I remember having my hair in three ponytails with pink knockers, jumbo twist, and a tiny clip at the end. I was drinking strawberry milk, at a wooden table that had a vase filled with sunflowers in the middle of it. I watched my grandmother read the Savannah Morning Newspaper with coffee stains on the front page. The stains came from putting her coffee mug on top of the paper to get up and stir the cheese grits that were on the stove. I always used to ask, “Grandma, can I have the funny page?” This one particular evening grandma left the paper on the table; I wanted to mimic her daily routine, so I sat in her chair, with her Coach eyeglasses on and began reading the front page. My reading was not very fluent but my uncle saw what I was doing
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The high school I went to did not have a good approach when it came to academics. If you were to ask someone that never stepped foot on campus their opinion on Beach High School, they would say derogatory words or, “Why do you go to that high school? You won’t learn shit; the teachers are just as dumb as the students!” Of course, I did not want to go to a school that was in a ghetto community. Every week you heard of a shooting occurring or a girl who was walking to or from school, who almost got snatched by a man who was described wearing a black hat, white shirt and pants, but she got a way. Walking in the halls of my high school, you smelled hopelessness, surrounded by laughter, and fighting. The walls were yellow, but if they had been white, I would have felt as if I was in a prison where you could roam freely and go home at the end of the day. Especially, being on the ninth grade academy that was separated from the rest of the campus, all of the classes were on one hall, and you did not get to see or enjoy the atmosphere of the upperclassmen.
As I continued my journey at this high school it only got bittersweet. My high school had received a grant to get rebuilt. The morning of August 11, 2013, at 6:00 a.m., I had to get up for my first day of eleventh grade. I was excited, what was more refreshing was the arrival at my new school. It was overwhelming to feel like I was in an actual high school, not in a prison, and the air, the air was so
The high school I went to did not have a good approach when it came to academics. If you were to ask someone that never stepped foot on campus their opinion on Beach High School, they would say derogatory words or, “Why do you go to that high school? You won’t learn shit; the teachers are just as dumb as the students!” Of course, I did not want to go to a school that was in a ghetto community. Every week you heard of a shooting occurring or a girl who was walking to or from school, who almost got snatched by a man who was described wearing a black hat, white shirt and pants, but she got a way. Walking in the halls of my high school, you smelled hopelessness, surrounded by laughter, and fighting. The walls were yellow, but if they had been white, I would have felt as if I was in a prison where you could roam freely and go home at the end of the day. Especially, being on the ninth grade academy that was separated from the rest of the campus, all of the classes were on one hall, and you did not get to see or enjoy the atmosphere of the upperclassmen.
As I continued my journey at this high school it only got bittersweet. My high school had received a grant to get rebuilt. The morning of August 11, 2013, at 6:00 a.m., I had to get up for my first day of eleventh grade. I was excited, what was more refreshing was the arrival at my new school. It was overwhelming to feel like I was in an actual high school, not in a prison, and the air, the air was so