Personal Narrative: Iris's POV

When I was in my sophomore year of high school, I had a music teacher named Ms. Valentine who taught vocal and piano classes. Ms. Valentine was known as the “mean dad” of the vocal department, because she oddly reminded everyone of a dad instead of a mother, I know it’s weird. She never took the phrase I can’t from a student, and she would never put up with anyone’s bullshit. She believed there was no such thing as “I can’t”. I had the pleasure of having Ms. Valentine as my choir director, sadly. Ms. Valentine was known for assigning students to critique boring plays and concerts.

I grabbed my little sister and we darted in house and slammed the door as if a raging bull was after us.

“Thank you. It scares me to think I might be going to jail. I can’t be in there with those dirty people,” Louise said, hugging herself ready to cry.

Sister Muriel, who was also my grandmother, and who I affectionately referred to as granny, was a bit more tired than usual on the eve of December 10, 1958. She headed to the Sisters' dorm a little earlier than usual. She climbed the stairs and enjoyed the cool breeze that blew against her face. That night she felt reflective about the good times with her husband. She missed him. However, the quiet, cool evening allowed her to sleep restfully, that is—until she was jarred awake and saw the entire building lit up around each of the bunks. Muriel’s daughter Barbara, who is also my mother, was on the bunk above. She expressed how beautiful the light was on the hill. By this time the whole dorm was awake. Although it may have seemed beautiful to Barbara, my grandmother Muriel, was

I’ve always known that i have a big heart… Just the thought of helping people fills my heart with joy, but actually doing the act makes me feel like i am on top of the world….

She came home and told me my brother and sister that it just happened. we were all in shock, so she called are grandma to come watch us.her my dad and my sister

"I love you," Iris whispers, drawing a line down his forehead to the tip of his nose. She punctuates the words with a kiss at the ski jump curve. His arm comes hard around her waist and it startles her--

Home is the beginning of one’s book. It is where your story begins, forms its characters, shows its purpose, and reveals its ora. This is how mine is written. Home is on the buzzing highway down a bumpy gravel road. It’s Brandon, Mississippi. It is the only home I’ve ever known. Home is the smell of homemade biscuits and tomato gravy on Saturday mornings. It is “Bless Your Heart” and “Yes Mam” and “No Sir”. The little bedroom in the back of a grey double-wide where Carrie Underwood songs played and where I learned to curl my hair and put on mascara. My cousins and I running around with mason jars, chasing the lightning bugs. Bar-B-q on the back porch and never meeting a stranger. It is the morals learned and the identity

“I wish for the same aspect I’ve hoped for from the beginning. I wish for a life so fearless, so unpredictable, so full of unexpected joys and unforgettable love that no box could possibly contain all my memories. Such a life won’t be perfect. It’ll be something better, it will be my own paradise”. I’m going to share with you about my “Helene Tucker”. My symbol is my friend Taylor, which represents love, trust, and laughter “everything I want”.

“Jesus Christ,” I hear myself saying. “I’m gonna be fine. Look, it’s not that bad.”

This month Wendy and I talked a lot on the phone. I met up with Wendy once this month, due to the event Sunday getting canceled and the end of the month so soon, I was not able to go visit her again. Wendy and I talked a lot about the weather on the phone. Neither Wendy nor I liked the snow so we loved the warm weather we had a few times this week. When I went over to Wendy’s house, we just sat at her kitchen table and talked. We had a glass of pop. We talked about her game of bowling she did during the week, as well as a movie about dogs she went to see. She said it was kind of sad, but also at the same time, it was funny. We talked about what she had for dinner. Wendy and I are both really picky about our food, so it is nice having

Nothing bad ever happened to Jane. Looking from the outside in she had the perfect life and that's what drew me to her. I’d been watching from afar for almost a year now. I even went through the trouble of starting my career as a teacher over at a new high school so I could get a closer look into her life.

“But it’d be cooler to actually do it where the original tragedy happened.” Erica sighed, sounding bummed.

It seems like half of our conversations are about musicals. She, being the most musically talented person I know, usually introduces me to a certain musical and asks me if I know of it. Usually I do not, and she continues to enlighten me. Each musical she describes is full with its own characters, songs, and interesting storylines. I see each musical that she describes like I see her. She has thousands of different layers. Even though we have been best friends for over a year now, I still feel like there’s parts that I have never gotten to know.

I’ve always felt it was my obligation to try and help others. For this reason, if I could be any superhero, I’d be Professor Xavier from the X-men of the Marvel universe. I would like to be as intelligent as him and try to help others by telepathy and what they really feel. I would do this to get an understanding of what people really mean when they say something is bothering them. I would help them to feel better about themselves and be a counselor and guide them to succeed.