It Was A Normal Day Essay

I remember the first day I walked into my kindergarten class, I clenched my mother’s hand with all my might to prevent her from letting go. The kids around me, whom I supposed were my classmates, had long let go of their mother’s had and were playing together, and even as a five year old, at that point I felt like an outsider. I pleaded my mom to not leave but my attempts failed as I found myself alone yet surrounded by complete strangers. As I stood in the center of the room while pushing back my tears and eyeing my mother make her way out the door, I heard the teacher call my name. I timidly walked towards the spot on the yellow carpet she was signaling at for me to sit on. I heard Mrs. Ross’s soothing voice but no matter how much I concentrated

The four-day school week has gained quite a bit of traction in the United States as of lately. In fact, The Education Commission has estimated that hundreds of districts in 17 states have made the transition. Also, there are state officials present within Arizona, Colorado, Idaho, and Oregon and all have reported increases in the four-day schedule. It is a movement that grows by the month and is the way forward in education. Colby Public Schools absolutely should transition from a five-day school week to a four-day school week due to the benefits of this system. Colby Public Schools most certainly should switch to a four-day school week as it will lead to a saving of money, better in-depth interaction,

“When a child of the streets stands before you in rags, with a tear-stained face, you cannot easily forget him. And yet, you are perplexed what to do. The human soul is difficult to interfere with. You hesitate how far you should go.” – Charles Loring Brace

"Children are great imitators. So give them something great to imitate. (Anonymous)” In the 1980 Chicago slums this quote couldn’t be truer. The slums were/are a terrible place for not just children, but everyone to live. The Henry Horner homes in particular are full of death, drugs, and poverty. This may not seem like the greatest place for children to be raised, but for some, they know nothing different. The constant gang trouble, drug trafficking, and hiding from stray bullets are an everyday occurrence for people living in these government housing complexes. The devastation is a never-ending cycle. The parents get into drugs and violence, and the children have no choice but to imitate their parents

I sprinted up the stairs, taking no time to stop for breakfast. I had to make it to the factory by 5 or I’d be beaten. The fear of punishment gave me extra speed as I ran out the door into the smoggy darkness. As I ran, I tied back my long blonde hair with the ribbon tied around my wrist. I ran down the cobblestone street, careful not to step in any of the piles of mud. The streets were devoid of carriages, anybody rich enough to own a horse wasn’t getting up this early. The only people I shared the streets with were other children and adults going to work.

“It was December and the weather bitterly cold. She was a tiny mite, the size of five years, though, as afterward appeared, she was then nine. From a pan set upon a low stool she stood washing dishes, struggling with a frying pan about as heavy as herself. Across the table lay a brutal whip of twisted leather strands and the child's meagre arms and legs bore many marks of its use. But the saddest part of her story was written on her face in its look of suppression and misery, the face of a child unloved, of a child that had seen only the fearsome side of life. These things I saw while seeming not to see, and I left without speaking to, or of, the child. I never

In the book There are no Children Here, the author Alex Kotlowitz detailed the lives of two boys living in a Chicago housing project called the Henry Horner Homes. Mr. Kotlowitz describes the lives of the boys Lafeyette and Pharoah, and the lives of their family and friends during the late 1980’s. Their lives, in general, were full of violence and challenges related to poverty. We read about a girl who witnessed her family being murdered, teenagers becoming parents, and gang activity. There are no Children Here is an appropriate title for this book because most children living in the Henry Horner homes did not have a typical childhood and they lived through horrific experiences that made them grow up too fast.

I find myself looking over my shoulder every time I step outside my front door. Violence has opened my eyes and destroyed my dreams of peace. When I first moved to Philadelphia from Puerto Rico, I moved into a neighborhood that was full of gangs and drugs. Philadelphia represented a new start, a chance for me to breathe again. I had experienced a tragic shooting right before my ten year old eyes in Puerto Rico; my mom’s best friend was killed, while the murderer calmly walked away. We escaped to Philadelphia, and I thought my days of witnessing horrific violence were over. However, my dreams were shattered like gunshots in the night. One day, while I was napping, I was awoken by a series of deafening pops. As soon as I heard them, I dropped

Back in 2014 and 2015, the school I used to attend in the Dominican Republic organized trips to orphanages in Haiti. 80 percent of the 32 000 orphans across the 760 orphanages have parents who want them, but they are not able to support their children. The organized trips were crucial in forming me as a caring and loving person. Before, I wouldn’t have been able to imagine how heart-breaking watching these starving, cheerless children would be. I always visualized kids as playful, blissful, and joyful creatures. However, looking at the Haitian orphans I realized how cruel reality can be to people. It was the first time I’ve faced such conditions, and I strongly rejected the fact who there are people in the world that may deserve even a little part of it.

So this boy by the age of 14, named Tim, lived in the worst neighborhood. There were murders, kidnappings, and even robberies. Whenever Tim witnessed something so tragic as of these topics I have listed above, he started to bawl. He cried and cried and cried until his mother came in with some cookies and warm milk and fed it to him like he was still her little 1 year old. Tim was never allowed to go outside. For 1, there was this gang called, “Victorians”, and whenever someone tries to cross their path, they would rob them of their money and beat the victim up. Tim had once crossed their path, and they tried to rob Tim, but 1 of the members passed out because Tim had thrown a pipe at the member’s temple, which was located on the sides of his

Outside, a deep silence fell over the neighborhood. This silence crept into every household. Members of the community had a guise of anger and pain expressed on their faces. Everyone locked themselves inside, to lament such a tragedy that has brought sorrow to a twelve years old’s family. Parents fell on their knees with tears in their eyes. This last murder represented the final straw. So many of their own had been murdered by the malicious, metallic, monsters that were supposed to be the defenders of their community. They felt insecure, threatened by the

It was a clear tranquil London evening, warmer than you would expect in mid fall. At this late hour these streets were completely vacant, with only the street lamps and occasional shop window illuminating the road. The only sound was the pounding of sneakers frantically hitting the pavement. With every step the noise grew louder, bringing the woman closer to the street and,she prayed, safety.

We arrived at our destination… so I took my headphones out, and I put my iPhone away. I stepped off of the bus to see a large brick school building with some bricks missing and multiple cracked windows illuminated by light bulbs glowing brightly in classrooms full of innocent children. I began walking to the entrance of the school, trying to avoid the large cracks in the sidewalk that were filled with ice on this bitter December day. Snow was falling and the bitter cold and my new surroundings were shaking me to the core.

Even when the children are faced with danger, they think nothing of it and quickly move on. The children’s journey through childhood is one of beauty and simplicity, as the children had no pressing worries in life and they finely made do with the little that they had.

So naturally, nine years old Geneva cried. I know, how pathetic, how pitiful. All I knew was that I wasn’t near my home, and I wasn’t supposed to bike this far. I felt bad for my other friends who were okay with biking this far as they saw the tears streaming down my face. I sat upon the ground stubbornly, refusing to get up from my crouched position. The kids with us argued about what to do. They couldn’t just go back, or let me go