...Personal Narrative Essay Title: “For Sale” Everyone knows that phrase: “The grass is always greener on the other side”. But as a child it was a hollow statement for me. Until the day I perceived it as my philosophy of survival. This story is of my purest memories following my relentless battles. Simplistic flashbacks of virtuous kids. Full of laughter and play with nothing to be feared except for the day’s end. All before the moment where the innocence was dissolved away by the acidic misfortunes of life. [a series of sentence fragments] To illustrate, the first setting in this world was in the town called “Ocala”. It was in South-central Florida, a place where nature thrived and creatures of all walks of life roamed. The most business we had there was a prison thirty miles away, and a Wal-Mart 30 miles further down the same road. So one would say it was pretty rural. Just a quaint ole town, where the trees outnumbered the people. My best friend Samantha and I loved the fact that we had mother-nature as our playground. Spending most of our waking moments playing in the open forests, we’d sneak around concocting strategic methods on how to collect lizards and insects, then place them in small decorated cages. Once we obtained our new pets, we would examine and befriend each one, always setting them free later. However, our nights were different, pictures were taken, video games were played and even dress up was included from time to time. Videogames helped enable our...
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...Personal Narrative Essay Title: “For Sale” Everyone knows that phrase: “The grass is always greener on the other side”. But as a child it was a hollow statement for me. Until the day I perceived it as my philosophy of survival. This story is of my purest memories following my relentless battles. Simplistic flashbacks of virtuous kids. Full of laughter and play with nothing to be feared except for the day’s end. All before the moment where the innocence was dissolved away by the acidic misfortunes of life. [a series of sentence fragments] To illustrate, the first setting in this world was in the town called “Ocala”. It was in South-central Florida, a place where nature thrived and creatures of all walks of life roamed. The most business we had there was a prison thirty miles away, and a Wal-Mart 30 miles further down the same road. So one would say it was pretty rural. Just a quaint ole town, where the trees outnumbered the people. My best friend Samantha and I loved the fact that we had mother-nature as our playground. Spending most of our waking moments playing in the open forests, we’d sneak around concocting strategic methods on how to collect lizards and insects, then place them in small decorated cages. Once we obtained our new pets, we would examine and befriend each one, always setting them free later. However, our nights were different, pictures were taken, video games were played and even dress up was included from time to time. Videogames helped enable our...
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...Spring should be a time of growth and warmth, but last spring it felt like everything I ever cared about came to a crashing halt. In March the air smelled of hopes and dreams, but I had none. I stopped believing everything that used to inspire me. I started questioning myself. I became my own problem; my biggest hindrance in getting myself to where I have always wanted to be. One day I went to PetSmart to look at the fish. I wandered aimlessly until I stopped in front of the tank of 20 cent comet goldfishes. Among the animated goldfishes there was one just floating on its side, clearly dead. But every now and then the wave of water from the pump going into the tank would lift the dead fish and make it “swim”, as if it was still alive. I thought about the fish and I thought about myself. The fish carried on swimming without actually living, just like how I carried on doing without actually believing. I could have continued that way, but I wanted to invest this short life I have in something I believe in. I had to find my meaning. I tried to make myself a math experiment, collecting my own data to see if I could extrapolate my own meaning. I compared what I liked with what I did and want to do, but in the end it made me even more confused about what truly drives me forward. Then, I turned away from science, I’m not an equation I can solve scientifically. I turned to art. I hadn’t picked up watercolours for years, but that spring I did. I painted a comet goldfish. It was swimming...
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...I can probably count on one hand the number of times I’ve been to the doctor simply because I wasn’t feeling well. For the most part, the only medicine I was ever given was a large dose of “I’m sorry, but get over it” from my father. In fact, pretty much every problem in my life I’ve been expected to just “get over”. Whether it be an actual physical illness or trouble in school, my family’s philosophy has always been to keep the ball rolling and things would work out in the end; which for the most part, they did. When I thought I was going to fail chemistry my sophomore year, I refocused, studied harder and earned an A. When I almost quit dance following my realization I wasn’t the best, I trained more and pushed myself to be better. But in...
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... As a little girl, I had always dreamt of being an older sister. I imagined helping feed, encourage walking, tutoring when they need help on their homework, and I even considered helping with diapers. But my single mother was busying herself with nursing school, her part-time job at Genie’s, and her full-time job of being a parent. Obtaining a younger sibling was next to impossible. So, I instead allowed my time to be filled with extra-curriculars: dance lessons, piano lessons, ice skating, and softball camp to name a few. My home remained to be filled only by my mother and myself until I was 14 years old. What once used to be a family of two, grew into a family of four- my mother, her husband, my new baby sister, and me. I was old enough to take on even more responsibilities that I was not prepared for. Before I knew it, I was left home alone with Allison, now about 12 months old. A full hour of screaming and crying tested my patience more than any other extra-curricular activity I had ever practiced. I had had my first babysitting experience and parenting lesson (on a minor scale of course). Like all things, as time went on and as she grew, the big sister role became less challenging as my patience grew and crying durations depreciated. Just as I was getting comfortable with my new role, my mother announced that she was once again expecting. Now, I was anticipating a little brother. I had grasped the basics of child care with my sister, but the early two year...
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...It's like mid-January, on a Saturday, I wake up about seven a.m. There's still snow on the ground from a few days ago. I eat a small breakfast of bacon, eggs, oatmeal, sausage, toast, fried potatoes, orange juice, cranberry juice, milk, and a glass of water. After my dad is done eating he says, “ great meal” After I'm done eating I go into the living room and sit on the couch my dad is sitting on the recliner, the TV is playing an old western and I pick a backwoods men, and read some interesting articles. Once my stomach is settled me and my brother get in my truck and go to my great grandfather's old farm we walk down the creek and go to an old creek crossing and we check our beaver tracks. After that we head to the rest of our traps, hopefully, we catch some. By now it's about noon so we head home to get some dinner, the table has steak, beans, rolics, cheesy green beans, deviled eggs, coconut cream pie, and sweet tea. Right after the meal my dad says, “ well, that was a mighty fine meal” after go and sit on the couch. After my nap, I go outside and my dad signals for me to get in the truck. We head down to our river farm and cut up some of the hedgerow. After an about four hours i'm covered in sawdust and dirt, we head home and work in the shop for an hour. After that, I grab my sled, camping bag, and a gun, and I hop on my ATV. I head up to a hill that we like to call deer hill. I start a campfire and crack open a can of beans, I put them on the fire. Then head down...
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...“Seeing is deceiving, dreaming is believing, it’s okay not to be okay”. A lyric the 13 year old version of myself fell in love with. When i was growing up, i struggled with self-image, and self-love. In order for me to cope, i went to music. Music is such a huge part of my daily life. In 2013 i was watching one of my favorite shows, The Voice. A young girl came on to perform a song for her audition. She performed a song that would touch my heart forever. I heard Jessie J’s “Who You Are” for the first time in 2013. The girl performing the cover of the song later came to confess she had been dealing with image, self harm, and depression. The power and emotion Jillian Jensen delivered gave me chills all over my body and showed all the colors behind the darkness she held within herself, i felt that. The judges of the show felt it, audiences felt it. So when i heard this heart warming record, it gave me hope, it gave me a sense of power, and independence. The song goes through many different internal battles that i believe young adults, primarily females, go through on a daily basis. There are so many young females out here these days, that are yearning to be somebody. Jessie J says “sometimes it’s hard to follow your heart, tears don’t mean you’re losing, everybody’s bruising. just be true to who you”. That lyric is meaningful because everybody want’s to be somebody that they aren’t. Everybody lets their minds control their actions. There are situations in life where following your...
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...I never would have imagined there was any meaningful connection between neuroscience and music; that is, until, a couple classmates and I played a little ear-training game during guitar class. “Sing an E-natural,” I demanded. (There’s no way they won’t be able to guess this, I thought.) They all sang an E-flat. I froze momentarily. Without stopping to correct them, I selected different note. “Sing a B-flat,” I ordered. …Still they were a half-step off. I audaciously plucked a B-flat on my guitar, just to showcase that they were off-key. “But they all sound the same to me,” one girl asserted; the rest agreed correspondingly. “How in the world can they not hear the difference?” I asked myself. To me, hearing B-flat and B-natural was like night and day! Each pitch had its own distinct personality, color and quality that I couldn’t unhear. It was unimaginable for me to visualize music any other way. After a great deal of thinking, I approached the teacher about my predicament. “You have perfect-pitch!” he blurted with excitement. “Only one in every ten thousand people has it!” “One in ten-thousand? You mean not all musicians are capable of this?” I asked, eyebrows raised. “Indeed.” He replied. “It’s something you’re born with. You can’t develop perfect-pitch.” Something was terribly off. I knew for a fact that at one point I was incapable of doing what I can do today. I knew I had listened to music as a child, unable to identify its key signature – then suddenly it dawned...
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...complexity of natural textures, the waves, kinks, and curls occupying the scalp can be manipulated in various ways. Protective styling, Bantu knots, two strand twists and perm rods all produce different outcomes. How a community of women, raised in different regions and familial backgrounds have collectively experienced the same fight is what interests me the most and continues to be the reason why I lose track of time. There is so much to learn and the natural hair community not only strives to learn how to embrace our natural textures, but to grow as individuals and inspire those around us. Life does not come without challenge, we all must struggle to ultimately achieve our goals, whether they are long-term or short-term. Challenging my personal beliefs on natural hair and learning to embrace what I was born with has led to a new mindset. I have inspired and challenged the beliefs of other black women and I can now say I am proud to wear my natural curls. ...
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...English I Introduction In the ninth edition of the St. Martin’s Guide to Writing, in chapter I, Margaret Mead quoted as saying, “Learning to write well takes time and much effort, but it can be done.” I believe I could connect to this quote the best because no matter what you do in life, you have either been taught to do it or learned how to do it on your own. It will take time and much effort to get better but at the end of the day hard work pays off, and you know that it can be done. My name is chris johnson I have served five years in the Army, at Fort Riley, Kansas. This will be my first class attending Barton. I am from Warner Robins, Georgia and will be relocating to Houston, Texas for school at the end of this year. One major thing I love to do is play basketball. I am the oldest of 3 brothers and two sisters. The one thing I like about writing is being able to express myself in my own words. One weakness as a writer for me has to be being able to put all of my ideas and thoughts together the way I want it to be, also using correct terms in my papers. A strength in my writing I would say is being able to develop a good flow of interest within any topic given to me. I hope to improve more as a writer and also retain everything I’ve learned during this...
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...maybe this day won't be as bad as i thought it would be, were my exact thoughts to myself before that stupid english teacher called me to the front and gave me a lecture on appearance does not equal gender, which my paper some how disagrees with. from that point on, the day went down hill. i realized that i had gym next period, which was the worst for me both physically and mentally. there was the physical part of physical education, but then there was the dysphoria that always decides to weave itself into my head. it doesn't help that it's only second period, meaning it's only about 8:30. i walked into the auditorium hesitantly, with the gym bag and clothes that the school provided. my eyes scanned the large room, attempting to find familiar faces. i exhaled happily as i recognized my old friend lee. at least i won't be entirely alone in this shithole, right? "hey," i mumbled as i sat down beside her, not really caring as to who else was there. "oh, hello tiana!" the blonde exclaimed, a smile plastered onto her face, quickly followed by confusion. "what happened to your hair?" i laughed, expecting this reaction. "well, you see, i chopped it off." to this she hummed thoughtfully, then continued to ramble on until the bell rang, which signaled for us to go to those stupid locker rooms and change out. you see, this was the part i dreaded most. the locker rooms. they're filled with the most disgusting smelling aerosols, far too many half naked kids, and creepers who try to socialize...
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... It happened in the gym, when I was in elementary school. My cheeks were flushed and warm from bouncing nonstop on the hop ball. I relaxed for a minute, and enjoyed the cool air conditioning that caressed my red face. I could almost hear the sizzling. I felt the handle of the hop ball that were gripped in my iron hands. Kids around me were unceasingly playing. Some were shooting hoops, while the rest, like me, were being goofballs and bouncing around, even racing on the hop balls, seeing who could go pass the red line at the end of the gym, first. I heard the joyous laughter that made me want to join in again, so I bounce high. When I came to the glistening gym floor, I felt a sharp pain in my lower back, but it receded as fast as it appeared. Later that night, I asked my mom about joining the basketball team, I had been thinking about joining for a while. She was very surprised, for I did not like attention all that well and preferred to keep to myself. But nonetheless, she agreed that it would be a good idea for me to join, hoping that I would crawl out of my shell of shyness. But, right before bed, I felt the sharp pain in my back again. That time, it stayed for a couple minutes. I informed my mom about it and she gave me kid’s ibuprofen liquid to lessen the pain. I felt I would gag, it was so nasty! I went to bed content and dreamed of being a basketball player, running around the gym and making hoops. The next morning though, I was writhing in pain, for my lower back felt...
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...Oink! Oink! I rotated my four year old head. Searching the mexican crowd for signs of the source. As I rested my hand on the rough red bricks. I noticed a tall man torturing a pig. A whip making a crack every couple seconds. His pants and short sleeve shirt shaking off dust during his follow through. Another short and skinny man held a firm grip on a brown leash. The pig hoofs brought up clouds of dust making it hard to see. Sometimes missing the ground and falling on its face. A split second later the man small man shortens the leash, as the whip misses only to bring up dust. The tall man retreats to the wooden shack. Coming back with an axe. The man goes to a stump and takes a few practice swings. The small guy with the leash hauling the pig over. The tall man charges at the pig. The pig changes tactics and before it could run in circles. The man with the axe take a big leap. Bring down the weight for one final hit. “OOOIIIKKK!,” the pig hollard with its final breath. While the tall man removed the pig head, the other removed the leash and they both threw the items away. After they returned with a board and knife. The small man cut the pig open that spilled its insides. Nearly forever later they finally stopped scooping up the pig’s insides with pails, to throw them in the trash. As I watched the show I gagged, and wondered how they could do this like it was nothing. After a quick break the tall man picked up a pail, while the other brought over an enormous pot. Minutes...
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... On 12/19/2015 at 00:32 hours, while working D.W.I enforcement, I was in the area of Adelphia’s Restaurant when County Dispatch advised of a motor vehicle crash in the lot of Adelphia’s with the driver passed out behind the wheel. I searched the area and located a Ford Edge in the grass area in-between the AMC 8 and Adelphia’s Lot. I approached the vehicle and observed a male passed out in the driver seat with the vehicle running but in Park. I aggressively knocked on the window and door attempting to wake the driver with negative results. I then radioed to SGT. Grogan #5234 requesting permission to break the window to gain entry. P/O Garr #5243 then broke the passenger rear window with his collapsible baton gaining entry to the vehicle. After the doors were subsequently unlocked, I opened the driver side door and the driver nearly fell out of the door. I was able to “catch” him from striking the ground and leaned him back inside the vehicle. After talking and shaking him for several seconds, the driver finally woke. He then became agitated and attempted to close the door on me. At that time, I advised him I was a police officer and to step out of the vehicle. The driver now identified as Timothy Mills was taken to the rear of the vehicle so I could speak to him about the crash. As I was gathering information about how his vehicle ended up on the grass, I could immediately smell an odor of an alcoholic beverage emanating from his breath. Timothy was unable to stand...
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...I had sorted through the piles of stuff on my floor. I was cleaning my room and had large stacks of books and other things strewn across my bedroom floor. I had been rearranging my book shelves and had stumbled across my old postcard album. My postcard album was a regular photo album, but instead of putting pictures in it, I had filled it with postcards. I paged through the book, remembering all of the places I had been. A postcard from Sanibel Island caught my eye. I remembered when I was in Florida I wanted to collect shells, so I woke up early in order to get to the beach. I remembered the beach. The ocean was peaceful and the seagulls ruffled their feathers in the wind. It was so peaceful and pristine. The sun had not risen yet, so I just...
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