English 9/10 Course 5 Anthology by Kristie Keener

ENGLISH 9/10

HGHS

Spring 2017

English 9/10 Course 5 Horace Greeley High School Instructor: K. Keener

Table of Contents

Imagination 3 Musical Fads 6 Personalities 9 Star 10 Friends 13 A Girl and Her Dog 15 The Internet Ping 17 1

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Camping on Mars 19 Immaturity 20 Argentina 22 Play-doh 24 Lose Yourself 26 Not Far From the Tree 27 Gone 28 The Big Hit 30 She Told Me to Live in the Moment 31 No Role Modelz 33 Moving Toward Magma 35 My Experience with Books 37 The English Class Paradox 39 Why Third Grade Wallball is Stupid 40 The Book Hole 43

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Imagination Harris Imagination is a dreamer. As a young child, he always enjoyed sitting on a soft blue chair in his room, gazing out the window. While other kids were outside playing sports and games with one another, Imagination would sit alone and think, contemplating the impossible and envisioning the extraordinary. He dreamed that he lived in a faraway land where dinosaurs roamed the countryside and a pet pterodactyl would carry him wherever he wished. He dreamed of a sugary sweet world, where he and his dog could ski down caramel swirl ice cream hills and walk through candy cane forests. As he explored through this world he marveled at the cliﬀs and canyons formed by rock candy and the muddy rivers of molten chocolate. These pleasant reveries were often interrupted by his mom, Creativity, who pleaded with her son to be more like other kids, to go play outside or build something out of blocks or legos or even draw pictures with crayons. Imagination listened to his mom, but still he always preferred to sit and think.

Middle school was diﬃcult for Imagination. Two older boys named Aggression and Insecurity teased him constantly, making fun of his colorful clothes and chimerical and quiet personality. Most other kids acted as if they didn’t notice Imagination, as if he didn’t even exist, except for a girl named Sympathy who would smile at him whenever she passed him in the halls. Imagination would not smile back as he was often too busy studying the patterns in the wall plaster as he walked, envisioning that the shapes would emerge from the wall and start to dance through the air. Imagination found academics to be arduous—numbers and letters would not stay still on the paper—and his teachers would repeatedly say “Imagination! Pay attention!” or “Imagination! Stop zoning out!”. During tests, Imagination tried as hard as he could to focus, but it never took long until the daydreams would begin. His eyes would slowly migrate to the large windows and everything else would fade away. Imagination began to dream of a place where he wasn’t invisible and friends were plentiful, and where his failing grades did not make his mom cry. He imagined himself strolling nonchalantly through the cafeteria, in an outfit that no one found funny or 3

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weird or out of fashion. He could see himself sitting down at a table full of kids who wanted him there, kids he would laugh and joke with. In these fantasies, kids at school would call out to him: “Hey, Imagination! What’s up?” And Imagination would wave back. Kids could see him in this imaginary place, and they wanted to be seen with him. He was admired and popular in this dream school, and he was never, ever alone.

Sitting at the head of the dining room table, Imagination stared out the window as his dinner grew cold. He had failed out of high school and never attended college but was lucky enough to have met a woman in the cereal aisle at the grocery store. Imagination had been staring at the animals and elves playing on the colorful boxes. The woman thought Imagination was dreamy. They got married. Fortunately, she was a practical person and was dedicated to providing for her family. Imagination’s wife, named Dedication, and their young son Honesty, had by now grown used to Imagination’s quiet and distant nature, so they were not surprised when he stayed seated long after his plate was cleared and they had left the table. As Dedication cleaned the dishes, and Honesty— who everyone said took after his mom—started his homework, Imagination continued to sit in his wooden chair. He stared silently out the window at the rain. He now dreamed of a life in which he did not have to depend on Dedication to work because he was a movie star dashing around the city in his red convertible, never worrying about bills or house repairs and working the hours that he chose. In this world he had a private jet which could take his family to exotic vacations in Madagascar, Japan, and Aruba. His son would go to school and brag about how cool and famous his dad was, instead of considering him an embarrassment. Imagination did not want to be a loser.

Imagination sat in a hard wooden chair, situated next to Dedication’s hospital bed in the middle of the small room. Honesty, now almost 15 years old, was sitting next to Imagination, holding Dedication’s hand and talking to her quietly. The doctors had told Imagination that these were Dedication’s final moments and Imagination had tried to express the love that he had for her but every time he began to speak he felt a sharp pain deep down. 4

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Soon the steady drip of the IV and Honesty’s quiet talking drifted away as Imagination’s dreams flooded his mind, drowning out reality.

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He could not bear to see his beloved wife in such a state, with tubes protruding from all over her body. Imagination did not want to face the deep ache that he felt building in his stomach every time he looked at his sick wife, so he looked beyond her and out the window instead. Soon the steady drip of the IV and Honesty’s quiet talking drifted away as Imagination’s dreams flooded his mind, drowning out reality. Hours passed, and Imagination did not hear Dedication’s feeble voice calling for him, or Honesty begging him to talk to his dying wife. Dedication’s heart beat monitor slowed and Honesty started to cry, but Imagination did not avert his eyes from the window. He stayed where he was, sitting in his chair quietly while Honesty sobbed, still holding Dedication’s hand. Imagination shed a single tear as the world of pain and suﬀering faded into a place where he and his family were still living happily at home. It was a Sunday afternoon and the whole family was comfortably sitting around a fire in the living room, playing cards and telling stories. Everyone was healthy, and happy, with only the love they all shared on their minds. In this world, when a doctor told Dedication she had a tumor in her lung, she took a pill and everything was fixed. There was no pain and no loss.

A new hospital room—this one for Imagination—was easily big enough to fit Imagination’s whole family, but, aside for him, it was empty. When Dedication passed some years ago, Imagination had retreated deeper into his fantasies. He was not there for his teenage son, who found himself living alone with a father who would not talk to him. Honesty tried to be sympathetic, but when he graduated from highschool and Imagination didn’t show up for the ceremony, he made the decision to leave his father behind. Without Dedication’s salary, Imagination lived on donations from his parents, which quickly dwindled. And then after some time they died too. He never said goodbye or thanked them, even though he had wanted to. Imagination continued to mask his sorrows with the fantasies of a diﬀerent life, and now there was no one to try to bring him back. Now, alone in the hospital room Imagination felt deep regret. He wished he could have faced his problems instead of dreaming of a world in which they didn’t exist. He wished that he had more time to live, so that he could try to 5

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talk to his son whom he hadn’t seen in years, and visit his wife’s grave that he had never seen, but he knew that time was running out. Whenever a doctor entered his room, Imagination hoped it would be Honesty visiting after so long to say that he forgave Imagination for being such a distant father. This never happened, but luckily for Imagination, his hospital bed was arranged with a perfect view out of a big window.

Musical Fads Rebecca From a very young age I believed that I didn’t enjoy music. There was just always a part of me that knew that the “top hits” were not very good. Artists such as Pitbull and Selena Gomez never really appealed my interests as a kid so I stopped listening to music all together. This was not a very hard decision to make and at the time it was hardly even a decision at all. I simply stopped forcing myself to listen to such dreadful music. When I was 8 years old I remember going out to ice cream with my twin sister and 2 of our friends. It was mid May and decently warm so we sat on a park bench outside of the shop. As we were enjoying the warm sun on our shoulders and the cold ice cream on our tongues, we decided to play a game to entertain our premature attention spans. One of the girls suggested that we play the “guess the song” game. My heart immediately sank. To my 8year-old self, this game would be the death of me. “Why was it such a big deal?” I ask myself now reminiscing on those seemingly ancient days. As my sister and my 2 friends seemed to get more and more engaged in the idea of this game, I decided that I would give it a try. This is how the game went; someone would think of a song and they would start to hum it. The other 3 girls had to listen to the hummed version of the song and list both the title and the author. Now to a girl who was interested in pop music, this game was a dream. On the other hand, to a girl who cut music out of her life, this game was a total nightmare. I instantly surrendered to the other girls and continued to eat my melting ice cream while they giggled and shrieked in exclamation while playing their game. At 13 years old, I discovered a new kind of music; Rock. I had never heard anything like it on the car radio or with any of my 6

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His songs had meaning, they weren’t just random words placed on top of mediocre beats— they were pure beauty and I was utterly enthralled by them.

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friends. I instantly fell in love with it. My first major artist obsession was with Billy Joel. As a 13 year old in 2014, this wasn’t an easy fixation. None of my friends could understand why I would decide to listen to “old people music” instead of the hot, new hits playing on the radio. At the time I had no answer for them. I was simply lured to the calming yet intriguing music that Billy created. Now it is very clear why I was drawn to him. I was captivated by his ability to portray stories in his music. One song in particular is the song Scenes From an Italian Restaurant. This song starts with descriptions of the scene such as “I remember those days hanging out at the village green. Engineer boots, leather jackets and tight blue jeans drop a dime in the box play the song about New Orleans. Cold beer, hot lights my sweet romantic teenage nights.” When listening to this song, I am able to have a clear picture of the setting, the people, and the vibes that Billy wants me to take away from it. After listening to a new one of his songs, I got the same sensation as I would after reading a great book or after watching an interesting movie. I left with a new story. His songs had meaning, they weren’t just random words placed on top of mediocre beats—they were pure beauty and I was utterly enthralled by them. As I got older and my taste in music started getting more defined, I moved onto the Beatles. As I listened from album to album, song to song, I felt as if I had grown a real connection to the band. Their songs seemed to speak to me specifically so I kept listening. As I fell deeper into songs of past decades, the songs from the present day seemed to disgust me more and more. I could no longer listen to any song that wasn’t from at least 10 years ago. It drove me crazy how my own sister could be listening to this empty music. I wanted people to understand my music but no one would listen. I finally gave up my fantasy of having my friends accept my taste in music and learned to keep it to myself until one day this year, my friend started singing along to a song called American Pie by Don McLean. This song immediately touched my heart from the first time I had heard it in 2014 and quickly became an all-time favorite so when I heard my friend listening and singing to this beloved song of mine, I instantly gained a new liking for him. American Pie is indeed a very lengthy song. It goes on for about 8 and a half minutes but not a single second of it is wasted with nonsense. Each line is pure poetry, most of which would make no 7

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sense to many new listeners. As described on Pandora, the song includes acoustic rhythm piano, acoustic rhythm guitars, prominent percussion, and major key tonality accompanied with political lyrics. My favorite line in the song is, “Well, I know that you're in love with him 'cause I saw you dancin' in the gym you both kicked off your shoes man, I dig those rhythm and blues.” This line is capable of drawing not only an image, but also an emotion. As I listen to this line, I am able to clearly picture this young couple dancing barefooted in the gym to a funky blues song. I can also feel the love that they’re radiating as if I myself was the person watching them dance. The top hits that are played on the radio have no actual emotions. It's much harder to connect to a song/artist if their lyrics are random words threaded together. One pop song specifically is “Work“ by Rihanna. “Work, work, work, work, work, work. You see me I be work, work, work, work, work, work. You see me do me dirt, dirt, dirt, dirt, dirt, dirt. There's something 'bout that work, work, work, work, work, work. When you a gon' learn, learn, learn, learn, learn, learn. Me na care if me tired, tired, tired, tired, tired, tired“ These jumbled up sentences show the start of Rihanna's hit song. When I first heard it on the radio, I couldn't even understand if she was speaking English or not. Even once I found the lyrics to the song, it had absolutely no meaning. According to Pandora, this song includes danceable beats, a knack for catchy hooks, a bumpin kick sound, and syncopated beats. The differences between the song “Work“ and the song “American Pie“ are immense and extreme as seen in both excerpts from the songs, and descriptions of the craft and lyrics. Music has had a huge impact on me throughout the past couple of years. I cannot imagine how different my life would be if I had never discovered Billy Joel, or Elton John or of course The Beatles. These artists brought such joy, sadness and overall real emotions while I listened to their songs. Thats a real gift to be able to touch people through your words and music and I’m extremely glad that I was fortunate enough to open my eyes to the beauty of it all.

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Personalities Chloe B.

We are all different people than our parents even though they made us who we are today.

There are certain things that we cannot choose or change about our personalities. We are born with these personalities whether we like it or not. When you are younger, your parents are given a fresh canvas to paint/change their behaviors to whatever they desire around you. They are given a chance to introduce good behaviors and attitudes to you, that you will later follow in life. You take on these traits to make you, you, but they become adjusted to make them your own. We are all different people than our parents even though they made us who we are today. The way that your parents acted around you while raising you, plays an important role in your actions in the future and your personality. Your parents could be seen as the sculptors and you could be seen as the clay. Your parents have the opportunity to sculpt every single perfect detail until the day you go out into the world alone. They are the ones who made you the way that you are and overtime you mend your charisma into the way you personally are and it becomes your own. No one can be you, and you cannot be them. Every individual has a different personality. Once we acquire a good understanding of ourselves it is near to impossible to change it. However, there are different things that could be done to alter our personalities just a bit. People who we surround ourselves with, other than our parents, are a perfect example. For instance, our peers. After being around these friends for a while their personalities start to rub off on you, whether you are aware of it or not. We all have that one person in our life that after spending plenty of time with begins to change a part of your personality. It could be the way that they speak, or the actions that they do. In fact, I have a personal experience regarding this topic. Since I combined with another school this year, I have made many new friends throughout the journey. My parents said they have noticed that I act different in stressful situations. Now when one of these situations comes my way, I tend to remain more calm. Before this, I would be a in disarray and focus on that, for what 9

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seemed like forever. One of my friends acts in this manner, in a way of relaxation and coping with aggravating situations. This has rubbed oﬀ on me. We take on these qualities either because we are around these people so much or because we simply like these qualities in the other person. The great artist Michelangelo once quoted that he was, “Freeing the object from the stone.” This implies that your personality was created on your own since the day you were born. It's always been there but your parents just chip away at the stone to get at the figure inside. They tweak the sculpture in certain ways but your personality as a whole, your disposition is evolving and changing everyday that you are on this Earth. This is because you meet new people, and have new influences all around you everyday that change you without even knowing it. All parents are the ones who decide the way that their children will end up becoming as adults. The way that all children grow up and they way they act was originated from their parents and the way that they were treated and spoken to as children. They were the artist peeling back the layers to find the figure inside you.

Star Sarah B.

From then on acting was a cakewalk. I’d gotten every role I wanted, no problem…To put it simply: I was a star.

I’d been seven when was first introduced to the stage. I’d starred in the school play. It was amazing. I’d gotten the lead in the play Annie, with the role of Annie. From the moment I’d opened my mouth the directors had loved me, they’d practically given me the role after my first dialogue. From then on acting was a cakewalk. I’d gotten every role I wanted, no problem. I’d just had a knack for it. I was able to put myself into the place of any character I wanted, think the way they’d think, act the way they’d act. I hadn’t been the best at singing, but my voice was still moderately good, allowing me to book whatever role I was aiming for in any musical. To put it simply: I was a star. When I was 10, I met the person who has now become my best friend, Hannah. We’d been doing a middle school production of Peter Pan, with me in the role of Peter and her in the role of Wendy. We’d bonded quickly, finding out we both had younger 10

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brothers, family living in Australia, and a love for acting. We’d also discovered during the second week of rehearsals that our personalities matched our roles pretty well. Even as fifth graders, I was more outgoing, more risk taking, and immature, while Hannah was more careful, sensible and inquisitive. We fit together well, evening each other out -- a sort of yin-and-yang-type situation. From then on, we’d auditioned for everything together, for the most part getting the lead roles. Now, six years later, the two of us are sitting in a waiting room, prepping for a big TV audition. Neither one of us have ever done anything like this before. From the corner of my eye, I see Hannah’s foot tapping against the leg of her chair. I learned three years ago that this means she’s nervous, since she’d been doing it before our first finals when I noticed it’s correlation to her being stressed. “Hannah Briant,” a woman says, leaning out of the doorway leading to the stage. Hannah smiles at me as she walks towards the woman, her eyes wide. “You can do it,” I call after her as she walks through the door. 10 minutes later, Hannah walks back out of the door, her face a mask of pure calm. “Olivia Williams,” the woman calls, glancing down at her clipboard. “Livi, you got this,” Hannah says as I pass her. I’d never been this nervous about an audition in my whole life. I pass through the door, tripping over my own feet nearly three times on the way to the door.. ‘I can do this,’ I think as I walk onto the stage, preparing for the audition that will define the next five years of my life.

Two weeks later, I’m walking home from school with Hannah, checking my email for the millionth time that hour. The second it loads, I drop my phone onto the ground. “Livi, you ok?” Hannah asks, bending down to pick up my phone.

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“The cast list,” I whisper, barely able to breathe. It was finally back. I grab my phone from Hannah, too anxious about the list to thank her for picking it up for me. I jab my finger at my phone screen, trying in vain to press the email, my thumb missing the actual email every time. By the time I get the email open and stop just pressing the top of my phone screen, Hannah already has the email open. I glance over at her and see her staring at her phone in shock. I look down at the list, looking for my name attached to the lead’s name. The thing is, it wasn’t there. My name was three spots down, attached to the name of...the lead’s best friend. Still a main character, but not the lead. “But...but I always get the lead…” I mumble, staring at my phone screen in shock. My mind flashes back to the audition. I have no idea what I could have done wrong. I nailed the monologue. The director even smiled at me, which is rare for him -- I’ve worked for him before. I nailed the song, or so I thought. What went wrong? “This...this has to be a mistake! There’s no way that one of them could have done better than me! I’ve always been the lead! You know what, I’m going to call them, right now. This has to be a mistake!” I scroll through my phone, looking for the studio’s number, shaking. I press dial, only to look up at Hannah and see… tears. Tears in her eyes. “Livi,” she mumbles, trying to hold her tears back. “Before you call them, just...look at the list. Please.” I sigh, hanging up on the dialing phone and go back into the email. I look at the lead role, matched with….Hannah. Hannah had gotten the lead. About a million diﬀerent emotions flooded me at once. I could feel my hand trembling. “How?” I demanded. “How? I always get the lead. Always. We have a system, with me being the lead and you being the secondary lead, and now it’s broken. How did this happen?” And then it occurred to me. Hannah sings. Back in fifth grade, she sang in front of the whole school in a demonstration of the chorus. In eighth grade, she won the school talent show, and it wasn’t even a contest. When we got to high school, she was even recruited to sing the national anthem at all the sports game that year. 12

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I look up at Hannah and see her bottom lip trembling. “For years, I was always in your shadow. Never as good as you, never shining in my own light. Always just second best. You were always the star, leaving me looking less bright in comparison.The one time I actually shine, the one time I actually feel special...you start, just, insisting it’s a mistake. Shattering my dreams of finally succeeding, finally doing something right, finally being a star on my own. I always supported you, believed in you, and the one time you do second best, the one time I shine even a little bit brighter than you, it doesn’t even enter your mind that maybe, just maybe, it was me who got the lead,” she says, tears streaming down her face. “Well what was I supposed to think?” I stammer back. “This situation has never happened before. Statistically, all other shows we’ve done have just about proven that I’m the superior actress!” “I -- I can’t,” Hannah stammers, backing away. Tears are running down her face as she turns around and starts to run. The only time I’ve ever seen her cry before now was when her Grandfather died of leukemia. Even when she broke her arm, she’d been able to hold her tears in. ‘I did this to her,’ I think, watching her as she turns a corner. Even then, a small part of me still insists, ‘She’ll get over it soon enough. She’s a star, so why should she worry?’

Friends Angelina It is your friends that can remind you that not everything is about work. Ever since high school started, I’ve had a lot more work than what I was used to. I have more classes, more tests, taking up more time. I still have to do things after school-- volleyball practice, going to youth group at church, hanging out with friends-- and end up staying up late to finish my work. I get stressed out sometimes because I know that I can’t go to sleep late, knowing I’ll have to wake up early. But when I’m with my friends, I tend to forget about all of that. When I’m with them, I don’t think about my work, and nothing else matters except for having fun. When I’m with my friends, it helps me “get away” from all the stress and things that are annoying me at that time. Even if it's 13

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But then, my friend facetimed me, and we started doing and talking about the randomest things: sending ugly pictures of ourselves--wrinkling our noses and sticking our tongues out-talking about what class we would take at club fit, doing homework together.

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just going to someone's house to watch a movie or something, I still love going, knowing that I’m going to laugh, and have a good time, stress free. There are lots of times, when I have more than one test in a day coming up, and I get really stressed. Actually, it just happened last week. I had 3 tests, in a row, on friday, and I had to go to volleyball practice the night before. When I tried studying on Monday, so I would have time throughout the week, I knew that I was still going to be stressed, staying up all night, not being able to concentrate the whole time, and finishing my other homework as well. But then, my friend facetimed me, and we started doing and talking about the randomest things: sending ugly pictures of ourselves--wrinkling our noses and sticking our tongues out-- talking about what class we would take at club fit, doing homework together. Doing these kinds of things always makes me feel better. Afterwards, I’m happier, and less stressed about what I have to do later on. When I’m with my friends, I remind myself that I could have fun, and I don't have to pay attention to doing work or studying 24/7. Not only when I’m stressed, but also when I’m nervous about something, I feel much better when I’m with my friends. Like the first day of school. I was so nervous, because I had no idea what high school was going to be like. I thought that I was going to die, because I couldn’t even remember what it was like being the youngest person in the school. I was so nervous, and I was scared that I wasn’t going to make any new friends, or be in the same class as my other friends. But a week before school started, I hung out with a group of my friends, and we had the best time. I remember going to Maddy’s house. Talking, singing, laughing in the car on our way to the pool. Staying in the water until our fingers and toes looked like prunes. Getting mint chocolate chip ice cream, and sitting on the grass, with the water from our hair dripping down our backs. When we got back the the house, we stayed up all night talking about what high school was going to be like, what classes we had, who our teachers were going to be. It made me feel better knowing that I wasn’t going to be all alone because I had them. Comparing schedules, seeing that I was in the same Latin class as Jamie made me happy, and excited for high school. Also before school started, I had volleyball tryouts for school, and I made so many friends. We bonded together, and since we were a team, we became really close. I found out that I 14

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was in some of their classes too, and I stopped being so overwhelmed. I love hanging out with my friends, even if we do nothing. I stay after school with them, just to talk and laugh. I would keep telling my mom to pick me up later and later, because I wanted to spend as much time as I can with them. Sometimes, I even stay up doing my homework because I want to faceTime my friends first, just to talk to them. Friends are the key to happiness and having fun. Even when I’m doing homework with them, they still make everything better. When I study with them, all stress goes away. They make me forget about all the bad things that are happening in my life.

A Girl and Her Dog Clara

I can hear Scout’s collar jingle in the wind and see it move up and down as her feet keeping slamming to the ground-- killing lots of tiny insects and bursting open acorns.

There’s something about my dog Scout that makes me smile and make my good day better or my bad day great. As soon as I get to my driveway at 2:45 afterschool Scout along with my others dogs are waiting there for me. Somehow she knows when I get home everyday even if I come at a later time than usually-- dogs know everything. As soon as she sees me walking down the street she sprints over to the driveway. I can see all the birds leaping from their feet into the sky. If the birds were able to talk you would be able to hear them yelling incoming dog, run! I can see the squirrels running for their lives up the trees as fast as they can. The squirrels are probably upset because they have to leave their acorns behind. I can hear Scout’s collar jingle in the wind and see it move up and down as her feet keeping slamming to the ground-- killing lots of tiny insects and bursting open acorns. When I finally reach the driveway she calms down. I come over to pet her she always sits and puts her ears back while wagging her tail. She knows that when she puts her ears back I will always scratch her head and rub her ears. Once I start petting Scout my other dogs come running over because they are jealous. Stella, my dog, always feels lefts out and starts to bark so loud-- always ruins the moment. Whenever I am having a bad day Scout always knows it. I didn’t actually think that dogs could sense your feelings, but when I searched it up it there were multiple articles proving that dogs can. Everyday I usually am home before my brother so Scout 15

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always follows me up to my room and sits on my couch. When I am having a bad day Scout stays in the room the whole time until I my mom calls her to feed her or let her out. However, when I’m in a good mood she just comes up for a little hoping that she will get food. On a bad day, I will sit on the couch next to her and start my homework. Sometimes she will put her head on my leg, but other times she will put it on my computer so I can’t do any work-- which is ok with me. On the other hand, I always feel bad staying up stairs in my room on the couch petting and giving love to Scout and not my others dog. One of my dogs Nellie has a problem with her knees so she never comes up stairs. It always makes me sad seeing her down stairs alone on her bed. Whenever we eat, Scout and Stella always go under my feet waiting for food to drop, but Nellie sits on her bed hoping that I come to her with food. I try to sit as close to her as I can so she doesn’t feel the need to get up. Everytime she lifts herself from her bed she limps on her back leg. I always try to comfort her the best I can and tell her “it’s ok you don’t have to stand up” even though she can’t process what I’m saying. I try to move the table right next to her bed, but sometimes she moves because she gets scared. I want to give her my food, but I don’t want to give her something that will make her upset. Whenever I toast bread they dogs know it. They know that if they bother me while I’m eating I will give them some of my food. I can’t finish a meal without giving a piece to my dogs. Scout sits on my feet, Stella sits right beside and Nellie rests on her bed. When I start eating they dogs can hear the crunch so sometimes Scout turns her head wondering what the noise is. Every once in awhile all the dogs get slobber running down their mouth. At that point I have to give them a piece. Everytime I get up after eating Scout follows me around for a long time because she still thinks I have food. I try to sneak food without her knowing so I don’t have to give her piece, but somehow she always knows when I have food. Once I am oﬃcially done eating I go back into my room onto the couch to finish my homework or just relax. Scout still follows me thinking that I have food. Overall, Scout has always been by my side. She has been there for my bad days, my good days and almost all the birthdays.

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Spring 2017

Whenever I see her she always lightens up my day. I don’t know what it is that makes that happen, but I like it.

The Internet Ping Liam Ping! The relentless group chats, pinging and tinging to eternity. Buzz! The flicker and flash of canary Snapchat pop-ups, bursting through your concentration. Beep! The disquieting news headlines that penetrate your peace. Each of these intrusions carries a sense of urgency, Ring! “Last Chance! 75% Oﬀ All Sale Items” Brring! “sam.fisch started a live video. Watch it before it ends!” Ting! “Prince dead at 57.” Each feels like an emergency, a crucial moment that you’ll miss if you don’t check youe phone, a situation where your response discriminates life from death. So, you always stay connected, you never let your phone out of your periphery, you submit yourself to The Internet. This addiction is distracting and invasive, so you flip your phone over and ignore it. You try to read the first page of your book, but within seconds, the buzzing continues: you ignore it. Now you’re onto page two, but the flashing picks upa again, reflecting a fireworks display of notifications on your wooden table. The urge is impossible to resist, you lose all self-control and you quickly pick up. The heaps and heaps notifications brings an irrestistable pleasure. One desperate text message from a classmate. Two spam emails. Ten Snapchat notifications from a camp friend you haven’t really kept in touch with. You open the Snapchats, it’s ten unflattering selfies, begging you to maintain your 30-day Snapchat streak: the only thing holding your friendship together. You slide over to My Story, you watch videos of others appearing to have the time of their life. You remember the days when you were one of them, one who cared about their social media presence, who sought out each day as an opportunity to rake in likes. You click on another, it’s your actual friends, hanging out, laughing and joking around but, without you. 17

ENGLISH 9/10

HGHS

Spring 2017

The FOMO hits you. The rational fear that significant things are happening, without you. You wonder, Why would they do this to me? Why would they exclude me? You frantically go back to your messages and see 9 unread texts from 2 hours ago, asking to hang out. You’re livid, you hate yourself. You promise to never let this happen again, you promise to never let your eyes oﬀ your phone, to never disconnect. You open Facebook, scrolling through same annoying posts, fake news, and albums that you saw half-an-hour ago, you hate it, you hate it, you hate it, but you keep scrolling mindlessly. You haven’t found anything so, you move onto Instagram. You refresh your feed for the 20th time today, you notice a new post from an acquaintance, you analyze the picture and examine the likes. You worry if it’s too weird to comment, you read the other comments and deliberate, formulating the perfect comment. You keep scrolling and see the same edited pictures, “artsy” spam, and memes that you’ve already seen. Ping! “Final Draft of Lord of The Flies Essay due at 8 PM”

You chuck it in the other room to disengage from the intrusion.

You look and only have three sentences down for that essay, you hate yourself even more. You’re so over it all, you overcome your fears, and finally silence your phone. You chuck it in the other room to disengage from the intrusion. You hear nothing, nothing but your own thoughts and bodily functions. You actually experience the peace of silence for once, you can think freely and be productive, liberated from the shackles of technology. Two minutes later, you see a Jeep Wrangler zooming by your house. Who is that? The pinging sounds up again, you hear the missed text messages, phone calls, and Facetimes. The pinging, tinging, and ringing echoes in the chambers of your skull, tormenting your psyche. The FOMO floods in again, your “best friends” are going to get coﬀee, without you. Your mom has gone to Whole Foods, without you. Your camp friends have gone to that concert, without you. Someone near-and-dear to your heart has died while you were disconnected. Your president has waged war against North Korea, so you’re going to get drafted, so forget about your future!

ENGLISH 9/10

HGHS

Spring 2017

You’ve tried and tried to resist the urge, but the agony is intolerable, so you check your phone. You look and see nothing: no missed calls, no Snapchats, no texts—just your sad reflection.

Camping on Mars Jon

People today are so intrigued by how these survivalists succeed because they know that they couldn’t do it themselves.

After walking up the steep, cold hill after getting oﬀ of the school bus, I punched in my garage code and it gradually started to open. As I entered the dark and dusty garage, I saw my old camping backpack sitting propped up, lonely in the corner. Seeing the backpack made me think of the many times I used that backpack on camping trips when I was a boy scout. As was the norm on every camping trip, we carried just enough food for ourselves for the length of the trip that we were on and there was nothing extra taken. Since everyone on the trip only brought enough food for themselves, if something happened such as burning the food or losing it by dropping it in the campfire, you would not have anything to replace it and would thus not eat that night. Remembering my camping days with boy scouts reminded me of a part in the book “The Martian” by Andy Weir. In the book, Mark Watney was stranded on Mars because NASA thought that he was dead and left him behind as the rest of the space crew rocketed back towards earth. He had to figure out how to survive on a diﬀerent planet with limited supplies and more importantly, figure out how to grow his own food, namely potatoes. While he was figuring out how to survive, Mark felt very uncertain because he did not know if the potatoes would grow in his HAB, the Command Center/Place he lived in. He knew that if the potatoes did not grow he would not have nearly enough food to survive and he would die. The consequences that could result if the potatoes did not grow were much more severe than if my food were to drop in the fire or get eaten by a bear. Mark Watney could not survive without these potatoes. If there was a simple wind storm, my flame would go out and I could just relight it. If the food Mark was growing got exposed to the elements, the plants would die and he would starve to death. 19

ENGLISH 9/10

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Spring 2017

As a boy scout, we would routinely venture into the woods and try to make it on our own, in part to prove to each other that we are independent and can fend for ourselves. Today, culture and society are so interested in survival tales. Upon hearing these tales, people often think to themselves, “wow, If that was me in that situation, there is no way I would survive.” People today are so intrigued by how these survivalists succeed because they know that they couldn’t do it themselves.

Immaturity Kyle I hope when I grow older, I become much less immature. Ever since a young age, I’ve been constantly reminded that my actions are immature. But at the time, I knew little to what Immature was, I just simply thought that it was a grown-up word that only adults knew. I thought of it as a secret that was only added to your personal dictionary as your age progressed. Due to me not knowing what Immature meant, I could never fix what was apparently wrong. Like when I was 11 and I was playing with my brother’s toys, my very rude babysitter told me to act less immature and more like a boy my age. Or how when in 5th grade I thought it would be a good idea to play tag with my teacher and her son. What frustrated me the most was the daily hint to act more mature when I didn’t know how. And this didn’t necessarily put a burden over my shoulders for the entire day because --just imagine me at a younger age-- I got distracted by every passing car or sudden noise which allowed me to forget about it and move on with my disrupted day. And surprisingly enough, I still possess those traits today. But the people that got angered the most were my parents, siblings, teachers and even principal because it became exhausting for them to constantly remind me to behave. And these constant reminders occurred in school, at home, at a friend’s house, and even half way around the world. I’m not saying that I want to change completely, but I want to abandon some of my original childish values and adopt more adult-like characteristics, or that’s what my mom says I should do.

ENGLISH 9/10

I’m not saying that I want to change completely, but I want to abandon some of my original childish values and adopt more adult-like characteristics, or that’s what my mom says I should do.

HGHS

Spring 2017

The reason I want to change is because from the moment I could remember to today, my immature behavior and irrational thinking has buried me in detentions, punishments, electronic confiscations and the worst of all, phone calls home. If you asked me how or why I act the way I do I couldn't tell you, if you ask me who I got it from, I couldn’t tell you because everyone else in my family act like saints except for me. For example, my father went to Georgetown and then Columbia and never did anything illegal but maybe forgot to use his turning signal when switching lanes. My mom volunteers 24/7 and if there was the perfect mom award, she would probably win it. And you can’t forget about my sister, the special one as my grandmother says. Alexa has never failed a test, caused a phone call home, or gotten detention, all things I’ve done in a matter of days due to my behavior. To others, I am an outlier when it comes to my family, I share little interests with them, barely even look the same, and most of all I don’t even act like them. I’m sure some have questioned by mom’s honesty and wondering if she gave birth to me or if I was just adopted. When my family and I are out to dinner, I am always an eyesore for everyone else. I’m the one to drop a fork and cause an eruption of echoes around the room, or to drop a glass and cause a scene. I can always feel the embarrassment that my parents feel towards me. When we’re out to dinner with family friends, I can always feel their beaming eyes and hear their loud questions such as “was he adopted or was there a mix up at the hospital?” In the process of becoming more mature, I may be able to resemble more of my parents. Another reason why I want to become much less immature is to prevent what has resulted in the past by my childish behavior. There was one occasion on the bus to elementary school that made it evident that I was the baddest kid in the 6th grade. What I did was instead of sitting in my seat-- like a normal 11-year old boy-- I decided to roam around the bus, sit in every seat, and talk to every student. While all of this was happening, I was told numerous times to stop and sit down, but for some reason, I just didn’t listen. Because I wouldn’t listen, the bus driver believed that by me practically jumping around the bus caused her to keep taking her eye oﬀ the road to focus on me. When she told our principal, he didn’t like the fact that I was a disruption to the safety of all the people on the bus or how I was told several times to stop and just ignored the requests. Looking back, by ignoring 21

ENGLISH 9/10

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those requests from the bus driver who was only trying to maintain stability on the bus, I put everyone’s life at risk by just being an ignorant child. I use this occasion to reconstruct myself because I could have been the main problem that could have injured or even killed people on the bus. As a result of this occasion, the principal gave me detention as an outcome of my actions. I use this as a prime example of why I need to change. If my immature behavior still is the dictator in my life and controls the decisions that I make, my life will have many more punishments than just detention in the 6th grade (which was just me missing recess). Only recently have I noticed the long-term effects of my immature behavior, like constantly calling out in class and avoiding necessary directions, putting off my homework until the very last minute, and just behaving as if I was still seven. All of these examples have a greater effect on my life than when I was younger and just got a timeout. Recently I’ve also thought of how far in life my immature behavior will take me. During a job interview, will they take the person who is very organized and clearly prepared for this job or me, the person who takes it day by day and usually wings it and hopes for the best? I guess what I’m trying to say is that when I was younger, my behavior wasn’t accepted but wasn’t really focused on. However, now it results in more than just a timeout, it dictates how far I go in life. I won’t lie, being Immature has given me numerous things, laughs, friends, and memories that I like to look back on. But as I’ve grown older, my immature behavior has only enhanced when it should have weakened. And only recently have I realized that my behavior has gotten in the way of education. I believe that being immature is good in small doses, but isn’t good when the effects are greater and much worse than a simple laugh.

Argentina Chloe G. Looking out at the rolling fields, my mind begins to wander and I think of all the amazing experiences I had on this trip. Having an amazing time climbing a glacier with my family. Seeing beautiful, colorful towns like La Boca. I’m thankful to experience the amazing beauty of the landscape so close at hand. Our tour guide points out what types of trees we are passing as we drive along the 22

ENGLISH 9/10

All of a sudden, my amazement gets muted, as my eyes catch the small, torn apart houses and the people outside of them.

HGHS

Spring 2017

road and asks us if we enjoyed the trip. I don’t answer, I continue to stare out the window. The fantastic Argentinian landscape might just be one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen. The lakes and ponds as bright a blue as cotton candy. The red hills going up and down and up and down, seemingly go on forever. The bright blue sky that does not contain a single cloud. This kind of beauty should only exist in paintings or in people’s minds. It looks too beautiful to exist in real life. It is almost too much to take in. But I want to take it all in. I want to remember these sights forever so I can always keep this beautiful image in my head to remind me, to cheer me up or to inspire me. To my right there are the amazing hills that would make a really good roller coaster. To my left, a lake stretching farther in front and behind me than I can see. Out the front window, I see a cluster of trees that look like nothing I have ever seen before. I reach my hand out the window and a harsh, cold wind reaches me. The weather looks so nice through the window that I would have never guessed that it is 23 degrees outside. So I close the window and return to sitting quietly thinking about the trip and how fun it was. All of a sudden, my amazement gets muted, as my eyes catch the small, torn apart houses and the people outside of them. My happy, cheerful mood melts away and it gets replaced with sadness. There are kids kicking a deflated soccer ball and running around with no shoes on, trying to avoid the broken beer bottles all along the ground. Adults sitting in folding chairs, watching the kids and sewing clothing. Some sipping on cheap, oﬀ brand sodas that will contribute to their already unhealthy diets. But it’s not like they can help it, looking at all the garbage on the ground, I notice that everything seems to be cheap, junk food. I realize that they may not have had a good meal in days, maybe even weeks. Driving by with my tour guide in his minivan, I feel very out of place. I make eye contact with some of the kids as I drive by. But the people sitting and playing within the cluster of houses did not look at all sad like I thought they would be. The kids are thankful for their time to play and are enjoying themselves and competing intensely. The adults are chatting while sitting in their chairs and also seem to be having a good time. This took me by surprise. I would expect the kids to complain and the adults to be unhappy because of the circumstances in which they live. This puts everything into perspective; these people that have close to no 23

ENGLISH 9/10

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Spring 2017

physical possessions but they have each other and they have perspective. Instead of stressing about what to do next, where their next meal will come from or where their rent money will come from, they sit outside, blowing off steam and enjoying themselves. This reminds me that everyone has to appreciate what they have and take some time for themselves, no matter how much it may impact them in the future. I want to give them money or food or whatever they need. I want to tell them that I want to make a difference that will help their lives. And that I am sorry that I get to go on amazing vacations while they can’t even afford to buy shoes. But the community outside my window came and left all so quickly that as soon as I noticed what was going on around me, it was gone. I look back out my window, all I see is the scenery from before. I look at the people behind me, secretly apologizing that I drove through their town and didn’t offer the help that was obviously needed. We arrive at the airport and I am still guilty for the gap of belongings and circumstances in our lives. I get new phones, and clothes and shoes, while they get maybe two meals a day, and haven’t purchased new shoes for years. My mind is fixed, deep in thought as I take my seat on the plane. I don’t sleep a wink. Instead I think of what I can do to help people that live in poverty. I think about how much I take for granted and how these people have close to nothing, but they appreciate everything they have. While I will remember the whole trip to Argentina, the very end when we passed the community, will leave a mark on me forever. Like the breathtaking landscape, this image of humanity will remind me, cheer me up and inspire me.

Play-doh Sarah K. No control, molded, shaped, formed into some thing by some other. 24

ENGLISH 9/10

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Spring 2017

It doesn’t know wants to be do become so another takes it their hands.

No control influenced, controlled,

Like a child being told yes no

led by mother “knows best”.

by their mother. No control influenced, controlled, led by mother “knows best”. Can only watch built, flattened, reshaped to fit another’s image. Eventually fit an image, like it or not. 25

ENGLISH 9/10

HGHS

Spring 2017

Lose Yourself Kristina

It’s possible to not know who you are or where you’re supposed to be.

It’s possible to lose yourself. To not know who you are or where you’re supposed to be. Even how you got there. It’s that feeling when you don’t know what you’re doing or why you’re doing it, but you continue to do it. It’s possible to not recognize yourself, but the feeling doesn’t come all at once. The feeling comes in waves. Slowly does the feeling start to grow, it becomes a part of who you are, it takes over you as a whole. The first wave is action. There’s something that you did or said that you just can’t believe came from you. It takes one motion. From stepping into that new store in the mall, to skiing down the hardest course near your house in Vermont. It’s a baby step in this big process. But, it starts the path to not recognizing who you are, or where you’re supposed to be. The second wave is repetition. You start to repeat the same action over and over again, until it becomes a part of you. The one action that you would never imagine coming from you, is now part of your routine. It can take a while for all of this to happen. The repetition stage can last for months, maybe even years. This continues the path to a whole new life and a whole new you. The third wave is stepping back. Realizing how much this one action has eﬀected you. Stepping back to see what has happened and wondering if there’s any way to fix it, if it can’t resolve on its own. The trail of footsteps you left behind leading from one place to the next seems infinite. You look over the horizon at that trail of footsteps, wondering if it ever ends, and where it might lead. I was a crazy little kid, my teachers weren’t so pleased. So I changed myself slightly, altered my personality. I often look back to see what would have happened if I didn’t, wondering where I would be at this moment, what I would be doing. But the snowfall covered my tracks, and I can no longer ask “what if?” because there is no path leading back to my old self, it’s hidden away under mountains of snow. Once a track has been covered, it can never be uncovered. 26

ENGLISH 9/10

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Spring 2017

The fourth and final wave is grief. Realizing what you’re doing is not what you want. Discovering that changing is not what you wanted to happen. Annoyed by the fact that you let yourself get this lost. Grief takes over your whole body and takes control of how you live your life. The life you now live is not the life that you could have lived. It’s possible to not know who you are or where you’re supposed to be. To not recognize who you’ve become. To lose yourself to the point where you can’t quite seem to find your way back, and the only option is to keep going in the direction you’re headed. The only option is to adapt to the new circumstances. But when you don’t recognize yourself, there’s a problem. A problem where there is no solution. No way to find yourself again.

Not Far From the Tree Ryan They teach me to be true to myself and to not be driven by others ideas but by ideas that will leave me wellrounded.

he most influential people in my life are my parents. This may well sound cliche, but my parents are the strongest, most driven people that I know. They are able to manage a household with three kids who are encouraged to follow in the footsteps of their parents. They are able to provide us with a happy, healthy lifestyle that we appreciate everyday. They not only provide a standard of living but make us feel comfortable of expressing ourselves to them and to others. They teach me to be true to myself and to not be driven by others ideas but by ideas that will leave me well-rounded. My parents didn’t begin their life with “golden spoons in their mouth”. They had to step up to the plate if they wanted to succeed in life. My mom was born and raised in Pennsylvania. She wasn’t born with that much money but had a good idea about what she had planned on being in her future. Her parents didn’t have much money for college, so my mom had worked day and night saving up to go to college and finally she had managed to save up just the right amount to be able to aﬀord tuition. She had gone to college and majored in business and finance for her later career choice. As years went on she managed to get a finance position in an investment firm in Philadelphia and then called to work in New York .

ENGLISH 9/10

HGHS

Spring 2017

My father was born and raised in New York. His mom being a school teacher and father being a soldier who fought in WWII. His father had died at a young age which has affected my father to this day. He still feels as if he missed out when he was younger because he never had his father to talk to and associate with. My father went to fordham prep in the bronx and later on went to Fordham University to study business and economics. My father went on to work at firm in Manhattan where he would meet my mother. They moved north into Westchester and had three children without much consideration. We had moved when I was just about to begin seventh grade. We had moved to Chappaqua because the schools were much better than where I was before . The transition was tough for all of us as we didn’t know where we stood. We all worked together to get a feel for the neighborhood. My parents managed to make us feel comfortable with our new surroundings and environment. They would talk to us about our day and go through the day with us as if we were analyzing it. My father would then offer his input. They had made an effort to get to know our neighbours and later integrate with the community. My sister was just beginning Horace Greeley as a freshman and didn’t know anyone. She was just fine when she knew she had support from her parents and that they would be there whenever she needed them. When I think of all the things my parents do for me, I feel fortunate. They have challenges that face them everyday, but still are capable of taking care of their children and themselves. As I idle away time during the day, I feel a sense of renewal whenever I am able to do something for my parents that is able to make them proud.

Gone Vedan I was 13, looking through the open window of my room in my cyan house, into the dense forest. Trees were shedding as winter was about to start, and I could feel a cold breeze brushing against my face. I noticed Gone, by Michael Grant clutched in my hand. Then, I remembered. I remembered what happened, what I was thinking about and why Gone obtained my attention. 28

ENGLISH 9/10

Trees were shedding as winter was about to start, and I could feel a cold breeze brushing against my face.

HGHS

Spring 2017

It was my first time hearing about the novel. One of my friends recommended Gone to me as a choice book for English because they knew I enjoyed science-fiction. I was intrigued by its vague title as I couldn’t guess what the book could’ve been about, so I decided to give it a try. Laying on the fluﬀy, white couch in my house with a glass of water on the coﬀee table, I opened it up. Five minutes, thirty minutes, two hours had passed before I noticed. Although it surprised me that I read the novel for a considerable amount of time, what startled me even more was the plot. Sam, Quinn, and Astrid were at school in Perdido Beach. They were attending class until everyone above fifteen disappeared. When others left to see if anyone was home, they were… gone. Parents, siblings, teachers, all gone; society was in ruin at Perdido Beach. After all the bewilderment, Sam was chosen leader of their society as he was the bravest. If I were in his shoes, I would be overburdened. All the responsibility put on him to find a way to fix the predicament would be unbearable. I’m relieved that I don’t have to experience what these young children had to go through. After reading Gone, I was strongly reminded of a moment in my life. Once, when I came home from elementary school, my parents weren’t there. I was puzzled; I didn’t think there would be a day when I wasn’t greeted by my loving mother. My mother didn’t open the door as she usually would, so I rang the doorbell. No answer. I didn’t hear any footsteps and the TV wasn’t on, so I started to panic. I decided to go through the garage, but didn’t see our white 2008 Lexus SUV. Because of this, I went unlock the door with my key I always carry to get inside, as I wanted to check if anyone was home. As soon as I walked in, there was no one in the living room. I wanted to shout and scream because I didn’t know what to do. Immediately, I jumped to the worst conclusion: “What if they left? Why aren’t they home?” These thoughts circulated inside my head. I couldn’t take the anxiety and had a breakdown and started crying. I fell on my knees in the living room, hoping that my sobbing would bring them back. It felt like ten hours had passed. Of course at the time, I was seven and believed that my parents would leave me forever. My face was full of tears, until I heard the door opening. I froze, wondering whether or not it could possibly be my parents.

ENGLISH 9/10

HGHS

Spring 2017

When I looked up, my dad walked through the door carrying groceries, accompanied with my mother! My parents were standing there, confused with why I was on the floor. I jumped up and ran towards them, wiping the tears oﬀ my face. I hugged them and never let go as I had the fear that they would vanish if I did. I’m grateful that I have such a comfortable life, my parents supporting and always being there for me. Sadly, in Gone, everyone lost their parents. All the young children had to bear the responsibility of being alone with no guidance, having to be selfsuﬃcient. I am gratefully appreciative that I only have small worries, not ones that are able to cause great harm towards me. I am grateful that I always know my parents won’t vanish into thin air whenever they leave for a period of time. I know that if I come home and my mother isn’t there, she will always return. Gone presents to me how lucky I am to have parents. It shows me how I can live peacefully on my couch, not having to worry about food, money or shelter. I am sympathetic for those without a father and mother. No one is there to help them through the tough journey of growing up. Parents are the most valuable people anyone can have because they can always help you in a tight situation, and will never leave your side.

The Big Hit Danny The moment that you tackle someone is an indescribable feeling. It's a rush of adrenaline, the loud crack that sounds like thunder and the moment that you hit the ground. It's a feeling of dominance and accomplishment. The whistle is blown and the clock goes live, I set myself up and stare into the eyes of a person that I have never met or even talked to, but all I can feel is pure hatred towards them and the need to run them straight over. They are the only thing in between me and that glorious feeling that you get when you hit someone right in the stomach with a shoulder pad. I am addicted to that feeling, it's what drives me to work hard and get better so that I can make the feeling even more enjoyable. Knowing that I made a diﬀerence in a play, a set of downs, or even sometimes a game gives me the confidence to go out there every game, be the captain of the team, 30

ENGLISH 9/10

The moment that you tackle someone is an indescribable feeling. It's a rush of adrenaline, the loud crack that sounds like thunder and the moment that you hit the ground. It's a feeling of dominance and accomplishment.

HGHS

Spring 2017

and in the end give the other team grim and smug looks because you know that you dominated them. The whistle blows to start the clock. I look down the line. Time slows down, I don’t know where I am or who I am. But I don’t care. The only thing that matters is the person in front of me and waiting for the even slightest movement of the ball. My whole body is tense, every muscle ready to lash out, every play I am ready to go harder than I have ever gone. The ball is snapped, there is no time to think, only to react. I find the ball and I hunt it. I have to tackle whoever has it in any way that I can. You never know what will happen next during a play. You could be taken out of the rest of the season in a split second because of an injury or you could make a huge game winning tackle. When you are on that field, everything feels perfect and I love it.

She Told Me to Live in the Moment Abigail Yesterday I was thinking about what it means to live in the moment. I was in yoga class and as we entered shavasana for our 10 minutes of meditation at the end of class the teacher advised us to “live in the moment.” Very often people preach to live in the moment, but it is very rare for them to tell you why. Maybe it is just very obvious to them, so they don’t feel the need to elaborate. Or maybe they themselves have just heard it said enough times that at this point they don’t really think about what “living in the moment” really entails and how it aﬀects life and your perspective on it; They have just grown to really believe in it. As confusing as I found the saying to be, I did want to try living in the moment. Maybe if I just did it I would understand the whole rage behind it. The instructor kept repeating that if we couldn’t clear our minds we should count our breaths to distract us, so I did. One… Two… Three… Four… Five… Six… Sev... As I will explain again later, 60% of people are narcissists and like to hear themselves talk so chances are that the reason why they don’t 31

ENGLISH 9/10

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Spring 2017

elaborate would be the latter. But if this is a tactic for life that they have grown to deem to be so necessary that they practically force it upon other people, how could they not think about what it really means? How could they just say it nonchalantly as if their thoughts, which you would think are actually meaningful to them considering that they are commanding others to abide by them, are just some random person’s biology homework answers that can be copied and pasted as many times as desired without losing any value as they make their way into the work of every single person that they surrounded themselves with?

Everyone’s eyes are closed but mine.

I looked around at the people I was surrounding myself with. Did the instructor really believe all the words she was tossing to them over and over again? Maybe she just said them because it was her job. Maybe she didn’t really care how much my downward dog was improving. Maybe she just said it because it’s her job... If people think their own thoughts are so worthless that they deserve to be tossed around the way trash is tossed into a bin but without even caring if it ends up where they wanted it to (Did they even have any goal in mind when they said it or did they not even have any particular place in mind for these thoughts to go?) assuming that they had intentions for its destination, then what do they think about my words, the thoughts that inspired them to be made, and the person that inspires them to be made and all the experiences, with all the people and places and objects that made them occur just the way they did, that made her (me) the exact person that I am with the exact perspective of life that I have which allows me to have the thoughts to fuel the words that they must care about even less than they care about their own which is already, obviously, basically not at all? Everyone’s eyes are closed but mine. I try to close them and just use my other senses: I try to feel the squishy matt supporting my back and smell the lavender candle in the front of the room but it doesn’t stop my eyes from wandering. I see the small black trash bin by the door... If where people’s trash goes takes up one percent of their brain power when throwing it out but they don’t even care where their words go, that would make them take up about half of a percent of the room for all of the thoughts in their brain because making sure it actually ends up in the trash is one of the two reasons why people throw out trash (the other being to get it out of their way while their using the other 99 percent of their brain to 32

ENGLISH 9/10

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do other things) and we already established that they don’t care how their thoughts end up being perceived so my thoughts would take up an average of about 0.2 percent of what they think, assuming that I am the only other person whose thoughts they are receiving at that time because scientists estimate that 60 percent of people are narcissists, meaning that 60 percent of people care more about their own thoughts than the thoughts of others so about 60 percent of the time you talk to people they won’t care about the thoughts that you give them as much as they care about the thoughts that they are actually originating themselves which leaves 40 percent of the time for them to actually care about your thoughts and .5 of the space for thought in their brain is dedicated to consuming thoughts in the form of words including their own and 40 percent of half of a percent is .2 of a percent, so when I am with these people they only allow my thoughts to take up 2 of every one-thousand things that they think about. “Don’t think of all the stressful situations you were in today,” the instructor preaches. “And don’t worry yourself over the ones you may or may not be in tomorrow. Just feel your emotions. Feel happiness or confusion or love or…” Even if I decided to confess my deepest love to a person right now, they would still have approximately 1,998 other thoughts circling through their brain right at that moment. When you think about it that way it seems as if all these thoughts that we let take over our brains are so irrelevant. It’s almost as if the only purpose that they serve is to distract us from so many other experiences that could really change the way we perceive each and every moment of our lives. Yesterday I thought about what it means to live in the moment. I wonder what else I thought about yesterday.

No Role Modelz Jacob Role models-—who we look up to for inspiration-—lead by example and assist you in making decisions that may have a great eﬀect on your future. Some are surrounded by good role models, while others are in search for one. Kids are influenced by their environment. Whether they are taught rightfulness or are taught immoral behavior these lessons are embedded in their brain and it 33

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is extremely hard to unattach these strings. The longer you're exposed to bad situations the more likely it is you are to act badly. My. dad came from a divorced family and his parents were not there for him very often. He was faced with learning how to do things on his own and making decisions that may have had a long lasting impact on his life. My family has always been there to support me with the decisions I make, but who would my father look up to when making decisions? This experience and learning to be independent may have turned him into a better person and I am so fortunate to have a father who is always there for me when I need him.

I asked myself, who do these kids look up to for inspiration if no one's there to support them?

Malala, who told her story in an interesting novel called I am Malala, is an activist for female education and is the youngest person to ever win the Nobel Peace Prize. Malala has been surrounded by good role models including her grandfather Rahul and her father Ziauddin. â&#x20AC;¨

Malala had such great role models however, it seemed that most children in the village of Swat Valley had no one to look up. This village was once a magnificent and delightful place filled with fruit trees and wavy rivers. But then, it turned into a place of hardship and oppression. I asked myself, who do these kids look up to for inspiration if no one's there to support them? And what influences these kids decisions on who to choose as their mentor? This is the same question I thought about when thinking about my dad. Who did he look up to for inspiration? And what influenced his decision on who to look up to as a mentor? I took a moment to deeply reflect on this question. And decided that if I was in his shoes I would most likely turn to anyone present in my life for a great amount of time or people I think highly of. Whether it's the famous celebrity who I adore on television, my friend who I think highly of, or those who are extremely successful, that's who I would turn to for inspiration. Swat Valley is such an isolated environment and a place with mostly bad influences. Kids may not have a good role model to look up to and instead look up to a bad role model because there are not many other people to look up to. After Malala told her 34

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story she became extremely famous and held a great amount of power. She has continued to accomplish her goals while embracing her global fame for the right reasons… So she should be the one who kids look up to as a role model.

Moving Toward Magma Henry

The shallow floor of the ocean ridge displays the vibrant colors of the twisted coral reefs before the

Nothing around for miles, except the vast expanse of the blue ocean and a tiny distant island. The small rolling hills of water overlap every few seconds revealing a foamy white cap. The water sparkles, a result of the sun’s distorted reflections on the constantly flowing water. The clear waters transition to a light blue, royal blue, and eventually a dark indigo as they drift further and further away. The shallow floor of the ocean ridge displays the vibrant colors of the twisted coral reefs before the drop oﬀ to the depths of the deep waters protected by the cover of darkness. Brightly colored fish dart quickly back and forth as if they are escaping from something that will take their life. Striped and spotted eels weave themselves through the endless maze of the reef while crabs shuﬄe from side to side occasionally burying themselves under the sand, isolating themselves from the outside world.

drop off to the depths of the deep waters protected by the cover of darkness.

The unusually large beach forms an almost perfect loop around the entire island only obstructed a few times by jutting rocks or fallen palms. The soft, white sand is scattered with smooth rocks and shells. Towards the rear of the beach, the sand is softer and forms lots of little mounds, as you near the water, it gradually smooths out and gets harder, for it is densely packed with absorbed sea water. There is no clear border between the beach and the jungle, only a few rows of palm trees bent in various directions. The long fronds shade a portion of the beach and yield big, brown, coconuts with thick shells and juicy, white flesh.

A thick jungle occupies most space on this lone, isolated landform. The trees are densely packed and can be seen countless miles in the distance towering over the beach. Each one is a slightly diﬀerent shade of green creating the look of camouflage painted 35

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on a warring soldier’s face. Colorful birds fly through the canopy and occasionally let out a chirp or a squawk that echoes, bouncing around between the branches of the tallest trees. The understory and forest floor would be impossible to navigate due to the tangle of hanging vines and the underlying bushes displaying their arrangement of thorns. Little light is available in the lower levels of the forest but at uneven intervals, beams of light shine through openings in the the tree cover that darkens most of the ground’s red soil, rich with iron. The climate rises the deeper you go. Monkeys swing through twisted vines and thick branches that are elevated above the moss that is slowly consuming the jungle from the bottom up. Dart frogs with intense, vivid color jump incredible lengths between the infinite mass of fallen trees being slowly decomposed by ants and other insects. Bengal tigers lurking deep in the heaps of rubble and cover of darkness ruthlessly attack prey wherever they can find it in the hidden corners of this landscape. Even the air is thick, with humidity and moisture. At the approximate center of the island lies an incline in rocky, mountainous terrain. The face of this mountain is incredibly steep, but smooth, with the exception of the occasional jagged rock, overhang, or cliff face. It is not a gradual transition from jungle to mountain, only a small clearing surrounding the base, then the abrupt mass of rock rising from the earth. Almost the entire natural structure is hollow, containing a wide basin of fiery, reddish, orange magma. Never ceasing to bubble and churn, it produces heat like none other and a glow at night that can be seen from any vantage point on the island. The basin of magma funnels out into a thin tunnel that stretches miles below the surface of the earth with different sectors branching off in different directions. The layer of rock protecting the island from the thick fiery substance occupying the interior of the volcano is so thick, on the jungle side, it feels cool to the touch.

ENGLISH 9/10

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My Experience with Books Krishna “There is no friend as loyal as a book.” Ernest Hemingway A good book can stop time. Many times I find myself lying in my bed at midnight with my book being the only thing keeping me awake. Without that worn out paperback in my hands, I would be sleeping within seconds. Yet, if I have a good book in my hand, time doesn’t aﬀect me. If I have a good book in my hand, the only thing that matters is turning the pages until there are none left. Nothing else has the power to do this. Everything gets old after a while. Everything but books. I often wonder why good books are so intriguing. My answer to this question changes from time to time. If I was asked this in second grade, my answer would be that I too wanted to go on adventures in a magical treehouse, so it is fun to at least read read about it. If I was asked in fifth grade, I would say that I wanted to be brave and funny like Percy Jackson. If I was asked today, I would say that it's because of the feeling of freedom I get from books. With a good book in hand, I feel like I’m away from the real world. I don’t have assignments that I’m procrastinating on, I don’t have to do the dishes, and I don’t have to deal with the pain of my recently tightened braces. When I’m reading, I escape everything. I’m in a new world where I can go on adventures and learn new things.

But once you slap a white label on a book, reading “Mandel, Room 304”, that book is no longer an escape.

School issued books. I have read a lot of school issued books. From first grade book club with The Giving Tree to 6th grade with The Outsiders to Lord of the Flies from just a couple months ago. After reading so many, I still don’t know whether or not I enjoy reading school issued books. Here’s why. When I’m reading a book by myself, I read fast… but I also really enjoy the book, because as I said before, it gives me a sense of freedom. The sense of freedom is what makes me love books. But once you slap a white label on a 37

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book, reading “Mandel, Room 304”, that book is no longer an escape. It is no longer a world where I am alone and free. That label turns reading the book into a world with one road. There is only one way to read that book, and it is not for fun. That infamous white label symbolizes paper topics, pop quizzes, and hidden symbols. When I read a school issued book knowing there is a paper or quiz that I need to complete on the book, I can’t enjoy it as much as I normally would. That being said, sometimes this is not the case at all. Sometimes I love school issued books. For instance Animal Farm, and Lord of the Flies were both school issued books that I really enjoyed. Papers may be irritating, but honestly writing papers can actually be pretty fun if you are really interested in the book. The best part of school issued books is that they are usually pretty good. Without school issued books, I never would have learned about how the talking pigs in Animal Farm, actually symbolized former leaders of Russia. Lord of the Flies never would have showed me how easily people can become corrupt under power. I would be missing out on a lot without school issued books. However, there are always perks to reading a book at your own pace on your own time. My earliest memory of reading a book and really enjoying it was in second grade. The book was Midnight on the Moon, the eighth installment in the Magic Treehouse series. At the time I was already fascinated by space. I had countless picture books, and puzzles about outer space. So, jumped right into the eighth book skipping the first 7. I still remember how excited, and proud I was to be reading a level “M” book about space. This was the first book that stopped time for me. This was my first time being transported to another world. I was with Jack and Annie, and I was also looking for Merlin’s clues on the moon. I even remember the end of the first chapter in all 40+ books*. Anyways, I have had a lot of experiences with books. I have had good and bad experiences with books, but I don’t think I could live without them. “The wind started to blow. The tree house started to spin. It spun faster and faster. Then everything was still. Absolutely still.” 38

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The English Class Paradox Luke

…turning the pages feels like dragging a grand piano across a gravel beach, and typing each word feels like running a footrace with a cruise ship anchor strapped to my back, as I struggle to churn out pages like I would do with papers on more interesting topics.

I’ve never really liked reading a school-issued book. Not only are the books usually not very enjoyable to begin with, but they go against my basic knowledge of fun. To me, fun is anything that I choose to do on my time, at my expense, on my own volition. But when a teacher plops a 600 page book on my desk that’s probably been handled by 20 students before me, forces me to read it in two weeks or less, and then write a 5 page essay on it, that takes out all the enjoyment in reading. Don’t get me wrong, I love reading and writing. Heck, I'm probably writing this paper with a smile on my face, savoring every letter that pops up when I strike the key on my laptop. But when the book, and by extension, the inevitable paper on said book, is dull and uninteresting, turning the pages feels like dragging a grand piano across a gravel beach, and typing each word feels like running a footrace with a cruise ship anchor strapped to my back, as I struggle to churn out pages like I would do with papers on more interesting topics. But other than that, I genuinely enjoy reading and writing. A good book can easily get me engaged in the story, and a good topic could get me typing for hours on end. Picturing scene after scene in my head, scenes from stories both of an author and my own, my eyes glued to the page or screen until my dad yells at me to go to sleep because—somehow—it’s 10:30pm on a Wednesday. But the fact that it’s 10:30 is a good sign, because as the old saying goes- Time flies when you’re having a good time. Actually, I’m not sure if that’s the original saying, but I like it better. It rhymes. Anyways, back to what I was saying. When that book is schoolissued, and I’ve got a deadline creeping up on me, trust me, instead of time flying through the air, time is more like a prisoner in an old black and white movie. Hammering slowly at giant railroad spikes, giant ball and chain strapped to his leg. In fact, because of my strong dislike of school issued books, I don’t even read the dang thing. Rather, I would just look up a summary of it either on the internet, or pray that my parents have read it before so they can tell me the jist of the story, just to save myself some time. Time that would be much better spent reading something I genuinely enjoy. 39

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But unfortunately, I can’t do the same thing with writing for school. No one writes in the same style as me, and I don’t write like anybody else. Also if I even tried to pull a stunt like that, I would get caught in an instant. But probably the worst feeling is either when I start to lose interest in a book, or writer’s block. When I lose interest in a book, I want to read it, find out what happens next, but at the same time, I can’t bring myself to do so. It’s a vicious cycle of sorts. But even worse is writer’s block. Heck, I am currently experiencing writer’s block writing this. (About 20 minutes passes, as i fiddle with my thumbs, listen to some music, and read some articles on NFL.com.) But I eventually decided to expand on the struggles of what I enjoy, which lead to this whole section of my paper. Writer’s block lead to me writing to writer’s block. Ironic, huh? Anyways, writer’s block, at least for me, can take anywhere from a few minutes to a few days to clear up. Sometimes, an idea will just pop into my head that works with what I’m writing, and others a suggestion from either a friend or the teacher unclogs the blockage. Either one of these allows the idea river inside my mind can start flowing once more, which finally allows me to finish papers like this one, where writers block is more common than I care to admit.

Why Third Grade Wallball is Stupid Eric He’s an idiot. He’s not nice. He’s selfish. I hate him. I will never play anything ever again if he’s in it.

An argument that wouldn’t have happened if that idiot didn’t think he owned the school and the field and the wall and the game of wallball.

Thoughts like these raged through my head after that unfair argument with the kid who I now started to dislike. An argument that shouldn’t have happened if anyone in the third grade had even half a brain. An argument that wouldn’t have happened if that idiot didn’t think he owned the school and the field and the wall and the game of wallball. The rules were usually followed, but this was the first time they weren’t. Rather, they were apparently changed by that idiot, and I 40

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started a heated argument with him when he said I broke one of them. Now, it must be recognized that eight-year-olds may render themselves slightly unstable by arguing too much. I was rather sensitive back then, and took the unfair decision deeply to heart. Though in my defense, the judgement was indeed incorrect. Being one of the few that actually cared about rules, and not about getting a ton of people “out” whether or not they deserved it, I continued to argue that the call was incorrect. Those that are actually intelligent enough to understand and remember the rules of wallball would find this quite unfair. As I recall, if the ball bounces off someone after hitting the wall and is caught, the thrower is “out,” and the person who failed to catch the ball only needs to touch the wall in order to protect him or herself before the ball hit the wall again. These rules would have been the ones to follow that one time the ball bounced off of my arm and was caught by another student. Logically, all I was supposed to and needed to do was touch the wall first. However, there was that one other student, who had more popularity in the school than I, who opposed me and claimed it was different, that the thrower is perfectly safe, but the person who last touched the ball is the one caught out. His popularity won over everyone, and the wrong rules were followed. Being the over-competitive kid I had been, I refused to step down from the argument. But of course not, it didn’t stop there. Not only did he deny that I was right, he also denied that I touched the wall before the ball did, saying that I had gotten two “outs” in the span of five seconds. Given the opportunity, I would have torn his head off with my bare eight-year-old hands and proceeded to use it as the ball. I don’t think I should be blamed for getting angry. Indignance is perfectly acceptable when a situation calls for it. My sensitivity and competitiveness made me tell myself, “If the rules say you’re right, you’re right. You follow the rules, and if someone breaks them, you tell them. You tell them they’re wrong, and you prove it.” But the guy was an absolute fool who wouldn’t listen to other people. He was one of those “cool kids” who thought they 41

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knew everything about sports and whatnot when they really didn’t understand half of anything. So when I argued, he turned a deaf ear. Then, when I made my shouts louder, he just yelled back, claiming that he was right and was always right, even though he had failed to multiply six by seven earlier that morning. What was even worse than the two unfair “outs” was that nobody supported me and that most people joined him to argue against me, and that this was the only situation of its kind in which the wrong rules were followed. In the past, when the ball bounced off of someone and was caught, the thrower was out. But of course, this was the one time someone changed that ruling, and it just so happened to be against me; therefore I naturally suspected the kid who made the unfair calling was specifically acting out against me, and consequently developed a grudge against him. Even as I continued to yell my proof at him that never before had these wrong rules been followed, he denied my correctness and continued to assert that I was wrong. I refused settle for the injustice, and ran off to call the lunch aid to officiate. She was the only person out at recess who would listen to me, who could make a decision and tell the moron I was right and then allow the game to resume. Or, that’s what I’d thought. When I ran to get her, I didn’t elaborate the situation enough, and only said there was an unjust ruling. I never specified the conditions; therefore, when the other kid explained his botched guidelines, she sided with him. With the adult on his side, there was no way I could win the unjust war. I accepted the injustice and quit the game for the day, promising to myself to seek revenge another day. By this point, I was completely sure that this other student wished ill for me, and I planned to hold an eternal grudge against him until he apologized for everything. However, the hostility remained for the rest of the week, and in fact as the year progressed it only grew. I moved out of that old school district this summer, and will admit I am internally glad I no longer see this “enemy” of mine. But between the day of that disaster and the day I moved out of New Jersey, rather than apologizing, this person only caused me increasing amounts of trouble. He incited another wallball incident and pointed his trumpet directly in my ear during Jazz Band concerts last year (which he denied doing once I brought up 42

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a complaint to the director, who also sided with him). Pure, eternal injustice; never have I ever heard so much an “I’m sorry” from Austin Frank.

The Book Hole Asher Finishing a good book feels like being trapped in a hole. For me, it is hard to find a book that I enjoy. That's why I am not much of a reader. So it only adds to the fire when that book ends and I feel like I’ll never find a book as good. Of course later I catch on to a book from a recommendation or an ad or something but it happens rarely. But the reason for this “book hole” is way deeper than the fact that I’m not a big reader. When I think of a famous book the first thing that honestly comes to mind are the Harry Potter books. The first and second ones were amazing! There were diverse and lovable characters, big turning points, an expansive and wondrous setting, a great plot, the list goes on. But notice the keywords “the first and the second”. Unfortunately this is a transition to the first reason why it is hard for me to find good books. Book series are the bane of my existence. They start out ok but then they turn into a museum artifacts, overpraised for no other reason than it’s name. I despise book series. I had opened my heart to Harry Potter. I read the first one, mouth dropped open with awe as I learned lessons and concepts that made me feel like my childhood was accelerating. That’s what a good book does to me, it benefits through a little bit of learning. I thought to myself “wow, this might be a series I can sink my teeth into.” So I read the second one. Again I found myself in awe, the huge climax at the end of the story when the killer was being caught had me turning the other cheek to my gaming computer. But when I was going to read the third one a friend warned against it. They told me the series ends up stale. I didn’t want to believe it, but it was true. I had seen what Harry Potter had become, a huge monetized advertisement. Movies were pumped out shamelessly and I decided to shy away from that series. It was the same with the book series I started reading called “Dripping Fang” by Dan Greenburg. I read the first, second and third book. They were 43

ENGLISH 9/10

So just like any fruit that you can sink your teeth into, there is only a certain amount of juice in it.

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good, but the third one was just cheesy. So I stopped reading them, and let the extent of my admiration for those books only reach the second one. So just like any fruit that you can sink your teeth into, there is only a certain amount of juice in it. So that was my experience with book series. Obviously not every book is in a series, in fact they are a minority in the world of books. But then there is another book complaint I have, and it is about long books. Generally I am referring to books that are longer than 350 pages. It isn’t the long books themselves that I hate, it is just how inconsistent their quality is. That is usually why I shy away from them. When a large book is good it ends up being REALLY good. And I get to enjoy it for a long time. But when a large book is bad… it is a huge waste of time. I don’t want to hear a character describing his setting in a supermarket for 10 pages, I want the story to continue. Don’t get me wrong I love a good spicy setting but sometimes these books take it too far. The authors try to look like creative geniuses. But to me it seems like a sad attempt at modern art. And it doesn’t happen often but sometimes Authors will add useless filler. I understand if something big is happening in the book like the main character is being held at gunpoint and the moment just slows down to a zoom in moment and the characters life “flashes before their eyes” so to speak, but it really gets annoying when the author takes a whole chapter to do it. And the cliffhangers that are peppered all over the book are like entire chapters in and of itself, so sometimes when I want to just stop reading the book, I feel like it would be unfair to judge it before another major event happens in the plot line. Often times it is like the saying “don’t judge a book by it’s cover” but the cover of the book is actually at the end of the book. This is all usually how long books come to be at least in my case. Don’t get me wrong I am not completely oblivious to books that are widely loved just because of the categories I put them in, my favorite book of all time is over 500 pages long. The 13 and ½ Lives of Captain Bluebear by Walter Moers had captivated me like a bad alcohol addiction, and the The Maze Runner Series by James Dashner (what I am currently reading) is so far actually pretty good. But in the end good books that won’t lead me down a path of disappointment, nor will bore me and waste my time for the hours I spend on them, are simply harder to come by. 44