The Big One

I have recently been faced with one of the hardest choices I have had to make. I am forced to choose between doing High School Cheerleading or All-Star Cheerleading my senior year at Emery High School. On one hand, I love high school. I have improved my cheerleading skills immensely this year. My toe-touches are ten times better than before; my tuck is getting higher and cleaner; my motions are shaper; and my performance ability has grown. In high school, I get much more attention as well… which I thoroughly enjoy. However, those cheerleaders are not as committed as they need to be. It is hard giving your all to a team you care about, when nobody else cares about it the same way. All-Star teams compete. I love competing; it is my favorite part of cheer. Where as, cheer is the largest exponent in my life; competing is obviously an important part in my decision. My heart literally feels torn, but I am going with the All-Star team next year.

Heroine Eyes

The word hero triggers strong emotions for a majority of people, emotions of admiration and confidence. An adolescent girl might picture a young, attractive, pop music artist who made his way to the top, not with money or connections, rather by putting himself out for the world see. A freshly ripened man could be expected to gawk at the most powerful being in the world. A man, with new ideas and promises of change, who wants to help people of all classes. A senescent woman may lull herself out of reality with thoughts of a vibrant, skillful artist of food who she watches during the afternoon. The elderly woman may admire her constant essence of joy she emits even while struggling with weight and marital problems. The definition of hero changes for almost every individual out there. I envision a person who has helped me grow and learn how to love myself for everything great about me, and change the things that are not as marvelous. She stands up for what she believes in, no matter who against. Someone who works as hard as she possibly can, just to take a little of the load off of someone else’s shoulders. Someone who pushes people willing to work as hard as she does, to make them the best they can be. All of these attributes apply to my hero and my coach, Becky Bunnel.

Becky has been my coach for the past four and a half years. She changed my life in every possible way. When I first walked into her domain, I possessed an air of awkwardness, anxiousness, and confusion. At the age of twelve, I had yet to find my true identity. She steadily worked with me, teaching me the basics of cheer, the stressful first floors, the excruciating extensions, and the dreaded libs. After weeks of practice, my body, agonized from flying elbows and knees to the face, and my depleting social life tried to pressure me into quitting. Rehearsals for my departure proved futile after her emerald eyes locked onto mine and she thanked me for my effort. Her gaze seemed to ignite a spark in my brain, turning the motor and inspiring me to work for this new life. Suddenly, the stressful first floors seemed simple, the excruciating extensions seemed exciting, and the dreaded, single footed libs seemed dandy.

We spent the next couple months of All-Star Cheer on learning, practicing, and preforming our competition routine. However, these months in my social world had been spent alone, confused, and with a feeling of abandonment. The idea of a male cheerleader seemed to scare my “friends” away. I could not let myself focus on silly things like this though, my passion of stunting gave me the strength to ignore the cruel boys. While my stunting skills increased, my dancing level stayed at embarrassingly awkward. Becky told me to just let it all out, try to explode, don’t hold back an ounce. I would attempt but fail because of the fear of the little voice in my head. Not until my first competition did I truly understand her words. The awing numbness I experienced after my first competition revigorated me. The hundreds of eyes seemed to pull out all of my insecurities. Preforming became my drug; I still use it to get my high to this day. This purging drug raised my self-esteem. I began talking to new people, my best friends. Little does Becky know that she saved my social health. Her influences caused me to tear down my façade and expose myself to the world, whether it likes it or not.

Becky’s strength is incalculable; she seems to be able to assist myself and the entire cheer squad in every aspect, take care of the cheer secretarial jobs, and raise two kids... and a husband. She juggles these absorbing tasks all while maintaining a touching strength and awing elegance. Becky forefends her hard working, truthful ways. She expects one-hundred percent out of every person she takes under her wing. She will scold the slothful squatters, but never drop them, always there if or when they decide to accept her help.

Becky has helped me and inspired me in so many ways. She has shown me true happiness comes at a price, one that everyone has the capability of paying. Happiness is purchased from giving your all, but most importantly, from being truthful to yourself. She taught me this lesson when the All-Star Team went to California for Cheerleading Nationals. The invigorating excitement of the city and the nonsensical hormones of adolescence provoked a couple friends and I, into sneaking out of our five star hotel into the darkness of the night. With adrenaline rushing through our veins, we feverishly observed all the unknown sights and sounds of this strange world. The neon lights dazzled our eyes. The feel of cement beneath my feet tickled my heart. The roar of a commercial plane engulfed me, sending chills of excitement down my back. When our quench of adventure had been satisfied, we crept back into our room and went to sleep. The next morning Becky had a talk with us. She looked deep into my eyes, yet again, and asked if I had snuck out the night before. I said that I had not, that I had no clue that anyone had even left. Her eyes seemed to lose their twinkle as her face sank into disappointment. She said nothing and walked away. After disappointing her, I promised to myself I would try to be as honest as possible. I sat down in disgrace and tried to figure out exactly who I am. I dug deep into my brain, opening locked doors, barricaded with ignorance. After weeks I found what I had been searching for. I found the hidden part of myself I had once thought as evil and released it. Being terrified of it my entire life, I shied away from it often times, hoping nobody would notice the little demon. I have today grown to love and adore it. It makes up who I am. I would have never found him if Becky had not been in my life. I will always be in debt to her for her gracious touch.

The Thin Line Between Love and Hate

She screams out loud; her piercing voice rattles the ears. It seems to cut

through reality and slash the soul. She momentarily rests as the large,

black, button with a worn out engraving of "snooze" pushes into her. An

army of smaller, silver buttons surrounds their King Snooze, all with

their own special job. She waits with precision and strikes again at three-

hundred seconds. She lets out her second howl, we square off. She coolly

gleams and smugly stands her ground. Obviously aware of her nearly

flawless sleek, metallic body, she taunts me. I grasp her silhouette and

feel her icy skin. My fingers glance her only physical imperfection, a

small scar in her back side from a distant fight; snow white flesh blends

with the silver. Her blood red eyes flash the time; I pull her petit

switch toward me, hearing the calming, "tick...tick...tock" signaling the

end of her fit. She silently scoffs at me as I feel her under belly

displaying cautions and warnings of her at her worst. A vent shows her

factory-like organs, meshing and twisting together in precise

synchronization to keep her running. An electric tail coils from her

bottom like a spitting cobra. I ponder upon her life before me. Filthy,

unloving factories where she was but a number, of heartless stores with

careless workers and lonely nights. While I admire her dangerous elegance,

I cannot help but feel gratitude for her necessary cruelty. This is the

thin line between love and hate.

I am (9th Grade)

I am not who you think I am
I wonder how you fall for such foolish lies
I hear it in your voice
I see that you believe every syllable that escapes my mouth
I want you to accept me
I am not who you think I am

I pretend to be something I'm not
I feel surprised this has gone on this long
I touch my false identity
I worry I have dug this hole too deep
I cry that I will never get out
I am not who you think I am

I understand what I'm doing is wrong
I say that not doing it may be worse
I dream that I can escape
I try to climb out
I hope you can forgive me
I am not who you think I am

Vase Face

In my lifetime, I have only acquired a couple scars. All of them are memorable to me. The most tragic scar on my body is sitting right above my left brow. It is a light pink oval that only appears during the cold seasons.

My scar was given to me when I was only at the age of four. I had gone on a family trip to see the Christmas lights at the Temple. After we were done awing, my parent’s made the decision that we were going to drive home, instead of staying with family members in the area. Two hours of driving was exhausting for me after such a busy day and the instant we walked in my house, I was out on my couch. Sitting above my couch are several shelves with miscellaneous items on them, such as pictures and plants. My mother purchased a brand new, clay vase while we were on our trip. She decided the best place for her new vase would be on the highest shelf, which also happened to be the fullest shelf. She still managed to mush it in with the rest of the decorations and it sat precariously on the edge, right above my head, while I slept obliviously. My younger brother, wearing a football helmet, accidentally ran into the wall. This caused to the vase to topple off of the shelf and land right on my head.

I woke up alone in the back seat of my neighbor’s car, with the worst head ache of my life. My parents sat in the front seat and their voices sounded very agitated. I was very confused as to why I was in a car and not on my couch. I was also unsure why my head hurt so much and why it felt wet. I asked my mother and she just told me everything was fine. Knowing she was lying, I flipped on the light and took a quick glance in the mirror. I was horrified to find blood dripping down my face and starting going into hysterics. After I calmed down, I begged my mom to let me see my wound again. I am honestly not sure why I wanted to see it. She said no, I looked anyways, and once again had a fit. I blacked out during my fit. The next thing I can remember is looking into a light with a man poking my eyebrow. The rest is blackness.

Extra Credit Poem

The summer was glorious,

Romantic, and fun.

Staying out late,

I remember this one

Time we drove out

To the Lady of White.

We saw a Demon Cow,

That was more than a fright.

The circle is turning,

The time has come.

Now the days grow shorter,

And I start to run.

I must wake up early,

My freedom is strippen.

Math assignments, history tests

And papers to be written.

The work is hard,

The teachers’re scary.

Threats of failure,

Oh whips would be merry.

Sadly time controls me

And not vice-versa.

With all the stress coming up

I may get bulimia nervosa.

Me As A Writer

I would consider myself an adequate writer. In some of my writing I strive. Other times, my writing falls flat. Whether my paper is tremendous or terrible depends on several factors. These include the subject of the paper, who I am addressing, and even how clean my bedroom is. Also, several papers and people have influenced me throughout the course of my life, making me the writer I am today.

The earliest memory of writing I have is luckily a positive one. It is sitting by my fireplace on Christmas Eve, writing a message to Santa Clause. While I wrote my eager, little heart out, my father would help me with my spelling and grammar so that Santa would be, “Extra proud!” Even though I did like writing as a child, my self-esteem in my own writing was immensely low. That was until Mr. Smith’s class in fifth grade. I had been out of school for a couple weeks after having surgery. When I came back, I found that the rest of the class had started on a paper on the D.A.R.E. Program. Mr. Smith explained to me that I was a competition; the kids with the best papers were able to read it in front of a crowd consisting of our parents. Considering that I started a week later than every else, I had no intentions of winning and was shocked when I did. I was also very proud of myself.

While writing in elementary school seemed glamorous, in junior high, it was everything but. These were the years I learned how inconstant writing actually is. This was also the time the writing was the most frustrating for me. I struggled with my seventh and eighth grade teacher, Coach Wright. In his class we had to write a descriptive paragraph about our bedroom. Coach did not like my paper at all and told me I needed to go from left to right until I circled my whole room. After revising my paper, I realized that now I hated it, but grudgingly, I handed it in.

Another negative experience from his class was a poem I had written. I put a lot of heart, time and effort into this poem because the theme I was writing it on meant so much to me. It was on my first dog dying. After handing in a rough draft, Coach congratulated me on it. He said it did not need to be changed at all and that he was able to easily connect to my pain. A couple of days after, when we handed in the final draft, he gave me a C- and told me it was bland. I was so frustrated that he had completely flip-flopped on his opinions. I started to not care as much about writing because I could not understand what people wanted from my writing after that experience.

My views on writing stayed the same until last year in Mrs. Wakefield’s class. She seemed to know exactly how hard to push me and how much to reward me so that I stayed confident, yet still humble enough to know that I have so much to learn. She has helped me with my writing more than anyone else in my entire life. After she armored me with confidence, knowledge and an open mind, I ran into Coach yet again. I took his English class this last summer at the Upward Bound Program. However, this time he seemed to enjoy my papers. He even kept my persuasive essay as a model for his eighth grade class.

           
After all of these influences and experiences, both good and bad, I now feel that I still have tons to learn, but I know that I can say what I want to through my writing.