Student+Portfolio

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 * Student Writing Portfolio Sample**

Judgments (Erica R., 2010)
 * Anna - Beach || media type="file" key="2-Anna L-Beach.mp3" width="240" height="20" ||
 * Doug - Dumpling Soup || media type="file" key="5-Doug T-Dumpling Soup.mp3" width="240" height="20" ||
 * Meg - Early Mornings || media type="file" key="5-Meg S-Early Mornings.mp3" width="240" height="20" ||

I met her at swim practice when I was twelve. Her name was Jamie. She was my age tall, slender, brown hair, brown eyes. She was sitting on the bench by herself, next to a group of about five girlswho were giggling and laughing. I looked at her with interest, she was all by herself, and didn’t seem to mind. For the next few weeks I didn’t talk to her much. I was always someone that judged people quickly, I guess a little too quickly.

About a month later, it was the morning of my first swim meet of the year. It was really nice out, fall time; all of the leaves were changing colors to bright yellows oranges, and reds. I was excited for the meet and couldn’t wait to hang out with my friends. I was eating breakfast when the phone rang. My mom answered and left the room to talk. I could hear the murmur of her voice but unfortunately couldn’t make out distinct words. When she came back I asked her who it was. I discovered I would be carpooling with Jamie to the meet. Not what I wanted. My feeling of excitement for the meet suddenly dropped. I knew this car ride would be awkward, considering I haven’t had a single conversation with Jaime.

Jaime’s mom picked me up and everything was going fine for the first hour of the drive. But when we were about twenty minutes away from the pool Jamie dropped her pencil into a place where she couldn’t reach. A crease formed between her eyes and they got tense, she stared at the pencil and would not look away. A look of frustration crossed her face. As if it was a stupid mistake that no one would ever make. I was worried but intrigued at the same time; I wanted some type of explanation for what was happening. I couldn’t imagine why she was freaking out so much. It was just a pencil right? I looked at her mom who showed no signs of disbelief to this bizarre reaction of her daughter’s. She lowered her voice into a soothing tone and tried to calm her down, she said we would get it out somehow when we got to the parking lot. I was thinking what is going on? Being in the middle of this made me feel extremely awkward, I felt like I shouldn’t be witnessing this. Am I under-reacting to this or something? But luckily the uncomfortable feeling would soon be over, we were almost there.

When we pulled into the parking lot Jamie’s mother rolled up a piece of paper and nudged the pencil out. Jamie’s face was filled with relief; it was like I could see a weight being lifted off of her shoulders. The crease between her eyes loosened and disappeared and they relaxed. Now after this incident I’ll admit I was a little freaked out, I thought Jamie was weird and decided I’ll give her some space today and go hang out with the other girls I usually hang out with.

When the meet was over I ran into Jamie’s mom, she came up to me and explained to me more about what happened in the car today. She said, “When Jamie was around six years old she was diagnosed with Aspergers, it means that her mind works a little different than mine and yours. She can get confused in school more quickly than others, and things that may seem silly to you can affect her easily.” My first reaction was shock, I would have never guessed that Jamie had anything wrong with her, I thought that was just her personality, that she just acted a little differently because she didn’t care what everyone else thought. My second reaction was curiosity. I wanted to understand more about her since I hadn’t given myself much of a chance to get to know her in the past.

After running into Jamie’s mom I decided to go to Jamie and ask her how she is feeling. I hoped she would be happy to know I cared. She looked down at first, as if to pause and think about the type of answer she wanted to give me. Then she looked at me, smiled, and said, “Much better, thanks, I’m sorry…” But then I cut her off and said, “It’s okay, I understand.” Next thing I know we were both smiling at each other, and I remember relief crossing both her face and mine at the same time.

Ever since then I have been great friends with Jamie. Now we understand each other. When she’s having a bad day, and her eyes are stressed out I know just how to calm her down. And when I’m having a bad day she does the same thing for me. But more often than not she’s happy, has bright big smile, and laughing. I learned that I shouldn’t judge someone from a first impression, or else today I wouldn’t have my best friend, Jamie.

Untitled (Nick G., 2010)

I grew up wearing washcloths tucked into my underwear and with paint smeared under my eyes, chasing imaginary cowboys around the house. I have the pictures to prove it. Actually, I have an entire photo album full of my costuming conquests. If one were to briefly flip through it they would see countless snapshots of a little boy dressed in a makeshift, ragtag outfit resembling something like an Indian warrior, a gallant knight, a police officer, Prince Charming, a clown, a safari explorer, and the list goes on. Any movie I saw would be used as inspiration to outfit myself in the most ridiculous clothing in a sad, adorable attempt to recreate the characters I watched in the movies. My imagination was wild, yet I wielded it with such confidence and so often that it became commonplace, almost normal. It was the most important and defining aspect of my childhood. A statement like that is not normally sincere, but this one is. I doubt the residents of the Lehigh Valley were surprised when I showed up to the shopping mall, age five, donning my Spider-Man costume, mask and all, in order to dissuade criminals and villains from spreading their evil ways onto unsuspecting mall-goers. I was honestly known as the kid who always dressed up, who wore a Zorro outfit in 98-degree weather, who parachuted off his swing-set in full army attire, while the rest of the kids refused to play dead when they were “shot.” That's dedication to the imaginary. There is only one person I know if in the world who was more dedicated to the wealth of my imagination than my six-year-old self. It was my grandfather.

My grandfather called me up one day, not a rare occurrence, since my grandfather and I were and still are very close. But there was something unusual, no, extraordinary about this phone call. He didn't ask me how school was, what I wanted for Christmas, or any of the typical grandpa-grandson banter. He told me as I stood there, draped in a ravishing cloak, a prince's sword hanging by my side, that he found a //treasure map// buried by cowboys in a tree stump behind his house. This was at a time where cowboys, knights, and pirates lived in the same world, when historical accuracy was abandoned and overshadowed by the powers of imagination. I remember having guarded enthusiasm, this was a very serious matter and I didn't want to embarrass myself. There was no suspicion in my untainted six-year-old mind. I wholeheartedly believed cowboys had buried treasure in my grandpa's backyard. “Yes, grandpa, of course I'll help you.” I doubt I got too much sleep that night.

We set out for the fabled booty on a snowy day in December with only the map and a shovel to accompany us. I was Indiana Jones that day and I felt the kind of hopeful anticipation only a child could feel. We diligently followed the path the map set out for us, making great time. The cowboys had graciously placed landmarks on the map so treasure-hunters like us wouldn't get lost, leaving our lives up to the forested tundra. I remember “the Blood Bucket,” a paint-splattered bucket strategically placed in the woods behind my grandfather's house; “the Door to Nowhere,” a construction mishap, I presume, in the middle of the woods; and finally “the Hangman's Noose.” This is it, I thought. Six steps from here. My hands were shaking, though gloved. One, two, three, four, five, six.

“Give me the shovel, grandpa.”

“Don't you think cowboys had bigger steps than you?” he asked.

He took six giant steps. Then another.

“But that was seven--”

“Let's dig,” he said.

So we dug. My grandpa let me do a lot of the work so the satisfaction was mine. It all comes back to me in brief flashes, rich in detail, like a memorable dream. I remember my shovel hitting a hard, jangly spot in the dirt. We dug up a burlap sack, heavy in weight and bulky in size, and dragged it back to the house. We cut it open feverishly and out spilled the most amount of coins my six-year-old eyes had ever seen. Gorgeous jewels rolled on the floor and foreign coins looked beautifully alien to me. A dead man's booty, blood money, treasure. As I let the coins trickle through my fingers I could hear the clash of swords, I could smell the rank gunpowder, I could almost see those galloping horses and whooping Indians, knights in shining armor and dastardly pirates. Seventy-four dollars and eighty-seven cents. He gave it all to me. I asked if I could give it to a museum, just like Indiana would. My grandfather laughed and patted me on the back, leaving me there with my treasure while he went to start a fire, make popcorn, and put in //The Treasure of Sierra Madre//. I have never felt better receiving any amount of money than I did that day, ten years ago. I've gotten paychecks for amounts twice as much for work much more stressful and much less exciting and that admission still holds true.

Now, as a teenager I have obviously concluded that the map was fake and that the treasure was actually spending money for my vacation to Disney World that upcoming summer, something I received from all my grandparents. He could have just written me a check or handed it over in bills. But he didn't. Instead he gave me the adventure of a lifetime, a lasting memory I will never forget. I believe in imagination. He made everything I wanted to be a reality; a treasure-hunter, a pirate, a cowboy, a hero, with an idea as simple as an imagined treasure map. He still manages to deny any deception or falsity about the entire adventure. That's dedication to the imaginary. Adventures are everywhere, it just takes a little imagination.

 This I Believe (Kelley S., 2010)

 I thought I might die. Right then, right there. I was standing in the sweltering, southern heat, squinting against the July glare, my feet frying on the artificial turf. My T-shirt was suctioned to my back with sweat. My competition was standing all around me, anxiously shifting their weight from one leg to the other. We had all just begun the most important four days of our lives, at a place known as Junior National Camp. This camp was not your ordinary summer camp; it was a tryout for the under-17 U.S.A. field hockey national team. I was going up against the top 40 field hockey players in my age group in the entire country. As we listened to instruction, my head was swimming with possibilities and a nervous excitement settled in my stomach, where it fluttered and kicked to remind me of how important the day was. Both unknown players and my friends were my competition, and as I scanned their faces, the same three words kept running through my mind: Bring it on.

 We trained three times each day in weather that made it feel like we were playing with a hot, damp, wool blanket over our faces and bodies. More than once, I thought, “I’m going to pass out; I am most definitely going to pass out.” The special exhaustion that the heat brings played games with my mind and made me feel wobbly and nauseous. During breaks I drank so much water that I could hear it slosh inside my stomach when I ran through drills. These drills pushed us all to the limit, challenging not only our physical ability, but our mental toughness as well. Despite these factors, I worked hard to maintain a positive mindset. I could not give in and throw away all the hard work it took to make it there. I was amidst girls that were equally as motivated as I was, but I knew why I was there and I would let nothing stand in my way.

 The three days were a blur of intense practice, quick meals, and attempts at recovery by drinking Gatorade and lying on my cheap foam dormitory mattress. When the final whistle blew on that last day after that last practice, my shoulders dropped in relief. I wasn't sure if I had made it, but I was plenty glad it was over. I made my way to the final huddle, eyes burning with salty sweat, dragging my stick behind me, nodding to my fellow competitors as we gathered with the coaches for a final meeting before we said goodbye. The coaches talked, but I didn't really hear. We all just tried to catch our breath as we smiled to one another. A wind blew through the trees surrounding the bright green astroturf field, bringing with it an air of relief and accomplishment. As we hugged and congratulated one another on a great weekend, I realized that I was leaving with more than better field hockey skills. I had built relationships and made memories that I would remember and treasure forever. I left camp happy, unbelievably tired, and proud of myself, feeling that I won, independent of the result.

 I put the week behind me and got back into my summer routine, trying not to think about whether or not I had made the team. A week later, however, and I knew the results would be online. I picked at my breakfast and felt distracted all morning. My mom was in our home office, checking for the e-mail when she called to me, "Kel, it's up!" I raced over and anxiously stood over her right shoulder as she navigated the website. I was nervous and excited and hoping that the effort I gave had shown enough. My mind ping-ponged back and forth, "I made it! I didn't make it!" Now, the long awaited news was finally here ... My mom's face broke into a familiar grin and her brown eyes flooded. "You made it!" she said. I scanned the list with my own eyes. There it was. I was on the national team! My mom wrapped me in her arms and said, “I’m so proud of you!” It was an overwhelming moment filled with more emotions than I can describe. Now, suddenly, I was looking forward to a new experience, one where I get to travel internationally to play the sport I love. I realized that more hard work was on the way, and that I may even feel like dying again, but I knew it was what I wanted. While I expect to grow as a player, I also value the relationships and friends I will make along that way. With the opportunity to play on the national team, I’m sure I will make memories and bonds with my teammates that will last a lifetime.

 The entire experience taught me a lot about myself. I learned that hard work and determination do pay off. If you want something valuable in life, you have to earn it. I proved to myself that if I put my mind to it, I could accomplish my dreams. I may meet adversity or have challenges to overcome, but if I give it my all, I might just surprise myself with what I can do. This, I believe.