribbage, do yoga, and dance
I will banish a rocker till my bones start to creak
And my knees don't stand much of a chance
I will not mask my age or color my hair
I'll display my pension with pride
I'll sport the attire only grandmothers dare
My long johns and slippers won't hide
I will boast of my grandkids, have pictures on hand
I'll snap photos each possible place
I will beam as they squawk in their junior high band
With a radiant glow on my face
I will not try to fathom the customs of teens
Or foolishly show my alarm
The dark heavy liner and falling down jeans
Will simply be part of their charm
I'll be precious and cute with my old-fashioned mind
The classic confusion I'll show
As they click their computers I'll narrate my binds
Of trudging uphill in the snow
Scolding will pass to a different reserve
I will soften the child's demise
I will silently treat before dinner is served
And make faces when silence is wise
I will wrap up their presents with unneeded care
I'll hunt down what their parents won't buy
I will knit them all mittens I know they won't wear
And laugh as they graciously lie
I will always be stocked with good thing to eat
My cupboards will see that they're fed
I'll excuse from their plates the turnip and beets
And cut off the crusts from their bread
Throughout my long life I'll be many great things;
A mother a daughter a wife
But when I'm a grandma, the joy that it brings
Will be plenty reward for my life
Sometimes I pretend.
I shut the door behind me and carefully kneel before by reflection, swelling my obviously empty stomach for the mirror. Placing my hands gently on my skin I feel balance; this look becomes me. As I gaze into my eyes I am aware of my futility. I am entirely complete, yet I have a void, an emptiness within me that waits patiently to be filled.
I must be a feminist's nightmare. I dream of bearing children, and staying home as they take their unsteady steps through childhood. The idea of a career is unappealing, but if I must endure it, I will use every experience in preparation; educating myself to teach them, finding a job to support them. I long to be a mother: to tell stories and brush away tears and seal bandages with my kiss. I regard women, their pregnant bellies and radiant smiles, with the deepest of envy.
Many do not understand that when I do, at last, arrive at this life, I will not be compromising my identity, for my character lies within the innocent face and runny nose. Some laugh knowingly, as though I cannot yet realize what I truly want. Others shake their heads in disbelief and tell me that I am wasting my potential. This, I think to myself, is better than wasting my love.
I do not know if it is to be a boy or a girl, so 'my baby' it becomes, and infuses itself in my heart. I do not waste my thoughts on the unimportant. I do not pick out names or choose wallpaper for the nursery. Instead, I close my eyes and envision the impression of their face; the tear-stained eyes, shy smiles, and peaceful sighs of sleep.
In my mind I trace the gentle curve of their nose and finger the silky flushed cheeks. Breathing in the sweet smell of milk and powder, I taste contentment as I lean to kiss their haloed head. My fingers brush the ridges of the soft lips and tiny toes cupped in my palm. If I listen, I hear the hushed whispers and whimpers. I feel their warm breath coating my cheeks and the steady thump of a heart beating against my chest. I feel love. The way they nuzzle and soothe as they find my arms. My beautiful baby.
I imagine myself as well. Like a young woman, dizzied at the sight of the diamond on her finger, I am dressed in a radiant glow. I hum lullabies and continually fuss, my hands ever hovering over my expanding stomach. I bravely endure the morning sickness and worry, until my own screams are replaced with one tiny and strong, and I exhale my anxious breath. For nine months I am two: two heartbeats, two souls, two minds. Then a piece of me becomes part of the world. This piece is more precious than any I have ever known.
Will there ever be truth to these fairy tale dreams? My mind is ever drifting to blankets and rocking chairs and I know it is within me to do. Although at times I am doubtful. A burnt meal or broken dish upsets me, as thought baring my inadequacies, and a flickering vision of unending loneliness lurks, unwelcome. Amidst my dreams, the darkest thought lingers silently in my mind. For a moment I embrace its shadow, and imagine that I shall remain childless.
Sometimes I pretend.
A Girl
A girl whose life was carved in fact
Of who she's be and how she'd act
A perfect life was her demand
But things don't often go as planned
A girl who'd questioned nothing more
Than what she'd ever known before
No need to stray from where she'd lead
She followed the path that lay ahead
A girl whose dreams were forged and fake
Whose hopes had been a grave mistake
A girl not daring to disagree
With the image of who she thought she should be
A girl whose views were not by choice
Who never searched to find her voice
A girl, most loved by all she knew
Except herself...who saw right through
A girl who was always turning back
From things she feared, from courage she lacked
A girl who was trapped in a worldly mold
Who never challenged the things she was told
A girl who finally found her way
Who searched her soul and knelt to pray
A girl who longed for strength to stand
Has risen by her Father's hand
Some days I do not want to get out of bed. As the alarm blares impatiently and the morning sky slither through my blinds, I sigh; an inward sigh that does not quite reach my lips, but instead stays trapped in my throat, my chest, as far down as my gut. It does not matter if the sliver of light is sunshine or rain, the day feels unappealing.
The morning has done nothing to deserve my disrespect. It arrives promptly as usual, without fanfare or chaos. A few birds chirp too loudly and I can hear the hum of a milk truck but nothing unusual.
It is not fatigue. Last night I crawled into bed on time, maybe even early, with a pair of fresh socks and a book. It isn't often that I find that time anymore. I slept with a peaceful steadiness. No phone calls or noise, not even a dream. I feel rested. My legs have lost their evening ache and my eye lids do not groan under pressure.
It is not dread of the day to come. There are no meetings or deadlines, no unpleasant confrontations, no housework to be done. The kitchen sits in a pristine spotlessness, the stairs freshly vacuumed.
It is more of an overwhelming sensation. A realization that this is how I will spend the rest of my life. Waking up, filling time, falling back into bed. Is there really much more than that? The time I spend in my car, on the job, with my family; will that be enough to satisfy me?
Suddenly I squeeze my eyes closed in fear, trying to blink away the thought of a meaningless future. The alarm stabs at my passing thoughts and so I lift myself up, so far it seems, to slam down the button. A satisfying slam. A satisfying silence. But then it is over, and the thoughts return, pushing and pulling my emotion from content to unsure.
I run through the list the way I always do. First choking on the hopelessness and despair, reasoning through the distress. Then the list of blessings: the reasons, the solutions, the thanks. Finally I just lie still, eyes closed, legs curled and arms tucked beneath my side. The flickers of light are more steady now, casting shapes and patterns across my bed. I stretch a little, and yawn deeply. I twist open the blind and peer out on the sun now perching rightfully in the sky.
I sink back into my pillow and wait for the feeling to pass. It always does.
She appears perfect. Gracefully she sweeps into the crowded room with glowing cheeks and gleaming eyes. Her effect is strange to observe. Mesmerizing. Curious eyes flicker toward her approaching figure as conversations halt momentarily; half forgotten credence plucked from distracted minds.
If you look closely at her face you will see she is not, in fact, perfect. Should she be an antique, carefully examined and appraised, her value would be little. Plain brown hair and a scar on her left cheek announce that she is nothing of perfection. But she hides that secret well. Her stride is purposeful, back poised, chin raised in youthful confidence. She does not fidget with her coat zipper, or falter on her thin heels, but steadily meets the fascinated stares of her audience.
Her nose wrinkles when she laughs and a small dimple on her left cheek darts in and out each time her lips raise in a lopsided smile. She can easily talk to anyone, laughs loudly, quick wit. Her hair is smooth and combed, clothes unwrinkled, jewelry matched. A perfect layer of make-up glimmers on the smooth surface of delicate features. Her mouth, set in a gentle curve, is caught between a mischievous giggle and infectious laughter. Her eyes, deep and sharp, clutch folds of compassion; their earnest gaze draws out timid smiles.
Those who quietly watch her glide be search to conjure feelings of dislike, a pleading for a taste of envy or venom. But as she turns, her casual grin and pocketed hands are too open, too genuine, for jealous thought.
Her presence does not command respect, but rather draws it in.
She must be happy. Surely she is happy.
---------
She slips the key into the lock. Stepping into an empty house, she tosses her purse on the stand in the hall. As she frees her feet, wincing from the blisters that have begun to blossom on the surface of her heels, she shrinks down to plain height. Silently she follows her well-worn steps through the house. First to the mirror. Always the mirror.
As she wipes the mascara from her lashes and unclasps her earrings, the flawless conception crumples. Gone is the tossed hair and playful sway of hips. Instead, her shoulders curve, bowed to the nakedness of truth. Her beautiful smile fades and only a face, plain and pale stares back at her. Stripped of lipstick and liner, she is once again the ugliness that was so carefully hidden that morning.
She becomes a revolving door, spinning at every angle to find one that satisfies. Looking away, she knows, would ease the pain, but her eyes continue to probe relentlessly, commanded by her screaming brain. After standing, silent, staring, she sinks to her knees, desperately searching. For what she does not know. Beauty. Worth. But she finds neither. Another night she has lost the battle. Her puffy eyes and tear stained cheeks only add to the repulsiveness, so she drops her eyes. And turns.
At times she can tolerate the pointed nose, the narrow eyes, the crooked tooth. Credit it to charm. But the image of full lips and carved cheekbones always remains, dancing wildly at the back of her mind. Everywhere she looks she compares. Long legs, smooth hair, thin stomachs, arched eyebrows. She cannot see any of this when she gazes at her own shape. Instead, her eyes to to work, attacking, accusing, criticizing, condemning.
---------
She tiptoes back down the hall, and locks the door. No one will see her until morning, when her veil is once again reclaimed. And tomorrow she will face the world. Blink in the contacts, powder the nose, slip on the heels. Adjust the smile to full beam and step confidently out the door.
And heads will turn, eyes will follow.
She must be happy. Surely she is happy.
Pay the piper call tune
Beware the mouth with silver spoon
The more is known the less believed
A skeptic is not once deceived
A penny saved, a penny earned
Play with matches you'll get burned
Love is far too scarce to squander
Absence makes the heart grow fonder
Can't have your cake and eat it too
Do as I say not as I do
Silent waters ere run deep
It pays to look before you leap
Soon to bed and soon to rise
Ask no questions hear no lies
Pen is stronger than the sword
Justice is its own reward
Love is blind and conquers all
Pride appears before the fall
Nothing ventured nothing gained
Drowning men do not fear rain
Rats desert a sinking ship
A shoulder bears a heavy chip
In every flock in one black sheep
The truest beauty lies skin deep
One man's loss another's gain
No reward without the pain
Chain's as strong as weakest link
A horse will go but will not drink
Never fail to turn your cheek
Wise men think before they speak
A rolling stone collects no moss
Better to have loved and lost
Barking dogs will seldom bite
Two things wrong don't make a right
Eye for eye and tooth for tooth
Fiction not as strange as truth
The pot who calls the kettle black
The last straw breaks the camel's back
Love the sinner hate the sin
Some will lose and some will win
All good things must sometime end
Diamonds are a girl's best friend
With helpful proverbs such as these
Discernment proves a strange disease
With all this wise advice to choose
No wonder men are so confused
Living now for nothing
but the hope that life will change,
Clinging to the seldom joy
Whose presence seems so strange.
Fighting off the hatred
That my mind has learned to teach,
Looking to the happiness
That rests just out of reach
I have pushed away the offers
I have missed my chance for grace,
If He's a God of wisdom
He'll reject my sinful face
I'm terrified of trying
And I struggle to hold on
For if I let Him take me in
How soon before He's gone?
But I'm aching for a comfort
That won't ever let me down
And I wrestle to be rescued
From the guilt to which I'm bound
At last I cannot bear it;
I reach out to let Him know
But I've waited....and my shameful grip's
Too strong to let me go
One moment can change your life. I have had many of those throughout my childhood. Some were joyful, though right now they are difficult to remember. It seems when we are at our lowest, when we are most afraid, the good escapes us. Right now I am most afraid and there is not much good to be found. I hate the waiting. I would prefer consequence to anxiety; a cold, clammy, gripping uncertainty that clenches around my throat, making it hard to breathe. Sometimes I think I want to stop breathing altogether. At least that would end the waiting.
Like the steady pulsing of a clock's hand, my mind and body shift through the routine motions of worry. I am restless, searching for someone or something to distract my uneasy mind, hoping for a comforting sight. I utter prayers, desperately pleading for things to go my way, although I know that my way is not always best.
I wonder what I could have done differently. Assess the situation. Rationalize and defend, swallow frequently, laugh uncertainly. If only things could return to the way they were. If only I could take back an hour. A day. A week. A decision. But I can't and so I wait.
Confessions of a guilty mind. No one will ever know what they are but me. And God. Some are fresh, some too painful, others will hurt the ones I love. For whatever the reason, they are mine, alone, to bear. After all, I have brought them all on myself. Silly childish actions, a mind too naive to see anything but the moment. Sometimes it is a harsh word, a careless glare, a mindless act. They all leave the same empty feeling of helplessness. Loss of control. Despair.
If only I could fast forward time. To either face what I have done, or to forget it, moving on with other things. I want more than anything to be freed of this burden and to walk without feeling its pressing weight, without pausing to think. It is constantly on my mind.
To be in the place I was yesterday would be perfect. Worry free, burden free, guilt free. I would sing as I usually do, hum, dance. But now I just wait. Waiting for my consequences. Waiting for tell of the future. The waiting is the hardest part.
As a girl she'd heard it said
Of how someday she, too, would wed
How one would sweep her off her feet
And force her heart to cede defeat
But years went by until at last
Her anger crushed that childish past
For love and trust were foolish flights
Of those who wasted lovesick nights
Who settled for the price to pay
Of having freedom thrown away
And so she marched, her message clear,
Daring men to come too near
Careful words were quick to hide
What little love she felt inside
And so her life's been free of pain
No love to lose, no trust to gain
So hasn't she been spared the cost
Of someone who has loved and lost?
I am singing in the hall of an old church that smells faintly of wood and wool sweaters. My feet are standing in front of a large grimy window pane, where the last strands of muted light struggle to shine, and the mild warmth of a December sun has begun to harden.
I am singing with a woman. The woman who sits at the front table when we come to visit, face upturned and beaming as she closes her eyes and sways to the music. I watch her as she is transported to a perfect place, mouthing lyrics of her own. She is better dressed than most, but a tired face and weathered hands reveal her time on the street.
Today she has brought a bracelet of tarnished jingle bells and a small wooden case filled with harmonicas. It is, after all, Christmas Day and there are no restrictions on who can partake in holiday joy.
She had asked to share a song for the others as they ate. Stepping up to the side of our small group, she beckoned me toward her, her eyes sparkling with the youthful excitement of a performance; even one on a creaking wooden floor, amidst the chaos of sloshed coffee and dinner conversation.
She gestured me to my guitar. Silent Night she said. She wanted to sing Silent Night.
Unprepared for this sudden beam of limelight I fumbled to find a chord and began tapping my foot slowly, a gentle time for her lullaby. I had not planned to sing along. But something in the creases of her eyes and the way she turned to me as she sang, unlocked my nervous throat and channeled the familiar melody from my lips.
Her voice is low and thick and sits comfortably below my own, raising up and down and dancing over the flowing notes. Her harmonies are simple and plain but we blend and meld as one, joined by the delight of song.
As my fingers stroke the last strum she turns and smiles her thanks, weaving back to her seat, already humming a new familiar tune.
I step out into the harsh glow of streetlights, with the leaning picket fence and splashes of graffiti on a nearby wall. The noise of Christmas blessings and clattering dishes still hums up the church steps, but my mind is strangely still. I take one last look at this unexpected place of joy and close my car door.
Silent night, holy night, all is calm all is bright.
The massive frame of Sackville High's
A normal teenage sight
But when the bell for D block rings
The English nerds unite
As if they're lead by some strong force
They trudge across the halls
Like homing pigeons to a nest
They heed their native call
Now some may ask, why choose more work?
Why not take academic?
But we're just glad we warded off
The stunned kid epidemic
I will now commence my breakdown
Of English 12 block D
and the 35 known faces
That a daily class would see
So here is one perspective
Of the going-on inside
From the back half of the classroom
On the furthest right-hand side
The morning opens drearily
As groggy students jar
But their teacher's bouncing cheerily
From her morning chocolate bar
We attempt to find our seats
Despite the complex rearranging
For-as-Ms.-Messervey gets creative
Her seating plan keeps changing
But we're squished no matter what
So we try to settle in
If grade eleven came before us
We will let some fresh air in
The curriculum's exciting
And no class is ever dry
Especially when that Oprah kid
Makes Ms. Messervey cry
Now, some days were probably boring
With the stories dull and slow
But thankfully she talked so fast
We didn't even know
There's Elizabeth whose mind
Is almost always dreaming deep
And does the share of thinking
For those who want to sleep
The there's ones like Greg
Who are of a scientific mind
With his faultless sense of logic
He seems strange amidst our kind
And Shari is fantastic
With her tender love for sheep
And shares this love with Danny
Who counts them as he sleeps
Of course while class is running
We are eager and alert
But if you need some entertainment
You can just read Joey's shirt
The bursts of giggles from the back
Are regular routine
As Sarah, often Julia
Are pepped up on caffeine
And from Sarah and from Natalie
The battle cries are heard
Shouting loudly in attempt to prove
Who's the biggest nerd
There's Heather number one
Who very seldom will speak up
But sits and listens patiently
As Crystal beats her up
Then Mike and Devin at the back
By Heather number two
Who is plotting ways with Batman
To achieve her nerd rank too
Then there's ones like Stephanie...
Who-I-know less that those above
Except she had a car crash
That insurance guys would love
And that little tap behind me
That comes-round now and then
Is Mandy probably asking
For a time check or a pen
And watch out for the two of front
Who'll nail you with their wit
Should dictators ever rule this town...
Then Ben and Keith are it.
Then there's Nneka and there's Julie,
The gangsters from Macbeth
And Ben whose guest appearance
Nearly shocked us all to death
And then we have Ms. Templin
Who is the sub that we would choose
And we've tried to give her warning
For certain jobs that she pursues
And faithful Mister Harris,
An honorary guest
Who kept us entertained
Although his teaching style's messed
As for Dee Dee, I am sorry
That I have to be cliche
But if we tape record your laugh
We could make millions on E-Bay
And now the list gets harder
As we move on to the rows
Who, unlike the rest of us
Sit back and watch the show
Like Jessica the gymnast
Who maintains a quiet pace
And Courtney who shows up
With some new would to frame her face
And I know that this sounds awful
But I know Pat just one way
And that's cause Catherine's in my math class
And I talk to her each day
The remainder of the faces
Choose their own unique expression
Like the bubbly voice of Andrea....
Or Caitlin's Doctor Suess obsession
___________________________________
Now that fateful day in June
Which I won't say for Shari's sake
Is rather fast approaching
Leaving panic in its wake
But the future's looking promising
And hopeful for us all
Like Nicole who, with her fiddle,
Will be playing concert halls
And in veterinary school
We've learned that Ashley is proceeding
While Charlotte with her zoo at home's
Already started breeding
And lastly Josh and Garrett
Who'll go on when school is through
And each have a zillion dollars
By the age of 22
Now that class is nearly over
And composure's gained once more
We look up to see Cassandra
Standing, waiting at the door
Now if there's a missing person
They are the best without a doubt
And Heather's really sorry
She forgot and left them out
Which brings us to the final face
I'm partial to myself
And she'll receive the highest praise
As she wrote the poem herself
But I'll spare you from the flattery
I doubt that you'd survive
So I'll end by saying it's been fun
Good luck 2005
Heather Cox's writing folder 2004\2005
Dear Mom,
You have made such an impact on my life and I would like to acknowledge everything you have done for me and thank you from the bottom of my heart. You have influenced me more than anyone else. You have always been by rock of support, my shoulder to cry on, my teacher, my counselor, my friend.
There have been times when we haven't seen eye to eye, and I know that sometimes you really don't like me, but I know that you'll always love me, and that feeling helps me get through every situation. I know that I can always turn to you for help, and count on you to be there for me. You're one of the smartest people I know and I love that you know me so well.
Thank you for all the bedtime stories and bowls of chicken soup when I was sick. Thank you for all the letters you sent me when I was away at camp because it let me know that you thought of me even when I wasn't around. Thank you for letting me make my own mistakes so that I could learn lessons from experience. Thank you for making me save 10% of all the money I get so I'll have some for college when the time comes. Thank you for going to every single parent/teacher interview, even though I said I didn't want you to, because it showed me that my education was very important to you. Thank you for giving me responsibilities because it meant that you trusted me. Thank you for being disappointed when I don't do well because it shows that you care and want me to be successful. Thank you for taking lots of pictures of me when I was growing up because they'll help me to remember my childhood. Thank you for all the doctor and dentist appointments you make me go to, I know that you want me to be healthy. Thank you for listening to me complain and whine and cry because you don't want me to think I can't express my feelings. Thank you for treating my brother and me the same so that I never feel that you love him more than me. Thank you for forgiving me for all the stupid things I've done. Thank you for all the lunches, suppers, and sacrifices you make, for all the good deeds, driving and laundry that you do, and for all the help, love and support that you give.
I'm sorry I don't five you credit you deserve. I'm sorry we're not as close as we used to be. I'm sorry for being selfish. I'm sorry we don't spend more time together. I'm sorry I take you for granted and I'm sorry that I don't have the courage to let you read this letter.
For eighteen years you have been nothing but good to me and I am eternally grateful that I have you in my life. I hope you know that you are a great mother and a wonderful person. I have learned a lot from you and you have given me so much. I love you.
Your daughter,
But You Gotta Have "Friends"
Ten years ago, a sitcom about six 20-something year olds debuted on NBC and has been a huge success ever since. "Friends" and its cast have been nominated for 44 Emmys, and have won several times. Now, in its final season, it's still my favorite show on television because it's consistent yet entertaining, humorous and a nice break from reality.
Although the characters' lives have developed over the years, their personalities have remained almost unchanged. Their characters are very predictable, a trait many people dislike, but I'm glad that they stay the same. It's comforting being able to depend on the characters to be a ceratin way. With almost every line they say, I can say, "Oh, that's so typical of "Monica", or, "That's definitely something 'Ross' would say," and so on. You can always count on "Chandler" to be sarcastic, "Phoebe" to be quirky, "Ross" to be scientific, "Monica" to be a clean-freak, "Rachel" to be flakey, and "Joey" to be thinking about food. Just because the characters are predictable doesn't necessarily mean the show is, too. There have been lots of times when I've been surprised by a twist in the plot ant the writers are always coming up with new interesting situations such as "Ross's" first wife turning out to be a lesbian, "Ross" and "Rachel" having a baby, and finding out strange facts about "Phoebe's" past. Although watching the cast of "Friends" is always enjoyable, having other celebrities such as Susan Sarandon, Brad Pitt, Freddie Prince Jr., Danny Devito, Donny Osmond and Bruce Willis guest star on the show makes it even more exciting.
"Friends" may not be the most realistic show on television, but in my opinion, it's one of the funniest. The writing is awesome and I'm always laughing out loud, even at reruns I've seen over and over. The actors and actresses on this show are amazing at what they do and are constantly making me laugh. All the characters make jokes (especially "Chandler"), but I think most of the humor comes from how the characters act. "Joey's" obliviousness and "Monica's" compulsive behavior are always good for a laugh as are "Phoebe's" outlandish beliefs and the fact that "Ross" has been divorced three times. The show takes normal situations like dates and working and makes them hilarious by using worst-case scenarios, odd coworkers and dating partners, and by the characters using crazy excuses to get themselves out of whatever trouble they've gotten into.
"Friends" has light and fluffy content, nothing too serious. I like this because there's enough seriousness in the world today, I don't want to watch it on sitcoms, too, that's what the news is for. I like to be able to kick back and have a few laughs and temporarily forget about all the stress and worries and just enjoy thirty minutes of harmless entertainment.
This show has been one of my favorites for a long time and I'm sad that there are only four new episodes left before it ends. "Friends" has been on for nearly a decade and has maintained high ratings and a spot on NBC's Thursday night lineup. I'm confident its great qualities will ensure many years or reruns, and in that I take great comfort.
Oldies but Goodies
Frank Sinatra, The Temptations, Cher, The Beatles, Billy Joel, Aretha Franklin, The Four Seasons, Petula Clark, Bobby Darrin, Manfred Mann, Buddy Holly, Marvin Gaye. When I think of good music, these artists and groups automatically come to mind. I like oldies because they're great to dance to, they're not all about drugs and sex and violence, and they don't contain bad language. It's because of these reasons that I think the music of yesteryear is far better that today's music.
Whether it's a slow song like House of the Rising Sun by the Animals or an up-tempo tune like Rock Around the Clock by Bill Haley and his Comets, songs from the 50s, 60s, and 70s always get by toes tappin' and my head boppin'. I love music that makes people feel like moving. It's good exercise and a lot of fun. Other than hip hop, today's music isn't as easy to dance to in my opinion, especially rap music. I rarely go to school dances because of the music they play at them. I know a lot of people my age enjoy that kind of music, but I'd rather save my eight bucks and spare my ears from the throbbing speakers that blast crude music.
In the 60s, there were a lot of people using drugs, but at least they weren't constantly singing about it. In 2004, there are still a lot of people using drugs but now they're also a popular subject to write songs about. Many songs, old and recent, are about love and, often, lovemaking. Musicians such as BJ Thomas and Barbara Lewis had a classy and sincere way of singing about it, but some of today's artists like Lil Kim and The Bloodhound Gang sing about it in a distasteful and offensive manner. Violence has increased enormously in the past few decades. I'm not saying that music is the cause of it, but I do believe that songs about violence and killing aren't helping the matter any. It was more common to hear a song about peace, such as John Lennon's Imagine or The Rascals' People Got to be Free, 25 years ago than it is today.
Something I really dislike is profanity. I think it's rude and offensive and is too common in today's society, especially in youth. I know people used bad language back then, too, but I'm glad swearing isn't prevalent in their music. Some of today's singers like Eminem can barely make it through a verse without swearing several times. All the songs they play on the oldies station are G-rated, but many of the songs they play on C100 are not. I like being able to listen to a song without having to hear obscenities.
Oldies may not be the most up-to-date music, but they're still great for dancing and are enjoyable to listen to because of their appropriate content and pleasant lyrics. Today's music might be what's new and popular, but I'd still choose Babs over Brittney, Cher over Christina, Elvis over Eminem and John, Paul, George, and Ringo over Justin, JC, Chirs, Lance and Joey any day.
School Unicorns Would Be Better
I'm glad Sackville High doesn't force its students to wear uniforms. Although, the idea of waking up in the morning and not having to decide what to wear is appealing, I'm happy the students are given semi-free rein on how they dress. People express themselves in many ways, one of which being the way they dress and it doesn't seem right that some schools forbid students to attend school dressed in inappropriate clothing, and by "inappropriate" I mean clothes that the administration hasn't picked out. I think that so long as the clothing isn't too revealing and doesn't display offensive words or images, students should be able to wear what they please.
I think that the belief that uniforms will stop students comparing themselves to fellow classmates is preposterous. Although it may put an end to the comparison of clothes during school hours, students are still going to compare possessions, boyfriends and girlfriends, and academic accomplishments among other things. It seems to be human nature to compare ourselves to others and the thought that enforcing a strict dress code would eradicate it is simply unrealistic.
I also think that it would be quite expensive if parents had to purchase uniforms for their son or daughter as well as non-school clothes. At SHS, the clothes people wear to school are also suitable for going to see movies or shopping and basically everything else that involves going out in public. Therefore, purchasing a second wardrobe is unnecessary.
I suppose one good thing about uniforms is that it causes people to look a little deeper before they judge people. Ideally, people should be judged by their character, not their clothes, but today's society is far from ideal. Clothing is one of the most obvious elements of a person's appearance and therefore many people are prejudged based on their attire. I still don't agree with the enforcement of school uniforms, but I can understand some of their good points. I just think the negative effects outweigh the benefits.
Perhaps, for younger children, uniforms might help to teach that everyone should be treated the same, that we shouldn't think of ourselves as better than others, but isn't it also important to teach children that everyone is unique, and it's okay to be different, and you shouldn't be afraid to be and express yourself? I guess an important question to ask is: What is considered more valuable, individuality and self expression or a superficial sense of equality? People are just like snowflakes; there are no two alike; so why are schools trying to force youth to dress alike?
In schools, students are learning about many different subjects such as music, mathematics, language arts, social studies, art, science and physical education, all of which I consider very worthwhile and valuable. However, I fail to understand why some schools have a mandatory uniform policy. It creates extra cost, hinders self expression, and makes it hard for young, maturing students to develop an understanding and acceptance of things that are different from what they're used to. Personally, I'd rather go to school and see a thousand people wearing clothes that help to display who they are rather than see a thousand clones forced to wear identical outfits deemed acceptable by a select group of people.
Too Old, Too Young
"Clean your room, you're a big girl now,"
Is what I hear them say.
But when they talk about important things,
I'm told to go away.
"You're too young for this," You're too old for that"
I don't know what to believe.
Too old to sleep with a nightlight,
Too young to stay up New Year's Eve.
I'm too big to sit in the grocery cart,
Too tall to ride on my dad's shoulders.
I'm too young to order from the grownups' menus,
Too short to ride the big roller coasters.
I'm too old to still use training wheels,
But too young to drive a car.
Too old to watch Bert and Ernie
Too young to watch things rated R.
Too old to sit on Santa's lap
And believe in the Easter Bunny,
Too young to understand the jokes
That grownups think are funny.
Too small to fit into my big sister's clothes,
Too big to wear Baby Gap.
Too young to be drinking coffee,
But too old to take a nap.
Too old for sandwiches with crusts cut off,
Too young to stay home by myself.
Too short to reach the chocolate cookies
Mom keeps on the highest shelf.
They want me to be responsible,
So I said, "Give me a pet."
They said they'd "think it over"
But they're just hoping I'll forget.
I'm too old to throw tantrums,
Too old to pout and whine.
I'm not allowed to use the oven,
I can't stay up past nine.
I'm expected to say thank you.
I'm expected to say please.
I'm expected to use Kleenex
When I blow my nose to sneeze.
Too young for permanent markers,
Too old to color outside the lines,
I got in trouble for cutting by Barbie's hair,
And I got in more trouble when I cut mine.
I can dress myself, and brush my teeth,
Can even pack myself a lunch,
And still, when we're at weddings,
They won't let me drink the punch.
Apparently I'm old enough
To make my bed and clean my room,
But still too young for lipstick
And mascara and perfume.
It's not fair how I'm "too young"
To do any cool, fun stuff,
But as soon as it is time for chores
I'm suddenly "old enough."
I hope that someday things will change
And they'll let me do much more.
Of course, with my luck, "more" will mean:
Dishes, dusting, laundry, floors.
So it's almost June and I'm getting kind of nervous. I'm excited for prom and everything (mostly because of the dress) but I think graduation is going to be really sad. I'm not good at saying goodbyes, especially when it could be forever. People say that you make lifelong friends at college/university, but I like the friends I have now. I know it's not like everyone's going to choose the same profession and go to the same school and work together for the rest of our lives, but I still think it's sad that there's a good chance that I'll never see some of the people again. And maybe ten, fifteen years down the road, if I do bump into an old high school buddy, would I approach them, strike up a conversation and attempt to swap stories of "what we've been up to" for the past decade or so? I know I'll keep in contact with certain people, but it just doesn't feel like enough. For nearly 13 years I had a plan. I'd wake up and go to school. A school that didn't cost me anything, a school with teachers who knew my name, a school with friendly familiar faces. As soon as June 25, 2004 rolls around, that's going to be all over and I'll be totally out of my comfort zone. I plan on going to Mount Saint Vincent University and as of yet, I don't know anyone else who is going there. Every day since grade primary I've walked to school with my best friend, Margaret Flynn. She's planning on going to Saint Mary's and after graduation we'll never walk to school together again. Some people are excited to move out, live on their own, and experience new things, but I'm not that kind of person at all. I like things to stay the same. The Mount is the closest university to my house and I plan on living at home. I don't really know what to expect. From what I've heard university is really hard and doesn't compare to high school at all and this totally scares me. I'm definitely going to miss Sackville High and hearing a bunch of students rhyme off daily announcements over fits of giggles heard in the background. I'm going to miss the pep rallies, the guest speakers, the theme weeks, the pajama days, the barbecues and most of all the people. When I left junior high I never imagined that I'd find people that I'd become really close with, but I did, and I guess it'll probably work that way in university, too, but I'm really nervous to go. Maybe years from now I'll look back and feel foolish for being so worried, but right now I can't help but feel any other way. I'm a constant worrier so it's nothing new for me, but right now, I'm in no hurry for June to arrive.
Show and Tell
At 6:30AM, Suzette got out of bed. She didn't usually get up until 7:00, but today was a special day and she didn't want to be late. Today was the day that Suzette and all her classmates in her grad 1 class could bring something to school for show and tell. Suzette went downstairs and poured herself some cereal and when she had finished eating, she went back upstairs and got dressed. She put on her favorite red shirt and combed her long brown hair. She got her school books together and neatly placed them in her backpack. Then she picked up the shoebox that contained her item for show and tell. She was so excited to show all of her friends. Suzette kissed her mother goodbye and began her walk to school. She walked slowly and carried the shoebox carefully so she didn't damage its contents.
When Suzette got to the end of her road, she met up with her friend, Jill. "Hi, Suzette, I brought my skipping rope for show and tell. I got it for my birthday and I'm going to show everyone how I can skip really fast! What did you bring?"
"It's a surprise," said Suzette.
"Can you at least give me a hint?"
"It's a surprise," repeated Suzette as she grinned. When the two girls reached the school playground, they saw Joe and Stacey and went over to say hello.
"Hi, Jill. Hi, Suzette, what have you got in the box?" asked Joe.
"It's her show and tell and she's not telling anybody what it is," answered Jill.
"Awww, c'mon, can't we have a little peek inside the box?" Stacey asked.
"Nope, not until we get inside and it's my time to share," said Suzette very matter-of-factly. The school bell rang and all the students lined up at their designated door and waited for their teacher to come let them in. When Ms. Murdoch arrived to let Suzette's class in, Suzette waited at the back of the line and went inside last to avoid being bumped by her fellow classmates. Once inside, she gently set the shoebox down on the floor where it wasn't in any danger and took off her coat and hung it up. When she picked up the box off the floor, she noticed it felt heavier than before. She peeked inside and all that was there was a bunch of old baseball cards.
"Take your seat please, Suzette, we're about to begin," said Ms. Murdoch.
"But....," started Suzette.
"Now, please," said Ms. Murdoch with a touch of irritation in her voice. Suzette took her seat at one of the many round tables surrounded by small chairs and equally small children and tried to turn her attention to the front of the class. "Stacey has asked to present first. Go ahead, Stacey."
Stacey walked to the front of the classroom. "This is my 'Dazzlin' Dolly'. You can put glitter in her hair and she comes with sparkly stickers. I play with her all the time. She came with two matching bracelets; one for her and one for me. See?" Stacey held her wrist out next to her doll's to show the matching jewelry. Everyone clapped, although the boys seemed reluctant.
Next up was Jill. She skipped for the class, but not for long. Ms. Murdoch made her sit down after she nearly whipped one of the children in the face with her rope by accident.
"Ok, Suzette, your turn," said Ms. Murdoch as she motioned for Suzette to go to the front of the class.
"But...," tried Suzette again.
"There's no need to be shy, Suzette. Go ahead." So Suzette walked slowly to the front and gazed al all 24 pairs of eyes staring at her expectantly. Word had spread about Suzette's mystery show and tell and all the students were anxious to see what she had brought. Suzette's knees were wobbling. She tried to think of what she could possibly say about the baseball cards. She didn't even like baseball! She lifted the lid and took out one of the cards and held it up.
"This is one of my baseball cards," lied Suzette. "It's of my favorite player," she paused while she read the name on the card, "Babe Ruth," she read slowly.
"Hey, that's my baseball card," yelled Thomas, a normally very quiet boy. Suzette froze.
"What do you mean your baseball card, Thomas?" asked Ms. Murdoch.
"It's mine. My dad gave it to me. I can prove it; it has my initials on the top corner. Suzette examined the card and sure enough the letters "T.R." were marked in the top right hand corner.
"I...uh...I...," mumbled Suzette.
"But if you have my shoebox full of baseball cards, then what's in the shoebox that I have?" wondered Thomas aloud. He lifted the lid and pulled out a floppy plastic sheet. It was transparent in some areas and black in others. "What is it?"
"My sister!" exclaimed Suzette, overjoyed.
"We must have gotten them mixed up," said Thomas as they swapped shoeboxes. Suzette looked around at her confused classmates.
"This," she started, "is my real show and tell. It's a sonogram; a picture of my sister. She's still in my mom's tummy, but Daddy says she'll be coming out really soon. My mom gave me this picture a little while ago and she said I could keep it." Suzette walked around the classroom and showed everyone the sonogram and pointed out her sister's arms and legs and head. Everyone seemed very interested in the picture and clapped very loudly for Suzette when she sat back down. Suzette carefully placed the picture back inside the shoebox and wrote her name on the lid. "Now we'll be able to tell whose shoebox is whose," she said to Thomas.
"Good idea," he replied. Suzette was glad everyone enjoyed her presentation, and she was very very glad she had found her picture.
When Suzette got home from school she found her mother waiting in the living room for her. "How was your day at school, dear? Did you show the class the sonogram?"
"Sure did," she replied. "I showed my class tow pictures of a babe today!" Suzette's mom gave her a puzzled look, but Suzette just grinned.
I Miss...
Tea parties with invisible tea,
Hoping to hear the Dickey Dee.
Spending hours on the swing set,
Playing with friends I'll never forget.
Being tucked in by dear old Dad.
Playing with Pogs, the latest fad.
Crayola crayons and finger-paints,
Attracting attention with every complaint.
Homemade play dough and blowing bubbles,
Having ice cream solve all my troubles.
Having picnics in my own front yard,
Making my parents homemade cards.
Believing in Santa and in the Tooth Fairy,
Watching reruns of Little House on the Prairie.
Looking in the mirror and not feeling fat,
Reading The Little Engine That Could and The Cat in the Hat.
Thinking a bazooka was a piece of gum,
And not knowing where babies come from.
Playing in the sprinkler on warm summer days
And not worrying about the UV rays.
Hopscotch, 4-square and hula hoops,
Watching Disney movies while eating Fruit Loops.
The Partridge Family, the Brady Bunch,
The Huxtables, the Tanners and Robert Munsch.
Baking cookies on rainy afternoons,
Watching Saturday morning cartoons.
Stuffed animals and lemonade stands,
Wearing Northern Getaway and other kid brands.
Birthday parties where people aren't drunk,
Mr. Dress-Up and his tickle trunk.
Glow in the dark stickers and using Lite Bright,
Bedtime stories and my old night light.
Silly tongue twisters and good clean jokes,
Knowing my friends don't do drugs or smoke.
Swimming in the backyard kiddie pool,
Field trips, and bake sales, and pizza days at school.
My tricycle, My Little Ponies, and my kazoo,
Reading and watching Winnie the Pooh.
Playing make believe and playing pretend,
Trips to the park, imaginary friends.
Easy bake ovens and many sleepovers,
Fisher Price toys and playing red rover.
Having my brother still live at home,
Not worrying about the future, when I'll be on my own.
Highlights magazines and Cabbage Patch Kids,
Receiving allowance for chores that I did.
Magna-Doodles and double-dutch,
When everything didn't cost so much.
Not having to wear eyeglasses,
Only 43 minute-long classes.
Baths and making soap sud beards,
Always having Mom there to dry my tears.
Having free time and being carefree,
Running through grass with shorts and bare feet.
"Happily ever after's and Grimms' fairytales,
Getting phone calls instead of emails.
View Masters, Treasure Trolls and the popular Etch A Sketch,
Spending time with my dad, just playing catch.
Singing along with Sharon, Lois and Braham,
Reading Dr. Suess's Green Eggs and Ham.
Fruit Roll-Ups and monkey bars and fresh air during recess,
Less homework, less drama, and in general less stress.
Roller skating on the basement floor,
Way too many Barbies with accessories galore.
Playing hairdresser with my mother,
Spending time with my brother.
Blaming bad behavior on "it's just a phase."
Boy, do I miss those good old days.
The Cast Was Only an Arm's Length Away
When I was younger, I thought it would be cool if I broke a bone, just so I could have a cast. I thought it would be really fun to have people sign it.
The first time and only time I've ever broken a bone was in grade 8. There was a new pony at Windgate Farm, where I ride, and I was asked to help train her. She didn't have a whole lot of experience being ridden, so we were just taking it easy on her. One night I was riding the pony, Boston, in the outdoor arena when a train started to go by. The train tracks run parallel to the barn and the arena and are very close to both. When trains go by, it's very loud and you can almost feel it in your chest. Since Boston was new to Windgate, she had never experienced a train going by. She pretty much flipped out and I ended up falling off. At first I thought it was no big deal; I've been riding for almost 9 years now and everyone knows that falling off is just part of the sport. Boston is a fairly stocky pony, and she's not very tall, so it wasn't tat far to the ground. When I landed, my upper arm and shoulder hit the graound first, and all my weight was on that area of my body. After I stood up, I realized that my shoulder hurt. A lot. I couldn't move it much, and I automatically feared the worst. Whenever you fall off a horse, you're supposed to get right back on (unless you're seriously injured, of course). I had fallen off several times before and always got right back on, but that night my shoulder hurt so badly that I decided that getting back on wouldn't be such a good idea. I brought Boston back inside the barn and put her away. My fingers were feeling kind of tingly, and my left side ached, but the pain was tolerable and I didn't cry. I didn't bother calling my mom because she was coming to pick me up really soon anyway, so I just put my brushes and gear away and waited outside for her to come.
When she arrived, I opened the car door and I think I said something like, "I think I need to go to the hospital." I said it very calmly, but I understand that those aren't very calming words to a mother, no matter how you say them. On the way home to get my health card or whatever information it was that we needed, I explained what happened, and that's when I started to cry (I always find that talking about something makes me cry, even if the actual event didn't). I begged her not to take me to Cobequid because I was afraid I'd have to sit and wait for the rest of my life, so she took me to the IWK. I sat in the waiting area. I remember being the oldest patient there. There were a lot of young children and a few babies. I waited several hours and tried to ignore the tingling in my hand and hoped that no one would notice that I was wearing barn clothes (covered in dirt from falling off) and that I smelled like a barn. I think the worst part of waiting to be seen in a hospital is that it gives you time to run through thousands of worse-case scenarios in your head. I could tell from the pain that I wouldn't be able to ride for a while, and that made me sad; the barn is pretty much my life.
My mom ended up calling my doctor, but she wasn't in, so her office sent the duty doctor to the IWK to look at me. He made me show him how much I could move my arm (which was basically not at all). He didn't bother to take x-rays and just assumed that my shoulder had been dislocated. It seemed like a good assumption to me; after all, my shoulder definitely didn't feel right and if I had to guess what was wrong with me, that would have been my guess, too. He put a sheet across my waist and made my mom hold the ends of it behind me so that she could keep me from moving forward while he pulled on my arm to try to pop my shoulder back into place. Mom pulled me backwards and he pulled me forwards and I yelled, "Ow." A lot. He pulled several times and told me that it would make my arm feel better. It hurt really, really bad and when he finally stopped pulling he asked me if I felt any better and I said, "No," and he told me that I should. Then he sent me home and told me to get some sleep. My mom asked him if maybe I should have a sling. He seemed to think that would be an okay idea, so he gave me a triangle sling (after a not-so-amusing game of Find the Sling in the Hospital Room).
If I slept at all that night, it wasn't very much. I hurt at least 10 times more after he "popped" my shoulder back in than I did before.
The next morning my mom took me back to the IWK and I saw a different doctor. This one took x-rays and found out that I had fractured my humorous bone, the bone between your elbow and shoulder, very high up. So apparently the doctor from the night before had been pulling on my broken arm trying to put my shoulder back in place, even though it was never out of place. Nice.
I was pretty bummed about having a cracked arm because it meant that I definitely wouldn't be riding for a while, but in the back of my mind I was almost excited at the word "fractured" because I thought, "Hey, now I'll finally have a cast." Unfortunately, the break was so high up on my arm that a cast wouldn't be practical, so they decided to give me one crazy-looking sling instead. I was displeased. I thought, "Man, what a waste of an injury; I don't even get a cast." The sling they gave me was like a giant sock. My entire left arm went through it, and then it went around my neck, and then wrapped around my arm and pinned to keep my arm up. The other end of the sling went around my waist. It was so dumb. Everyone else gets a cast, but I get the giant sock puppet from you-know-where.
I ended up healing pretty fast and my mom finally let me ride again about 4 weeks after my fall. since then I've fallen off a few more times, but haven't been hurt. I hope next time I break something I at least get a cast out of it, and the doctor takes x-rays before he fixes something that doesn't need fixing.
"Stressed" Backwards is "Desserts"
I'd Much Rather Have Desserts than Stress
In my whole life, I've never been as stressed as I have been these past few months. Things have been so busy I can barely keep track of it all. School is definitely one of the major contributing factors to my overwhelmingly high stress level. Band is my easy course for the semester; besides practicing, there's never any homework, and we usually only have hone project per term. Global Geography isn't too bad either. Ms. McWilliams doesn't give very much homework, and she always gives lots of time to complete projects (even thought I end up doing most of them the night before anyway). Then there's calculus. I regretted taking that course after the very first day. I mean, I really wanted to take the course, but it was a lot harder than I anticipated, and after three consecutive semesters of math with Ms. Gillis, I had to adjust to the way Ms. O'Neill teaches (I think I may still be adjusting). Calculus totally stresses me out because I always feel like I don't understand anything we're supposed to be learning and whenever we have a test, I'm pretty much sick with worry. I dread calculus class everyday; it's not a fun feeling. Finally, there's English. It's been my favorite subject all through school, but this year I'm finding it especially demanding. I remember the week after March Break, I was up until at least 2 A.M. four nights in a row doing homework. I'm sure it wasn't all English work, but if I remember correctly, it had a lot to do with essays that were due. So if I never have band homework, global work is minimal, I hate calculus so much that I can't stand thinking about it let alone doing anything about the fact that I'm awful at it, and I don't have all that much English homework other than essays, how come I always end up doing things at the last minute and being all stressed out? The barn. I started riding when I was in grade four and I haven't stopped since. I go to the barn Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday nights, as well as Sundays during the day. On weekdays I leave around 4:45 P.M. and get home around 9:30. I admit I have some time in the afternoon to work on schoolwork, but, honestly, after a long day at school, I don't really feel like doing more schoolwork as soon as I get home. Even if I try, I'm pretty much 100% unproductive; which means homework gets done after the barn, which means I don't always get as much sleep as I'd lie to (or I get enough sleep, but only because I put off working on school stuff for yet another day). Cutting down on time at the barn may seem like the solution, but if you ask anybody who knows me, they'll tell you that's not an option. The barn's pretty much my whole life. Which brings me to another stress factor. My parents are always asking me about my marks and how I'm doing in school and all that supposed good parenting stuff, and they tell me that if I don't get good marks, I won't be allowed to go to the barn. I can understand where they're coming from, but when something I love so much is at stake, it really puts the pressure on for me to do well in school. My parents' idea of a "good mark" is 90s. If I were to get 80% on something, my mom wouldn't be pleased. I blame myself for this though. I always got really good marks in elementary school and junior high, and didn't even really have to try, so my parents basically just expected me to get good marks all the time. But now that I'm in high school and classes are more challenging and it's harder for me to get high marks, they still expect me to excel. Sometimes I wish I had have purposely gotten low marks in earlier grades, just so my parents wouldn't expect so much of me now. Besides my parents bugging me about school, they also bugg me about university and my future and blah, blah, blah. Thank goodness I got accepted to MSVU so they can finally get off my back about that. They were also bugging me about getting a job so that I can afford to go to university (great, just when I thought the university hassling was over). Thankfully, I've recently been hired at Tim Hortons so now they can get off my back about getting a job. So now it seems like they're focusing all their bugging energy on my marks again. It's like a vicious cycle. Mondays are my only days I get to stay home. I look forward to them. A lot. Wednesdays are probably my busiest days. School, then concert band, and then to the barn to teach my lesson (teaching young kids on big animals=much stress), and then home around 10. Lucky for me writing folders aren't due on Thursdays. By Friday night I'm usually dead tired, but alas, now I have to get up before 6 A.M., catch the 6:15 bus and be at work for 7. Then I get to work for 8 hours, go home, and then go to church (the parts of the mass where the congregation gets to sit have become my favorite parts). So I'm stressed over school, my parents, and my future and teenage life in general, but eventually that will change...........soon I'll be stressed over debts from university, my future, adult like in general and taxes.
The three Little Pigs as Told by "The Big Bad Wolf"
I'd like to set the story straight once and for all. I'm sure you've heard the pigs' version of the story, but let me tell you what really happened.
I was going for a jog one beautiful spring day, when all of a sudden, my asthma started acting up. I hadn't brought my puffer with me, and I was beginning to feel quite short of breath, so I looked around and stumbled over to the nearest house. It happened to be a small hut built out of straw. The name on the mailbox outside read "Pig # 1." I knocked on the hut door and desperately shouted, "little pig, little pig, let me come in..." but before I could even explain that I needed to use the phone to call an ambulance, the pig shouted from inside his house something about having a hairy chin and he refused to let me in. My asthma attack was getting worse by the minute and I was gasping for air. I must have been doing some pretty fierce huffing and puffing because, the next thing I know, the pig's straw hut had blown down and the pig was running away squealing.
I knew I had to get to a phone fast, but there were no other houses in sight. Fortunately, a farmer came walking by from the opposite direction so I asked him if he'd let me use his phone. He replied that he'd be more than happy to oblige, but his house was at least another 3 miles down the road but that he had just passed a stick house up around the bend. I thanked him for this information and hurried off as best I could to find the stick house. When I came to it, I noticed that the name on the mailbox outside read "Pig # 2." I knocked on the door and begged, "Little pig, little pig, let me come in..." and once again, before I could even explain why I was there, the pig inside shouted something about having a hairy chin and refused to let me in. I was in near hysterics and my breathing difficulties had worsened. The dry, flimsy sticks that the house was made of were no match for my uncontrollable huffing and puffing and within seconds, the entire house fell to the ground. As the dust cleared, I saw two little pigs fleeing from the demolished house, or maybe they were fleeing from me, I can't be sure.
I knew I didn't have much time, it was crucial I call an ambulance immediately. I was feeling dizzy and confused from lack of sufficient oxygen. I stumbled forwards for I don't know how long until I ran into what felt like a thick post. At closer inspection, I realized that it was a mailbox; one that read "Pig # 3." I looked up and saw a massive brick house. I hadn't been having much luck with pigs that day, but what other choice did I have? I climbed up the stairs and practically collapsed on the doormat. With my last few ounces of energy, I kicked at the door with my foot and called in a voice that was quiet and raspy, "Little pig, little pig....let me come in...." I could hear whispering coming from the other side of the door.
"My front door is broken," answered the pig, "It won't open. The only other way into my house is through the chimney. Crawl up the trellis and come in that way." Thankful that I was finally allowed to enter a house, I climbed the trellis and slid down the chimney. When I got to the bottom I fell in a giant pot of water. Now, when the pigs tell the story, they like to say that the fireplace was lit and the water was boiling, but the pigs weren't actually smart enough to light a fire. The water was really only room temperature. Before they knew what was going on, I hopped out of the pot and zoomed into the kitchen and called 911. An ambulance came and took me to the hospital and I'm glad to say that I'm feeling much better. I've received many get-well cards, a basket of goodies from Little Red Riding Hood and even a gingerbread cookie from a little old man and a little old woman, but not so much as even a visit from the 3 little pigs. Who's the "bad" one now, huh?
So now that you know the true version of the story, I'll leave you with the moral:
If you're an asthmatic, never leave home without your puffer.
Laura Misener
2003-2004