... This was a normal day for me and my little brother Jimmy, I like to call him Jim, and he likes to call me J. The day was boring as usual, today was the only day that felt like it was going to last for forever, all the other days felt the same, but never lasted this long. Something about this day just felt off. We leave our classroom, it was like a herd of animals out here, I get my things out of my locker and try to find my brother. Turns out he was in the front of all this chaos. From that point on the day was normal, practice was pretty fun this time, I sat through Jim's soccer practice. Except for when this car was slowly pulling up beside us as we were walking home. Me and J were walking and talking as this car rolls up beside us, I was like "Woah, who is this?" This man with the sketchy looking figure tells us to run, He tells they're coming. "Excuse me?" J says. He looks petrified." Don't worry Jim they're trying to prank us." Me and J continues walking as the same car starts to come back down the hill. The man says "I don't want you two to be caught in this crossfire." At this point, neither of us care, as the car speeds away. Me and J continues walking, we're tired. I ask him" What was all that stuff about Javier?" " I don't know." He tells me. "I'm sorry J, I didn't mean anything like that." Some time passes and J stops to turn around to check across the street, everything...
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..."Howzaaat!" I scream at the top of my lungs! The burst of red hurtles through the air at the speed of lightning before stopping with a sudden whack against the precious wickets. The stumps tumble through the air and hit the soft grass with a thump. "That's it, I'm out." Jimmy plainly states, as he slumps his shoulders and makes his way off the pitch. Now it's my turn. I walk towards the bat like a staunch soldier heading in to battle. My numb, blue, fingertips feel like they're about to fall off as I grip them steadily around the bat. I position my legs in a steady stance and whack the bat against the soft, powdery, dirt beneath my bat and line it up with the wickets. I turn my determined face towards Jimmy as he starts to run. His legs pound on the lush lawn as he picks up pace. His arm swings up and over his shoulder before hurtling the ball out of his hands at crazy speeds. The connection between the wood and plastic creates a mammoth crackle. I look up, searching for the scorching, red, fireball when suddenly, I hear a loud, ear-piercing, smash. My stomach drops to my feet, my face turns a deep, blank white as my eyes set focus on the shattered shards that lie in what seems like a thousand pieces. I stand like an iceberg, frozen. I can't take another step. Adrenaline rushes through my body and my mouth stutters. Jimmy points at me with a mischievous grin growing on his face, he chuckles, "Don't be a pussy, go say sorry." I force my legs forward towards the bland fence...
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...When hearing the national anthem being played I felt like time slowed down as I was thinking of all the blood sweat and tears I did to get there. I remember the days I had to swim over 10,000 yards in one day. The days I had to wake up at 5am in the morning to work out and swim before school. Everything I did to live up to this moment. Hearing each note of the national anthem crystal clear as i closed my eyes I could see the memories of me as a child at the YMCA being the only advanced one in my swim lessons. I knew i wanted to be good I wanted to be the best. So ever since I turned the age of seven I have strived for greatness and wanted to make my parents proud. I could see one of my first races looking at my parents in the stands and then I dove into the water from the block. In the moment of that race I believed I did amazing but was shockingly last place. The car ride home was the worst part of that whole day was hearing from my parents that they were proud of me when I know they weren’t. My dad later told me a few years later that “CJ someone has to win a race why not it be you?”. This was when I was in middle school and they had a middle school swim team. I was the only swimmer capable of swimming all the hard races so my coach, Vogel always put me in the difficult races. This made me start to dislike swim so I was always screwing around in practice and never took things seriously. Due to this my race results showed I slacked off as I always got last...
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...Though it is not too far away from my home, the Auburn YMCA or any swimming facility has become my second home. I go there every single day except for Sundays, that's my day off. It has been my second home ever since I joined to swim team seven years ago. Everyday after school I walk into the YMCA, slide my card and hear the ding that tells the computer that I am here and my card is still valid. I walk past the main gym while heading to the locker room and can hear the squeak of sneakers and can smell the odious and repellent smell of basketball players. Next comes the four steps that lead into the locker room. The lockers are green and the tile floors are green, brown, and white. You can smell the disinfecting spray the workers used to clean the tops of the dusty lockers. I set my lime green Speedo bag down in the same maroon and black plastic chair. I put my swimsuit on along with other members of my team. When we are all done we all head out to the pool but first I lock my locker and pull on the lock twice to make sure that it clicked in. When I enter the pool room I set my bag down underneath the whiteboard, in the usual spot. I take out my cap, goggles, and water bottle. I go to the waterspout and fill my water bottle up all the way to the top. As I head back over to my lane I grab a red kickboard and a red pull buoy, with no holes in it. A pull buoy is shaped like a figure eight that is made out of foam and swimmers place it between our thighs to keep our bodies afloat...
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...I lied and I know that I have no intentions of staying on the street. I plan on riding down the hill and skating on the parallel street. I walk out the front door and sit on the porch. No one is outside yet and it wasn’t too hot. The sun is shining without a cloud in the sky. I slide on each skate the right foot first and then the left foot. I lace them up and tie a double knot. These feel great! I stand in them and try to steady myself. The next thing I knew, my feet are in the air and my butt is hitting the concrete. I look around to see if anyone noticed me fall. No one is watching, so I get up fast as I can just to fall on my butt again. Damn, this is harder than I thought it would be. I get up and steady myself and slowly begin to roll out to the street. I glide the right foot forward and then the left foot forward. I’m starting to get it! I’m skating with bad form but I’m skating. When I reach the edge of the street, I cannot stop, so I use the curb to stop and fell. Damn! I get back up and get in the grass where I can walk, instead of roll. I’m not supposed to leave the street and I risk punishment from Ms. Kim. The thought of that scares me and I have a bad feeling about this adventure anyways. I get a lot of feelings about things and most of the time I am right about them. But I want to skate down this hill anyways. As I walk my right ear rings lightly as I stood under the stop sign. My dream comes back to me and I remember the shadow figure pointing...
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...I remember the day so vividly as if it was yesterday. It was October of 2016 at St. Andrew’s School in Boca Raton, FL, the location of my cross-country Districts Championships race. I knew that my team had to place in the top four to advance to the Regionals Championship meet, and we had a good chance of doing so. After listening to all the pep talks from my coaches and teammates, I was ready to run! I was running well in the race until the second mile of the 3.1-mile route. I could feel myself losing energy with each step and breath like a car running out of gasoline, struggling to go on. It’s common to feel tired during such a strenuous race, but this was fatigue on an entirely different level. Unfortunately, I did one of the worst things...
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...I look down at my sneakers, turquoise laces double knotted, the white soles bouncing up and down the even pavement. Around me is the cacophony of gleeful shouts, blaring music, crowds of heavy breathers, and enthusiastic clapping. The only thing I hear are my sneakers creating their own quiet rhythm: up and down, up and down, up and down. My own shaky inhales and quick exhales: in and out, in and out, in and out. I see the finish line, and my best friend does, too. We grab each other’s hands, our skin pink and slick from heat and sweat, and hold each other tightly. Our heads turn towards each other to grin as we break into a sprint, elbows pumping and legs leaping. We are close, so close. The sun is beating on our backs with hammers, and the wind has abandoned us, but the two of us are together, one runner, as we cross the finish line at the same time. We run through a tent of raised hands, clasped together to embrace, as the two of us finished the race. She collapses on the ground, face the same color as pepto-bismol, and I walk over to the food tent, eager for pizza and grapes, my legs creaking noisely the whole way. When I finally sit down, my feet shout in joy, then start sobbing when I slip my sneakers off, too lazy to undo the tight knot I made early that morning. I had never known the bliss in sitting, in not having to do anything but relax. The biggest perk to completing a marathon is being able to eat as much food as you want right afterwards. In the spring of 2017,...
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..."My father gave me the greatest gift anyone could give another person; he believed in me." This is a quote I've seen many girls my age share. When we think of a father, we think of a man who loves his children unconditionally, a man who would do anything to see us succeed. While many people are fortunate enough to have a positive male influence growing up, for some that is not the case. For as long as I can remember, my father was not consistently in my life. When I was very young I couldn't understand why that was. He would be there for long stretches of time, and he would seem perfectly normal, and then suddenly he would be gone. When I asked my mother where my dad was she would reply that he "wasn't feeling well" or that he was sick. It wasn't until I became older that I could understand what was going on; my mother eventually explained what the word 'alcoholism' meant. I thought maybe understanding what was wrong with my father would be comforting, but it only made me more confused. When my father was around he said he loved me and my family so much. As a child, I couldn't understand how he could let anything get in the way of that love. He slipped in and out of my family's life for much of my childhood. Eventually my father ended up going to jail. He went in and out of jail many times. Sometimes during the stages when he was out of jail, he would try to become sober. There were times when this lasted a few days and there were times when this lasted a few weeks. The other...
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...I was at a summer camp where we focused on crafts, sports, and having fun with people across the world. It was a hot 98-degree heat where you prayed for a cool gust of wind. I remember a boy from the opposing soccer team being rude but we paid him no mind. It was a church camp after all and we were playing for fun. So, why get upset over what another person said? As a result of maybe out cool indifference to him he pointed towards an African American kid in our group and said, “I don’t think a gorilla as fast as that sound be allowed to play green level soccer.” He cackled and the air around my other teammates and I chilled. We all grew up in the Detroit area and I have never heard an African American talked about like this. I quickly replied, “That’s racist, you can’t say that.” The boy then became defensive but my teammates drew closer and began to stand up to this boy as well, we all rallied together. Usually I stood against a bully or where there is clearly someone in the wrong. I never offered my opinion on something as opinionated as race and since that experience I have found my voice. I speak up for everything and anything I believe in. Sometimes ideologies conflict and navigating why I believe in one idea but not another is one of my strong points. While abroad I hope this ability continues to grow. When I was a sophomore in high school I went to Turkey, Italy, and Greece. I studied Greek mythology and culture throughout my life and to experience that culture changed...
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...I am biracial, my mother is white and my father is African American. When I was young I was accepted. As a child my peers were not bothered by differences in race. As I got older society began to grasp the malleable minds of my peers, my color was no longer a color, it was a target. I could never escape the ignorance, the humiliation. For a point in my life I wished so badly that I had been born completely white. That I had “normal hair”, “normal skin”, “normal eyes”... Why couldn’t I just be “normal”? In my mind, being white was a cure. As the taunting continued I put up a barrier. I blocked out the painful words and concealed my misery. I even joined in on the “jokes” making some of my own to ease the pain. They always thought it...
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...that demonstrates how love for literature and having a strong character can play a significant role in overcoming racism and distress. In the course of the story, it is evident that Maya changes from being a casualty of racism to become a young woman with self-dignity and identity that helps her to overcome prejudice. The context of I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings focuses on the problems associated with racism that was prevalent in the southern states. Racist oppression is a common theme in the book that is portrayed by all the major characters; in fact, all the other themes in the book are closely related to racism, identity and segregation. In addition, the style and genre, and the structure of this literary work make significant contributions towards its thematic development, which focus on resistance to racism, the significance of the family, self-identity and definition and independence. Walker (95) argues that I Know Why the Cage Bird Sings is characterized by thematic unity, which is achieved using the structure adopted in the text that takes more of a thematic form rather than a chronological form. In addition, Angelou managed to emphasize on the universal ideas in her literary work irrespective of its periodic quality. In I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, Maya Angelou used the major characters of the book to facilitate its thematic development identity, racism and literacy throughout the text. Basing on this assertion, this essay uses evidence from the book to affirm the...
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...Classism and Racism A Narrative Analysis of Paul Haggis’s Film: Crash By: Alexis Couillard Introduction: In 2004, Paul Haggis directed the Oscar winning film crash, a drama about race and class and its effects on those residing in Los Angeles, California. This film paints a vivid picture of the harsh reality that classism has and will always exist and it is intertwined with racism in this film and in our realities. This film promotes racial awareness which is a topic not typically seen on the big screen and it demands a close inspection. Haggis wanted us to understand each character and to see them as real flesh bleeding humans that make mistakes and aren’t perfect. We see different races involved in the film such as African American, Persian, Hispanic, white and several Asians. Each scene intertwines with the next and we find out that all the characters are connected in some way or another. This technique of the characters being connected keeps the viewers on their toes. The audience is not stuck on one story or scene for too long. An idea or event is presented from the perspective of one person or family, and then the same event is expanded on by another characters connection to that particular event. Different ethnic stereotypes and racial prejudices are presented within the film such as the so called “gangbanger” who has tattoos and is Hispanic, and the black man who steals cars Anthony aka “Ludacris”. The director delivers and promotes this awareness but...
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...Synthesis *Disclaimer: the views represented in the synthesis essay may not necessarily represent my personal opinions (I won’t write this disclaimer on the AP test). To live a meaningful life is awfully vague, for it can mean a life of happiness, of financial superiority, and of success. But the reason behind why the definition remains vague is clear: we become too obsessed with external factors and often forget ourselves--our character and our individuality. Thus, the prospect of a meaningful life continues to run away from us as we grow jealous of others who have more resources than we. To live a truly meaningful life that embraces both controllable and uncontrollable factors, we must resist trying to please others by avoiding the tendency...
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...Today’s mainstream feminist perception is white feminism. White feminism silences, dismisses, and rejects Women of Color’s (WoC) struggles and issues. White feminism is the center of the media while it continues to ignore intersectionality and privileges whiteness. Meanwhile, WoC address women’s rights by battling the patriarchy and its connection to racism and sexism within their own communities. Feminists of color are silenced by the dominant form of feminism, mainstream feminism, when it is seen as the primary narrative of feminist theories. White feminism silences WoC when white feminists dismiss the systemic racism WoC face, generalize WoC’s experiences of misogyny as the same misogyny white women face, and ignores the role that whiteness plays in society. White feminism completely disregards the racism WoC face everyday and marginalizes...
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...some common themes that reoccur in many of the stories and poems. Of course slavery was a very common topic but there were others such as inequality between the races and sexes, injustice and resentment, the black identity, and a strong faith and religion. Even though the words can be separated in the end they all come back together. There were many narratives written by fugitive slaves before the Civil War and by former slaves in the postbellum era. These narratives document slave life from the perspective of first-hand experience. The stories they tell are dark and ugly. The authors like Douglas and Jacobs reveal the struggles, sorrows, aspirations, and triumphs of slaves in absorbingly personal story-telling. Harriet Jacobs’s Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl was the first autobiography by a formerly enslaved African American woman. In it she describes her experience of the sexual exploitation that made slavery especially oppressive for black women. She also recounts her life in slavery in the context of family relationships with her escape and her struggle to free her children. Fredrick Douglas who wrote Narrative of the Life of Fredrick Douglas, an American Slave, Written by Himself depicts the grim life of slavery as well. He vividly describes the brutality that slaves endured, the meager rations they are allowed for nourishment, and even the murder of a slave. He also hits on the common practice of slave owners raping the enslaved women. Douglas also writes...
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