School Pride Essays

School Pride Essays-30
I am able to connect with others easily because I am willing to share the trials I have faced, and the knowledge I have gained from them.\r\n\r\n Looking to the very top, Shelf Five waits patiently.It is partially filled with an assortment of articles from , all of which highlight my love for the political sciences, fostered by the debate team.No longer could I spend all my time trying out the delicious foods at this new restaurant or learning from the displays at the rare exhibit.

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Most of their spines are broken, and my mother’s lacy annotations usually peep out from the yellowed pages.

In our family, books are both carelessly treated, a place to stack a dirty dish in the absence of a table, and simultaneously worshiped.

For example, a four year old boy, who grew to feel like my own child, came to school with increasing numbers of bruises and a black eye.\r\n\r\n The thing that became most remarkable wasn’t how these children had suffered, but that they kept on living, learning, and developing.

Everyone has a red room, and I’m sure I will experience many more as I mature.

I will look upon this shelf in the future with a sense of wholeness, because I know that this bookshelf is me.","_modules_admissions_9_content_0_body":"field_58dd957c14807","modules_admissions_9_content":["body"],"_modules_admissions_9_content":"field_58dd956c14806","modules_admissions_11_tag_text":"Brontë","_modules_admissions_11_tag_text":"field_58dd955014803","modules_admissions_11_heading":"The Red Room","_modules_admissions_11_heading":"field_58dd955614804","modules_admissions_11_lead":"","_modules_admissions_11_lead":"field_58dd955e14805","modules_admissions_11_content_0_body":"My name is Brontë, and if you ask me, I’ll tell you my favorite book is . Throughout my life, I’ve read this book a total of three times, although it would be untrue to claim that the same person read it each time, as I believe I’ve been drastically different people at each reading.\r\n\r\n The first time I read it, I was in fourth grade.

I’d been raised on a diet largely composed of poetry and dreams, nurtured by parents whose literary tendencies allowed me to read just about anything. I wanted to read as much as I could, absorbing each book that chanced my way.Shelves Two and Three sag with the weight of the dialogues that satiated my hunger.Our travels all over the country and the world taught me the importance of adaptability and an open mind.With these characteristics, I am always able to communicate to whomever I speak to, regardless of their language or culture.\r\n\r\n Shelf Four is the stinging slap I received from reality in my early teens.Each line is parsed, with cursive handwriting pointing out the important bits. In my parent’s books, I can pick up where they left off twenty-five years ago, writing my own replies to decades-old thoughts in the margins.\r\n\r\n At first reading, had everything a romantic eight-year-old could desire.The subtext was over my head, but I was completely entranced by the red room.Though Shelf Five is unfinished, it is no less hopeful or less promising than the previous four.Soon, I will fill this shelf with the ideas that will further define who I am.On “brain rest” for a concussion, I had missed the last two months of school and reading was forbidden, so I hid in my closet, or sat outside in the sweltering DC heat where I knew no one would follow me.I hid the book under my bed for nighttime forays when I couldn’t sleep due to an almost constant migraine. I couldn’t understand how Jane was capable of moving on.


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