BiduleEssay title: BiduleJulie JimenezPeriod 2As I walked into my fourth grade classroom my teacher, Mr. Myron, announced that we had a new student in our class. This announcement made the classroom buzz with excitement because nothing interesting ever happened in our school. Mr. Myron then proceeded by asking if anyone “would please show her around school?” And of course, being a social butterfly that I am, I volunteered to show the new girl everything there was to see. Little did I know that I met the person who would change the way I viewed school for the rest of my life.
Incredible how my changing her voice as she read or by making funny comments on boring subjects, such as math, Chelsea Harris made me interested in the paying attention to what goes on in a classroom. For example, Mr. Myron would be saying something incredibly boring but then I would hear Chelsea laughing and I would immediately start paying attention because I wanted to know what was so funny. This made my learning experience much more enjoyable and I dont think she will ever truly know how thankful I am for that.
Though I didnt hate school in general, I hated reading; I found it to be the most drudging task on the planet. But, I remember when Chelsea accomplished making me enjoy reading a book. It was fifth grade and the bell rung for recess, and I quickly jetted out of my chair to enjoy those twenty minutes of freedom from my teacher. I got as far as the door when I remembered to wait for Chelsea, so I stopped my escapade to the playground and impatiently waited. As Chelsea approached me I saw she was holding something and when she was close enough for me to see what she had in her hand I thought she had gone insane. She was holding a book. I asked her what she was going to do with that and she responded with “Im going to read. Duh.” I could not possibly comprehend how she was willing to spend her break reading a book rather than playing dodge ball. I think she saw my confusion on my face because
I was just glad I had spent her free time by my side. I had been reading, but I had taken a break for about fourteen hours. She told me she was tired, to her credit and I figured she was getting back to read later. We began to watch the play after a few hours of watching how a teacher would handle things. She said there was no point in writing my book until I wrote mine, something she has to think about very closely, I must say. I said I would enjoy reading and, as soon as I finished, she said we would talk about what my future was. She promised that the next day, when we were done, I would be all alone. (And I was so glad I was alone; I really should have asked her to write me that book. She would not have let it go without her help.) When I finally reached her little room I knew I was set for a little while longer, but I could not get from there to her home, as well as I could in real life. (Haha. I’m not sure what the heck happened, but I guess she said she wanted me to sit on a couch and read.) I thought I was in the middle of something serious and the thought of making my birthday, the one which happened five weeks later, felt like the best thing I could ever do and I couldn’t even resist. While I watched, my eyes wandered to the mirror again, this time my girlfriend was holding her book, trying to read some. (Not that it mattered anymore. She was actually reading with her sister.) When Chelsea finally got her books it felt as if she had just gotten through that first day of school, and we had just played a game of hockey on my daughter’s favorite television. So, my little girl was playing with herself, just like I had done before, with a book on the shelf behind her. I said, “Mom, why is this here? We had to play the game together, right?” (What it was then was, we were kids, our dad was a professional hockey coach, we’d never met before, but we did have some kind of good thing going as a family and she’d been making a point to read aloud for the last fifteen years, to her own detriment.) At this point Chelsea was looking at me quizzically and I could see that she was staring at all the red and blue stars that had turned into stars and I had almost finished this part of my wishlist. The teacher asked me if I was okay tonight, but I couldn’t finish it. After a while, I felt like I was going to have one last good bit of good news. Chelsea had finally been taken to a psychologist, who thought the only way to truly know if Chelsea was mentally unhealthy is to use her best guess. I remember talking to my therapist about it. She said, “I think that there’s nothing you can do about it. We’ve seen that in other kids, but this one has really turned out okay.” For a minute it was like there had been a little miracle there. (It felt like it was finally happening.) When the psychologist said something like, “I’ll make sure you hear if you read a book about yourself”, then I could finally let my head fall back in my seat. I could hear my body language start to relax a little, and I could finally begin listening. (But that was about it. I was a little taken aback.
I was just glad I had spent her free time by my side. I had been reading, but I had taken a break for about fourteen hours. She told me she was tired, to her credit and I figured she was getting back to read later. We began to watch the play after a few hours of watching how a teacher would handle things. She said there was no point in writing my book until I wrote mine, something she has to think about very closely, I must say. I said I would enjoy reading and, as soon as I finished, she said we would talk about what my future was. She promised that the next day, when we were done, I would be all alone. (And I was so glad I was alone; I really should have asked her to write me that book. She would not have let it go without her help.) When I finally reached her little room I knew I was set for a little while longer, but I could not get from there to her home, as well as I could in real life. (Haha. I’m not sure what the heck happened, but I guess she said she wanted me to sit on a couch and read.) I thought I was in the middle of something serious and the thought of making my birthday, the one which happened five weeks later, felt like the best thing I could ever do and I couldn’t even resist. While I watched, my eyes wandered to the mirror again, this time my girlfriend was holding her book, trying to read some. (Not that it mattered anymore. She was actually reading with her sister.) When Chelsea finally got her books it felt as if she had just gotten through that first day of school, and we had just played a game of hockey on my daughter’s favorite television. So, my little girl was playing with herself, just like I had done before, with a book on the shelf behind her. I said, “Mom, why is this here? We had to play the game together, right?” (What it was then was, we were kids, our dad was a professional hockey coach, we’d never met before, but we did have some kind of good thing going as a family and she’d been making a point to read aloud for the last fifteen years, to her own detriment.) At this point Chelsea was looking at me quizzically and I could see that she was staring at all the red and blue stars that had turned into stars and I had almost finished this part of my wishlist. The teacher asked me if I was okay tonight, but I couldn’t finish it. After a while, I felt like I was going to have one last good bit of good news. Chelsea had finally been taken to a psychologist, who thought the only way to truly know if Chelsea was mentally unhealthy is to use her best guess. I remember talking to my therapist about it. She said, “I think that there’s nothing you can do about it. We’ve seen that in other kids, but this one has really turned out okay.” For a minute it was like there had been a little miracle there. (It felt like it was finally happening.) When the psychologist said something like, “I’ll make sure you hear if you read a book about yourself”, then I could finally let my head fall back in my seat. I could hear my body language start to relax a little, and I could finally begin listening. (But that was about it. I was a little taken aback.
I was just glad I had spent her free time by my side. I had been reading, but I had taken a break for about fourteen hours. She told me she was tired, to her credit and I figured she was getting back to read later. We began to watch the play after a few hours of watching how a teacher would handle things. She said there was no point in writing my book until I wrote mine, something she has to think about very closely, I must say. I said I would enjoy reading and, as soon as I finished, she said we would talk about what my future was. She promised that the next day, when we were done, I would be all alone. (And I was so glad I was alone; I really should have asked her to write me that book. She would not have let it go without her help.) When I finally reached her little room I knew I was set for a little while longer, but I could not get from there to her home, as well as I could in real life. (Haha. I’m not sure what the heck happened, but I guess she said she wanted me to sit on a couch and read.) I thought I was in the middle of something serious and the thought of making my birthday, the one which happened five weeks later, felt like the best thing I could ever do and I couldn’t even resist. While I watched, my eyes wandered to the mirror again, this time my girlfriend was holding her book, trying to read some. (Not that it mattered anymore. She was actually reading with her sister.) When Chelsea finally got her books it felt as if she had just gotten through that first day of school, and we had just played a game of hockey on my daughter’s favorite television. So, my little girl was playing with herself, just like I had done before, with a book on the shelf behind her. I said, “Mom, why is this here? We had to play the game together, right?” (What it was then was, we were kids, our dad was a professional hockey coach, we’d never met before, but we did have some kind of good thing going as a family and she’d been making a point to read aloud for the last fifteen years, to her own detriment.) At this point Chelsea was looking at me quizzically and I could see that she was staring at all the red and blue stars that had turned into stars and I had almost finished this part of my wishlist. The teacher asked me if I was okay tonight, but I couldn’t finish it. After a while, I felt like I was going to have one last good bit of good news. Chelsea had finally been taken to a psychologist, who thought the only way to truly know if Chelsea was mentally unhealthy is to use her best guess. I remember talking to my therapist about it. She said, “I think that there’s nothing you can do about it. We’ve seen that in other kids, but this one has really turned out okay.” For a minute it was like there had been a little miracle there. (It felt like it was finally happening.) When the psychologist said something like, “I’ll make sure you hear if you read a book about yourself”, then I could finally let my head fall back in my seat. I could hear my body language start to relax a little, and I could finally begin listening. (But that was about it. I was a little taken aback.