Everywhere we go, we are surrounded by monsters. No, they are not the fairy tale kind, towering beasts that are ready to kill us. Instead, we are surrounded by stereotypes, or more specifically, gender stereotypes. All my life I’ve been told how I should act. How I should look. What activities I should enjoy. Who I should associate myself with. And for as long as I can remember, I’ve broken the rules of what society tells me I should be.

The first time I took notice of these gender stereotypes was when I was in preschool. It was playtime, and I had gotten tired of the exasperating  four year old girl drama of playing school, so I went over to the blocks and asked two boys if I could helps them build a tower. They told me that playing with blocks was a  “boy activity” and to go back to the girls. Luckily, or so I thought, the teacher came over and told the boys to be nice. I thought that she would tell them to let me play with them, but she told me that the area was too crowded (Yeah, right, with only two boys on the entire rug) and suggested I go play with some girls playing with dolls. I went, but only so my peers wouldn’t see the tears fighting to squeeze out of my eyes, leaving a trail like the trace of a slug on a leaf. It wasn’t fair! I put on my best pouting face and clenched my little fists. Why was a thing as simple as blocks deemed masculine?

Gender stereotypes don’t just exist in the cootie-filled preschool world. As we grow older, dolls and blocks turn into ballet and football. We are taught that for girls, it’s okay to be emotional, or cry sometimes. But boys, boys are expected to always be manly and strong. Society attempts to categorize us by our gender. Everyday, I see and notice the stereotypes, whether it’s in the school announcements, advertisements, or just when interacting with others. Usually, I don’t put much thought to them. But sometimes, they come from people I really admire, and that’s when it leaves scars that even the most heartfelt apology can’t heal.

My voluminous hair has always been a target for friends and family to joke about. Usually, it doesn’t hurt me too much when they tease me about it, but sometimes, they say something that makes my blood boil. One of these instances was with my mother, on a day where my hair was especially messy because of the humidity. I hadn’t put my hair up because I had just gotten out of bed. I was eating breakfast when she commented on my hair. “Melody,” she said, “you need to do something about that hair of yours. It’s getting out of control. Why don’t you learn how to do something with it to make it look like all the other girls?”

 Hearing this made me furious. I responded with a nonchalant, “Okay,” but I hastily finished my breakfast, ran to my room, and flung myself onto my bed. I don’t want to be a plastic Barbie Doll and look like all the other girls! I don’t want to spend hours every morning perfecting my outward appearance in order to please others. I am fine with how my hair is, and I don’t care what others think. Society tells girls that you have to look a certain way, with flawless skin and impeccable hair. I am not that girl.

As I become more and more aware of gender stereotypes everywhere around me, I am able block out the voices telling me what my name is. Two years ago, I started playing soccer more competitively, and despite people telling me that I’ll never go anywhere, and that women will never be as good as men, my teammates and I work our hardest every game and practice. We run sprints for hours, and we tackle each other just as hard as the guys.

Like any stereotype, gender stereotypes are hard to break. It’s up to each and every one of us to show that we aren’t defined by what others say we are. Men and women are more than just what our labels tell us we are. We are all different, and we should embrace who we are instead of trying to conform into what others think we should be. As for me, my name is no longer “that girl” or “weak” or “will never really amount to anything.” My name is “strong” and “capable” and maybe even “tower builder.”

-Melody Yu

           When you can’t sit up because you are in so much pain, you know something is wrong.  Appendicitis is not something you want to have.  It occurs when your appendix becomes inflamed and has to be surgically treated.  I am never sick, but when I am it is solemn.  I have now learned to never take my health for granted. 

In March of 2011 I was seven years old. Although I was in bed, I couldn’t fall asleep.  At this point it was about 10:00 PM.  A first grader up until that hour had to have been some type of record.  I didn’t feel terrible, but I had never felt like this before.  There was a weird pain in my stomach that to this day I still can’t describe.  All I know is that the pain wasn’t mild for long. 

            I was up all night and eventually threw up.  The second I sat up, the trash can was under my head, and I just couldn’t stop.  I had never been really sick, not like this, and so I thought it was weird that my pain was relieved only when I would lay down. 

When I am sick I normally want to sit up so I don’t cough.  This time, it was just the opposite.  Going to sleep, even then, was one of my favorite things to do, but after those first two days with no sleep, when I couldn’t stop throwing up, it was all I wanted to do. 

Although, at the time, I was really happy that I got to miss a couple days of school, eventually that changed.  My parents thought I had a severe stomach bug, one that would be gone in less than a week.  After about two days had gone by with no progress, my mom decided to take action. 

            At this point my parents had been switching on and off the days that they would call into work so they could watch me.  Near the end of the second day, when I was home with my mom and my brother was at daycare, my mom took me to the doctor.  We figured the doctors would give me some prescription medicine from Rite Aid and I would get better, but that is far from what happened. 

We went into the doctor's office, and after talking with my mom for a while the doctor starting feeling my stomach.  One particular spot that the doctor pressed sent a sharp pain that ran throughout my body.  That’s when they told my mom they were sending me to the hospital. 

Now, the hospital room I will never forget.  Since the doctors called early, they had a room waiting for me, but there were many people lined up in beds in the hallway waiting to be cared for.  It was very chaotic, and I was very happy when we got out of that room and went over to the children's hospital.  At this point I was feeling a little better, and I found it fun that I was riding around in a bed with wheels.  Then I remember thinking again about the people in the hallway, and I didn’t realize it at that second, but I was very lucky to be getting care that so many other people needed.  Some maybe more than me. 

I was in the hospital for five days. The first day was spent laying in bed in pain with an IV in my arm.  All I wanted to do was remove it.  The last four days I was in less pain because my inflamed appendix was no longer in my body.  The day before I had to go home was the worst. Yes, it was the day my grandma came to visit, and we played about five rounds of Yahtzee, but it was also the day all the tests were being done to make sure nothing else was wrong with me. 

After my laparoscopic surgery, I was a little loopy, but the nurse poking a needle into my arm trying to find a vein to take blood definitely woke me up.  The nurse on the other side of the bed was trying to distract me by asking me to find a yellow boat in the iSpy book she was holding.  It didn’t work.  The last test I had to take was the urine test.  This would tell the doctors if I was back on track enough to go home after I couldn’t eat or drink for five days.   Thankfully, I passed it and was able to go home but had to stay out of school for another week.  To this day, I still like to mess with my grandma about how she let go of my balloons as we were leaving the hospital.  They floated away, and we couldn’t get them back. 

Before I could go back to school I had to get the stitches out.  Having them in was very hard for me because they could not be touched.  My stomach was covered in gauze that I couldn’t get wet and I had to cover every time I wanted to take a shower.  

The next day my neighbor brought home a huge folder of all the work I missed.  That is when my fantasy of missing school for only a couple days went down the drain. I caught up eventually and survived the event, and now, looking back, I am almost glad it happened.  I learned to never take advantage of my health, and that taking care of my body is also very important.  How many cookies do you eat a day?  Could it be one less?   

-Bailey Yerdon

           The air tingled with dread as I walked in. Paper tents with a school sign plastered onto it were placed haphazardly on tables that had clustering chairs. The food table bustled with activity as students erratically hopped over to grab their favorite snacks. Although it was a frigid Saturday, the cool environment contradicted the tense atmosphere.

In the leading months of 2017, ten students (including me) prepared for the MATHCOUNTS®  Regional Chapter. The competition club’s teacher told us that, “everything was going to be fine,” and, “it’s not that bad,” but I had never went to the competition before. I had no idea what I would  experience and encounter. Most of my close friends on the team even had any idea what the competition would be like to go there, let alone actually compete there.

I arrived at one of our team’s tables and waited for the rest to arrive. The other teammate that was already there probably thought, we’re both not going to do well,  since her expression seemed fittingly so. Adding to my confusion and stress was the survey handed out to all participants. Did I even have to do this? Will my recorded answers be comprehended correctly and kept private? One of my teammates was so confounded that she complained about what to answer for the “ethnicity” section of the demographic portion of the survey. It was like organized chaos.

The exam portion of the day seemed to linger on and on. After barely completing the survey on time, we were hushed by proctors who may have had their conscience wiped from their minds. Split individually, we started the Sprint portion, which felt like running a figurative marathon uphill. I completed the first question with ease. But they only get harder as you go through, I considered. It seemed impossible to contain the immense thoughts of, it’s too hard, and, what if I do worse than my peers. Although I performed well in the tryouts, undertaking the actual exam was clearly more taxing than a school tryout, which has less of a significance.

The test continued on with the Target portion beginning as the Sprint drew to a close. I recalled the events during the tryouts for the team where I was barely pushed out of the main team due to a slight difference in the components of the aggregate, which was 36 points. After doing so, I started the first part of the Target round, which is like the short-answer and extended response portions of every summative exam. Armed with a calculator, I punched in the correct calculations onto the device’s screen and yielded an answer to submit. Proceeding with the first two, we were allowed to converse between each other before the next phase began. Contrary to my previous anecdote, my answers corresponded well with my other teammates! I wasn’t expecting this, as I was skeptical of my performance on the Sprint.

Before the next round began, we were given a brief interlude to restock on snacks, head to the restroom, and confer with others. As I took advantage of the break, I carefully analyzed and interpreted the events leading up to the break.

When I first arrived, I thought that I was certainly not going to perform as well as I had hoped. However, my performance on the Target began to contradict my initial beliefs on what I believed I could and couldn’t do. Soon enough, the belief spread to my performance on the Sprint, which lifted what I believed I could accomplish with four others later.

The remainder of the Target and Team portion proceeded with a slight whim at the end. Harnessing confidence, I funneled my improved concentration to crash through the remaining six Target questions with personally impressive accuracy. When the Team portion approached, working together with others clearly helped our team propel forward as we sorted through the last ten problems.

Looking back on the events, I realize that I probably wouldn’t have done as well if I hadn’t gained a belief in myself that I could persevere and make it through. When the results trickled in, I beat my personal expectations to get a personal duffel bag. Nonetheless, without confidence in oneself, that person would likely fail to achieve anything. Whenever faced with the worst, push yourself through it. To push through, have confidence. Without it, would you still be here?

-Michael Wong

            My stomach does flips and feels like it’s twisting itself into one big knot.  I try not to focus on exactly what they are saying, just let it be noise and not words that fill me with anger and anxiety, burning a hole in my insides.  Eventually, the noise ceases, but I am left with a knot in my brain and my stomach that proves tricky to untie.

I don’t remember a time when my parents were together.  It’s actually really hard for me to imagine that they once were.  I guess that’s a good thing because I don’t remember any fighting between them, and I’ve already had my fair share of that.  I can only remember bits and pieces of when they first split.  I was too little to understand what was happening, and my parents never actually sat my brother and me down and told us what was going on.  I wasn’t certain that the way my family lived wasn’t “normal,” but in the back of my mind I knew something wasn’t right.  However, that was where it was, the back of my mind.  I didn’t think about it often.  I had other important four-year-old things to be thinking about.

            I can recall one memory of my mom dropping me off at my dad’s precisely.  I remember thinking that my surroundings were close to my dad’s.  I anxiously watched the neighboring houses to my dad’s pass by my window, quickly out of my view.  Just like any five-year-old, I wasn’t a fan of long car rides, and I can’t deny uttering the phrase, “Are we there yet?” countless times, but I wanted that car ride to last forever.  It’s not that I didn’t want to be with my dad.  I didn’t want to leave my mom.  Before we reached our destination, I turned to my mom and begged her to stay with me.  I think she was afraid to say no, or maybe she was more afraid of the question that would follow: why?  So she didn’t say no.  She came in the house and slept with me in my bed.  I was ecstatic.  It was like being told,“It’s okay, bring it in tomorrow” by a teacher after a long night of stressing over not doing your homework.  I slept the best I had ever slept that night, all my worries disintegrated.

Obviously, that feeling couldn’t last forever.  The next day when I woke up, my mom was gone.  My heart sank, but I moved on.  I knew she had gone back to her house, and I had to be at my dad’s house, away from her.  Often I felt guilty for wanting to be with my mom because inherently that meant being away from my dad.  I felt like a rope in a constant tug-of-war.  Except this wasn’t a game, this was my life.  I developed a perpetual anxiousness that was burning me up from the insides, stemming from my guilt.

Another memory I have that is part of how I pieced things together is this one instance when my brother and I were sitting in the back of my mom’s boyfriend’s (I didn’t know that he was her boyfriend then) truck.  I can still smell the smoky aroma, and I can see the dirt in the cracks of the seat.  I can feel the burn in my stomach as I breathed in the truck’s musty air.  When we arrive at our destination, I can still hear my mom’s voice as she speaks to a man, pointing to Donald, the driver of the truck, and describing him as her boyfriend.  I know there are gaps to this story, but the important thing is something clicked that day.  I didn’t know it then, but I think there’s a reason why I still remember that moment.  That was the day I started to understand the differences between my family and others’ families. I asked my mom when she got back in the truck if that was really her boyfriend, and of course, they both denied it. 

I still don’t understand why no one actually told me what was going on.  Yes, it would have been harder on them, but it would have been easier on me.  Although, that’s the same for this whole situation.  Yes, my parents weren’t happy together, and splitting up was the easiest thing for them; but what about me?  The same question started to pass through my mind every day.  Eventually I deemed my mom as selfish.  She was the one who broke up with my dad.  She was the one who had a boyfriend, who I also began to resent, or to be blunt, hate.  And did she ever once stop and think about me?  I’m the one who has to live my whole life different from my friends.  I’m the one who has to listen to her boyfriend and her fight.  And most importantly, I’m the one who has to live with all this guilt.

Subconsciously, my parents were asking me to choose a side.  My dad definitely took a long time to cope with his anger after they seperated.  He used to get so angry over little things, and like always, I was at the receiving end. I didn’t know why he used to get so angry, but I knew that it made me queasy.  I couldn’t handle any more guilt.  I didn’t know who to turn to because my dad was already angry with my mom, and I didn’t want my mom to be angry with my dad.  So for a long time, I didn’t tell anyone.  The guilt consumed me.  I was fatigued of being stuck in the middle. 

Every time my dad blew up at me like that, he would apologize profusely.  He definitely felt remorseful, so I didn’t want to tell him to stop because I knew that he wanted to.  I realized that didn’t matter, though.  He kept making me feel this way, and I couldn’t take it anymore.  I had to say something next time.  I really tried to be brave, but I was nervous.  I had to force the words out of my mouth, but I did.  I told him to stop.  I channelled my anxiety into anger, and he listened, but after that my anger took over.  I was angry with my mom, my dad, my mom’s boyfriend, basically my life. 

What I found out about being angry is that it makes your whole life miserable.  It’s like clinging to a cliff, and if you let go, you’ll be happier, but you’ll feel like you somehow gave up, and I wasn’t a quitter.  I held on for so long.  Every time I tried to let myself fall, my mom and her boyfriend would fight, or my dad would yell at me, and there I was again with an even tighter grip.  This was their fault, I kept telling myself. 

Slowly, I let go of my anger.  I think my dad did too for the most part.  My mom and her boyfriend got better.  As I grew up, I realized that I wanted my parents to be happy, and that it was possible for me to be happy too, if I let myself.  From this experience, I learned that only I have the power to feel something.  I’m the only one who can make myself feel happy, sad, or angry. I can’t blame other people for my unhappiness.  I use this in all aspects of my life, and every time I catch myself clinging to that cliff, I let myself fall because I know there is comfort at the bottom.

-Casey Van Nostrand

Has anyone ever told you that they don’t believe in you? Well, I know for a fact I have been told this many times, such as when I was trying out for the JV Tennis Team. The Varsity Coach didn’t think I would be able to pass the physical fitness test. But remember, your dreams have no limits.

Ever since I had started playing tennis, my main goal was to play for the school team. Like most people you want to have a skill that sets you apart from others, and I knew this would be tennis.  But to be able to try out in eighth grade I would need to pass the physical fitness test. This is the obstacle to make the team that most people dread, including myself. You can dodge it if you start playing in ninth grade. Knowing myself as a coward, I thought I would wait until next year, but at the same time I felt as though I should put myself out there and come to terms with whatever shall happen. So I decided I would get  myself in shape, which I wasn’t  currently in. I thought, well, I guess I can do a little training, and see if I get in. But a crucial thing to remember is before you even take the test you need to get the approval from the varsity coach, even if you are on JV. This approval has to be with the varsity coach talking to your tennis coach to see if you have the criteria to be the “type” to try out for the tennis team and try the physical fitness test. Once the varsity coach took a look at my mile time she thought I was incapable of meeting the standards, or being a decent tennis player, but after she talked to my tennis coach she decided she would give me  chance. She may have jumped to a conclusion about me when she saw one thing that was tied to me that wasn’t superior, so she thought I wasn’t really serious about making the team.

I ended up training a little in the spring. I started running a half mile, three fourths, and so on. I mainly worked on my endurance. At times I felt just like quitting; I was so badly out of shape, I wanted to scream and just give up. But I couldn’t let this important opportunity go to waste.

By the time the test rolled around, I felt pretty comfortable in my capability of passing it, yet I was still anxious. For the test I stayed after school with Coach Buckley in the gym. I was so nervous; not only was this going to dictate if I could try out, but Coach Buckley would be facilitating it. Coach Buckley is genuinely a nice person, but she is no nonsense. I had to take tests for upper body, lower body, and speed; if you failed any of these tests you would go run the dreadful and grueling mile, and if you failed more than one, you could not try out for the team that year. I ended up passing all the tests except the speed test, so the next day I would have to run the mile. I was a little angry with myself for having to run the mile because of how tedious it was. But all I could do was put all of my effort into this and hope for the best.

During Gym class the next day I had to run the mile, and yes, it is very embarrassing to be the only person running the mile, the feeling that everyone was staring at you, yet you know that is such an absurd thing to think. For the mile I had to get less than 8:23, which I knew I could do. However, I kept on thinking, what if I get an ache, what if I just give up, etc… All the possible scenarios were running through my mind, for I am not a very upbeat type of person. I remember running that mile, mainly the extreme pain. You’re feeling like they couldn’t run much longer, and at times feeling like you just want to give up, but there was a force deep down telling you to continue. Each lap I got closer and closer to the end; but then your  reality checks in, and you see how far you are from the end.

The final lap I was jogging very quickly. All I could think of was that I could tryout, and of course for my heart to not feel like it would jump out of my chest. There I was, passing the marker hearing my time. The time wasn’t my best, but it got me the option to try out. The time was 7:51; I don’t know if it’s bad I still remember the time, or if it is a good thing. I was ecstatic, elated, for I had completed phase one of the journey yet to come.

By the time the summer rolled around I was ready to tryout for the team. I was anxious that I might be cut, but all I could do was try my best. When I first arrived there were over twenty girls. Everyone wanted a spot, so it wasn’t a very friendly atmosphere. For the first ten minutes girls were gradually coming in. Everyone introduced themselves, pretending to be warm and bubbly. Everyone had an angelic smile, but deep down they had a devilish feeling.

About ten minutes later we started doing drills, such as serving, volleys, forehand, backhand, etc. The coach was closely watching everyone to get a general idea who were the better girls. I was in the middle, not the best but not at all  the worst. As the week progressed, the drills were playing doubles or singles. You would play until ten points, then write on your card who you played against and what the score was. Even though this would determine my placing, it was surprisingly a good time.

I remember this day vividly; it was Friday, and I would find out your placement. It was an exhilarating experience. The coach was calling all the placements, then the names. The singles calling ended, then the doubles started. By the time the first doubles were called, I was pretty convinced that I would be cut. Then the coach called second doubles. I was one of those people. After I found out my position, I was beyond elated; I had accomplished one of my biggest dreams.

After I had accomplished one of my biggest  goals, I learned nothing limits you. The only thing that limits you is giving up on yourself.

-Maeve Segrue

Most people have dads that do cool stuff. But not my dad. He didn’t do anything that was cool. While other dads were playing catch, riding bikes and doing barbecues every summer with their kids, my dad liked it when I stayed indoors and read.

My father is very strict, and he wanted me well-educated. As soon as I learned to walk and talk, he wanted to develop my interest in reading. I remember some weekends where he would drop me off at a public library and have me read instead of having me play outside with the other kids. When I was sick of it, he would yell at me until I went back to reading. Needless to say, my early memories were pretty dull.

When I started elementary school, my dad would ask me about the kids in my class. He had a particularly keen interest in some of the more gifted students. When he heard that the other kids were very good at math, my dad was frustrated. He started devoting much of his free time teaching me things. When middle school rolled around, my dad pushed me even more. In my first year of middle school, my dad found out about a lot of the competitions, like MathCounts and the geography bee. To help me gain an edge over the other kids, he pressured me into reading a lot more literature and a bunch of difficult math books. He was obsessed with having me soar over other students, even though I was content with where I was. My days were reduced to nothing but a sisyphean loop of reading and mathematics.

Although this habit of learning stuck with me, it came with the cost of remembering everything my dad did to push me. Whenever he raised his voice in the slightest, I would tense up, anticipating a lengthy tirade. Whenever I couldn’t do a math problem, I would imagine my father by my side, telling me that I didn’t try hard enough, or that I couldn’t think fast enough. I felt like his voice was always in my head, telling me to do this and that. It was very stressful.

Because of everything that my dad did, he and I were never very close. Unlike my peers, I never bonded with my father. It seemed like he and I were in two separate worlds. Besides his constant droning about how I needed to push myself, and his frequent lectures, there was not much interaction between us.

One day, I was fed up with all of the work he assigned me. I walked into the family den, where I found him reading a science journal. I asked him why he gave me so much work to do when I could have spent my time doing anything else.

He thought about this for a while and told me that he wanted me to study all the time so that I could gain more knowledge. This knowledge, he said, could make my life a lot easier, and that he only wanted the best for me. He explained how hard life was for him when he was little. My dad grew up in a remote village where education was scarce and getting food on the table was a higher priority. He explained that since I lived in a first world country now, I should use the best of my current resources to live a better life than he had.

And I thought about this as well. I told my dad about how I didn’t want to study all the time, and that I should have some free time for myself. I expressed all the frustrations I had with him over the years. We talked about it for a while, and he listened. I was surprised that he didn’t yell at me or tell me to go back to reading. It seemed like he had a change of heart that day. I realized that my dad wasn’t a cruel parent, but rather a concerned one who just wanted me to excel. He admitted that he may have expected too much from me at times but told me it was for my own good. He worked out a daily balance of entertainment and studying that we both agreed was much more fair.

My dad and I are on better terms now. He doesn’t push me as often as he used to, and he doesn’t really want to anymore. I still try to learn things everyday, however. Although my dad may never find a game of catch amusing or invite the entire neighborhood over to test his barbecuing skills, he is still my dad, and I may have understood his actions for most of my life. Sometimes, it’s hard to understand people and you may perceive them negatively, but once you do understand them, you may see that they aren’t so bad after all.

-George Qu

Laughter: it’s a good thing. In fact, it is said that if you laugh a lot, you live longer. But when the laughter is aimed toward you, it’s a lot different.

All the way back in elementary school, third grade, was my first encounter with bullies. Bullies, what are they?  Dictionary.com’s definition is a person who uses strength or power to harm or intimidate those who are weaker.  My definition is a person or group of people who say mean and hurtful things to someone. They do this in order to hurt the weaker person or to make themselves feel better. All of us are either the bullied, the bystanders or the bully.

In my school, third grade was considered the year when you found where you stood on the scale of social status. Their was the popular, sporty, tomboys, nerdy, smart, dumb, weirdos, unnoticed, and geeks. I read a lot of books, and I was very reclusive when it came to people. I didn’t care what people thought about me until one day.

“Leah. Leah. Leah!” I looked up, and it was my one and only friend, Christen. She came up to me. She seemed very aggravated. “When are you going to get your nose out of that book?”Christen growled.  The way she talked sounded as if she was ready to attack me.

“Umm… Christen, why are you mad at me?” She didn’t answer me. She shook her head and walked away.

For the next few days, I was perfectly content in my little bubble of happiness. I was oblivious to things around me. I didn’t see how Christen wouldn’t come talk to me anymore, or how she would regard me as if I had the plague. In my consciousness, I knew something was off between us.

I walked up to her one day. She was sitting with a bunch of the “popular” kids. As I came closer, I said, “Hey, Christen.” It was inaudible. There was a girl sitting next to her. As she saw me her eyes showed great interest.

“Oh, Christen. Look who’s here!!” She then faced me and said, “Oh wait, I can’t see anyone, I might be going blind.” She smirked at me and sweeped her hand in a motion indicating there was nothing there. Christen didn’t defend me. She just laughed with everyone else. I walked away and went to find myself a quiet place to cry.

A few days later, during recess, I sat at the corner of the playground, reading. I was so engrossed in the book, I was absent to the events happening around me. When I looked up from my book, I saw five girls huddled toward me. They all seemed very keen with the expressions on their faces, a lets-get-down-to-business expression. I feebly asked them, “Hey, what’s going on?” All the girls laughed in my face. They all looked at one another.

There was one girl in the group with brown locks and bright blue eyes. I knew that she was in a different class from me. She looked at one of the blonde girls and opened the dam of words which changed the way I perceived myself. “Seriously??”the girls snorted. “What’s going on?” she mimicked in my voice. Everyone laughed at that.

Then another girl took her turn to insult me. “Who do you think you are?” She paused, waiting for my reply.

“Well, I’m Leah Punnoose, and I’m in Ms. Branard’s class.” I said it so quietly. I wasn’t even sure I could hear what I said myself.

“My god, you’re so stupid. No dumbo, who gave you the right to talk to us?” she replied with such a venomous snarl. Her lips curled back. I was terrified at this point. She laughed like a witch.

“Guys, move back, it’s my turn.” I knew that voice. It was the voice that used to comfort me all throughout kindergarten to second grade. It was Christen’s time to tell me what was on her mind. “Leah,” she said with a shake of her head, “what possessed me to be friends with you?”

All the girls cooed back, “Ohhhh…. Burned!!!!”

Christen kept on going, “Oh wait, I know, no one talked to you!” Her hand went up to stifle her giggle, which made me grimace with hurt. At this point, I tried hard to keep the sobs at bay. “You only read. Never talk or care about how you look.”

I croaked back to her, “Why should I care what people think about me?”

“Leah,” she said with a sigh, “You were drowning my reputation. Next to you I am beautiful.” I froze. This girl who used to call me pretty, to my face, just called me ugly. Pain sloshed through my veins and coursed throughout my body. “With your black hair and ugly face, all you need is a pair of glasses to be totally unnoticed.” She had a satisfied smile on her face. “Leah, you are an Indian who is obsessed with bollywood films and reading. I am an Indian that has a beautiful face and reputation, unlike you.”

A different girl came and said, “You can be pretty and join our group of friends, instead of being friendless. All you need to do is comb your hair and put on some decent clothing. Who am I kidding, you’ll just be a fraction of a step from ugly.”

Christen showed her face again and said to me, “Leah, let this be a clean break between us. We were never friends to begin with; I was pretending.” With a flip of her hair over her shoulder, she and her “friends” walked away from me.

I was numb with hurt. I walked up to the teacher and sobbed. I told no one what happened until it happened again. As an eight year old, to hear that you’re ugly and worthless was painful and believable.

I was bullied over and over again up until sixth grade. I went to the peaceful school library to find books. As I was talking to the librarian, I noticed that the football players entered the library. The whole atmosphere around me changed. The football players who entered the library were the same kids that took advantage of me. I started to panic. I walked into the non-fiction section, thinking that they won't come near this area. Like always, luck was never on my side. I started to hear them coming closer to where I was hiding. Thinking through sheer panic, I turned my back on them. I took a random book from the shelf next to me and pretended to read it. I heard them come closer and closer. My heart was pounding; I prayed that they didn't spot me. They finally passed where I was hiding. I released a breath, which I didn’t realize I was holding in. I turned back around, heading out to the non-fiction section of the library. As I turned into the fantasy-fiction section, I heard chuckles.

“So, this is what you read. You’re such a wimp.” I kept my back to them as they insulted me. “You’re such a weirdo, and we thought you were better than this!” They started to laugh.

I heard enough of these insults; now it means nothing to me. They persistently taunted me, and finally I had enough. Facing them I had a surge of pride. “Okay,” I said to them, “I get it. You guys think I’m a useless idiot who isn’t cool and never will be cool. Guess what? I don’t care!”

Most girls thought these guys were handsome. Two of the guys had sharp blue eyes with wavy blond hair. The other three had misty gray eyes with curly brown hair. Just because they played football made them the most popular kids in school. I stared back at them as their faces smirked back at me.

Liam, one of the blond haired guys, bumped into me as I was walking away. “Do you think you can have any friends after talking to us like that? You are an idiot who doesn’t deserve friends.” My friend, Parker, was standing behind me watching what was happening between the football players and me. After hearing what Liam said, Parker came and saved me from those egocentric jerks. 

He told them to back off and that they had serious issues. He didn’t have to do what he did. I started talking to him more. I would stop him in the halls and have conversations with him. I started talking to him in class. Soon we got to the stage where we both stopped each other and caught up. He invited me to sit with him and his friends. They greeted me with open arms and such warmth. Such warmth that I hadn’t felt since second grade. They would joke around and act like the nasty boys they were.  He and his friends helped me to be who I am today and not care what the outsiders think. Whenever they saw me, they would say, “Hey, Beautiful.” These tiny actions started making me more comfortable in my own skin.They always stood up for me no matter the situation. Their actions and acceptance of me allowed me to grow in self-esteem and self-confidence.  Parker always kept a smile on my face, even when I felt terrible. He would say tiny things like, “You look amazing today!” and, “You have a beautiful smile.” They taught me to embrace who I am and be proud to be me.

All it takes is one hurtful word to change the mindset of a person. I’m still self-conscious, but I don’t put up with bullies anymore. Friends should be people that encourage you to excel, not encourage you to change and be like them. I learned that you shouldn’t let other people’s words get to you. You should be yourself and shine like a brilliant star, because we all are stars in our own incredible ways.

-Leah Punnoose

When it’s near the end of the school quarter, most 11 year olds would be rushing around to make sure they have all of their work in. Well, trust me. That’s not what I was doing. Instead, I was home with pneumonia, except I still had work to hand in and complete. But that’s pretty hard to do considering it hurts to think, let alone move my body to an upright position so I could even envision doing homework. I was was just a mere sixth grader, and all of the doctors told my mom that it was just a fever and it would go away soon. Fever or not, I was missing a bucket load of school, and the end of the quarter was coming up. Unlike most kids, I was actually wishing to go to school.

I was at gymnastics when I started getting really queasy and nauseous. I was working on my vault routine when I knew that if I went upside one more time I wouldn’t be able to keep it in, so I went up to my coach. All of my stomach pain and sweat came out through my tears while I told my coach how sweaty my palms were and how dizzy I felt. I then ran out to the bathroom stall and leaned over the toilet vigorously. Now, if you’re a smart person then you would be able to infer what would happen next. But for those of you who are clueless, I’m sorry to inform you that I have no intention to tell you what happened in that next minute. Trust me; you aren’t missing out on much.  My other coach came in to check on me, and she ended up calling my parents. All of this happened on a Monday, and I was suppose to stay after school that Tuesday to get some work done. Well, I can assure you that I wasn’t in school that Tuesday. Or the next one. I had my mom email my teachers to tell them about my unpredictable dilemma, and they sent all off the work I missed to my friend, Abbie, who came over to deliver it.

On Tuesday night I planned to go to school on Thursday so I could stay after to make up the work I was supposed to make up Tuesday. My fever had other plans, so I ended up staying home with yet another monotonous day ahead of me. I’m full of energy and I love going outside, so when I was stuck on the couch all day I was pretty bored. At this point my mom decided to contact the doctors, who seemed to think that it was only a diminutive stomach bug, except they couldn’t see a glimpse of how pale and fragile looking I was through the phone that my mom was talking into. My sister had an irritated eye one of the days that I was home, so we went to the doctors so they could check up on my sister. I was in no condition to stay home alone, considering I would throw up if I stood up because it took so much effort, so I went along with my mom and my sister, Carly.

Once we got there they checked on my sister, who was prescribed eye drops. The doctors took one look at me and demanded to check to see what was wrong. They felt my chest and knew something was up. I was sent over to the ER where we waited five interminable hours just to have a doctor come talk to us. They hooked me up with some medications and told me I had pneumonia. I also was told that I couldn’t go back to school for at least another week. I then asked about gymnastics because I had an upcoming meet. They told me I should really stay away from sports for now, considering my lungs weren’t in the best condition.

As I watched the days tick by, I thought of the homework piling up. I couldn’t even imagine how much I had missed, and I started worrying. If I had kept those zeros in my classes my averages would have stumbled down a big hill. This was a really hard time for me. When I see something that isn’t right I take action immediately; ask anyone. I hate being helpless, but that’s what I felt like as I was watching all of the work pile up on my desk. I couldn’t even work on the assignments I had because it hurt my head to work on anything that had to do with reading. Plus, I hadn’t even learned the new stuff I was suppose to be practicing.

Finally, my pneumonia went away, and I got to go back to school, but my battle was only halfway through. You would be surprised at the different reactions of my teachers. Some teachers threw work at me and told me it was due next class. Other teachers let me skip unit tests! But the amount of sincere teachers was not enough. Every day I came home from school, and I would hurl the pile of work on my desk, watching as the days before the quarter ended grew shorter and shorter. I was unbearably stressed out. I was getting quiz after worksheet after assignment tossed at me, all expected to be turned in the next day. It’s not that I wasn’t doing the work, it’s that I had missed all of the new material that I needed to know to be able to comprehend the worksheets!

I spent all of my free time doing the work, Facetiming friends to help me do it, asking my teachers for help, and occasionally asking my parents.  For that one week, I barely talked to anyone about something other than academics. My social life perished, and in return I was handed a golden platter of schoolwork. Every kids dream! The last day of the quarter came, and surprisingly I had finished up all of the work I owed. Once I had turned in the last bit of assignments that were due for that quarter, I was so relieved! A burden had been lifted off of me and I could finally have some free time.  For once that whole week, I could sit down and watch TV, or go out and walk my dog. Getting two weeks worth of school done in one week was extremely hard, but I pushed through.

There were plenty of times when I wanted to stop doing the school work (technically I couldn’t have because I would have fallen even more behind), but there were definitely times when I wanted to go hang out with my friends, or go play a game. I had to prioritize, and I knew that school work came first. Even when I wanted to give up and go do something else, I knew I couldn’t. I persevered and kept going, even when times became tough. I knew that if I stopped then I would never get to where I wanted to be, and I wanted to be finished with my school work. I went through the bad times, leaving me with really good averages.

If you feel like quitting, then think about this: difficult roads often lead to beautiful destinations. If you want to arrive at a beautiful destination, then you better get on that difficult road. It may be rocky, but it’s the destination that counts.

-Chelsea King

The Drop

Suddenly the paper before me blurred. Words swam in the small puddle of tears that were accumulating on my project. My thoughts were like a mortar, bombarding me with words of failure, idiocy, and regret. This small New York State lab was the easiest, and first, of many. And I had mucked it up.

That day was not so long ago, and I remember it with spite. The project was in my least favorite class, Advanced Science. I didn’t like Science in seventh grade, but I was in ninth grade science in eighth. Why? Only God knows. Mrs. Maller (my teacher) demanded perfection from me, and I couldn’t give it to her. This project was simple: collect data, write report, hand in, and get a hundred. But while I did all those things some misunderstandings flipped my grades upside down. Mrs. Maller had finished the conversation about my apparent lack of brain cells like this: “And right there, you should have another graph with the data from your second trial.”

“I don’t have a second trial,” I whimpered like a dog being reprimanded for eating a shoe.

“Well, what are you going to do? You can’t hand this in.” Mrs. Maller gave me one choice. She had told me before that she thought I should drop, quit, I wasn’t good enough for her or her class. Now I knew it was my only choice.

“I’m gonna drop,” I resigned to my fate with a sigh.

And that’s exactly what I did. I didn’t want to; I was so proud of myself when I got into the advanced class. My parents had had such pride when I got into that class. I didn’t want to look like a loser, someone that was overestimated. But alas, there I was.

My feet dragged on; my head was filled with the sadness that was overflowing out of my eyes. I’m going to call Dad. I’m going to tell him I failed, that I didn’t have the intelligence for an advanced class. I hope he doesn’t possess the same love for my own achievement as I do. There it is, the phone. Pull yourself together! My eyes are still moist with the memory of my tears, but I am in control of it now.

518-xxx-xxx. My hand is shaking as I type in these numbers.

“Hello, Office of Temporary and Disability Assistance. This is Jim Kelly.”

“Hi, Dad,” Who said that? It couldn’t have been me? It was too weak, sad, and helpless.

            “JD! Why do you sound so sad?”

“I’m gonna drop Science.” I was slurring my words like a buffon now. Pull yourself together!

“If that’s what you want to do.”

And that was pretty much how that conversation went. I told Dad the situation, how I would fail the project otherwise, how I was stressed to the point of breaking, and how I needed to quit. I cried, he consoled me, and that was that.

But now I’m happy I did it. Dropping Biology has positively affected my mental state as well as my grades. My grades are almost a perfect 100 now. While I do have regrets sometimes about the drop, I am almost totally better off. This has been an important lesson in stress. Being under unneeded stress is never a good thing. When you’re under too much stress it negatively impacts you, and you can tell. So think, what (if anything) is holding you down? And how can you get rid of it?

-James Kelly

           

It had been a Monday like any other Monday. Until I walked into a room full of bleak faces. You could practically smell the sorrow. I knew what it was, the cancer had won, and my grandma was gone. My grandma had always been around, so things were going to change quite a bit. If it was going to dinner, having a family game night or something, she was always there. Even if it was just playing cards, she wanted nothing more than to be to be spending time with us.

She had been sick with cancer and had been getting chemotherapy for about six months prior. At first she was only really sick the few days before and after her treatment, but besides that she had still seemed like her normal self. Not until about two months ago could you tell that the cancer was really starting to get to her, and that it wasn’t going to be much longer. Since she lived by herself there was always someone with her; whether she came and stayed at our house for the weekend or she had someone staying the night with her she was never alone in the last few months. We would go and visit her whenever we got the chance on weekends or coming home from games. I really knew that it was almost time when my dad started spending every night with her. He had done the same thing when my grandpa was ready to pass away a few years ago, so I knew what was happening.

My grandma and I were really close. I went and saw her probably once a week if not more while she was getting sicker. In seventh grade I would take the bus to her house after school and she would ask me about how my day went and what homework I had to do or how my classes were going. She was one person that if I had something that I had to get off my chest she would always listen and give her two cents about it.

When our parents told us that our grandma had passed away, we already knew what they were going to tell us; they didn’t even have to say a word. They just had that look on their faces that we could tell what was going on. My mom picked Keira and I up from school and my dad had picked up Caleb. They had wanted to tell us all at the same time, so they didn’t say anything until we were all home. We were in the kitchen when my dad told us what had happened. The only question that I had was, “when did it happen?” My dad told us that it had been around lunch time that same day. Of course, the natural thing to do would have been to cry, which we all did in our own kind of way.

I am very appreciative of the people that were there for me the week after I found out. I don’t know if I would have been able to get through it without them. If I needed anything I knew that I could ask multiple people and they would have been there to help me with it.

In school on Tuesday it was hard to stay focused because I had a lot going through my mind about everything. Just simple things were different now for everyone, such as decorating the Christmas tree. Around Christmas time every year our grandma would come to our house and we would all decorate the tree together. I can’t remember a time when my grandma wasn’t there for Christmas. My grandma was clumsy and broke at least one ornament every year, so my dad joked about breaking one in honor of her this year.

The Thursday after she had passed we had her wake. We had gotten picked up from school and gone straight to the funeral home. We were there for probably two and half hours, and no matter how late it was getting there was always a line of people. It wasn’t until that day that I realized how many people’s lives can be affected by the loss of just one person. There were people there who had been childhood friends of hers who she hadn’t seen in twenty years, but in the time that they had known each other she had made an impact on their lives.

            The next day (Friday) we had her funeral, so we didn’t go to school. It took up most of the day. At the beginning of the day we had her services, which were held in the church that she always attended. After that we went to the cemetery where we stood outside in the freezing cold while we waited for people to get out of their cars. Then they had the burial, but she had asked to be cremated, so there was just a picture of her next to my grandfather’s grave. Then that was it, she was really gone.

During her services and after, it finally started to hit me that I wasn’t going to be able to see her, or talk to her, or do anything with her again. This still continuously hits me now, especially when we are cleaning out her house and all of the stuff that she had. Just being in her house can put a tear in my eye; even though I know that she is in a better place now it still hurts sometimes.          

Although we all tend to miss people once they are gone, they aren’t ever really gone. Just because they aren’t a body standing beside you they are always in your heart if you believe. It took me a bit to figure this out, but every once and a while I would see little things that would remind me of my grandma, and that has shown me that she is still here watching over me everyday.  And because of this, my grandma will always be holding a special place in my heart.

-Kailey Jacobson

Have you ever heard of those heartbreaking divorce stories? You know, where the kids get destroyed. That would be my story, but mine goes just a little different.

Temporarily separated is what I would call it. It’s hard to take in for me. No matter what house I’m in it’s like I’m lost. Like I’m always missing something. It’s hard to hang on to, but being stable keeps me going. I’ve always wondered why they aren’t still together if they were in love. Can you just fall out of love?

I’ve had a hard time trying to discover MY way of making it work. My way of seeing it:  it could always be worse. As I am getting older I am realising that there are parts of this separation that are okay. Well yes, my mom has a harder time pushing through the way of her life. Maybe like someone you know. My dad has the complete opposite way of living. My mom doesn’t keep herself straight is all I can really say. My dad, on the other hand, saves me from every situation. He is like my hero always coming to the rescue when I need it.  He’s the one that makes family trips. Those trips that my mom doesn’t go on. Back to the feeling like I’m missing something.  We do all of these different events that we call “family bonding,” but how can it be family bonding when a main part of my family isn’t there?

Let me tell you this right now, being able to go home and see both of your parents makes you an extraordinarily lucky person. Yes, of course with some parents them both being together might not be the best, but doesn’t that mean they haven’t given up yet? There is quite a struggle with having to go back and forth. It’s either forgetting something or not knowing what house it’s at. It gets overwhelming sometimes. I have to admit, sometimes I lose hope of my parents ever being with each other again. At the same time my dad will sometimes tell me how much he loves my mom. Between my parents and all it really does shoot me down. My emotions run wild sometimes. Sometimes I can’t stop myself from just sitting and wishing and praying that they would just get back together and we’d have a built family again. It’s like in the snap of a finger I’m crying or wanting to scream until I have no voice left to scream.

It has always been hard for me and my brother, honestly. My brother and I have gone through the same thing step by step. We’ve both wanted them together, but we have come to reasoning on why they can’t in the moment right now. Another upside is that my brother and I are like best friends now. We have grown closer together. Even though it hurts, it’s okay. There will be tears and there will be smiles. It’s worth it though, knowing you still have a family that loves you and will be there for you.

This separation is hard and will be a struggle, but it is worth it in the end. We know the love and the strength out of this family. We will push forward and keep our family on track because that is the family we are. Is it hard? Yes. facing something new is challenging, but you always find your way through it. Life as it is is all challenges. Adjustment is your way of pushing through.

-Eve Gerke

              I look down, and all I see is the hard, rough, monstrosity of a beam that I’m standing on, four inches wide and four feet off the ground. I continue to stare at the beam, which looks narrower every second I look at it. I know what I have to do, but I just can’t do it. Why can’t I do this? I realize I have been standing still, staring at the beam for way too long. Before I know it, I’m standing in front of my coach, getting lectured about how I’m throwing in the towel. Why I won’t do a skill. Why I’m such a coward. I rarely listen to my coach, looking at the floor immaturely and nodding every so often.

For every sport, there is a challenge athletes need to overcome. For my sport, gymnastics, mental blocks are what gymnasts likely have to face. A mental block is when someone is perfectly capable of doing a move, but the voice in their head keeps reminding them of everything that can go wrong. Things like, I can break my arm, dislocate my shoulder, crush my nose, roll my ankle, break a finger, bruise my ribs... Obviously that’s not too reassuring. Basically, it’s when their mind goes crazy for no apparent reason. Anyway, I now have a dreaded mental block on beam (one of the four events in gymnastics). My conscience is totally making me go crazy right now. I keep getting up on the beam, again and again, and I just can’t do it. I have no idea what’s the matter with me.

Weeks later, I have made no progress. I only work on the skill when I have to. I avoid it as much as I can, and I don’t get much done anymore. At this moment, I realize that I have to work hard in order to get a successful outcome. Avoiding it isn’t going to help me, it’s just going to make my coaches more frustrated. They notice everything. Everything. This is a high value skill, which means it’s really hard. How on earth do they expect me to do this skill?

For what feels like the millionth time, my coach is talking to me again. All about how I need to try harder and need to put more pressure on myself. Right now, the last thing I need is to feel pressured. This isn’t my fault. I’m trying as hard as I can.

“Hey!” My coach snaps me out of my thoughts. What did she say? Oh, yea. She asked me why I won’t do the move.

“Well, I don’t know. I just can’t go through with it.” Surprisingly, for the first time, I don’t get lectured.

 “It’s four inches wide. Problems will happen,” she says a little louder than I think she means to. How does it help to remind me how high and narrow the beam is? Still half listening, she says something like,“...this is your fourth time re-learning this skill. That’s three too many. Do something about it.”

            As I walk toward the beam, I think of how long I have tried to do this, and I realize it’s been more than two years after adding up the times I had to start this brutal process all over again. That’s way too long. If I don’t do this soon, I might never be able to do this. I think of all of the times I walk in here, day after day, getting nothing done because of this one move. I think of how many times I’ve gotten told that this skill is perfect, that it’s a great skill to have. Then what’s stopping me?

            I climb up onto the beam, my skin blazing and my heart pounding. I try to block out everything else going on right now and focus. Visualize that it’s going to be perfect. I see myself hesitantly swinging my arms, spazzing out and crashing onto the floor head first. I open my eyes and forget about that. It doesn’t matter how many times I have done that before. It won’t happen again. I take a deep breath, swing my arms, and all of a sudden I’m in the air. All I register is a big tan blur of the beam with messy white spots. Before I know it, I’m standing on the beam after the move I just did, totally oblivious that I just did something. I am so nervous that I forget what happened. When I slowly look down to see my opposite leg in front, I realize that I must have done what I needed to do. Wait...I did it?

            I did it. I did it! I actually broke my mental block. I then realize why I had such a hard time with this. As hard as it is to believe, I needed to block out my conscience telling me right from wrong. I always get called out for being very negative and pessimistic about not just gymnastics, but my whole life. As much as I want to say I get pressured from other people, it’s all my fault. Even though the rational part of me thinks it is a bad idea, I have to block that out and still be optimistic about trying new things, even if it makes me a little uncomfortable. As my coach always says, you have to be comfortable being uncomfortable.

-Michaela DeFrancisco