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A Journey Through a Narrative Essay (1 Viewer)



By : Joel Miller

can recall a time in my life where I was but a pre-pubescent child, filled with energy and life. My hair was that closest resembling day old hay and my eyes were closest to rusted emeralds. I stood short compared to most children, lost under the sea of eyes and noses which forced me to tilt my head up to breath. Everyone I knew was changing, they were growing taller, their voices would deepen and resonate, and they would speak of things such as basketball and women. No longer would they have conversations about video games and Pokemon cards. A troubling time puberty can be; a journey filled with forks and twists, this is a brief explanation of how my life turned around when I was but eleven years old.
I lived in a land that could be confused for the Middle East, Muslims and Jews battling each other over the smallest of things. A place to sit, the Coney Island, the best television show, the most trivial matters would inspire hate and jealousy. Differences between the Gaza Strip and West Bloomfield were few, the only noticeable differences were that we didn’t have deserts surrounding us and everyone was rich.
Our school was the front lines. Fights over racial prejudice breaking out in the hallways were a common sight and source of entertainment among the sheep that went to class. The hallways were painted a dull tan, as if to remind you everything was monotonous and dreary. Bright florescent lights blinded anyone who would look up. The lights compared itself to the sun, simply giving more proof that our school could be the Gaza Strip if we had a sandbox.
The teachers were robots and not people. They would ignore your problems because they were not paid to care about your personal issues. They were paid to read from the teacher’s handbook and were programmed to do so. If two children were having a racial dispute in front of the principal it would not matter who started it or why. Both children would be suspended even if one was the victim. Hitler would be proud of our school, for it was run by malevolent Nazis.
I was but an eleven year old boy at this time, enjoying my youth and creativity. The older you get the more your imagination begins to deplete and dry out, I knew this at a young age and promised myself I would never get old, this is difficult for nature suggests that we all must grow into adulthood and mature.
I was with my black friend Mathew Callaway walking to school on a dull autumn morning. The trees with their falling dry leaves reflected the emotions we felt going to class that day. We knew that it would be another day of forced mathematics and racial arguments among the student body. We cheered each other up on the walk, telling jokes left and right and talking about what we would do once we got paroled from the Education System this day. We were going to go home; we were going to play Nintendo 64. We were going to stay young.
Class that day was torturous. In my classes I had no one that I liked to speak with, no one to socialize with. When you are a young child with few friends any social interaction you get was memorable, though it was usually memorable for the wrong reasons.
After we left class for the day and the final bell rang to unshackle our shins from the containment of education we were under, I went to find Mathew and escape back to our fun and games. I looked around our usual hangout locations. He was nowhere to be found. I went outside to begin walking home and saw him with a group of eighth graders playing basketball. I walked slowly over, dodging the dozen Jewish children teasing an Arab child about his turban.
The closer I got to Mathew the more awkward I felt, I didn’t belong on this end of the playground. I wasn’t the type of child to play sports, especially with the ‘cooler’ older bunch. I still continued but felt more and more nervous. I finally got close enough to wave Mathew over and he high-fived his newfound companions and walked over to me. I asked him if we were still on about the games after school. He came up with a well formulated excuse about how he couldn’t come over today because his mother wanted him to help clean the basement of all their old junk and garbage. I nodded and walked home.
Once I got a few dozen yards away from the school I climbed to the top of one of the nearest hills that overlooked the school yard. Mathew was still there, an ant among the eighth graders playing their basketball. I stood there, alone at the top of the hill watching as my last friend was sucked into wormhole of adulthood. Corruption and lies, that’s all growing up stood for me, and now he was one of them. He lied to play his games with the older students and because of this scarred our friendship.
I continued my walk home, looking to the autumn leaves falling for closure and assistance. I was never religious so I could not turn to a God for help. My relationship with my parents was never strong so I could not turn to family. My friends were all gone with their new friends, their better, older friends. I had no one but myself to turn too. This is when I realized exactly what adulthood was. Adulthood wasn’t greed or evil, wicked thoughts; Adulthood was the ability to keep yourself calm and stable. I was not alone because I was always with me. I always had my imagination and I always had the ability to make new friends.
I got to my house and walked inside, I didn’t say hello to my mother, I didn’t tell her how my day was. I went straight upstairs to my bathroom and locked the door. I opened up a small box of red hair dye and took out my frustration and newly found logic on my hair, turning it a dark crimson, like blood.
I was grounded for weeks for dying my hair, but that was just who I was. I was original and I was unique, dying my hair, wearing special clothes and looking different was just who I was. I never fit into the maturing crowd for I was part of an alternative lifestyle that didn’t have racism. Everyone in my world was created equal and their actions would judge who they were. Not their race or religion. I was free in a way that the children at my school couldn’t possibly comprehend. I was treated badly for looking different, but got to see how it felt to be that poor Arab child, whom now I stick up for instead of sneaking past.


Senior Member
sorry, but this is impossible to read without any breaks... in posting, indents are lost, so you have to substitute line breaks...

i'm puzzled by the redundant title, since all essays are, by their very nature, 'narrative'...

love and hugs, maia