"This I Believe: The Benefits of Misery" by Leo

This December, Advanced Composition students studied, wrote, and recorded audio essays. Students wrote and recorded their own "This I Believe" essays inspired by the weekly This I Believe Podcast. While we're publishing the text of each essay below, we strongly encourage you to listen to each student's audio essay for a more intimate experience.

Growing up, we are taught that misery is a bad thing and that we should always try to avoid it. Our parents spend our childhood trying to shield us from the tragedies of life, keeping us happy and content.  However is misery all bad? Is it only a tragic aspect of life or can it be more than that? Can it, instead of hindering us, help us grow as individuals?

Ever since middle school, due to, let’s say, romantic situations, I have been miserable with my life. Now yes I know what you may be thinking. “Leo, it was only middle school. You were young and ignorant and didn’t know any better about what mattered and what didn’t. You’ll get over it.” See, that’s the thing. If it wasn’t such a big deal, then why did that experience impact my life so much and at such an intense level to the point where I’m writing a paper about it?

I was miserable. Now sure there were moments when life did seem to brighten up and make me forget my troubles but, inevitably, it would never last. Year after year, month after month, day after day, I would wake up every morning and feel the weight of my depression conquer my spirit. I only wanted to go to sleep and live in my dreams. It was the one place where I was truly happy. I did try to make myself better throughout those years, but my attempts never worked, at least not permanently. I just became miserable again. The misery got worse when it started to become physical. Instead of waking up with depression and sadness shadowing me, there was nothing. I ceased to feel any emotion and just became numb to the world and to myself. I didn’t want that, so I started to hurt myself. Whether it was ferociously punching whatever I could to the point where I couldn’t move my hand, or cutting myself repeatedly in the same spot until a permanent scar would form, these were just about the only things making me feel something. It got to the point where I was comfortable with the self inflicted pain. It even started to feel good because at the time, something felt better than nothing.

The worst came when I was contemplating suicide but, as you can tell, I didn’t.  Sure I could have killed myself and ended all the pain and mental suffering I was going through, but I had a personal belief that denied me the right and privilege to suicide. If it wasn’t for that belief I would have been dead a long time ago.

I had hit a mental rock bottom. Since I wasn’t allowed to take the easy path and end my suffering I had no choice but to deal with it and overcome it. Of course I didn’t do it in one big step. I had to take each day one by one.

I had survived the worst of it and because of that I started to learn what it’s like to go through those experiences. I understood feelings of depression, suicide, and self-harm. I started to recognize it in other people. I saw their depression, their pain, their misery. As a young teenager, without having experienced that pain, I would have never seen it in other people. I gained empathy towards those I knew had gone through the same things I had. I learned that someone with depression, someone who has had it for a long time like I did, has learned how to hide it and become actors to the world they live in. I learned that when we start having depression we easily show it to the world but as time goes on and it lingers inside us, we become reserved and start to hide it all because we don’t want to bother others with our suffering. I learned the difference between someone cutting on their wrist and on their arm. One wants to feel and one wants to let out a cry for help. I know this because I did the same things. Everything I endured, I learned how to see people in a different perspective.

Misery made me smarter than any book or lecture ever could have. Misery made me a better person. I believe that misery, and all the baggage that comes with it, can, if we survive, positively make us better people and show us a new perspective towards the people around us. I believe that it can mold our mindsight to have empathy for those in need just like us. I believe that misery can cast us outside the norm of society and give us the opportunity to observe the world that we live in. Misery does not only harm and hinder, misery, I believe, can help.

"This I Believe: Seals and Whales" by Martha

This December, Advanced Composition students studied, wrote, and recorded audio essays. Students wrote and recorded their own "This I Believe" essays inspired by the weekly This I Believe Podcast. While we're publishing the text of each essay below, we strongly encourage you to listen to each student's audio essay for a more intimate experience.

The first real cry I remember was while watching a documentary about Killer whales.The title, “Killer Whales: deadly predators” did little to clue my 7 year old self on what the show was actually about. My eyes began to water in sync to the whale's deadly dance through the dark waters of the ocean and my childish sobs were uncontrollable as three massive whales surrounded a seal that paced helplessly over the surface of a floating piece of ice. I sobbed for a while, asking my father why this had to happen, asking him what the seal's family would ever do without him, how would they recover? Did he have kids?

My father watched the waterworks from his spot on his recliner, curious and annoyed and for the first time I can remember, (and I reckon, the last time since then) he was speechless. He had no clue, really no idea as to why I was crying over a Discovery Channel special on whales and I really didn't either.

It's always been hard to put into words, this idea that I believe in, in a way that makes me think that maybe there are no words that I can string together to do it justice, but I believe in it just the same. It's that feeling I get when Simon crushes someone's dreams on American Idol, like a churning in my gut that makes me cringe and reach for the remote while trying to avoid looking at the heartbroken person's face, feeling as though the big fat no has actually been directed at me. It's that smile on my face that sometimes unconsciously spreads over my cheeks when the guy finally gets the girl, even if it's just a cheesy ABC family movie with awkward lines and impossible situations. It's like a love, unconventional and inconvenient at times that connects me with people and situations and sometimes seals.

It's a connection, an ability to relate, an understanding, a delight for the honesty of situations that are not my own. It's love and pain and fear and happiness that courses through me as it courses through someone else or through the surface of a screen. It's a different side of life that I experience through this attachment and fondness that I find impossible to ignore and impossible to describe. I believe in this, though, completely and unyielding. I believe in this kind of love for people and situations that makes it so easy to relate, that makes it possible to feel another person completely, almost touch them through our shared ability to evoke emotion, to feel tears running down our skin or disappointment churning in the pit of our stomach. I believe in this, I believe in it's value when it comes to appreciating my life. I believe that it makes me who I am.

"This I Believe: The Best Choice" by Smiles

This December, Advanced Composition students studied, wrote, and recorded audio essays. Students wrote and recorded their own "This I Believe" essays inspired by the weekly This I Believe Podcast. While we're publishing the text of each essay below, we strongly encourage you to listen to each student's audio essay for a more intimate experience.

I believe that many of the choices we make in life are not our own. If we could choose everything in life, we would all have jobs in fields we enjoy; we would spend most of our time with the people we love; there wouldn’t be so much anger about little things like no milk left for coffee or a bus that is seven minutes late. There is one thing, however, that I believe we can choose in life, and it’s happiness.

God’s greatest gift to me was happiness, especially the ability to share it with everyone around me. Where ever I am, I try to make smiles infectious and giggles spread faster than the flu. It’s an epidemic, and I’m patient zero.

I believe happiness is something that is essential to life. To me, it’s right up there with food and water. Happiness is who I am.  Happiness is me. This happiness translates into many different parts of my life. It allows me to be successful at my new job. It helps me make instant friends. Most importantly, it helps me grow in my faith. Happiness is so essential to being a Methodist. Our main idea is that we love everybody, because God made them, and He made us just to love them. It’s hard to love someone if you are angry. It’s hard to love someone who wronged you. It’s hard to love someone who will never love you. But I try to. And I hope that eventually, this will lead to both their happiness and mine.

Happiness is an everyday thing.  Happiness is the little random acts of kindness people do for each other.  It’s a choice to make other people happy, to love them. It may be an even bigger choice to let others make you happy. Just a smile or a wave can make someone’s day, if they allow it and if you allow it.  And if you do allow it, you choose happiness. And I believe that anyone can choose happiness.  

I know that some people suffer from diseases that make it hard to be happy.  Depression. Anxiety. But even those people can find a way to smile again. It takes work, yes. It takes forgiveness. It takes practice and patience. But in the end, happiness is worth it, and it’s there if you want it.

There are no restrictions to happiness.  No age limit. No race exclusion. No gender discrimination.  There is no ‘fee’ or test to be happy. No mandated sexual orientation or political stance. Anyone can be happy. And I hope that they will be. God put me on this earth to make other people happy. I do that and that is my choice. Whether it's through random acts of kindness, because of faith or morals, because of other people, or because of hard work of your very own, everyone has a chance be happy. That is what I believe, and that is what I wish to see one day.

"Spark" by Cadence Sinclair

Every human is a spark.

When we love, we fly.

When we cry, we simmer.

When we scream, we explode.

But after all is said and done,

The world is simply a spinning jumble

Of awakening and dying sparks

All at once,

All for only a delicate flash of time.

"Some Things are Better Left Unsaid" by J.K. Rowling

It was 11:11 and I had made a dangerous wish. At the time, it seemed like a great idea to wish to be able to read people’s minds. However it turned out to be a terrible fate that I could never escape. To be honest, I never expected my wish to even come true. But there I was waking up the next morning with a strange new ability.

I was unaware of the changes that took place after I made that wish until I walked downstairs into my kitchen and heard my mother say she thought my hair could use a good brushing. This caught me by surprise because my mom wasn't usually one to comment on what I chose to wear, let alone bother to tell me she thinks my hair is messy. I replied by saying it was curly and that would only make it frizzier. My mom then proceeded to apologize for she had not realized she had spoken aloud. As soon as my mom said that, a light bulb went off in my head. Walking out the door to my car to drive to school, I had a big smile on face. My wish actually came true! I couldn’t wait to go to school and test out my new ability.

            Coming home 7 hours later, I was practically in tears and running for the safety and solitude of my room. Hearing people’s thoughts is not all that its cracked up to be. I was constantly hearing that I shouldn’t wear my jewelry, I don’t know how to put on my make up, and my jokes aren’t funny. It amazed me how people thought I was boring to talk to, yet they’re standing there smiling and nodding their head like their interested. I realized that people critique your every move and I was better off before when I was unable to hear people’s negative thoughts.  Unfortunately I’m stuck with this “power’ for the rest of my life. This experience taught me to be careful what you wish for, but mostly that some things are better left unsaid.

"A Reflection on NaNoWriMo" by Lindsey

10th Grade Tutor Lindsey took it upon herself to participate in the National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo. In addition to being a Varsity athlete and a stellar student, Lindsey wrote an entire novel in the month of November. Here are Lindsey's thoughts on her experience:

This past month, I participated in national novel writing month, or NaNoWriMo for short. The goal of this is to write 50,000 words in a month for a novel, or 1,667 words daily. Through the site, participants can have writing buddies and engage in conversations in forums about anything and not be limited to writing or novels. These features make it easier to focus and keep working if others are working right alongside of you, not to mention an enjoyable aspect.  Throughout the month, real, published authors give pep talks about their own experiences and tips for writing a novel. This year, Veronica Roth, author of Divergent, gave a pep talk. She was one of many, but she was the most recognizable, to me at least. I saw people participating in this last year through social media sites and always thought it was interesting. This year, I thought I would give in a try, so I created an account on a whim. I didn’t expect much, but I managed to complete my novel with two days to spare. In the end, I wrote 50,107 words taking up 82 pages, single spaced. Now that I am looking over my novel, I am noticing so many things wrong with it including plot holes and limited character development. I have a lot of editing to do before it is ready to read. I am excited to make this a completed piece and am extremely proud of myself to complete this daunting task. I was sure I would give up after a week, but 50,000 words later, here I am.

NaNoWriMo was such a great experience. I have developed as a writer and learned a lot about my writing style. I didn’t do that much planning, which was a mistake. I know for next year to plan carefully and stick to the plan. I drifted so much from my original plan that it the end didn’t make much sense. I knew this was a learning experience going into the month, so I was prepared to make many mistakes. I met so many great people through this program. I went to write-ins at my local library. Even though they were all adults and I was the only teen there, they welcomed me and I got some great writing done in that time. I also met a teen in Michigan with similar interests to me. We sent messages back and forth to encourage each other throughout the month.

Some things I learned:

• Writing in first person is difficult because it doesn’t give much freedom in perspectives. I always thought first person would be the easiest, but there were many times I wished I could write what was happening elsewhere.
• Planning is needed to know where the plot is going to go. I had a simple idea, but it ended up getting muddled with new ideas. The theme I was going for wasn’t clear.
• Think of the backgrounds of the characters and why they feel the way they do. It helps to have all their character traits written out to refer to when writing.
• It is difficult to advance the plot. Be careful on the action versus internal monologue. I found I would write an internal monologue rather than getting to the good, action parts.
• It really helps to have other writers surrounding you. If there are writing groups at school or in the community, join them.

I would highly recommend participating in NaNoWriMo. It was so creative and a unique opportunity. In school, there are little opportunities to write with no limitations. Even if you don’t consider yourself a writer, that could change when trying something new. To find out more, visit nanowrimo.org to sign up and get started.

"Bob" by Marsha Mellow

His name was Bob and he liked to say things that were not in his place to say. No one could see him so he paid little mind to feelings or morals.

He told me that people needed it. He told me that people were spoiled by shelter and harmony.

He tells me a lot of things, some that I don’t want to hear.

His first words to me were “Hey you’re not like the others...not at all… not at all.”

There was a pause where anyone in their right mind would have ran the other way. But I took a step forward, then another, then one more. Bob told me we’d do great things together but it was myself I saw in the mirror every time. “That's not me… it’s not me….It’s him.”

His name was Bob and his feelings were gray, his intentions black. You'd never guess it though, you wouldn't, you wouldn't…..I didn't.

But what's in a guess? A conscience? An independent will? Those were Bob’s favorites. He was so good at blurring the lines of what was him and what was me. Sometimes I thought it didn't matter, maybe he was right and I was wrong and maybe I was already him.

Bob had a simplicity to him that was oddly calming… that's wrong...that's right...that's good..that's bad, but oh he was bad, he was bad. Sometimes when I doodled his name my o’s looked a lot like a’s and my b’s like d’s. I knew, but what could I do?

His name wasn't Bob.

It wasn't much of anything.

November 2014 Statistics

"October 17" by July Third

Walking home that day was one of the hardest things I had done in a while.

I heard him, his voice, his laugh.

But he was talking to her.

Walking in front of them holding it all in.

Thinking back to the past year and all that had changed,

Wishing none of it had.

All I wanted to do was jump into the street

Shut out the pain, the agony, the hurt.

And make it all stop.

Walking, heel toe- heel toe back straight, praying I wouldn’t fall.

Yet something held me back,

 from cowering away.

That’s when I realized

I loved it, I missed it, I craved it.

This is what I had been dreaming of.

Walking slower now, taking it all in.

Knowing I would do this everyday

For a chance to hear him.

"Paranoid" by Justin Turner

The world around me slows as I head down the path away from school at 10 in the morning.  Every bird chirp and gust of wind makes me jump.  Trying not to break in a nervous I continue.  It’s my first time skipping class.  My heart races as I continue.  What if I get caught?  Or my gym teacher actually decides to take attendance? My record would be in ruins! I shakily move on and as I round the corner of the aging brick building.  My heart stops.  Movement.  Human movement.  I run back inside and dash into the library, before noticing that a squirrel was just crossing the street.  Phew. Then I realize my fatal mistake.  I’m in the library…without a pass.  I begin to think.  A million thoughts flood in my head.  Do I head back out? No I’ll look suspicious.  Tell them the truth? No way!  My mind swirls, before I realize, no one has said anything to me, the kid just standing at the front desk freaking out.  In fact there is no librarian there.  I step in, ninja-like; a little worried as to where they might be.  At least one is always here.  Then I see the familiar green backpack of Ms. Loot, the head librarian.  Something must have happened.  I enter to investigate.  I crawl behind the safety of the front desk, second guessing my decision.  I dash behind the shelf of new releases and towards the back of the library.  The fiction section is strangely empty.  I head there, curiosity overriding my fear.  Dust outlines the absence of the books that were there.  Someone whispers.  I instinctively drop to the ground.  While army crawling I cautiously peer around the bookshelf to see where the noise was coming from.  Ms. Denes, the administrator, and Mr. Traps, my chemistry teacher, were in a heated conversation pointing at the bookshelf several times.  Or were they pointing at me? I wasn’t sure because the librarians came out of the back room and the two staff members turn to speak to them.  This was my chance to get out.  I tiptoe toward the exit, but let out a quick but bloodcurdling scream when the fire alarm sounds.   I cover my mouth and dash out as fast as I could.  I snuck into the crowd of puzzled students catching the attention of my good friend Nancy.  “There’s been a fire on the football field!” Nandy says.  My eyes widen as I begin to put together the puzzle pieces.  Good thing I didn’t leave because I most certainly don’t want to be a suspect.  I don’t think I’ll ever try to skip again; I just can’t take this stress.

"Why Writing Matters" by JK Rowling

Someone once told me “Writing is an exploration. You start from nothing and learn as you go”. Over time my writing has matured in style, vocabulary, organization, and creativity. However, my realization of its significance is relatively recent. I had always been writing ever since I was younger but never fully understood its value until it started being more involved in my academic career. Writing impacts people tremendously, whether it is someone else’s work or their own work. Writing is important to me because it’s a form of expression and an essential skill to have in my academic career.

After learning how to write when I was younger, I began to keep a journal. Whenever I got frustrated with my parents or sister, which wasn’t often, I had no idea how to handle my emotions. Unfortunately this often led me to scream and fight with them.  There was so much I wanted to say but didn’t know how to put it into words so I wouldn’t get in trouble. I had so much anger built up, but no safe outlet to express it. Writing in my journal, gave me the freedom to say the things I always wanted to say and let my inner madman fly. It felt alleviating to put my emotions on paper and would immediately make me feel better. It quickly became my therapy. I even surprised myself when I began to write poetry after a tough break up with my first boyfriend. Being able to put my emotions on paper helped me through my heartbreak. I kept a separate journal for all my poems, which I’m glad I did because I love going back to read them and laugh at myself. I had never thought I could be creative enough to write poetry, but then I realized it didn’t matter if it was good; it was about how it made me feel. Not all writing is perfect and makes sense to other people. That is what makes personal writing so great and liberating. 

Throughout my education I’ve needed to be able to write more and more as the years pass and I take harder classes. I’ve been taking SOL’s dedicated to only writing ever since elementary school till just last year as a junior. I can’t even tell you the number of essay’s I’ve turned in and have been graded on, which doesn’t even include my English class. I have also had to write research papers in history and Latin. Even what I write for homework gets graded on.  All the AP exams have a writing section of the test. However writing has never been so important in my academic career until now. Because I’m applying to college my writing is going to be judged and evaluated. Writing a good or bad essay can determine my future at that college, which is why it’s so important to have writing as a skill. Writing a good essay is what really captures people and seals the deal to an acceptance to college. It became clear to me this year that being able to write well was essential for succeeding in all my classes, because you write in every single class, whether its for homework, essays, short answers, or in class assignments. This makes writing so important to me because I want to achieve my goals in school and succeed.

People frequently forget that writing is all around us. It’s the thank you letter you write to your aunt, it’s the emails you send at work, the papers you write for school, your private journal entries, or even text messages to your friends. You use writing in your personal and professional life everyday. For me, I use writing at school and at home. I’m a very private person and being able to write down my feelings, fears, and dreams allows me to be free of built up tensions and is my form of expression. Writing is also my academic strength and I enjoy doing something I’m good at.

"A Bad Smell and Where it Came From" by Lavender Li

My goodness, that smell was horrendous. Even though most people like the smell of the ocean, I can’t stand it. Of course, my English teacher decided that “Ocean Breeze” was the perfect scent for the new air freshener. When I when I waltzed into class on that one dreadful Monday and smelled the salt and seaweed, I wanted to gag. How could anybody like this smell? I think the reason for the hatred of the saltwater odor goes back to my first grade summer vacation.

As normal, my family decided to go to our local beach for a week. It was the perfect weather, a deep blue sky and a sun that filled the beach with happiness and warmth. We have gone to the same beach every year, merely out of convenience. The drive up to the familiar setting only took about an hour, perfect for traveling with children. In the past, I have always enjoyed making sandcastles and digging holes in the sand. I loved the tide pools filled with critters vastly different from the ones in my backyard. The ocean was fun to splash around in, not daring to go any deeper than halfway up my claves. Last summer, I began to notice the older children at the beach go further into the ocean, especially with boogie boards. Always smiling and laughing, I thought it looked fun. I informed my mother of what I wanted to do; venture further into the abyss. Thinking I would forget, she shook her head and replied “next year”.

Now, one year and a remembered promise later, my younger brother and I decided that this was the day we learned how to boogie board. I dragged my mother over to the stand nearby selling the boards. She agreed to buy one for me and my brother to share. I thought this was fair, as we could always get another one later. Inspecting every board, I picked out one with a bright blue checkerboard pattern. Smiling with joy, I ran right into the ocean, not looking back for a moment. I took the blue board out to the open sea and tried to catch a wave, mimicking the older kids on the beach. Peering behind me, I saw a medium sized wave coming straight at me. Thinking this was the perfect wave, I kicked my feet as hard as I could to get momentum going. Next thing I knew, I was flying on the wave until I suddenly lost my balance, and was thrown violently into the ocean. Behind me, another wave was hurling toward me, tossing my under again, flipping head over heels like a gymnast. I gasped for air, breathing in the water instead. I felt my lungs fill up with the salty water, suffocating me. Fear engulfed me, causing me to panic. Somehow, I managed to find the soft sand beneath me and stand up. At this point, tears were streaming down my face as I waddled over to my mother, who was videotaping the entire experience. This was when I decided the ocean was the worst place to go. I was petrified of the sea ever since. The rest of the vacation was terrible as well. I refused to go anywhere near the water and sat silently on the beach, afraid the ocean will stand up and eat me, just like a bad horror movie. To this day, I still cannot stand the ocean, as it brings back memories. Even the smell causes me to panic. 

 It looks like English will be a long year. 

October 2014 Statistics: Busiest Month Ever!

"Mirror's Lament" by Justin Turner

What am I?  A slave. A slave to everything you do, and everything you say.  I have no control, no reason as to why I must listen to you and mimic what you say.  I don’t know your thoughts, but here I am at your command.  I’ll do what you wish, but only because I can’t do otherwise.  You make the decisions and you get to enjoy them, while I, doing my perfect impression of you, get to spend the time wondering why.  But what am I to do?  I’m only your reflection.  I’m in every mirror, shiny object, or pond you pass by.  You look at me when you pick out our imperfections, or when you’re brushing your teeth.  Other times, you don’t even notice me as I ripple through the slow current of the stream.  I know you like no other, yet know nothing about you.  Your actions are a mystery, but I know exactly what you’ll do.  We’ve grown up together, spent every moment of our lives together, but you’ve never actually talked to me.

What I’d do for some control, a chance to think for my own.  I’ve copied your mistakes all your life; I want to make my own.  I want to know what it’s like to kiss someone you love, and go exploring for something that I’m passionate for!  I want that power to think for myself.  One day.  One day you’ll see me doing what I want.  One day I’ll run my fingers through grass, and laugh at something funny.  Truth is I may be you, but you are definitely not me.  One day I’ll break the bondage of the reflections of the world, and you’ll see what it’s like to be in our shoes.  One day. 

"Why Writing Matters" by Victoria Lemmings

Writing matters because writing is communicating. We all want our voices to be heard, and writing provides an outlet for that passion of self-expression. Writing is taking a complex idea that is living and growing in your head and transferring it onto a piece of paper so that it can be shared with and appreciated by others who may have not previously seen things the way you see them. Writing is the preservation of the knowledge of others all around you, a way to keep track of history and conserve the words of those who came before us. Writing offers new perspectives and expands the scope of our minds. I have found that when spoken words fail, the written word speaks.

In the scope of the world, writing is necessary to keep history alive and to help us remember what has come before us. Historians write in history books so that we remember the past of our country and the surrounding world, not only so that we don’t make the same mistakes again, but also to commemorate and celebrate the accomplishments of our pasts. Storytellers write down the cultures and beliefs of a people so that their culture can be preserved into the future. A hundred years from now, the people of 3014 will hopefully look back at a novel by John Green to examine how teenagers lived in the 21^st century and use our example to shape their own. Without writing, our achievements, greatness, and also downfalls will cease to exist with the inevitable passage of time.

In my personal life, writing helps me make sense of the world around me. Sometimes it’s easier to write out why I’m upset or annoyed than to tell someone. In the safety blanket of a worn notebook, I feel confident because my voice won’t break and I won’t stutter. With writing, my words will flow onto the page and suddenly I realize that in my hastily scribbled words I’ve discovered more about myself than I knew before. Sometimes my upcoming “word vomit” unintentionally reveals what I’ve been thinking the whole time but been too confused to comprehend. Seeing these thoughts on paper offers me much-needed clarity. Furthermore, writing opens a doorway to the amazing creativity living inside my mind. I have so much going on up in my head, and so many imaginary scenarios and fictitious characters that are just itching to find expression in a piece of creative writing. However, in my day-to-day life, this creativity often lays dormant, hiding under the thousands of other concerns clogging my brain. But when I apply myself to creative writing, these characters break out of their shackles and bubble to the surface. Writing provides the key to their previously closed doors, an outlet for the endless stories inside my head.

Academically, writing is the way to communicate understanding and knowledge. I write in almost all my classes on homework, notes, and assessments to convey my retention of the material. How else will my teacher have tangible evidence that I’m learning anything? Someone can be extremely intelligent and store a world of knowledge up in his brain, but if he doesn’t have an outlet to prove that he possesses this great gift, there’s no point. His intelligence doesn’t benefit anyone when it’s just locked away. Academic writing teaches students to break the locks on their brains in order to express themselves and share their wealth of knowledge that’s too often hidden. This expression is a form of communication that is a vital skill which must be taught and practiced.

What about writing to learn? This is essential. Whenever I have a topic for school that I’m confused about, I try putting some time aside to write about it. I’ve found that, similar to writing out my feelings in a journal to realize my emotions, writing to learn academically has significant benefits. Writing gets one’s cognitive juices flowing and brings underlying ideas and themes bubbling to the surface and ready for use. Writing to learn gives one the chance to think endlessly and fully. If someone learns how to write well they will think well because writing is just documented thinking. We have to think to learn.

Ultimately, writing is irrevocably significant to the world, to schools, and to the individual. Write to learn, write to communicate, write to discover new things. Write for academics and write to think, but above all else write for yourself. 

"A Counselor's Worst Ghost Story" by Hunter Vega

        "Do you know how many times I've covered for you? Would it kill you to return the favor even once?"

       "You covered for me once! And my sister was sick! You just want to leave!"

       "I told you this morning, Meg. It's important that I see him. It's just one extra hour of work." There’s a warning in his tone, but I ignore it.

       "But I don't even know any scary stories! And-" I lower my voice, "I can't take care of the kids on my own."

       "Well, you're in the wrong line of work, then," he snaps. "Listen, if you're not up to it, quit. But all you have to do is recycle the plot from a horror movie and get the kids to bed. I'm guessing I'll hear you whine about it in the morning."

        He turns and storms off, and I know I've screwed up. I don't know why every conversation with Michael has to end in a fight. I can't pretend it's not my fault, though. I’ll make it up to him. I won’t even say anything tomorrow. I’m already feeling guilty about it. He’s got other people to deal with, and I’m just adding to his problems. I always do this, and he’s right to be annoyed. I’ll apologize when he gets back. Still, I should hold him accountable for the things he’s said. I would confront him if I didn’t agree with him.

       I walk back to the campfire like my shoes are lead. He was right, of course, about me being in the wrong line of work. But it was camp counseling. Anybody who cleared a background check could do it. Obviously, it didn’t require a very solid work ethic.

       The kids are looking kind of antsy. Some are bored, the sweeter ones are edging on concerned. I guess it’s not an enriching environment that has its employees bickering in earshot of children. Thank god the kids aren’t here to learn. I take my place on the log bench behind the fire that had been, until now, unsupervised. Shift into further discomfort and let an awkward silence settle. After a few seconds, I clear my throat.

       “So. I’m going to take over tonight, so-”

       “Why was Michael mad at you?” It’s one of the more obnoxious kids, cutting in as soon as he can. I employ one of my favorite child-care techniques and ignore him.

       “I’m telling the story tonight. Um, Once upon a time,” I hear groans. “Once upon a time, there was a man who was conflicted. Tormented. This was because… he had a really pleasing attitude, but only to some people.”

       “So he kissed people’s butts!” It was the seven year old heckler again, making the other kids giggle. I go with it, because it’s accurate.

       “Yeah, he… kissed people’s butts. All the time. But only to get their respect and validation, and he wasn’t going to get that from those people.” This story really wasn’t for kids. I jump, then sigh at the sudden sound of Michael’s car door slamming.

       “This man... he was generally pretty great, but when he worked too hard to please certain people, and they ignored him, he took it out on his friends, who just wanted to help.”

       I realize it’s getting way too real when I check the kids’ faces. Even the upstart who had been interrupting me looked worried. Well, I am scaring them. I decide to go for something spooky, rather than terrifying them with real life.

       “Well, the man went on making bad decisions until one night, when he was driving too fast.” I can see Michael’s headlights jumping as he swerves around a turn on the mountain road. Please be careful, I think. Don’t do anything stupid. “And that night, on the road, he died! His car crashed!” Even as I say the words, I’m praying that Michael is safe. It registers I’m not scaring only myself as I notice the kids turning to watch the beams coming from Michael’s car, the only sign of him now. “He… he came back to haunt the people he wanted to impress in life.” My voice is shaking now, as Michael approaches the last switchback turn of the mountain. “This… is the story of-”

       A screaming, moaning crash shatters the quiet, and I can’t even call his name as he dies. 

"We Many. I Many. (Part 1)" by Unfinished Sentence

My grandpa is a relatively reserved man. He’s typically emotionally stoic and doesn’t regale the escapades of his past years too often. But once in a blue moon, you can get him to tell you one of his killer stories. I’ve heard plenty of stories from my grandpa before, all of them have been either exceptionally amazing or just completely bewildering. My mom always says that the best stories my grandpa has are from his war days and when he was a police officer. Last night it was just me and my grandpa home together, and we got into a pretty deep conversation while sitting in the living room. We somehow ended up on the topic of his law enforcement years. I knew my grandpa wasn’t fond of dwelling on this particular topic, but my nagging curiosity got the better of me.

“Hey gramps, what do you think was the worst thing you saw as a cop? Aside from like murders and stuff I mean.”

“Suicide.”

His answer was blunt and detached. I knew he was trying to steer clear of the topic entirely, but the irksome nosiness in me still sought after the details.

“How many cases did you see?”

“Just one.”

This time I could see a pronounced twinge of sadness creeping up into his eyes. Whatever memory he was summoning was clearly something he wanted to forget. As much as it pained me to see my grandpa like this, I had to hear this story. I asked as delicately as I could.

“What happened?”

He gazed at the wall for a second before sighing and turning leisurely to face me.

“Trick (my grandpa’s nickname for me), promise me you won’t repeat this to anyone, and I mean anyone. Not your mother, not your friends, not Lennon, not even your grandma. No one.”

I was taken aback by that last part. From what I’ve heard from my mom, my grandma knew absolutely everything that happened to my grandpa while he was in both the service and the police force. There wasn’t anything he told my family that she hadn’t heard already. But it appeared that she didn’t know about this. I agreed to keep his vow of silence (which I’m breaking right now, with genuine remorse I swear to you all), and bent forward to hear my grandpa’s previously unspoken account. This is what he told me …

My grandpa was working late when a message came in through his radio about assistance required for a home investigation on the opposite side of town. A call had come into the station from a concerned woman, saying that she hadn’t heard from her neighbor in over a fortnight and that she began to think something dreadful had happened. My grandpa, as well as two other cruisers, was dispatched out to the house of the man in question. The house was situated in a very wealthy area known hold many exceptionally wealthy doctors and the like. When my grandpa arrived, the other two officers were already there. There was no response when they knocked on the door, so they had to forcibly enter the guy’s home.

My grandpa said that this place was one of the most massive houses he’d ever seen. By the looks of everything, this guy probably used $20 bills as toilet paper. The walls seemed to go on for miles in just about every room, and precious antiques and luxurious looking furnishings littered the place. As nice as the house was, my grandpa said something about it wasn't right. All the furniture (couches, chairs, tables, etc.) had been turned upside-down, or was clustered in front of the all the closet doors. Something even more disconcerting my grandpa had noticed was that whoever had been in the house had taken all the mirrors off the walls, which were now resting on the floor, and covered them completely in black electrical tape, or broke them. Aside from the peculiar placement of the furniture and the mirrors, the house looked ordinary. There was no indication of a struggle or forced entry, the placed seemed untouched by any kind of unlawful activity. The house was enormous, and had dozens of different rooms that needed to be investigated. Since there were only three men on site, taking the time to look in every room was a pretty time-consuming task. The longer my grandpa looked, the more he began to feel perturbed. The house looked occupied, but there was no one to be found.

About 10 minutes into the investigation, my grandpa took the liberty of heading upstairs unaided (he was armed so he didn’t require full assistance) while the two other officers were still spread out across the colossal lower floor. It only took my grandpa a few minutes to grasp that something upstairs was very wrong. There was shattered glass everywhere, and all the furniture was destroyed. Upon further examination, all the glass scattered around appeared to be mirror shards. Every single one of the rooms were trashed, and nothing was in one piece. My grandpa called for the guys downstairs to come up to the second floor and look through all the mess he was standing in. The three of them began to peer in to the various rooms in hope that the owner of the home was somewhere upstairs. That’s when things became disturbing.

As my grandpa investigated the upper level, he and the other officers saw something unusual. In almost every single one of the rooms, there was a recurring phrase scratched into the walls;

‘We many. I many’

Haikus, Part 2

Fall means a new day

Brown, orange leaves falling down

Cake is a beauty

Flowers bloom brightly

Roses, tulips, violets too

I love to eat food

• Nishay

I hate you forget

You are a banana yes

I like cake all right

• Douglas

Food is really good

I like pizza and ice cream

I also like cake

• Seanna

I dive into water

The water is smooth on my skin

Swimming is so fun

• Melissa

I sleep in the kitchen,

when i’m hungry I eat food when i’m tired,

I wake up when i’m full

I am in lunch now

I am writing a haiku

Because I want cake

Sara Khan is me

I am a female person

Life is the struggle

Nature is pretty

it has lots of colors

it makes me happy

I did this for cake

I do not like poetry

But I like cake

I wake, reluctant

Too cold to get out of bed

But I need to pee

I want some good cake

I heard it is from costco

may I have some cake

Snapchats from da bae

I bet you think I like him

Nah, I’m just playin.

In the chest they hide

Under the bed secrets lie

She hopes they will die

I’m just here for cake

not for the writing center

please sire me my cake

I really like cake

Can you give me some cake please?

Refrigerator

Everything I touch

With tenderness, alas

Pricks like a bramble

-Julio

Danny is so Cool

or so he thought to himself

he’s not what he thinks

-Danny

"On Cake and Haikus: A Re-Cap of our National Day on Writing Celebration" by Jaiden C.

After attending the CAPTA Tutor Leader Summit in September, Junior tutor Jaiden C. proposed that the HWC celebrate the National Day on Writing with a cake and haiku party. Jaiden planned and publicized this event with the support of her fellow tutors, and she is a HUGE part of why this day was such a success. Below are Jaiden's thoughts on the day.

Can I have three cheers for the Herndon Writing Center? HIP, HIP HOORAY! Yesterday, the Herndon Writing Center successfully concluded their first ever party! Why the celebration? The National Day on Writing, of course! It was the Writing Center’s obligation to celebrate this wonderful holiday, and we celebrated in style. We had students write a haiku, turn it in, and then they got a piece of cake. Simple enough, I know.  Before I keep rambling about how awesome the Herndon Writing Center is, let me give you a quick summary on how it all went down. 

           

The cake, moments before it was devoured by 97 hungry poets.

First, all of the tutors showed up to the writing center to pass out cake and collect haikus. The beginning of it all was a little rough because we were totally mobbed, but we persevered through teamwork. I guess bringing cake table-to-table became a little too tedious for the tutors, so they just started an assembly line. It’s amazing to see what people can do when they work together. As students filed in through the small door, Lennon, our “bouncer,” collected their haikus. We even got a haiku on a banana! Crazy, right?

A haiku that's good for you heart

As the cake left, more haikus came in! By the end of just 13 short minutes, we had a whopping 107 haikus from 97 students and teachers! That’s so cool!

The mob of hungry poets

Look at all of them! 

A very big thank you to everyone that showed up and submitted a haiku! The HWC looks forward to making this an annual thing! Look out for any other parties we have and sign up for a tutoring session with one of our SUPER cool tutors!

           

Haikus and Cake: Part 1

On Thursday, 10/23, the HWC celebrated the National Day on Writing. This year, anyone who wrote an original haiku and brought it to the HWC got a piece of cake! We received 107 haikus and served an entire sheet cake in exactly 13 minutes. It was thrilling.

Thanks to tutor Jaiden C. for planning this day!

We'll be publishing the haikus we received over the next few weeks.

 Herndon Powderpuff

Class of 15 won both years

Hashtag legacy

-Mr.  Kim

Procrastination

I have better things to do

than to do this po.....

-Sahj S.

Striker straight ahead

goes for a shot, goal denied.

Great save, goalkeeper.

-Luis A

Said, « Let them eat cake ! »
No PRIDE card for empathy
Marie Antoinette
-Mme. Rosenthal

Turtles are so cute

I would want them as a pet

Now I want some cake

-Coraima

I love crunchy fries

It reminds me of candy

They both taste like life

-Natalie

The rain is falling

There is not anyone near

The silence is bliss

-Aaron

My bed is so warm

My clock is so very cold

I think I’ll sleep in

-Jessie

Cake is really good

I am writing this for cake

Cake is so yummy

-Ryan

There you are, with me

You are the reason I wake

Poptarts for breakfast!

-Milagros

We run everywhere

We brave all the elements

This is cross country

-Mariela

Is this a haiku?

I’m bad with syllables

and I give up

I will try again

This is not working at all

this haiku is dead

-Emily