Many people do not listen to ideas of a young person. They are thinking that he or she does not understand. Even, I sometimes have done this with younger kids. Many people equate youth with immaturity. Which is sometimes true but is not always true. This is somewhat similar, but not as severe. He is just another adult that thinks young people are all the same. Age is a big problem with its stereotypes and could be a "cage" with either being too old or too young. Maya Angelou was not the only person who has cages, I also have them. My "cage" is a fairly common one; my young age. Age is a barrier that stops me from doing things many adult things. Many times I suggest things to my parents, but sometimes they do not respect my
Walking away from everything you once knew and starting over is never a picnic. Leaving Iraq, and moving to America has impacted my life more than anything. I was only 4 years old at that time, and the only English I spoke was “excuse me, water please.” My family and I did not know it then, but our lives were going to change; we would become “Americanized”. Learning English was one of the massive changes that occurred, the way I dressed (culture), and even the way I had power to go to school and educate myself.
My whole life I’ve felt like an outsider. When I was younger dealing with a learning disability, I have had a hard time making and keeping friends even to this day. I struggle with being a follower instead of a leader. My own adoptive father verbally abused me growing up and I also had kids in fifth-sixth grade who constantly bullied me. I still am reminded of an instance when the first day of fifth grade approached: I got on the bus and these older girls started making fun of my pants saying, “She’s wearing high-waters.” I was humiliated in front of my peers every day since than during those two years. After being bullied for so long I made a vow to myself to never forget the pain inflicted upon me on a daily basis.
The Festival return to Greenfield, MA after being in Turner Fall, MA for a couple of years. I had never been in the Art Block, but found one of their stages The Wheelhouse one to be inmate setting like you what you might find in a coffeehouse. I heard Julia Cira sing on that stage and she had a beautiful voice. One that I like much better than Rosie Porter. It's just a good one to have for ballads. Its a strong one. She plays an electric guitar as well as sings. She was accommodate by a man on drum set and another young woman on an electric guitar. That woman played it well. I listen to her sing a couple of songs and she sang beautifully each time. According to her, They were doing full on rock songs and they sound like very nice quality
On June 4, I died. Well, metaphorically speaking. Let me rephrase that— I was reborn.
This past year, I have been apart of Naperville Central’s brand new Special Spaces club. When my friend approached me and asked me to join, I agreed even though I had no clue what I was involving myself in. In retrospective, I can honestly say that becoming a part of Special Spaces has been one of the most meaningful, fun, and fulfilling experiences I have had in high school.
In Cage 15, there was a bald eagle. Regal and upright, imperial and intimidating, it stood on a log, paying me no heed as I scribbled adjectives. A sign beside on the wooden cage beside the barred window called her Spirit and informed the reader why she had been committed to the asylum. She’d dislocated her left wing in 1989.
I think that my family realized that I had crossed the threshold between childhoods when I began to form my own opinions. This first took hold when I took part in poverty stimulation at my local shelter. I was giving a character and a story behind the card I was given; the story made me become emotionally attached to this name I had been assigned and the family in which I came from. The experience made me question the prejudice of the society I was living in. How many times had I avoided eye contact with the people on the side of the road begging for money? I began a long journey of soul searching and questioning the beliefs my parents had raised me on. My thoughts were continually brought back to a book by C.S Lewis, it was called Out of the Silent Planet; a character named Weston believed that individual human lives don’t matter, they must be sacrificed to save mankind.
When you first walk into the Hornets Nest the first thing you see is one of the friendly crew member there to swipe your hornet card. Then you smell the freshly stoned cooked pizza and nearby you can see some choices on pasta. I normally don’t the eat pizza. Honestly the pizza is not as good as it smells. I haven’t touch the pasta once because I avoid the pizza so I forget that there’s more than pizza.
When it comes to what separates me from other teenagers, there would be quite a bit to tell. I would say a major difference which separates me from my peers is my love for barbershop harmony music. I do not have a quartet of my own; however, I love to sing barbershop tags with other friends at church. I set myself apart from the world because of my beliefs: as a New Testament christian, I believe the bible gives us all instruction concerning spiritual matters.
Sorry in advance if this is be too much information for some. . . .
The buck is in my sights. I pull the trigger. It’s hunting season November 11, 2014. I’m hunting with my grandpa. He’s sleeping in the driver's seat of the truck. I’m in the passenger side of the truck. It’s around seven o’clock and I’m watching the woods to my right I turn and look around and all of a sudden a doe appears in the field in front of me and then I hear the buck. The buck grunts four or five times. I’m straining my eyes to see but I still can’t see the buck. The buck is just of the field in the brush to my left. I grab my gun I put my other hand on the door handle i’m ready to get out as soon as I see
Shackled feet drag across a cold tile floor reluctantly, moving one after another. Tired eyes open to look widely upon the small door window, while the body they belong to nearly lose fingernails to the scratching of thick glass; its hands carelessly leaving streaks and turning red. To whom does this maddened mind let roam about...
As I arrived the musicians appeared to have started only minutes after so they were just getting acquainted with the audience. It was captivating to see the musicians engaged the audience for they started asking questions such as, “what part of Mexico were people from”, “what time do you root for! America or Chivas?” The building rattled with the loud voices screaming, “Sinaloa,” “Jalisco,” “Michoacan,” “Colima,” “Guerrero,” or their favorite soccer team chanting, “America,” “Chivas,” “Pumas!” I could feel the vibrations of the screeching voices penetrate the nerves of my tissue. At about 8:45PM, the building was almost at full capacity where at one point it became hard to hear what the waiters were telling me. The band was at full-throttle
I woke up as usual a couple of years ago on September 20, I rubbed my tired eyes with my hands curled into fists. Uncovering my head from the large blanket I had, I was blinded by the brilliant light that hung above my head. A few moments later, after my eyes had adjusted, and my temporary blindness left me, I stumbled out of my bed and tripped to my closet, still dazed from just having woken up. Once I was ready I dazedly walked down the stairs, hanging onto the wooden rail tightly so I wouldn’t fall, though I almost fell more than a few times. My grandmother was sitting in her grey rocking chair, watching The walking dead, she heard me trip off the last step coming down the stairs and turned her head slightly to face me. She started to say
Bright lights, doctors coming in and out of this big open cool feeling room so rapidly, that I can’t keep up with the names with the faces, I smell a faint chlorine smell, almost to where it burns my nose. I am nervous. Sweat is dripping off my forehead, slowly making its way down to my gown. I remember thinking to myself that when I stand up next, it’s going to look like wet myself. Now another thing I have to worry about. “Is this really the day, is this day really happening” I thought to myself. Then again, another doctor comes in the room, so calm, his hands looked like they were floating, but so precise. This guy knows what he’s doing “I said to myself under my breath. I could barley breath. My imagination started to take over with worries,