Ignorance And Immaturity-Personal Narrative

As I stood on the outside of the arena watching teen girls traditional finish dancing, my stomach filled with butterflies. I walked into the arena as the announcer says “Next up teen girl's jingle,” with all the other dancers in my category. It was Sunday, the last day of Indian Summer Pow Wow, and my last contest for this pow wow, this year. Although I was nervous, I was also filled with happiness, confidence, and gratefulness. “Take it away boys” the announcer says. That’s when I knew that the drum group was going to start playing and this meant I had to start dancing.

There was a time when I was young, innocent, stupid, and a scaredy cat. This happened when I was about 9 years old, when the world consisted of cartoons, school, and lots of sugar. My brother on the other hand preferred stuffed animals and dolls, and he had this one stuffed doll that looked like a farmer that wore a blue overall and had orange hair. I and my brother shared a room and he would always align all his stuff animals and dolls in an orderly fashion on the desk where they all were pointed towards us, when we were asleep.

Uncomfortable situations are not fun for anybody, but sometimes things are not what they seem. Last summer on an average Friday I was preparing myself for my big lacrosse tryout the following day. At the same time I was also preparing myself for the wide spread of personalities on the team, but listening to all the stereotypes and experience, I thought I knew what they would be like. I assumed I was walking into a tryout with a bunch of rich, snobby, arrogant cities boys, which knew daddy had money. As I drove the boring, simplistic hour and a half drive that’s all I could think about. I was concerned when I should have been excited. As I arrived at my grandparents, I settled myself down and prepared for bed, it was going to be an early morning and a long day.

Life is like a compass. It leads us to find new things about ourselves, and to ask new questions. Throughout history we have seen many age groups portrayed. Babies cry a lot, and live to make their parents lose sleep. Toddlers are the golden children that secretly hid the older siblings favorite things. The Grade Schoolers are at that age where they start to gain responsibility. Teenagers text all day blaring music as loud as they can, with their windows down. These are stereotypes, but some can be accurate depending on the person.

    We are told from the time that we are young to take responsibility for our actions, but there are some kids out there that blame their responsibilities on others. Even though they don’t want to take responsibility for their actions someone else has to take responsibility. When being able to be part of the stories you learn things that you wouldn’t ever be able to learn without being part of it. I have learned things the hard way just to find out that I shouldn’t have been doing it in the first place. Here are some thing that I learned from this situation.

Perhaps I’m naive or ignorant, but I never thought this would happen to us. The last few times I’ve seen you, not once have I gotten the impression that your feelings for me wavered, but I suppose I was wrong. Assuming this may be the last time I’ll ever get the chance to let my thoughts be heard I can’t let this opportunity pass by.

To you I was as delicate as the flower in your mother's garden. For hours you'd gaze at my petals that were as soft as the pillow that consoled you in nights of terror, struck with the desire to touch me, but only did when I said it was okay to. My stem was strong and that is where you chose to break me, as I broke through the soil to be yours, and you broke out of the doors of your house to be mine. Each day cleansing me in a bath of warm air as you ran into the sunlight, kissing me where it tickled with your nose, breathing my sweetness into your very being. Once the other flowers spread the skirts of their buds open and the chaos of their colors drove your sense of vision insane, eyes feeling what fingers had yet to, you tossed me on the

Growing up as one of the outcast or black sheep amongst my classmates, it was very difficult. In a small town where most kids are so sheltered from other cultures and trends I was not widely expected for my choices most of the time. Whether it was my fashion, taste in music, or even just my different thought process, it got me some backlash from the other kids for a while.

I felt pain and pleasure as humans do. I felt angry, sad, and happy as humans do. I felt like humans do, but I was no human, and neither are you. I was awakened by clapping. When the crate that concealed my bare body opened, My creator told me to step out, and I did so for it was what I was programmed to do. I was blinded by the light of day in which I haven't been exposed to for weeks. It took me awhile to adjust to my surroundings but after a brief moment I was able to come to my senses and figure out that I was just at another press conference. These conferences happen on a monthly basis. Most of the time My creator would just show me off to the press. He started speaking to the crowd.

Recently declared as having the number one college in the nation, Claremont, California has been a bastion of education for many years. It is a small college suburb town on the eastern edge of Los Angeles County with a population of about 35,500 people. While hailed as a diverse community, the city’s racial complexion is rather unvaried. Nearly 55 percent of the population identifying as “white” with the next highest ethnic group being those that are of Latino heritage, with around 22 percent of the population. Asian Americans and African Americans represent around 15 and 5 percent of the population, respectively (US). The median household income is around $88,000, higher than the average for all of California. Claremont also has 7.2 percent

I am a sweating mess. Even though I went to the bathroom a little bit ago, I feel the need to pee again. Of course this isn’t a new feeling for me. It happens every time I am about to step on deck for a race. Just moments ago, I was laying on my towel, boiling in the sun (don’t worry mom I put on lots of sunscreen), listening to Justin Bieber music with my purple headphones. The loud speakers came across “Events 18, 19, and 20 please report. Events 18, 19, and 20 please report.” It was time to go swim my heart out. Now, my coaches are trying to prep me, saying that if I “focus on long strokes and fast kicks you can win this.” I didn’t care about coming away with a first place finish today though. I wanted to break 29 seconds. I wanted

I think my one character flaw is opening up to people. I tend to hold everything inside and try to deal with it myself. I only talk to about two people (my boyfriend Cameron and Emma) about things that are happening in my life. I have a hard time opening up to people because I don’t want them to know my past. I make it seem like I have an easy life and have everything that I want, but it isn’t true. I don’t feel like I’m being “fake” about it, because that’s just how I’ve always been. I have plenty of people in my life to talk to if I ever need them. I’m a very independent person and just want to take care of things and deal with them myself. Cameron, my boyfriend, has been a really big help in my life the past year. He’s shown me that it’s

I grew up in a very intolerant religion filled with many loving and good-hearted people. This religion was founded with racist, homophobic, and sexist doctrines that my family and I grew up believing and not quite understanding. A few years ago, my mother told us that she no longer believed in this religion and would be officially resigning in the coming months. I grew curious as to why my mother—who would force me into my Sunday best for three hours of church every week—wanted to leave. I discovered the harsh past of this church, and I began to realize, that I was a part of a cult. Everyday I would go to some church activity, after ending my day at the job I got through the church, and I met up with my fiancé, who, you guessed it, was a part

That’s what I’m trying to figure out. I thought that maybe they were friends and broke into a condemned house, someone got hurt, or this was part of some strange initiation, but they’re from different grades, and polar opposites. They don’t seem to know each other when I mention the other names, but their stories are very similar. Whatever this red door is... it’s terrifying them.

A man paces within the room, his black leather boots clattering against the creaking wood over and over again. He was deeply tan, his skin an olive hue, and his head was topped with a messy mop of grey hair. His face was chiseled and angular, but not untouched by the wrinkles of age. His chin had rough stubble running as a five-o 'clock shadow. Across his left eye ran an old scar, coming from the top left and ending at the start of his nose. His other eye was a deep blue, intently looking towards the worn paint on the floor boards. He was adorned in a light leather vest, metal studs patterned across it to accommodate chainmail, if the need arose for it, and to his side was a thin sword, the hilt finely crafted with a intricate, geometric design stretching across the scratched and scuffed cage. He stands tall, easily clearing six feet, his upper body broad and well kept. He stops dead as he hears the old door creak, turning his one good eye to the new visitors with a deathly glare. "Who are you?"