The Day, A Day
I drag myself up from the warm comforter and fluffy blankets of my bed. It is time again, time to face the world at 6:00 AM and I am not equipped to battle. But I do. I quickly rise and dress, pack my bag and gulp down a mug of hot tea. I dash out of the house, down 11th street towards the subway looming in the dark morning air before me:
Rushing through closing doors
standing sandwiched between men in business suits
sweaty with exorbitant cologne.
Cool air greets me when I come out of the steamy subway. Now, I must trek towards the looming bridge of the school that I go to from Monday to Friday, and sometimes on the holy days: Saturday and Sunday. It is either debate, BIG SIBS, or volunteering. Today is Tuesday, not a holy day, rather a test day. I climb the stairs of the bridge and hasten across into the toasty air of the overheated school. I laugh through health, write through poetry, discuss through English and then it’s that 10 minutes after third period. They call it homeroom. This year I eagerly await homeroom to see my little sibs:
Looking in my eyes
questions about school, debate, is JSA okay?
do you want a piece of gum?
Their innocence lightens my day, their happiness, their energy gives me hope just as I must give them. And just as those ten minutes come to a close, three more classes await me. And I await period seven:
Seventh period lunch
growing hunger pangs unsuppressed
Then I count: eight, nine, ten. Not to go home, but to stay in the place I call school for another couple hours. It’s a home away from home that I call debate:
paper work, practice rounds, novices
pizza and Chinese food.
After those matters terminate. I can go home to homework, hot food, and sleep. I walk across the bridge that brought me to a place that kept me for too many hours. I am ready to be at home:
West Street car pollution
heavy back pack and sweaty clothes
never ending bus ride home.
Age 17, Grade 12
Stuyvesant High School