The Importance Of School Experiences In The School

As we pulled up to the massive elementary school building, I begged my mom to let me stay home from school, just once. As usual, she said no. Realizing my attempt to get out of school was futile, I shouldered my backpack, swung open the door, and trudged over to the front door. I would rather be anywhere else than here. For the majority of my life, I attended public schools. It wasn’t rare for me to fail a test or even a whole class. It was because of these failures that I would get even more demotivated and threw away the idea of working hard or completing quality work altogether.

The Superintendent walked solemnly down the dimly lit hallway. The vast walls of lockers gave him an overwhelming sense of nostalgia, eating away at his soul like acid eating away metal. The psychologically effects transmitted to his outer body, causing him to halt to an abrupt stop. Standing like a deer in headlights, his mind was instantaneously flooded with brisk images of the once flourishing hallways. He stifled a faux smile, composed himself, and erratically walked into the main office, where he prepared to apologetically deliver the final afternoon announcement of the High School’s history. Alone¬¬––later in his office, another pang of dense, impenetrable darkness suffocated him and he let out a cry of resignation. He put his chapped

As the story goes, it was my first day as a freshman at Poplar Bluff High School. As I stepped off the bus to my new school, I found myself unfamiliar and nervous. My first instinct was to find my friends on such a wide campus, but, class would be starting soon so I wouldn’t have time. “Guess I will just get to my first class early”, I thought to myself while walking in the shivering, cold weather.

It was Friday, March 17, and it was a minute before 2:35pm in which we would get out of school. There was so much anticipation for the final bell to sound and start spring break. “Diiinnnnggg,” went the final bell. Everyone bolted into the hallways to get home and start the week.

I turned up the heat to make sure that the car would be warm by the time my sister stumbled down the front steps of King Philip Middle school. The Autumn air started to turn bitter, and leaves coated the ground so that you could not walk without a symphony of crunches rising from under your step. A gust of wind rushed by, and I was thankful for my car cocoon, which covered me from the coming chills. My hands fumbled with the radio, searching for a “good” song. I heard the bell ring, and watched as adolescents, streamed out of the school bundled up for one of the first times this year. My sister slid into the car, and with her came a gust of cold air.

A stereotypical beige filing cabinet as old as the school itself stands to the right of the doorway to second period. Hiding behind the drawers sits a tiny cart complementing in color. Hanging from above is an immaculate military flag. On the same wall runs a lengthy chalkboard facing rows of evenly spaced of desks. A variety of volunteer opportunities along with the discussions for the day occupy the board. The countless notes in class can become dry. There’re only so many interesting discussions about local government. The teacher’s slight monotone voice doesn’t necessarily help either, but his intentions are in the right place. Student photos, large and small, occupy the space left of the windows. Warmth of the morning sun tickles the skin as it's felt radiating through the glass. Anyone in this seat is left frigidly shaking, because the teacher leaves the rowdy air conditioner

It was passing time between fourth hour and fifth hour, and i was running late for fourth hour. “Crap” i thought to myself as i glanced at a clock in the hall. I as walked the halls i notice it was much much quieter than it was before fourth hour. The silence was so unusual for my school, there was almost always someone in the halls talking. As i rounded the corner in to my locker’s hall is picked up so speed, and there i was

As any other normal day of freshman year starts, the dreaded alarm signals the end of something tranquil and the beginning of another laborious day. The twenty-five minute drive to this place of drudgery makes it considerably worse. Upon arriving at the destination, I see my group of friends standing around in the circle that has become our place in the morning. The words, ¨Bauxite High School,¨ are sculpted into the Art Deco style of the building. The bell, similar to the ominous alarm clock, the first bell rings to end the somewhat pleasing part of the day.

Spring break was the most expected event for most of the students at Lenoir-Rhyne University. Reunion with the family, beach trips or visit megapolises - everyone was so excited to take a break from studying, forget about thick books, colorful PowerPoints and endlessly long assignments. However, some of the Bears didn’t have an opportunity to wear their party dresses and jeans shorts – those are the students who are in the middle of the season.

It was a quiet afternoon when I began my walk from school to home on the Friday of the second last week of school. My eyes were watering from the pollen in the air, reminding me of the imminent end of school. The excitement of not returning to school for three months was overshadowed by the dark realization that I would need to study for the majority of the weekend. Dolefully I walked the remainder of the way home, my thoughts dominated by the mind numbing boredom that awaited

Staring at the clock during the last fifteen minutes of class I counted down the minutes until the end of school. I could see the ocean from my desk and I could not get the thought of the hot sand on my toes and the warm water out of my mind. The hot June sun beat down on my arms through the window, making me extremely eager to get out of class and start the weekend.

Growing up in the truck-stop town of Monument, Colorado certain commodities exist that are always guaranteed: one’s “private life” is never truly private and in result is entitled to the school’s colorful opinions, in entering the local Walmart be expecting to awkwardly encounter, and be judged by, the sound majority of your classmates, and friend cliques are not, nor will ever be, tenuously cohesive. Monument’s very existence screams juvenile, and I was perfectly content with this dog-eat-dog world. I had seemingly adopted, and preferred, a lifestyle of isolation- I was a lone wolf complacent with distressing over solely my well-being; concerning myself exclusively to those of who were of relevance to me, and essentially disregarding all others. Only in the beginning of my junior year did I genuinely grow up by escaping my prolonged stay in solitude.

As spring break approaches, Montgomery College students of Germantown anticipate taking advantage of this period as a celebration of freedom from academic commitments, in which the majority will enjoy night life and the company of friends and family. With minimal vacations and holidays granted, students approach exam season with exhaustion, experiencing excessive sleep deprivation as a result of intense partying. But what if we utilized spring break in reverse of the ideal way of celebration? What if instead of traveling to loud, chaotic, toxic settings such as Las Vegas, or Miami, we travel to nature induced, Zen environments and communities? Should spring break be utilized as a rebellious relief, or as a form of recovery, achieving clarity just in time for returning to the academic routine? Though interests as students of various ages originating from different cultures restricts similarities, one shared common factor amongst all mankind is the instinctive feeling derived from knowledge and experience and emotion.

This true story is about me as a young girl trying to identify with the

The final bell rang, and students erupted in a joyful chorus of cheers as summer break began. I sang a melancholy dirge of self-pity. My bitterness increased as I waited for my mother to pick me up. She came at last and I jumped up, anxious to leave forever. Again, Mrs. Thomas thwarted my plans; she came outside to talk to my mother, undoubtedly about my ignominious fate. As they murmured, I viewed the co-conspirators with hostile eyes. I'm a victim, the final sigh of my fifth grade year whispered wearily.