School and I were not quite fond of each other. The epic battle of clashing with teachers, rules, and standards was like Hercules going through his 12 labors. If school was a person, it hated me and believe me, I hated it. The entire ordeal was treacherous. If school was held to Jesus’s standards I would be its Judas. I would do any and everything to take it down a notch and cringed at the sight of the structure even as I passed by. I didn’t have anyone to conform me to the aspects of how school was beneficial, or how it could shape a person’s future. Most of the times mothers are there to guide the child into the world and let them know right from wrong. I didn’t have that mother. Not until my 9th grade year of high school. I found my mother. Not with a private investigator or by dna testing. I found my mother while sitting in class one day. As I walked into my English class and gazed upon the teacher,
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Castillo’s openness was like a door way into another realm. I would always view teachers as oppressors or the type of people who didn’t involve their human sides in professional environments. My motivational mother wasn’t like that though. Once I submitted to her the way I felt and why I felt that way she would tell me about her life. We kept a journal. Every time I had something going on at home or in school I would just write. Write my expressions, my feelings, my faults. She did the same and we responded to each other, exchanging the book back and forth weekly, sometimes daily. It was so refreshing to have someone see my side of a story and reflect upon it without judging it. I began to grow comfortable around her. At ease with the things going on around me because I had an anchor in an ocean of storms that kept me at bay. Now, whenever I would rebel she would let me explain why I felt I should have. I still never got to walk away without a scolding, but it was so refreshing to know that someone was doing it out the kindness of their heart, with
Castillo’s openness was like a door way into another realm. I would always view teachers as oppressors or the type of people who didn’t involve their human sides in professional environments. My motivational mother wasn’t like that though. Once I submitted to her the way I felt and why I felt that way she would tell me about her life. We kept a journal. Every time I had something going on at home or in school I would just write. Write my expressions, my feelings, my faults. She did the same and we responded to each other, exchanging the book back and forth weekly, sometimes daily. It was so refreshing to have someone see my side of a story and reflect upon it without judging it. I began to grow comfortable around her. At ease with the things going on around me because I had an anchor in an ocean of storms that kept me at bay. Now, whenever I would rebel she would let me explain why I felt I should have. I still never got to walk away without a scolding, but it was so refreshing to know that someone was doing it out the kindness of their heart, with