In this section students will be able to post any school projects such as writing, art, research papers, or anything that’s related to helping other students with their studies. Students will also be able to upload files and share links that are related to their academic work in different subjects.

Creators:

Naim, Francisco, Amrita, Jefchy

 

Sample: Academic Writing by Naim Syla (from creative writing class)

My Father’s New Home

The ringing of the phone awoke me from a frightening dream. The war in my country, Kosovo, ended in 1999, but nightmares still haunt me at night. I moved to United States in 2006 and for the last three years, I lived in Bronxdale avenue in Pelham Parkway, an area of North Bronx mainly populated with Albanians and Italians. The building was owned by an Albanian guy in his early 70’s who rarely turned the heat on.

The alarm of the tiny Nokia cell phone annoyed me as much as did the blistering cold. I reached over to my right for the phone with my eyes still closed. The eyelids felt heavy as I opened them slowly, and I had a blurred vision of the caller’s name. I answered the phone quietly with a tedious hello. My breath stunk and I could smell it. Across the room, was my roommate sleeping on his bed, curled in a fetal position shivering and snoring. I slowly flipped the covers over to my left and pulled myself out of the bed and then out of the bedroom into the kitchen.

 It was my cousin, Kismet calling. “Did you speak with your family” she asked.

 “Yes” I answered.

I had Skyped with my father that evening, before I went to bed. He looked older than ever before. His wrinkles were double-folded and went down to his chin one after another.  Three lines ran horizontally across his forehead. He wore a white Albanian traditional hat made of wool and had lost his hair at a young age. I told him that I was doing well in school. He was happy to hear and his green eyes gazed from joy. “I am proud of you” he replied.

“I am sorry for your loss” my cousin said. I was puzzled and did not know how to reply. I looked at the phone. “Another nightmare,” I whispered as I pressed the red button to end the call.

In the first nightmare I saw myself getting shot. It was me rattling against three Serbian soldiers in front of my house in Kosovo. I heard a boom, and as I looked down, I saw a pool of blood beneath my feet. I saw myself die as if I were the spirit out of my body. The nightmare was as real as reality can get until the phone rang.

I froze there in the kitchen. I waited for another phone to ring to wake me up from the second nightmare. I screamed as loud as I could and I felt every hair in my body cringe as if trying to hold on in place. A rumble in the bedroom startled me and interrupted the horrifying sound of my wailing. My roommate, who was also my best friend, ran to see what was going on.

I started crying loudly as I pressed my forehead and nose against the frosted kitchen window. “What happened” my friend Berat asked. I did not look back. I could not face reality. Yet, I wanted to run and cry on his shoulders. Then, I realized, it was real. My father had died.

My aunt who lived in my neighborhood invited me to go over to stay with her. She had heard the news. “Come over” she said in a shaky voice. I put on my black heavy-hooded coat, and I watched the snow fall out of the bedroom’s window as I pulled the zipper up to my chin. I breathed heavily and a cloud of smoky vapor came out of my mouth and dissolved quickly into the cold air. I turned around to face the door and  Berat’s eyes met mines. He was chasing me around the one bedroom apartment like worried and perplexed trying to solve the puzzle I had set up in his mind.

“My father died today” I said. His milky-white face slowly turned red and showed more confusion. He did not know how to reply. Teardrops were pooling in his ocean-blue eyes and within seconds flooded his face. I started weeping while inhaling sporadically through my nose. My chest kept jumping up and down as if trying to perform the dance of sorrow. Berat told me to be strong and he said he felt sorry. I wiped my tears and walked to the hallway and opened the old heavy door slowly. I gave one last look at my best friend and told him I was going to my aunt’s as I let the door slam behind me.

The building hallway smelled like pee and my eyes burned. The floor was sticky as if the super had cleaned it with a soda drink. I went one floor down the steps and exited the building. The temperature was below zero Celsius. I walked west on Bronxdale to meet White Plains road and then continued north to Cruger avenue. My eyes were still tearing up and the surroundings seemed like distant blurry images as I passed through Pelham Parkway. People walking by looked like dark shadows.

My aunt buzzed me in without me ringing the bell. I saw her through the kitchen window as I approached the building’s entrance. I walked on my tiptoes up the steep and narrow steps to the third floor. She waited with the door open staring at the floor motionless resembling a statue. Her eyes shifted to the ceiling and then she looked straight into my eyes. I shook her hand and ran to her bedroom. I locked the door and started crying. She reminded me of my mother. They were sisters, and she had become my mother in America.

My uncle came knocking on the door and asked me to “Please open the door.” I wiped my tears and looked at myself in the wall mirror. The brown eyes had changed to hazel and were swollen and red. My beard was wet and my nose, which is slightly curved to the left, was dripping. I tried to get myself together before I faced my uncle, and I started taking deep breaths.

I reached for the knob and turned it to the left. There was my uncle standing with his dropped. He looked up and gave his condolences.

“You are a man now. Be strong.” he said.

I looked at him and said nothing. He told me to go to the living room and drink something. The apartment felt very warm and the brown leather couches felt comfortable. My aunt brought us water and cranberry juice. I drank water.

Suddenly, I felt a rush of despair coming through and I ran to the bathroom. This time, I did not scream or cry out loud. Only pure tears came out rolling down my cheeks and met at the tip of my chin creating a bigger drop as they blended with one another. I watched them closely in the bathroom’s mirror while holding on to the edges of the sink with both hands.

I heard the door bell ringing followed by my aunt’s footsteps to buzz someone in. I washed my face and went back to the living room where my uncle was sitting. I sat next to him and we listened to each other’s breathing. I heard the door open and one of my cousin’s from my father’s side walked into the living room followed by my aunt.

He sat next to me and kissed me on both cheeks and gave his condolences. “Do you want to go back home?” he asked.

“I would like to but…”

“Well if you have your green card, I asked the agency, they said you can go using the Kosovo’s passport” he interrupted me.

Each time I spoke with my father for the last three years, he told me not to go back no matter what would happen. He wanted me to chase the American dream. He used to say “Just remember how much you suffered here. No matter what happens. Please don’t come back.”

I was afraid that if I went back home, I would not be able to return to United States. I was granted asylum, and I was not supposed to go back at least until I would become a US citizen. But I had to say yes. I wanted to go and see my father for one last time. I had to touch him or give one last kiss before he went to his eternal new home.

My cousin told me to get my green card and passport and go with him to the airport. Our tickets were on hold for the 4pm flight. He drove me to my apartment and I ran up and back down the stairs and to his car in a blink of eyes. We had less than two hours to make it to the airport. His brother came with us to take the car back. We arrived in about an hour, picked up our tickets, and joined Lufthansa’s check in line to Munich, Germany. We had a five hour wait in Munich for the flight to Prishtina, Kosovo, the ticket agent told us.

“We will make it to the funeral” my cousin said. I replied with an impassive look and sat next to him. My face felt numb and my eyes were hurting. I closed them and I tried to fall asleep. I wanted the eight hour flight to go by fast.

I woke up by the voice of the flight attendant after having slept for three hours curled up hugging my knees. It was snack and drink time. I got tomato juice and my cousin asked for white wine and they gave us mixed nuts. After I finished the juice, I wrapped myself with the fluffy blanket and went back to sleep facing the window.

A ray of sun cutting through the window hit my eyes. I opened them slowly and my cousin was looking up at  the clear blue sky above us. Below were masses of cloud floating in unknown directions and clashing with each other creating lightning strikes that projected down to earth.

I sat straight on my chair and unbuckled myself. I yawned and stretched my arms looking straight ahead towards the front of the plane where the bathroom sign was lit up. I felt bloated and had to urinate. I stood up and walked to the front where an older lady with gray hair was standing on the line to wait for the bathroom. The airplane wobbled and the seatbelt light turned on. A young chubby boy with pitch black hair rushed out of the bathroom while he was still zipping his pants and my eyes followed him to his seat. The older lady went inside the tiny toilet and I stared at the door and read the red sign “Occupied” a hundred times until she came out. She looked at me with her dazzling light blue eyes and smiled. I smiled back.

 I entered the faintly lit bathroom and the plane shook again while I urinated.  I looked at the mirror and my face made an expression as if I was having an orgasm. It seemed like it took an hour for my bladder to fully drain. I breathed deeply and pushed for a few more drops to come out. I walked back to my seat looking at the people watching TV on the little monitors embedded in chairs. I kind of wanted to turn mine on but I thought my cousin would say something. In my country when a family member dies, we keep the TV off for about a week. There is no entertainment; only mourning. I sat down and the map was reading that we had thirty minutes left to our destination.