Melissa Johnson
AP Language and Composition
Summer Reading Assignment-Essay 2
July 15th, 2010
Going Through Changes
I have lived my whole life in Waltham, Massachusetts. The first 14 years of my life were spent in the same house, on the northern side of Waltham. My neighborhood was commonly known as “Lakeview”, because it was set around Hardy Pond. I grew up listening to stories from my mother and father, who were also raised in this neighborhood. These stories consisted of going swimming in the pond, watching baseball games at the park down the street, and playing kickball or street hockey with their friends for hours at a time. Both of my parents are one of four children, and were raised very similarly to how my siblings and me have been brought up. My father could go on for hours, usually blabbing about the good times he had at his father’s camp in Vermont growing up. Most of the stories sound something like; “Oh, and I’ll never forget that time me and my brother took dad’s speedboat out and forced our sisters to stop being babies and try water skiing. Watching them wipe out over and over again was definitely worth the deep shit we were in only when dad looked out his window and saw us half way across the lake!” And of course, there’s the infamous 21st birthday party that my father and his buddies threw at the camp. My sisters and I are pretty sure that every time this story is told it starts off differently, but it always seems to end with one-armed Larry being thrown in the lake in his sleeping bag. The end of the story, of course, always told at a volume at least four notches higher than the rest of the story. The stories of his teen years in Waltham tend to be a bit different, consisting more of crashing his Harley and the numerous nights spend with his best friend Billy that ended in my Grandfather receiving calls from the Waltham Police Department. All of my siblings and I tend to have the same reactions when hearing these stories, almost always being one of these two: “how did mom end up marrying you?” and “if we did half these things, you guys would kill us!”. My mother’s stories tend to be a bit less crazy, but we all know that one day she will decide to tell us what really went on when she was younger rather than the stories of “making quilts with my great grandmother” and “going to the drive-in every Friday night with the family”. As for now, the fondest memories I have with my sisters consist of spending every summer day growing up together. We always somehow found something to do, whether it was making up our own games on the trampoline, making bead animals and selling them at our “bead animal stands”, or playing outside with the neighborhood kids until we would refuse to come in for dinner. The biggest threat known to man back then was, and would always be: “I’m pretty sure the ice cream mans supposed to come around tonight, but if you don’t come in and eat dinner you’re not getting anything from him either!”. My mother got us around the table in a matter of 10 seconds each time we heard those words being yelled from the porch. Although we all feel like we got a lot from growing up in Lakeview, hearing their stories make it clear that we had never seen the kind of simple fun that they were able to experience, basically due to the difference in the time periods that we were forced to grow up in. Hardy Pond is now too contaminated for almost anything to live in, meaning to swim in it is now illegal. The complex that used to be a roller skating rink, arcade, and five-cent bowling alley has now been turned into yet another CVS and Staples complex, with a parking lot way bigger than that which is necessary even during school supply shopping week. I may only be 15, going on 16 on July 24th, but it is clear to me that times have changed immensely over the past 40 or so years. To be honest, I think they have changed for the worst. It is scary to imagine how my children will have grow up 20 years from now, but it is even scarier to think that there is nothing we can do about it. The summer days that I remember waking up early to go outside and run around with my sisters, play soccer, and meet up with friends are now spent very differently by my 12 year old brother. He usually sleeps until 12:30-1:00 every day, and wakes up only to plop himself in front of the TV, turn his Xbox on, and spend the day there. The time that I would be spending outside using my imagination are now spent in front of the TV, trying to kill as many people possible and trash talking to “friends” through microphones and headsets. Some days I feel as though the only conversations between my brother and I are him asking where my iPod is, or for me to make him something to eat. When my parents grew up, it wasn’t very common for kids to move out and go to college then be on their own, it was more likely that they stay home for a while. This isn’t the case now, which is why it has been difficult for my sisters to build a relationship with my younger brother. They have both been out of the house since the ages of 17 or 18, and without the use of texting or websites such as Facebook, I would probably only speak to them about once a month. This is how things have been for my brother since he was 9, which is sad. I hate the thought that with each generation, the stories we will be passing down to our children get more and more boring, but it seems as though that is the reality of today. Now that I am almost 16, my parents have gotten divorced, my sisters have moved out, and we have moved to the opposite side of town. Where we now live, it is very rare to see children outside playing, my mother is more comfortable with keeping us in the house as much as possible, acting like there will be drug dealers at every corner we turn, and my brother and I only see our father a couple times a month. It may sound like all I’m doing is complaining, but I feel as though my generation is forced to sit back and relax while the world just continues to complicate itself. I really just hope that I’m able to put myself on the path of making changes for the better, and building my own stories to pass down and be remembered by. At the same time I just want to help my brother out, pull him to the side and make sure he realizes the importance of making the most out of life despite the circumstances today’s world may tangle him up in.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Summer Reading Assignment #1
Melissa Johnson
AP Language and Composition
Summer Reading Assignment-Essay 1
July 15th, 2010
Midget Dreams, Giant Abilities
Growing up, it is easy to say that I do not recall many happy memories of time spent with my father. It seemed as though he was always returning home from work, too tired to pay any real attention to what was going on in the lives of my siblings and me. If we were lucky, he would have the energy to ask how our days went at school, and occasionally comb our hair while watching the Boston Bruins play. My sisters and I cherished those moments, which always ended when we were dragged up to our bedrooms and put to bed, with a fight, because we were unable to watch the end of the third period. These one-hour memories continued to be all we really knew of our father until my oldest sister, Kristin, turned ten. This is when my dad decided to sign her up for the in-town soccer league, in which we all knew the reason for. We were positive it was not because of the “potential” he saw in her, or the fact that “being dedicated to something could really help her in the long run”. It was simply so there would be set times during the week, the Tuesday and Thursday 7:00 pick up after practice, and the Saturday morning games, that he could act like a committed father and put on a show for us, our mother, and the other parents. After watching her games and becoming friends with almost all the coaches in the league, my father grew a real interest in the sport. This is when things began to spiral out of control. Before we knew it, my eight year old sister, Alicia, was heading to practice on Mondays and Wednesdays, and I was being forced to go play in the under-eight Saturday league at the ripe young age of five. By the time I was old enough to play in the big time in-town league, my father had already bought rule books, skill sheets, and even a mini white board with a soccer field drawn on, in order to show me where to be at all times, in every position. I had begun to hate who he was trying to make me become. Kristin finally spoke up, breaking my father’s heart by telling him that she wanted to take up dance, in turn, dropping soccer. Alicia and I sat back and watched how that decision had affected their relationship, and tried not to, but couldn’t help but listen to the arguments between my mother and father that lasted that entire week. My father refused to attend Kristin’s first few recitals, and with his new free time, decided to become the assistant coach for my first travel team. The speeches I had always been forced to listen to before and after every game had now become the soundtrack to every practice and what filled my ears every time I reached the sidelines during a game. The rides home consisted of “you played well today, but…” and “next time you get put in that position during a game, this is what you should do…”. My sister and I had become accustomed to his own kind of “constructive criticism” and eventually learned to love it. We began to realize that he had actually started to care, and the fact that we had both started to really appreciate the sport put a bigger smile on his face than I had ever seen before. We knew how badly he had wanted to make something of himself in hockey when he was young, before his knee injury that ended his career, and once we were old enough, we realized he had simply been treating us the only way he had known how to. Our father had grown up watching the Bruins and going to as many games he was able to, in order to see first person the potential he had, and that had become the reason for his commitment to our success on the soccer field. He wanted us to realize our ability, which slowly became a reality through going to numbers Boston Breaker and New England Revolution games with him. He no longer had to give us incentives of ice cream as soon as we returned home from practice, or being taken out to lunch after a win. We now wanted to improve and be able to help our team as much as possible. We knew that it not only made our father proud, but it gave us a reason to be proud of ourselves. Once he realized how happy we were to spend our time playing this sport, he became more accepting of Kristin’s dedication to what she loved, dance. Her recitals had become time for the whole family to come together and watch something beautiful, such as soccer games and tournaments had already been for years. We no longer only heard the call from the living room to join him on the couch and watch games that he had on film in order to listen to everything that we had done incorrectly, and how we should do it next time. “Kids get in here! You can see Kristin perfectly in this number, she’s right up front!” had also become something we were forced to hear over and over, but none of us minded. Those years had surprisingly become the best years of my life, which unfortunately took me until the time my family began falling apart to realize. Going into my freshman year of high school, my parents got divorced and I moved in with my mom. I missed all the conversations with my father about not only soccer, but life. Those conversations were built by our mutual love for something so simple, and my soccer games once again became the only time I got to see him. This didn’t affect Kristin or Alicia so much, considering Alicia was off at college, and Kristin had moved in with her boyfriend in Vermont. They had already become used to not seeing our parents every day, while I was forced to become used to it while still being young and unable to understand why everything had to happen that way or why I was being forced to go through that. Somewhere along the way, the unexpected had happened. Despite how many times my father had begun telling me the amount of potential I had, I was unable to see it. This lasted until the day that I realized I couldn’t fight anymore, I had actually fallen in love. Unlike many of the kinds of love that go around today, the love of a high school sweetheart, a best friend, or even a dog, my love for this sport will always be with me. Soccer is not something that can let me down, for it will always be there. It is not something that can detach itself from me, for our only attachment is the amount of love and understanding of the game that we share. My father taught me what it means to be passionate, while at the same time teaching me the tough lesson that despite how much love you may share with another, it may not always last forever. That is what happened with him and my mother, and I understand that now. Because of my father, I also understand that the love you can have with a sport, or anything else in life, may happen to outlive even the most important yet common kind of love for another. I will be forever grateful for the relationship that this sport built between my father and I, and seeing him at the sidelines of every single one of my games to this day makes me happier than I had ever imagined something so simple would. The habitual “GO NUMBER 38!” and endless conversations filled with “constructive criticism” on the car rides home will never get old.
AP Language and Composition
Summer Reading Assignment-Essay 1
July 15th, 2010
Midget Dreams, Giant Abilities
Growing up, it is easy to say that I do not recall many happy memories of time spent with my father. It seemed as though he was always returning home from work, too tired to pay any real attention to what was going on in the lives of my siblings and me. If we were lucky, he would have the energy to ask how our days went at school, and occasionally comb our hair while watching the Boston Bruins play. My sisters and I cherished those moments, which always ended when we were dragged up to our bedrooms and put to bed, with a fight, because we were unable to watch the end of the third period. These one-hour memories continued to be all we really knew of our father until my oldest sister, Kristin, turned ten. This is when my dad decided to sign her up for the in-town soccer league, in which we all knew the reason for. We were positive it was not because of the “potential” he saw in her, or the fact that “being dedicated to something could really help her in the long run”. It was simply so there would be set times during the week, the Tuesday and Thursday 7:00 pick up after practice, and the Saturday morning games, that he could act like a committed father and put on a show for us, our mother, and the other parents. After watching her games and becoming friends with almost all the coaches in the league, my father grew a real interest in the sport. This is when things began to spiral out of control. Before we knew it, my eight year old sister, Alicia, was heading to practice on Mondays and Wednesdays, and I was being forced to go play in the under-eight Saturday league at the ripe young age of five. By the time I was old enough to play in the big time in-town league, my father had already bought rule books, skill sheets, and even a mini white board with a soccer field drawn on, in order to show me where to be at all times, in every position. I had begun to hate who he was trying to make me become. Kristin finally spoke up, breaking my father’s heart by telling him that she wanted to take up dance, in turn, dropping soccer. Alicia and I sat back and watched how that decision had affected their relationship, and tried not to, but couldn’t help but listen to the arguments between my mother and father that lasted that entire week. My father refused to attend Kristin’s first few recitals, and with his new free time, decided to become the assistant coach for my first travel team. The speeches I had always been forced to listen to before and after every game had now become the soundtrack to every practice and what filled my ears every time I reached the sidelines during a game. The rides home consisted of “you played well today, but…” and “next time you get put in that position during a game, this is what you should do…”. My sister and I had become accustomed to his own kind of “constructive criticism” and eventually learned to love it. We began to realize that he had actually started to care, and the fact that we had both started to really appreciate the sport put a bigger smile on his face than I had ever seen before. We knew how badly he had wanted to make something of himself in hockey when he was young, before his knee injury that ended his career, and once we were old enough, we realized he had simply been treating us the only way he had known how to. Our father had grown up watching the Bruins and going to as many games he was able to, in order to see first person the potential he had, and that had become the reason for his commitment to our success on the soccer field. He wanted us to realize our ability, which slowly became a reality through going to numbers Boston Breaker and New England Revolution games with him. He no longer had to give us incentives of ice cream as soon as we returned home from practice, or being taken out to lunch after a win. We now wanted to improve and be able to help our team as much as possible. We knew that it not only made our father proud, but it gave us a reason to be proud of ourselves. Once he realized how happy we were to spend our time playing this sport, he became more accepting of Kristin’s dedication to what she loved, dance. Her recitals had become time for the whole family to come together and watch something beautiful, such as soccer games and tournaments had already been for years. We no longer only heard the call from the living room to join him on the couch and watch games that he had on film in order to listen to everything that we had done incorrectly, and how we should do it next time. “Kids get in here! You can see Kristin perfectly in this number, she’s right up front!” had also become something we were forced to hear over and over, but none of us minded. Those years had surprisingly become the best years of my life, which unfortunately took me until the time my family began falling apart to realize. Going into my freshman year of high school, my parents got divorced and I moved in with my mom. I missed all the conversations with my father about not only soccer, but life. Those conversations were built by our mutual love for something so simple, and my soccer games once again became the only time I got to see him. This didn’t affect Kristin or Alicia so much, considering Alicia was off at college, and Kristin had moved in with her boyfriend in Vermont. They had already become used to not seeing our parents every day, while I was forced to become used to it while still being young and unable to understand why everything had to happen that way or why I was being forced to go through that. Somewhere along the way, the unexpected had happened. Despite how many times my father had begun telling me the amount of potential I had, I was unable to see it. This lasted until the day that I realized I couldn’t fight anymore, I had actually fallen in love. Unlike many of the kinds of love that go around today, the love of a high school sweetheart, a best friend, or even a dog, my love for this sport will always be with me. Soccer is not something that can let me down, for it will always be there. It is not something that can detach itself from me, for our only attachment is the amount of love and understanding of the game that we share. My father taught me what it means to be passionate, while at the same time teaching me the tough lesson that despite how much love you may share with another, it may not always last forever. That is what happened with him and my mother, and I understand that now. Because of my father, I also understand that the love you can have with a sport, or anything else in life, may happen to outlive even the most important yet common kind of love for another. I will be forever grateful for the relationship that this sport built between my father and I, and seeing him at the sidelines of every single one of my games to this day makes me happier than I had ever imagined something so simple would. The habitual “GO NUMBER 38!” and endless conversations filled with “constructive criticism” on the car rides home will never get old.
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