The Walls Made Of Cinder Blocks

They all labeled downtown El Paso’s buildings. I looked at them, lost for I had no knowledge of what they were talking about. I was still just a bird hatching from the shell. I turned left and there it was, classroom A1518. The two large, dark wooden doors were opened and on top of them was the sign “ARCHITECTURE”. I stood there with my breath taken away from me. “So… This is it. This is why you came into Northwest. This is your purpose” I took a deep breath, slowly exhaled, and continued on forward. Inside was a large room with computers on most of the side walls and desks the size of tables were located in the middle. All of the other students’ eyes were on me. I got even more nervous. They probably asked themselves if I was lost because of course, who would expect a 15-year-old to take an architecture college class? I walked slowly towards the 2nd desk in the front row. I sat in the tall black chair as the sound of the AC and the computer fans grew bigger and bigger. I’ve never heard anymore silence in my life. I opened my backpack’s side apartment and took out my pencil and place it on the side of the dark brown desk. I looked around and saw another room inside of

As I am walking down the hall to Ms.Johnson’s room, I see something different. There is a sub today. I just really hope she isn’t as mean as she looks. When I walk into the classroom I get my folder and go to my assigned seat to start my “do now”. When the teacher walks in she says,”Everyone sit down and don’t make a noise unless you want a step!”

The gray, bland walls still hold my drawings from years ago. Blood scattered around the room adds some color the dull, grey walls and floor. The only source of light comes from a small, prison-like window. There’s no bed or anything. Just emptiness. In the far corner, a chain with blood dripping off it hangs.

A typical day in Julie Smith MC 201 class starts of with her playing music. Once her class starts it’s nothing but and excitement. She is a very loud and energetic person. She is not afraid to get all in your face as she is walking around the class teaching you for the topic of the day. She also has a lot of games she uses to keep people engaged in the topics to she is talking about. “ I love coming to Julie class because you never know what to expect from her. One day you might get class where you’re using your phone and the next day she’s handing out candy. I love coming to her class not knowing what to expect.” Said Ciara Bazile. Julie just didn’t wake up one day and say hey I’m going to be teacher like most people as she likes to put it, “ just happened by accident.” One of her old professors called her one night and asked her if she was still teaching at Webster and asked her if she wanted to teach an intro class, she immediately jumped at it. Her favorite part about teaching is “having students contact me after the semester to tell me about examples they 've seen - which shows that what we 've talked about in 201 has stayed with them. I love getting to know them and know their stories. College students are much smarter than people give them credit for.” Julie has been teaching since 1998 so she has no shame when it comes to teaching is not afraid to make a fool of her self when it comes to teaching. “I remember Julie teaching us about television and radio. She

The low ceiling cowered above and the black plastic chairs formed a restless crowd around me. From my seat, I could smell the acute scent of cleaning fluid, whiteboard markers, and the nauseating perfume of the girl sitting next to me. Like so many other students, she exuded concentration. Her brows were drawn as her hand moved rapidly over the testing booklet, only pausing to reposition herself or cast an almost imperceptible sidelong glance. The effortlessness of her actions furthered my anxiety as I began tapping my foot uneasily against the speckled linoleum floor. Through the dusty shades that hung precariously in front the only window in the room, I could see the outline of a solitary building shadowed by the dense gray fog that clung to the courtyard outside. At that moment, I would have given anything to be able to run and scream at the top of my lungs. I had an inexplicable urge to break free from the confinement of that room and what it

The moment arrived. When I opened the doors, I scanned the architectural design of the room. The classroom looked like a mid-size basketball gym. The concrete blocked walls were painted white. The hard-wooded floors complimented two black pianos scattered in different locations of the vicinity.

In Miss. Hooker’s classroom she never makes a problem, just the student’s problem, but a problem they share and can fix together. Once the student would see that Miss. Hooker wanted to help them, they were very less offensive and were happy to have someone on “their side”. Another big thing I learned was to use every resource out there. She uses so many different websites and reading materials to get ideas, and talks to other teachers or other adults, she does not limit her circle of information. I also learned that sometimes it is true what they say “less is more”. In Miss Hooker’s classroom I almost felt claustrophobic. There were so many posters/resources on the walls, and every shelf was pilled full of books or totes, I was very over stimulated by the clutter. The stuff was not useless junk, it was mainly books, and different learning materials but there was so much stuff out that I do not think half of it got used. One big thing I realized is you cannot fix everything. There was always someone that had a hurt body part or did not feel good. Yes, Miss Hooker would show compassion to this matter, but she did not stop everything to try to best accommodate the student either. If she would have done something to accommodate every student she would have never been able to complete a lesson.

This year I had the prestigious honor of being in Ms. Brown’s class, and let me tell you, it was anything but normal. Ms. Brown’s cheerfulness (and maybe a bit of messiness) really helped me realize that teachers actually have lives. They’re not just some robots who are only activated to teach, and then turned off when the class leaves, as much as we might think they are.

Located in the depths of Powers Hall, Room 236 serves as an english classroom for a plethora of students. Five neat rows of desks are noticed by any child who peers into the wooden door’s window. A worn Buffalo Bill mat greets every person who enters the class. Posters of renowned authors like Twain and Poe adorn the walls. A high definition television that projects notes to the pupils hangs in the front right hand corner. A _____ colored rug lies beneath the feet of the

8:35am. The door creaks, and my teacher’s eyes turn to tearing velvet. “Ven aquí, Cata,” ella dice. “Estás tarde otra vez.” But she knows about my mental abnormality (normality) so there’s no repercussion. I don’t respond to her until she points out that I’m out of dress code, to which I say, “Thank you. I like my shorts

Middle school, when that word pops up in one’s head, it’s a sudden reminder of dreadfulness, broken promises, regrets, first crushes, and last but not least, learned lessons. Another morning had brought another school day. Seeing familiar faces and teachers I just wanted to get through the day with no hassle, but that’s not always the case. At least it wasn’t for me. Making my way through the extended halls and walls that seemed to enclose upon me, I felt nothing more than like a chained prisoner. The bell rung and I remained seated in my class, encompassed by boxed, outdated computers and rusty white walls, I felt

I had arrived at my destination- a lot sooner than I wanted to. I hurried in the classroom to get the best seat, which was always in the back row by a window. The professor walked in with an energy that I had never encountered before. She carried herself with an air of confidence. She spoke with certainty. She introduced herself and dove right into the first lesson before the first five minutes of class were even over. She informed us that today we would be introducing ourselves to the entire class. I could feel myself becoming nauseous. My hands started shaking and my mind started sorting through a million cliché facts about myself. I could not seem to think of my favorite color at the moment. I am an average, boring, normal eighteen-year-old girl who has a crippling fear of public speaking. That is as far as I got before I heard the professor call my

I was in Berlin visiting my wonderful, loving family when i stepped outside for some fresh air . When suddenly I hear in the distance a ruckus west side of Berlin.

Suddenly, there was a hush in the room. The teacher had asked someone a question! I tried to seem casual as I glanced up to see if I was the unlucky person who had been called upon. My heart jumped and then I realized that the teacher was looking at the person to my right, waiting expectantly for an answer. I stared at the girl also, as if I was truly interested in whatever ramblings might come out of her mouth about the dead general and his battle. I felt my face grow warm with a slight blush as I became embarrassed for her and her inability to answer the question. She must have been paying as much attention to the lecture as I had been. Finally, she was able to formulate a less than mediocre answer that satisfied the monotone voice at the front of the room and the lecture resumed. Another glance back at the girl and I saw the cell phone palmed in her left hand down by her side. She had been text-messaging someone instead of paying attention!

The hallway itself is long and extends in a straight line. The walls are painted a light grayish blue and the edges are lined by a molding the color of sand. Across from a classroom door, a fire extinguisher rests in its case concealed by dark glass. A young man also sits across from the door. He has dark hair about two inches long, and has it styled in casual disarray. His facial features are well formed, having a strong line about his jaw and thick eyebrows. His eyes are the color of the sky before a storm. His body is well proportioned and his clothes are made of designer quality. Other students walk by, but he does not look up and, even when addressed. He simply nods or speaks quietly and seems to be engrossed in the study of his book.