The River

This essay was written by Katelyn N. She is wonderful student that I had as a sophomore in a senior elective class. She also had recently moved to our school and was so uncomfortable. Despite the uncomfortable situation she was in, she was able to overcome these stressors and write a great piece that has stayed with me for years.

The River

by Katelyn N.

                In my life, as short as it's been, there's one thing that I've come to know for certain. The most beautiful things in our world can come from the ugliest places.

                The first time I saw the river was the day after my mother left her boyfriend. January of last year, it appeared to be nothing more than a flat surface under a thick layer of powdered snow. I was looking out of the car window, cramped by large boxes of whatever belongings we could salvage after his outburst, and decided I hated that river. I hated everything. I hated our friends, I hated the one bedroom-one bathroom apartment they let us stay in, but more than anything I hated myself. I had time wallow in my own self-pity in the forty-five minute car ride to my school that would take place every morning, whenever I decided to go. I'm able to say now that I regret missing the sun coming up over the highway. Really, I should have just switched schools. The wound heals quicker if you take the knife out, after all.

                Months passed, and the snow started to melt. By April, I was able to establish a routine. Wake up at 6:30, leave at 6:45. Push through school, lacrosse practice, get driven home, and sleep. You'd think everything would have gotten easier, especially now with the absence of a three-hundred pound man keeping you under his thumb, enforcing his own laws like a modern day Stalin. But for me, I'd hit rock bottom. I was isolated in a town that was thirty miles, at the least, away from anyone I even wanted to talk to, enclosed in a space with the person I wanted to talk to least. I was angry at my mom for a really long time, and today I feel sorry. This picture brings back fights and screaming, slamming doors and swearing to never speak to the other again. Something else is brings is reconciliation, a powerful rush of relief mixed with an abating heartbeat. It inspires me to see things through to the end, because that unique feeling of alleviation can only come after a storm straight from hell.

A few weeks later in the beginning of May, it was nice enough out to take a walk. At the base of the neighborhood, proudly showcasing the pristine boats of the elite neighborhood, was the river. The last time I saw it, I hated it.

But now, I was comforted.

                The soil surrounding the bank was damp, nearly black in color, and when I moved closer it dampened and dirtied the cuff of my jeans. Only the stray and sporadic bits of the water managed to come in contact with whatever skin was exposed, but each instance brought needles that would pierce into every inch. I didn't mind it as much as I usually would; the self-satisfying sounds of running water baited me to stay. Just as a river erodes a path into the ground, pushing away dirt and rocks and minerals, it cleared my troubles. The air was crisp blowing against my back, the incense of saltwater and moss consumed the air. It was tolerable, at least.

                In that moment, I knew I would be okay. Not just for now, but forever. Through thunderstorms and hurricanes, the river stood in its place. I decided I would, too. Trouble is temporary, if you let it be. Hard times are going to happen to anyone and everyone, but wouldn't be light without any dark. The good times are just as imminent as the bad. Sometimes the bad is really just good in disguise, as I've come to learn.

                I found peace in chremamorphism, the river was just as much me as I was it.

The Rooster

One of the most intriguing students I have ever taught wrote one of the most powerful narratives I have ever read. Nicole was quiet, kind, artistic, and introspective. There always seemed to be something in her dark eyes. For one assignment, I like to think that she was able to identify, place, and confront a horrible period in her life in one essay. I truly hope she was able to find some peace in her own words.

Nicole D.
Personal Narrative Essay

The Bear and the Rooster

Generally, when someone asks you if you have any pets, they expect normal answers like dogs, cats, horses, guinea pigs, birds--things of that nature. When people asked the thirteen-year-old-me what I had for pets, I would proudly declare that I owned 25 pet chickens. And I loved them, each like a close friend to me. I was a rather lonely child. My favorite, however, was a rooster named Ferdie. I could do anything to this bird; I carried him around like a baby, gave him ‘pedicures’, cuddled him, I even spent hours sitting outside teaching him how to crow. At the same time I had the chickens, I also had to deal with its predators. The most prominent being a monstrous, angry bear. He had an irrational temper, out of nowhere he would come in roaring and snarling, tearing up the yard in grizzly, animalistic rage for no reason known to us.

 Ferdie did not like the bear, so whenever it came lumbering around, Ferdie would try and attack him, protecting the flock. I always smiled at this, it was like we had our own bodyguard, me and the hens. Our own valiant knight, trying to keep the evil at bay. But the bear only grew angrier, hostile, hating Ferdie. And it held onto grudges with an iron grip.

But bad things happen.

Sometimes, it just cannot be helped, no matter what you do, say, or feel.

Every other weekend, I would go to my dad’s house for a visit. One summer while at my dad’s house, I woke up on a Sunday with a horrible, sinking feeling. I tried to ignore it, but fear prickled up my spine and my whole body felt hollow. I knew what this feeling meant, and that is what scared me the most. In the past, I would get feelings like this, and often when I’d come home, something was dead.

I prayed for this just to be another false alarm, for it to be nothing at all, but the feeling nagged on. My mind kept going back to the bear. The bear was home, and I was not.
        Everything was peaceful as my dad drove his van up my winding driveway. I listened to the distant chuckle of birds in the trees, breathed deep the scent of the woods. The sun felt nice against my skin and I thought, briefly, that everything was fine. That is, until I saw it. The bear. It was waiting for my return, looking straight at me. As I said my goodbyes and walked up the porch stairs, my blood went cold.

“Something had gotten Ferdie. I had to,” was all the bear said; the gun still in his grip.

 I stared up at the bear in disbelief, knowing his words were a lie. I was numb, angry, thinking how perfectly this action portrayed the bear. I shoved past him without any hint of sorrow. I would grieve for my stupid chicken alone. I went in my room and cried for Ferdie, cried and cried thinking about how if I had only just been home, I could have saved him. Had I only been there to protect him like he had tried to protect me so many times. But I was not there, I could not save him, and I blamed myself. I should have known that this would happen eventually, it was in the bear’s nature. I should have known better.

A few days later, he proved my assumptions about his character when I overheard him gloating to some of his friends about how he finally got to shoot Ferdie, how happy he was to do it, how he would have taken any excuse. Tears welled up in my eyes as I thought about Ferdie again, but that made me realize something. It was not my fault. My stepfather was a horrible man, as mean and forbidding as an angry bear. That was not my fault, though. Sometimes, bad things just happened, no matter how you feel, what you do, or who you love. I took some time and walked out to where he buried Ferdie. As I wandered over his makeshift grave, I thought about all the times I had with this stupid chicken. Why I loved him. I smiled, even as I stood over his feathers in clumps and patches jutting from the broken soil. Ferdie had been loved; he made wonderful memories and lived happily until the end. His death was unjust, and I again thought how bad things just happen sometimes. It did not make it bearable by any means, but I realized that though bad things happen, so do some good things. Ferdie was a joy to me. I am glad the bear is no longer in my life, though I will never forgive him for what he did to me. However, I at least learned an important life lesson out of living with him. Behavioral scientist, Steve Maraboli, suggests that “life doesn't get easier or more forgiving; we get stronger and more resilient.”

The Notebook

A few weeks ago, I found a notebook in my room. The front cover read Jason Manning's Journal--Do not read unless your name is Jason... So I read it. It only took a few pages to understand the overall content of the journal. It had entries that dated a few months earlier, since the beginning of school. It categorized the opposite sex in two ways "nice" or "irresistible" "boobies" and "nice ass". Nicholas Sparks, Rachel McAdams, Ryan Goslin,  eat-chur-heart-out.

It also listed the different girls' arses that he looked at on a given day. The top of one page read, Asses I looked at today... and explained where he was able to see these mystical rear-ends. He saw them "in the hall", "in class", and "while talking to..." Um, while talking to them? Interesting. I delivered the notebook to the case manager. She said "oh, Jason did this... again..." and put it in one of two, completely filled, Jason folders. She also showed me a very similar list that Jason had put together a year or so ago. Nice. Henceforth, one of my colleagues referred to him as Buffalo Bill.

Even before the notebook incident, Jason had been difficult to handle. Along with learning disabilities, and emotional distress, he is presumed to have Fetal Alcohol Syndrome.He has a constant need for attention and validation from any adult. To teach him is painful. In a class of twenty eight, he consumes more time than all of the rest of them combined. Overall he is relatively harmless, but he is constantly in the face of any and every teacher that crosses his path. He has questions for everything and if he makes a request cannot be told "no". If you tell him "no" there are two things that happen 1) he will hound you until you cave or 2) freak the f***out. He is relentless when he wants or thinks he needs something. That and he won't do any of the work required for the course...exhausting. I reported this (albeit a little more gently) to those people who came into the Parent-Teacher Conferences. We came up with a crude plan, they blamed the case manager and school psychologist, we shook hands, and went on our way.

The case manager and I continued our discussions about Josh. At one point, she went into some detail about his past. Come to find out, his father is a level three sex offender, with his daughter. Level three, according to his case manager, includes injury caused by penetration. I shook this guy's hand. Twice.

Jason was shipped to live with his biological father upon reaching the age of eighteen. It was speculated that once Jason turned 18, the biological mother could no longer care for him, as she was no longer collecting benefits for him. Jason moved in with his father and started a different life with his biological father. In a short while, however, he began having conflicts at home with his father and stepmother. They called the police on Jason multiple times. The police would show up, tell the parents that they have no grounds to arrest him, and then leave. This did not satisfy the disgruntled parents. Things escalated. I am not entirely in-the-know on all of his background, but eventually, with enough foot stomping, the parents were able to get him shipped out into a housing facility. Currently, Jason is living in a Children's Home in the area.

The more I have become aware of the situation, the more I have come to understand why Jason is so needy and down right irritating. He is constantly seeking the approval and validation of anyone who could possibly give it to him. I doubt he has ever had a mom or a dad look out for him, take care him. When he was no longer financially useful to his mother he was sent away. He is a thorn for his father and stepmother. For example--

My Film Studies class had been invited to watch the newly released Hobbit movie at a local theatre-restaurant. We got a pretty decent deal. $20 got us a bus ride, admission, popcorn, soda, all-you-can-eat pizza, ice cream sundaes--the works! Jason got his money through the Children's Home; However, Jason's parents were able to schedule an appointment during the time of this much anticipated field trip event. The following is part of an email we all received:

Jason is giving (Dad) a very difficult time about the conflict of a very important doctor’s appointment and the field trip to see the Hobbit. Because of Jason's argumentative state yesterday, his visit (with us) was canceled. The appointment has been rescheduled several times previously. Jason needs to be established as a patient there, to manage his medicines. His medicine supply that came with him from the program is almost gone.This cannot be rescheduled.

I truly believe that they scheduled this appointment to spite him and down right mess with him. This is probably the tip of the iceberg as far as his life has played out. It was mean and insensitive. My heart goes out to this kid. How does anyone in this situation survive? Everyday I try to maintain perspective, and understand how hurt he has been in the past. It is difficult, but we all do our best.