Leslie's Life-Personal Narrative

Hope Leslie, is a fictional novel about the Pequot War written by Catharine Maria Sedgwick in 1827. In the novel Sedgwick presents the relationships and conflict between the English and Indians from both parties point of view. “In Hope Leslie, Sedgwick shows a sympathetic understanding of Indians and Indian religious beliefs, based partly on her research into mohawk customs”(Lauter 2014). Her female characters in the novel fight against female stereotypes and restrictions. They disregard enlightenment from powerful males to do what they think is best for them and or others(“Hope Leslie”-Plot Summary). Overall, the book was aimed to show racial hierarchies, gender roles and limits, and an inner sense of morality. I think these themes show who Sedgwick was as a person, and that shows that she believed in equality between women and men, and also believed in others beliefs/religions.

Speaking of school, a new transfer student popped out of nowhere and came to the school. Her name is Rachel. She is in a lot of the same classes as me, so naturally we have to be acquainted. Since she is in many classes as me, she assumes that we are friends. I, on the other hand, do not believe so and I see her as a nuisance. She is always with me and I see many of her thoughts. “I wonder what Kyle’s doing. Why is he always on his tablet? I never see him with any

I unlock the metal gate and climb onto the front patio. Before me stands a two-story house with newly-refurbished windows and a fresh coat of white paint. I admire the house’s beauty as I stroll past it. I walk through a crowded path of mohintli, white laelia, tithonia, and dahlias that seem to guide me to the real reason I am at this address. After moving the branches of some avocado trees out of the way, I finally find the treasure I am seeking: a small rose-colored house with just two windows and two rooms. With the key my father gave me, I open the doors to enter the rooms. The light switch does not work, so only shadows are present in the room. Giant cracks graze the walls like the markings of a lion. On the ceiling, an intricate flower design shines proudly with the rest of the room, slowly losing its will to decay. Only broken furniture stands in the corners of the room, ashamed to be present in front of a girl from the North. After taking a deep breath to calm my emotions, I lock the door, look to the sky, and walk back to the house I am staying at with my

On 1-22-16, Leslie stated to her teacher that her brother (Chris) hurt her. She pointed to her arm, and the reporter saw two red marks like little cuts; no bruises. She stated it happened when her mother (Heather) was out the home, and when she was suspended from school (Jan 20-21, 201). The school staff originally thought she was speaking of Justin when she stated her brother hurt her. Leslie stated she was afraid of Chris, and that he beat her up. The reporter did not see any bruises on her forearm, but the reporter did not look anywhere else. She stated that Justin got a knife to protect her, and he went after Chris with the knife. Leslie states that her mother is always at the home, and she does not work. Leslie stated that Heather walked

The school year approached its end. Another summer to spend alone by myself. The cycle had been repeating since I was in grade school. Sadness choked me as I returned home and shut my door. Every year, the resolution was the same: I would try to make friends next year; however, every year, I felt myself falling back down into the same trap. By the time high school began, I no longer felt the numb sensation of sadness or the flow of tears as the final day of May became the last day I talked with my “friends.” I no longer expected to make any friends, or, more accurately, I no longer expected to be able to make any friends. The sheer possibility of befriending an individual appeared to me as foreign as speaking in latin. When I walked into school, what should have been a site of chatter, opportunity, and growth appeared to me as a form of imprisonment and torture; however, unbeknownst to me, I did have friends; something of which I did not recognize until years passed by. I grown attached to certain conversations; there were times where I felt the need to initiate a conversation rather than waiting for someone else to make one. It was not until one of my friends told me,”We’re your friends aren’t we?” when I realized I was not longer

The moment I emerged from the stairway I began to stare at the man sitting in the chair across the room. This man was not the man I remembered; this man was pale, weak, and lacked motivation. He was not my grandpa: outspoken, stubborn, and jolly. However, the house had not changed one bit. There was still a cluttered mess on the table and reminisce of my departed great-grandma all throughout the house.

I’m walking in the hallway coming back from music class, and I see my best friend Erdem inputting his locker combination. What else would I do but mess him up? He doesn’t do anything, so I do it again, and it’s hilarious to both of us. Then, my other friend Justin comes up to us, and he laughs. We’re all laughing because we can mess with each other and not get mad. I have many friends in Demarest Middle School that I can mess with or be weird with, and they wouldn’t judge or make fun of me. In the past, it didn’t occur to me that I could actually make friends and not be a social outcast in a new school. Well, I did.

This is a letter in support of Sally Robertson, a very talented teacher with whom I have had the pleasure of working as her student and her colleague over the course of many years at Georgia Perimeter College.

In November of 2014 my aunt tragically took her own life. That day I got a tearful phone call from my dad; I could feel his heart breaking as the words came out of his mouth. I held back tears as I drove to his office to be with him, knowing that in this moment I had to be strong for my dad. Together, heavy-hearted, we went and broke the news to my grandparents. During a time of year when most people prepare to gather together with loved ones to celebrate the holidays, my family and I were unexpectedly thrown into a period of mourning. My grandmother asked again and again why Joanie did what she did. I was at a loss for words. I had no answers. I still don’t.

He decided I would be great for the job as the new handyman, It wasn't that hard of a decision considering no one else would go near the place. Windy creek was a ran down and grimy apartment complex just like every other building on the block. Mr.Comb said I could stay at my apartment free of rent every month as long as I do my job. I'm not sure if it's a perk that comes with the job or if Mr.Comb was just looking out for me. I decided to ask which started one of the realest conversations I’ve ever had with someone. After 20 hard years in prison I started to get a knack for sensing when there was something more to a person than meets the eye. I couldn't put my finger on it but I decided that there was definitely something more to old Mr.Comb and I would figure out what once I got settled in. After talking to Mr.Comb I began to walk to my room. Graffiti was on the back of my building. Teenagers and grown men alike dressed in all blue were hanging out on the steps, the Hoovers. I recognized a few of the older faces. What are they doing all the way over here I thought as I eyed them up and down. I tried to walk past them hoping they wouldn't recognize me, after all it has been 20

The man’s face that stared reluctantly and quite relieved I would guess looked torn between two different emotions. Stress and grief caught at both angles of his eyes and around his mouth, which appeared subdued to an unsmiling life. I was actually intendedly stricken for the man who stood so solemnly before me and I am certain that my contortedly horrified face appeared unwelcoming and disgusted. This however was not the way I was brought up to think or even in my own independent mind suggested such a cruel thought. For though I was horrified at how dreadful he seemed, I was sympathetic and welcoming indeed! The man bowed lamely and presumed that he understood how I would not let him in, I shook my head slightly and confused as I was he seemed more. He considered my nod as if to decipher whether or not it meant yes or no then deciding on the negative answer he started to slump off slowly. Panicked though I was at the misunderstanding, soon regaining the momentum of the events I called out hastily. “Sir, I am welcoming for you!” the man turned just his head with a look of absolute surprise and he drawlingly returned to where he had stood before. I had never seen a man this close to me before in such conditions, in truth he looked ready to

The floorboards creaked and groaned beneath me as I stumbled through the door to this house that sat on the edge of town. It had lain forlorn for at least a year now, a curtain of moss and debris littered the lawn and porch, the interior of the house was surprisingly in good shape, victorian-era furniture covered by a veil of dust sat by the grand fireplace, the kitchen still had appliances such as a stove, fridge, and microwave. In a place like this, you would think that someone would have broken in and took this stuff to sell or pawn. I walk slowly up the grand staircase, praying that the floorboards wouldn’t crumble beneath me as I trekked to the top. I finally reach the top and let out a sigh of relief, my breath fogs in front of me and

Moving from the car to the door, I sheathed the key into the lock and turned the doorknob quickly trying to escape the summer heat. Sounds of what was supposed to be the house alarm acknowledging my existence were muted over by whirling hot air, sizzling oil, chopping, and grating pans over the stovetop. Whiffs of fried rice and omelettes greeted me, luring me into the kitchen. The air was smoky and warm sunrays illuminated the room, creating a dazed, heavenly glow. Perched on three-legged stools before the marble island countertop sat my two older sisters, Lillian and Tracey, who were almost mirror images of each other. Both were slim, no taller than 5’2”, and had silky hair ombre-ed from black to a hazelnut brown, that softly brushed the tips of their shoulder blades, which made it difficult to tell who was who, especially from behind. They watched in excitement as their boyfriends prepared the food.

Meet Leslie Tank, a twenty-six-year-old woman who's engaged to Mike Blair the man of her dreams. Leslie comes with a bag of childhood abuse from her mother Kathy Tank. She has avoided that fire of pain left on her soul from all of her abuse. One day Leslie is placed in a situation where she must now face her abuser. A dinner to repair a broken relationship turns violent and leads to a painful outcome. Will Leslie forgive her abuser or will she continue to live with the pain of fire?

I was ready to turn around and say something. In the middle of class they started talking about us, same old thing. Hair is too stringy, clothes are ugly, or that jewelry looks cheap. I was so sick of hearing it. I turned around and I told her that she needed to be quiet. You’ve been doing this for the past week and a half and we’re tired of it. Just because my friends hair looks stringy doesn’t mean that you should talk about it. Its not like it looks bad because it doesn’t, it looks cute. And my clothes, so what if they’re ugly to you, I like them and I think they show who I am. You’re not the one who is going to be wearing them, so don’t worry about what they look like. You need to quit making fun of other people just to make yourself look better. After that she and her friends never said anything about my clothes, or my friend’s hair.