Reflection Paper On Rollcall

I casually walked there just to tick off Pierson. “Move it Daniels and Zussman I don’t have all day” he said in a rather demanding manner. I hadn’t noticed it, but my friend Zussman had glided in behind me. Suddenly a brisk feeling filled the air as we entered the rather cadaverously quiet board room. Davis who was the major general gave us the entire scoop.

My senior year US History teacher Mr. Seagars told the class a story about a student that could write answer so believable that it even made him question whether he had his facts wrong about history. He stated that by the time he finished reading the incorrect answers of this student that most of the time he gave him credit just because the story was so good. That student was me. I grew up in a lower middle class neighborhood in the small town of Anderson SC. The average passerby would most likely sum me up as the runt of the neighborhood if they did not know me. There were only a handful of kids my age to interact with. The majority of my playmates were much larger and much older than I. This upbringing taught me many lessons growing up. Any wrong move, word or reaction could result in ridicule or even worse, a beat down. I quickly learned to navigate the jungle that people called a neighborhood but more importantly I learned what makes people do things they do. This knowledge has help guide and in many cases protect me as I have gone through my adventure so far in life.

April 11th, 2014. It was the day that I can remember in which a teenager such as me must take a big step through the next years living in a new country. My mother, my sister, and I arrived thanks to the petition my dad applied for in order for us to immigrate to the US. I was stunned when I see people with different ethnicities walking outside the airplane to the tarmac. It was a long wait in the airport due to the long lines of immigrants. I was beginning to be impatient when my mother explained to me to be silent or else we’ll face an altercation with security. As soon as the process was done, we walked outside and at first glance, I saw my father smiling at our direction.

When I evaluate my school year,many things come to mind. I think about friends. I think about all the craziness and emotional things that have happened. I also think about how I've grown as a person.My 7th grade year was full of concepts learned,memorable experiences,and personal growth.

I remember where it all started; I sat on the guard stand of an empty pool with a nagging mother texting my phone and time to kill. It was the summer before my senior year, the summer before I would make the most important decision of my life so far. I stared down at the blank list of schools in front of me; where to start? I visited a few campuses, and my mother put a few bugs in my ear, one for her alma mater, and the other for two historically black schools (HBCUs). I wrote the first down, placing it low on my list, but there was hesitation with the other two. My entire academic career have been in predominantly white environments; how would I navigate a majority black space?

I come from a family of King and Queens. A home where my father owns many acres of land. A dad who knew me before I knew myself. Born knowing that he already knows my beginning and end. A household with a cross above every main entrance, and a family that sleeps with a bible under every pillow. I live in a community of celebration from left to right, where every little thing that happens, will easily spread around. All happening in a household with a vast selection of food, containing spices that can be smelled from miles away. I am from a family of people who are treated wrongly but still treat others right. Our DNA coming from the tropical, overfilled, bold and “The Giant of Africa” Nigeria, with our blood shedding green and white. Yet we reside in this small loving state of Rhode Island.

Of the many writing experiences I’ve had as both a student and a military officer, two events stand out that shaped both my appreciation of and confidence in writing. The first happened when I was in grade school and involved my father. He enrolled in a basic computer class sponsored by his employer and I clearly remember him agonizing over a short writing assignment to describe the applications for computers. I remember thinking it seemed like a simple task, but for him it was an arduous process for which he was not prepared. The second incident occurred during my MBA studies, working in a group of three on a capstone research project. As the integrator of our combined contributions, I was astounded when one of my project partners sent his portion, of which a large section had the faint blue background evident of a cut-and-paste from Wikipedia, yet no citations. These cases stick out because of what I’ve found are two truths in writing.

To an extent, I have lived a sheltered life. I grew up with a helicopter mother, an anxious father, and two over-protective older brothers who wanted me to live a happy, healthy, and safe life. They shielded me from everything bad: death, war, pain, destruction, and suffering. I was -- and still am -- the baby of the family; I will forever be the little baby girl who needs to be watched over and taken care of. To them, I am innocent and fragile and delicate and small.

The first reading for this week is exploring the change in friendship during the whole lifetime. According to Brian R. Patterson (2007), among all the existing methods of analyzing relationships, the most popular is the ones that focus on microdynamic view of the friendship, which is studying the changing of relationship in a short time (p. 29). However, he argues that we should also value the development of relationship in a life-long time, which can provide a macrodynamic way to “augment microdynamic research” (Patterson, 2007, p. 30). When we are using a microdynamic approach, we focus mostly on the detailed and complicated events that happen in a relatively short period.

There I was, standing in the grounds of my school, bound by judgemental onlooking eyes, which studied me for a sign of vulnerability; begging for me to collapse into my self-fabricated darkness. Like a cowardly criminal, I slumped, trembling uncontrollably in the middle of the secluded balcony, where I implored myself to “stop” as I yet again had a crippling anxiety attack which incarcerated my whole body, though this time because my counsellor had called my parents regarding my suicidal ideation. It was punishing enough to wake up in the mornings, though faced with the constant internalization of emotions tore strips off my self-esteem. Tears filled my eyes like an overflowing river and cascaded down my face, though freezing in the silence. Proceeding to tell myself repetitively to “stop it”, as I refused to accept that mental illness was the corruptive reality of my life, I cowered as the flashbacks uncontrollably replayed in my mind. I recollected the words that any mother would dread to divulge to their child; that “sometimes I think that it would be better that you were gone, because then, you wouldn’t have to feel this pain”, contradicting this by expressing to me that “I know it’s selfish, but you can’t leave me”.

Despite my intellect, most colleges would classify me as a mundane, unimpressive person. I'm a white, heterosexual, Christian male: the most stereotypical example of a privileged person in America. I have experienced privilege, but I have also experienced hardships and inequitable stereotypes.

Erin: Nah man, I did nothing, I barely touched him. I just had a little beef with them. We all good now Chappy.

When I picked up the book Make the Impossible Possible by Bill Strickland, I could not help but form a negative opinion about it. I thought, “Great. Here is another book trying to tell me how to generically make my life better.” I looked up at Ms. Purser with a sneer and pessimistic thoughts running through my head. As soon as I began reading the first chapter, though, my opinion turned on its head. This was proving to be a book written from a real person’s perspective. Instead of cliché instructions on how to improve my life, I was reading the story of a man who came up in the ghetto, but changed his mentality and began leading a

"Yes, Sir General" the Colonel responded unhooking her restraints the Lieutenant Colonel walks back to the storage compartments where she stored her weapons and helmets

When I was in 8th grade at Niu Valley Middle School my English teacher assigned a poem project and we had to record ourself reciting a poem that we made about nature. We also had to make a slideshow with pictures that represented what we were saying. The teacher, Ms. Fujimoto, assigned students two weeks to complete the project. During the first week after the project was given, every English class was dedicated to working on the poem project. Throughout this time I decided not to do anything and just go on my phone because I thought the project was very simple and would take little to no time to complete. I was also very tired and the room was like a sauna and it was boiling me until I was soaking with sweat. I vividly remember staring