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PS 60-Personal Narrative

426 Words2 Pages
The moment I walked into this new small town school; I felt strained. I went from PS 60 in Queens to some place called Cocalico Middle school. I walked into my first day hoping I’d be indifferent, but feelings don’t work that way. The first thing I noticed was the lack of diversity; I noticed this when I was at school and then when I went to the local grocery store. I observed everything, but tried not to make myself noticed. The ground was missing gum stains and the walls were all clean of graffiti art. Everything looked empty and sad; the air smelled disgusting. I awoke every morning pretending we’d be moving back the next day. I learned that this was simply me denying what has already happened. These were the days where I was supposed to
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October 14 7:07 am: The raindrops glisten as i walk along the road listening to my walkman. “another day another blunder” i thought to myself. when im a minute away the bus drives right by me. “oh crap” i pull out my phone to call my parents. When I get to my bus stop I like all my parents and they come pick me up but when they before they do that they yell at me like every other day when I get to school I go straight to the band room to drop off my bass clarinet.

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Listen my grandchildren, to the story of my past, the good and the bad, how your grandfather and I met, and the cruelty of the world around us. It was the date November 9, 1938. I was playing at my best friend, Rebecca’s house. Her house was a part of her father’s shop, which sold everything from shoes, to toys, to makeup, to clothes, anything you could ever imagine.

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The rain trickled down my window as I stared at my books, thinking about the stories my grandparents used to tell me about Japan. They had many good times there, but when they came to the United States they were blessed with my Mama. They started a small furniture store when they moved down here, which Mama and Pa took over when my grandparents got too old to run it. I helped out when they needed me too. It was a normal life for a Japanese-American.

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As I boarded the plane to visit the last school on my college trip, I was tired. I had spent a week bouncing from motel to motel with my exhausted parents, and I didn’t think I’d find any more colleges that interested me. I thought that I’d seen it all. But seeing New Orleans on my way to campus revitalized me.

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I thought to myself “why is this school huge.” As I enter the school, I slowly walk looking at all the other kids, most are in groups and everyone is talking and laughing and smiling when i’m walking alone, not talking to anyone and forcing a fake smile on my face. I feel very small, like I was an ant roaming around in the wild. “ I should of stay at my old school”, I whisper to Bensalem High School. As I walk forward

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My mind was going wild; I was both nervous and exhilarated at the thought of starting a new school. A new environment and new people meant having to look to fit in all over again. I did not know this yet, but this first day of fourth grade in a new school would be one of my largest accomplishments throughout my life. Growing up in a Spanish- speaking household gave me a new perspective. Much of my upbringing was different than that of my friends, and I had to adjust to a different culture.

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Of the twenty-five children in the class, there was only one student who wasn’t, as the others said, “like the rest of us”. I knew exactly what that meant, but I didn’t care. She was a nice girl, and, to me, that was all that mattered. But, the other kids didn’t see it the way I did. They blamed her for things she clearly didn’t do, and they did so solely because her skin was darker and she saw things a little bit differently.

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It was my first day at Reyburn Middle School in Clovis, California. Lunch hour was approaching and I could feel the wavering anticipation of the other students. It became so apparent that it was almost a tangible substance; something that could be seen and felt. Finally the bell rung and the students fled from their captives to rejoice with their friends and release the cathartic build-up from the day’s worries. I bought my lunch and to my dismay, as I panned my gaze across the courtyard, saw the invisible barriers the students had constructed to keep themselves within their respective groups.

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“This is great news!” he exclaimed. “That means only three more rounds of victory, and you’ll win the championship!” I smiled falsely in return, not wanting Lark to know about my discomfort or worry. I wouldn’t tell him about Barrett.

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I enjoyed and excelled at what I did, and refused to step outside my comfort zone, assuming that unfamiliarity was often a slippery slope to downfall. Every day was the same as the one before – no risks, no rewards. In March of my eighth grade year, I was offered admission to Miss Porter’s School, a private high school thirty minutes from home. I gladly accepted, ready to escape my provincial town of Glastonbury and start fresh in a new school.

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I remember when I was going to start school. The school I went to was called Lincoln Elementary. It was just a short four streets down from my house. I was a little nervous and slightly scared to go. I didn’t want to have to leave home and be gone for so long.

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Fourteen was the year of firsts. I had my first (real) kiss, my first funeral, my first surgery, and my first physical fight. This gamut of firsts pales in comparison to my first flight. I was forced to adapt my expectations of flying when boarding the compact monochromatic tube with accented by metal fins. My expectation was fanciful; insisting on feathered wings and an ideal that would allow me the room to extend myself as physically possible.

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BANG! BANG! That’s all I hear during the morning. More loud noises come from outside my bedroom door. “JONATHAN!

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My parents always told me “ if anyone ever picking on you just ignore them and they’ll leave you alone.” I can remember those exact same words it was after I had gotten a referral in the second grade for threatening someone saying “ I’m going to kill you” it was in the middle of the year 2nd grade after lunch we went to recess and they always made us run around the track once and I had been minding my own business walking when a boy ran up behind me and kneed my behind the aching feeling carried on for a while but soon started to fade away as angry as I was I remembered what my parents said and ignored him and proceeded to walk. But that seemed like another opportunity for the boy to come back and knee me again in the same spot more than

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