Category: Unit 1

When I was 7 years old, my cousins and I shared a big house in the Bronx. There were around like ten people living in one house. Surprisingly, it wasn’t as horrible as you would have thought. Hearing the lady in the corner saying “coco, mango, cherry, rainbow” would always be so exciting because my cousins and I would all run to the lady to grab some icy’s. The lady would see us almost everyday, every time she would come by.  My family and my cousin’s family all lived in the Bronx in one house together. Living with them was so much fun we made so many memories together and experienced so many things together. You would catch us at the Bronx Zoo almost every weekend. I had one younger sister who was about 5 years old. Since my parents immigrated to the United States, my parents have always been dedicated parents. They made sure that my sister and I had all the things we needed. Since cell phones weren’t a huge thing back then as it is today. My cousins and I would play on the Nintendo DS, playing our favorite games which were Mario Party or Mario Kart. Not only did we play on our Nintendos, we would also spend the entire day playing games like tag, capture the flag, and hide and seek. When I would go to school in the Bronx, I was very comfortable with my classmates and teachers.  They encouraged me to communicate more and step beyond my comfort zone since I would always be that one quiet child.

One day I got back home from school and got the news that we are moving. I had so many emotions and thoughts going through my head. I told my parents I didn’t want to move. Since my dad was offered a better job in Queens and the commute was difficult for him, we had to move there. Moving to a new place obviously meant moving schools. I was going to miss my friends and teachers, and the idea of beginning again would constantly bother me. That was all that would go through my mind. The day came and a couple of weeks after moving in my mom was working on the transferring schools application. It was difficult for me to get used to my new school on the first day. I wouldn’t want to talk to anyone because I would feel so excluded. It would get worse because everyone would simply stare and say nothing. I would have a ton of homework when I got home and would often need help.  Every second I would ask my parents for help, but they would barely understand me because they didn’t speak much English, so I was forced to be by myself. They had to take care of my sisters and I, so they were unable to complete their schooling. I remembered how I used to speak out, ask for help, and simply be open  at my previous school. I began to speak for myself and ask for help.  I used to think that going to school was boring, pointless, and had no purpose, but as I got older, the benefits of going to school for your future and achieving your goals became so clear to me. I think of the great sacrifice my parents spent to provide for my sister and myself. My parents don’t expect me to get all As, but they just want me to set a good example for my siblings and to make them happy. Therefore, how much I believe my parents have sacrificed for me to be where I am and who I am today will determine how I see education.

My motivation is a rollercoaster

I’m in class, spacing out, looking at my short, skinny fingers as if I don’t need to listen to what the teacher is saying. I look at the teacher looking right back at me, and we just stare for a good 10-15 seconds as if it were a staring contest. My teacher let’s call her Ms. W, Ms. W is known for being a strict teacher and saying such names to you in her own language. My older brother had her, and I would see him sometimes come back to school crying because of her, so when I found out I was going to have her, I got scared, as I didn’t want to come back home crying like he did. It’s the first day of class. I sit down near the window and start fidgeting with my nails as I’m nervous and get lost in my 8-year-old thoughts, “What time is lunch?” and “Did I bring enough money for…?” Ms. W starts raising her voice. “Linett Martinez? LINETT MARTINEZ?!” I was startled, and we had a staring competition. “Here” I say, shaking her head and mumbling something out of her breath “just like her brother”. During the duration of that class, we had to write a story about a picture that was on a piece of paper. Personally, I think that my story was the best of everyone’s, but Ms. W didn’t think so, and she called my story unoriginal and dumb. I’m only 8; what did she expect from me? Shakespeare? So, I just looked at her, snatched my paper back, and sat down. I had to write a new one before class ended or else it’d become homework, and I didn’t want to do that because I wanted to watch Tinkerbell once I got home. As everyone around me is starting to finish and getting told by Ms. W that it’s not good or the grammar is bad, As I finished my second story, she looked at it and told me something a 3rd grade teacher shouldn’t say: “This is not good; it’s bad. Are you slow?” Those words that I remember to this day After hearing those words, I started turning red, as red as a tomato or a chili pepper. Even I started telling her that I hated her, but I couldn’t say it properly in English, so I said in my first language, Spanish, “Te odio! te odio.” She looks at me, and I get sent to the office, where the principal made me explain what happened, and the principal didn’t believe me whatsoever, saying that it’s not believable that it’s the same excuse as what my brother said last year, and she calls my mother. My mother is already angry that she had to get out of work just because I acted out. Since my school was bilingual (English and Spanish), my mom started cursing out the principal in Spanish, going back and forth while snot came out of my nose and hugged my mom’s leg. Meanwhile, my mom tried to comfort me and yell at the principal at the same time, as this is not the first time this has happened with the teacher being so rude. Another mom that was there, also listening to my mom argue, backed her up, telling her that it happened with her kid in Ms. W class.

After that whole argument, my mom said she couldn’t afford to put me in another school, nor was Ms. W going to get fired. We went up to my classroom to get my Dora strap bookbag. Ms. W rolled her eyes at me, not knowing that my mother was outside the door, and sarcastically said bye to me. My mom saw her and came in, yelling at her, “Don’t you ever do that to my kid again, and don’t ever call her writing unoriginal again, or I swear I’ll come here every day and sit down with her and make sure you won’t do that to any other kid.” Ms. W, already knowing my mom, stood there quietly, just watching me pack my wooden pencil and my composition notebook, moving my little legs as fast as I could, reaching out for my mother’s hand to get out of the building. It was just my first day, and I felt horrible now that I knew what my brother went through. I didn’t expect third grade to be this bad. My mama is telling me to just go through with it and to keep pushing forward, and it’s okay. Just ‘echale ganas’ (put all your effort) wiping my tears and my snot. I just shake my head as an okay; I will put in my effort. After that first day of 3rd grade, I went back and tried my best in that English class. Ms. W was not even paying attention to my work after that day or trying to help me; if she did help me, it’d be a one-word response, not helping me improve on my reading and, most importantly, my writing to express myself so it could be original

Word count: 847