That girl… was me. 

It all started out when I was walking out of my homeroom and into the stairwell.  I saw my friend Kirsten and  I sped to catch up with her.  We were soon engaged in a very thought-provoking conversation.  The only problem was that she was in front of me so I sort of had to lean over in order to hear what she was saying.  Everything was going fine until my two-inch high clogs got caught on the step and I soon felt myself gliding down the stairs like a skier on a mountain slope.  Except the skier fell on its knees and the snow was very hard and shaped like steps.  During this process, my shoe fell off and one student was kind enough to get that for me once my trip had come to an end.  I looked up as everyone gasped, and I remember very clearly the look on Austin LaPoten’s face—it was the look of witnessing someone doing something very painful; a cringe of all cringes.  “Ow” was all he could muster. 

I tried to regain my composure and act as if it was no big deal.  Tons of students fall down those steps every year.  But oh wait, I fell down the steps in front of everyone—sixty students at least.  The stairs were packed; I cannot believe I didn’t take another one of my classmates down with me.  I kind of wish I had so that someone else would be involved and I wouldn’t be the only one people were staring at.  As I put my shoe back on and walked to the other end of the school to meet my mom and go home, every step I took brought on a little more pain.  I was surprised I made it all the way to foreign language.  I quickly tried to get into the car so that I could get home and get as far away from the accident as possible.  To this day, that was the most embarrassing experience of my life.  Every time I receive a report card, the trauma flickers into my mind.  And what’s more, I have yet to wear those clogs to school again.

Even though they were complete opposites in the classroom, Mrs. Hoplamazian and Mrs. Capocasel were great friends, and they often brought their classes together to do activities. One day, during one of the joint activities, the teachers stopped us and had us gather around for an announcement. They informed their eager audience that we were going to put on a show. Not just any show, but a medley of Broadway songs that we would perform in front of our parents and most of Fort Washington Elementary School. 

The first step was learning all the songs. We had to sing everyday to memorize all the songs from a variety of musicals such as Annie, Surrey with a Fringe on Top, and Camelot. After many mornings of practice we had all learned the songs, and it was time to move on to the next part of the show, the dancing. We all danced in whatever formation the teachers put us in so they could figure out the choreography. One of the songs involved square dancing, which they had us all learn. It was so much fun, spinning around, laughing, but the one part we hated about the dance and the whole show in particular, was that we had to dance with boys. 

After the show was choreographed, it was time to assign kids to dance in each song. I was assigned to take the stage for the title song from Camelot. I was so excited because the characters in Camelot were princes and princess and what little girl does not want to be a princess. The teachers also had us audition for the announcer role for each song. I auditioned and I somehow won the part of announcing “It’s a Hard Knock Life,” and “Tomorrow,” from Annie. I practiced this part at the after school Y program, while swinging on the swings, passing the script to my friends so they could test me. Passing paper on the swings did not work very well, so we spent most of the time chasing the paper down instead of actually rehearsing. Even amongst all the chaos, I still managed to memorize the lines. 

The next important part of the show that needed to be accomplished was the costumes. Each kid was asked to bring in certain clothes which would fit his/her particular song. I had the perfect princess dress, but unfortunately, I did not posses an important part of my costume, a princess hat. I felt so left out because all the other girls had managed to find a princess hat but I couldn’t. I complained over and over again to my teacher because I felt that the hat was an integral part of the costume. In the end, one of the teachers came through and made my friend and I princess hats.  

The show was finally ready. After weeks of hard work, it came together and went off spectacularly. It was so much fun and in the end, we had more songs, now accompanied by wonderful memories, to sing in the morning.

It was about seven o’clock at night.  I had stayed home from school the past few days because I had a serious sore throat.  My parents were at my brother’s basketball game and my sister was at her dance class.  I was home alone, free at last!  So, I turned the TV on, sat back, and relaxed.  Everything was fine until I heard a creaking sound.  The noise came from up the stairs and it sounded as though someone had opened a door.  “It’s nothing,” I told myself.  But I thought if I heard it again, I would leave the house. 

Everything went back to normal for a few minutes.  But just as my heart was settling down again, it sped back up as another noise hit my ears.  This time, there was definitely someone lurking about upstairs.  I got up, turned the TV off, and tip-toed as lightly as I could to my front door, hoping whoever it was that had broken into my house could not hear me.  My heart was pounding.  My mind was running in a million different directions.  I thought I was reaching the end of my life.  That was it.  That was how I was “gonna go”.  Then I heard the feet racing down my back steps.  I could not stand it anymore.  I pulled my front door open and ran as if there was no tomorrow.  I didn’t stop until I reached my neighbors front door and when she opened up, all I said was, “I think there is someone in my house.”  My heart was still going a mile a minute as my neighbor ushered me inside and told me to relax and watch TV. 

I was replaying everything that had just happened in my mind when my neighbor walked into the room.  What she said next would forever hold in a place in my memory.  “It was your brother.”

When my parents had said that they were going to a basketball game, I assumed it was my brother’s.  But no, it was not his basketball game.  At this point, I was very embarrassed and wanted to sprint out of the room like I had done a few minutes ago when I had been convinced that I was about to be chopped up by a chainsaw.  I took my walk of shame back to my house, and although I was humiliated beyond my understanding, I looked on the bright side:  that sprint gave me a nice little workout.

“ Is my back burnt?” Emily asks me as she turns around to get a glance of her back in the mirror. “No, but hurry up I’m starving.” I say as I walk out of the bunkhouse. Once outside I plop down onto the picnic table to wait for her. It hot outside and I can’t wait to get out of the heat and into the air-conditioned mess hall. Emily walks out and we begin our trek to the cafeteria. Before we’ve even managed to take two steps, “Will Leah Kunin please report to the main office. Leah Kunin to the main office, please.” Drones the voice over the loudspeaker. I look at Emily and shrug my shoulders, “I dunno. I’m sure I won’t be long. I’ll meet you in the cafeteria.” I say as we part ways. 

I turn around and walk towards the office. Why am I getting called down to the office? I’m not leaving early. I don’t think I forgot anything. It’s probably nothing. Just a mistake, maybe they meant someone else.  All these thought are swimming around my head as I walk up to the office. By the time I reach the main office and walk up the stairs I’ve convinced myself that nothing is wrong.  

I open the door and I’m greeted by a blast of cold air. I look out of place in the pristine camp office. All the ladies sitting around in pants and long sleeves, and here I am in shorts and a sweaty, gross shirt. The ladies look at me expectantly, “Yes?” one of them says. “Yeah, um, I got called to the office.” I say. “and you are…” the lady asks impatiently. “Leah Kunin” I add quickly. You’d think sitting around all day in an air-conditioned office these ladies could be a bit nicer. “Oh right, you’re leaving early. Your mother will pick you up at 12:30.” Before I can stop the words, they spill out of my mouth, “Why? What for?” One of the ladies, who has been filing her nails the whole time, looks up and says flatly, “You’re going to a funeral.” 

A funeral? Mom didn’t say anything about a funeral? Who…a funeral? Suddenly the cold office has become much warmer. I’ve opened my mouth to say something, but the words are stuck in my throat. A funeral. The words sink in. Bubbe, funeral, Bubbe, funeral… Bubbe’s funeral.  

I leave the office silently. Once outside the heat clings to my cool body. I feel like a set of weights has been put on my chest. I can’t breathe.  I wait for tears to come but they don’t. By the time I make it into the bunk my legs are shaking. You knew it was going to be soon. You couldn’t have expected her to live much longer, I say to myself. At least you said goodbye…those last few words ring in my ears. At least…you said…  An imaginary steel foot has kicked me in the stomach. I can’t breathe. My legs give out and I plunk onto the cabin floor. My brain is screaming at me.  You never said goodbye. You left and never said goodbye. She’s gone and you never said goodbye! The floodgates open and tears pour out. I never said goodbye.  I clutch my legs and bury my face into my knees as I rock back and forth on the cabin floor. I never said goodbye.

When we arrived at the front desk, I signed my name in for what I knew would be the last time. We took the elevator up to the fourth floor, just as we had always done, but this time in silence. There was nothing to say anymore. As we walked into the room, I saw my grandmother in her bed, eyes closed, and her family sitting around her. The day that I had dreaded my entire life had finally arrived.

Four of my aunts, four of my uncles, sixteen of my cousins, and my parents and I squeezed into her small bedroom. We knew that even though she was semi-conscious, she knew her surroundings. As hard as it was for the whole family, we wanted to make her last hours as pleasant as possible. My mom, to lighten the mood, started telling silly childhood stories and people began to laugh. Then everyone went around telling fond memories they had with Grammy. My aunt Ginger started singing Grammy’s favorite church hymns, and we all joined in. It was truly amazing; the whole family had come together for the woman we all loved so very much. A few times, my grandmother even gave a little smile, though she could not open her eyes. We all took turns holding her hand and patting her arm. Every hour or so her nurse would come in and yell, “Gloria!”, to make sure she was still holding on, and she would open her piercing blue eyes for a moment and then close them again.

When it became late we knew that we all had to go home, except one of her daughters that would sit with her. Driving home I felt depressed, I did not want to leave, I was afraid that I would never see her again. I was not ready to say goodbye yet, not to her, not to her love, not to her piercing blue eyes. However, the day that I had been dreading my entire life was nothing like what I had expected it to be. I thought that all of my family would be crying hysterically, rather than laughing and telling funny stories. The way my Grandmother passed, truly represented her life. Grammy had always been such a funny and happy person, with hundreds of stories to tell.

 On Saturday, November 11^th, 2006 around three in the morning, Gloria passed away, surrounded by her loving daughters. November 11^th happened to be my Grandpa’s birthday, and everyone said that she was going to be a birthday present to him in heaven. I miss my Grandmother everyday and whenever I hear the song “Gloria” I always tear-up. As hard as that day was, it was definitely the best way to say goodbye.

Pop, crackle, boom, goes the popcorn in the microwave. I wait impatiently for all the kernels to pop.  3…2…1, the microwave goes off. I hop onto the counter to get the bag out of the microwave. “Lila, let’s go, the movie’s starting.” dad yells from the family room.  “No, not yet!” I blazed down the stairs, hot popcorn in my hands, and hop onto the futon just in time to hear the Star Wars theme music come on

Dad is already comfortable in his favorite chair, his big feet enclosed in his goofy winter slippers; I spread out on the lumpy futon. My little eyes strain as the words scroll up the screen, Dad notices and pauses the movie every now and then. “Remember what happened in the last movie?” he asks, I shake my head no in response. He explains for a few minutes when mom pokes her head into the room, “Not too late.” she warns. I smile with satisfaction, “Hah, I get to stay up past my bed time”. My seven year old brain is ticking away with the possibilities. Mom rolls her eyes and goes up the stairs. Dad hits play and I snuggle under my blanket as the movie starts up again.

We watch until it gets really late, 11:00 almost, until my eyes droop with sleepiness.  I keep watching, it’s not every day I get to stay up past my bedtime and watch big kid movies with my Dad. We get to the scary part with Jabba the Hutt, I pull my blanket over my head and dive from the futon onto my dads lap. “Ouff” he groans and reshuffles me into a more comfortable position. This is right where I like to be, my sleepy head resting on dads big belly. After only a few short minutes on his belly I’m out like a light. The rising and falling of his stomach as he breaths in and out has put me fast asleep. I hear the movie stop and the television go off and I feel him lift me up to carry me to my room. He climbs up into the kitchen gently, trying not to wake me. He turns the corner and goes up the stairs to my room. I hear the floorboards creak and count the stairs as he climbs them, Ten…eleven… twelve…He lays me on my bed. He tucks me in tight, too tight almost. He turns off my light, “Don’t forget my nightlight” I manage to say before I’m swept away by sleep. It is only a matter of seconds before I’m off into a dreamland with Luke, Hans and Leia.

We came up with a signal which meant to stop tickling. We had to sit our father down and sternly tell him that sometimes we couldn’t breathe from all of the tickling and the laughing. So we came up with a code word. When you yelled it, the tickling stopped and you were given a chance to breathe again. Not only would this stop the silent laughter during which your chest moved up and down frantically and your little lungs gasped desperately for air, but more importantly it would let us escape, only to once again be chased, caught, and then tickled. But when Dad’s smart mind didn’t fall for your little kid plots, and his grown up legs caught up to your still growing ones, and you were thrown down and tickled until you were laughing too hard to breathe, you were also laughing too hard to speak the code word.

Our real problem was that no matter how hard we tried, and how quickly we danced our thirty little fingers all over his neck and belly just like he did to us, we could not get him to mutter the code word and accept defeat. Unlike his three children who could hardly breathe even before his fingers fluttered over our skin, he was just not ticklish. The tickle monster could never be beaten at his own game.

When I heard the rumble of the garage opening, it was time to take action. There were two different ways I would greet my dad at night when he finally got home from work. Option one was to wait in the living room for him to walk into the doorway. From the living room I could see him open the laundry room door and then enter the kitchen. Bam! As soon as I saw him come in, I would be off. It was like his entering the room set off a race gun; I would run and run to see if I could get to Daddy faster than I had the previous night. Quickly, he would put down his box of papers, his work, and kneel on the tiled floor, under the opening to the kitchen, in preparation for my impending arrival. 3, 2, 1, Jump! I was in his arms in no time. Then up he would lift me and hug me and kiss me and ask me how my day was, me before anyone else, because I am his baby.

On the evenings when I was more tuckered out from exhaustive days at elementary school, there was always option two: hide and seek. Rather than waiting in the living room, I would crouch underneath the kitchen table. I squeezed myself in tightly between the white legs and the crossbar that ran along the bottom of the table between the legs. The table’s two wide legs and chairs acted as my shield, as I sat, slightly giggling waiting for Daddy to come in.

My mom and sister would calmly sit at the table, our hot dinner waiting to be eaten. I would sit there hugging my knees, looking through the cracks of the chair at the open space in the kitchen, the spot where my dad would soon be standing. Daddy would walk in, say hello to everyone, give each a kiss, and ask how their day went. Then he would realize someone was missing; I was not there! “Where’s Bri?” he would ask my mom. “I don’t know,” my mom would respond. Daddy would take a few minutes to “search” for me until finally, when his back was turned toward me, I would pop out from under the table, “scaring” him and bringing a smile to his face all at once. Daddy would act so shocked, as if I did not play this trick every other night of the week. “There’s my Bri B!” he would exclaim, with open arms.

I was in second grade and it was my first year in Jarrettown Elementary School. I moved from Cedar Grove Christian Academy in Philadelphia to this suburban area. I had no friends at this time because I was very shy. I sat in the little chair and observed the other students listening intently to the Mrs. Carminati’s instructions or drawing little pictures on their notebooks, or conversing quietly with each other. During recess I would look around the playground and observe my classmates playing. I would always wonder when I would find my own group of friends.

I was always the quiet girl in the corner of the room or the girl who played by herself with the woodchips at the jungle gym. Sometimes my peers did not notice that I was in the same class with them. From time to time, people asked me for a pencil, crayon, marker, or paper. I would respond with a short answer such as “yes”, “no”, “sure”, “yeah”, or “I don’t have any”. No one was ever mean or did cruel things. They left me alone and I left them alone.

For a second grader, he was taller than most students and looked more like a man than any another boy in class 2B. From what I observed, J.J. was the trouble-maker kid: teasing other students, taking other’s belongings, and thinking that he was the cool kid. He and his friends would always pick a new victim everyday or every other day. Whoever was not in his posse were his victims. He was the head lion and they were the zebras. Then the day came when I was the zebra.

As usual, I sat at my desk doing what I do best: being quiet. Mrs. Carminati gave everyone in 2B a writing assignment. I was working diligently when suddenly a shadow came over me. I slowly lift my head and looked up. The last person I wanted to see was standing in front of me. My eyes were wide open and waited for him to state what he wanted from me.

I had a pencil on my desk and he swooped that away. I looked back at the emptiness of the desk. He took the paper’s best match, the pencil. As a , I would have just stayed in my seat and ignored his action. I would have let him have my pencil and keep it for himself. However, something stirred in me and changed my view. I transformed into the Hulk in that classroom. My body did not want to take bullying from him. I did not want to be like the other victims and my mind was telling me to keep away from trouble.

The next thing you know, I stood up to the manly second grader and said, “Give me my pencil.” Deep down, I was so frightened. I wanted to go back to my seat and pretend that I never did that. He responded back with a simple no. Then, as a pure reflex, I took his hand and bit his arm. He yelped and Mrs. Carminati came over to ask what had happened. He simply told the story while I was looking down on the floor feeling ashamed of my actions. The teacher told me what I did was wrong and later contacted my father.

When my father came home from work, he mentioned the incident that occurred at school. He also told me that what I did was wrong, but ended the conversation with laughter on his face. My father tells me that in the future I will look back upon this experience and laugh about it.

The train ride into Market station took about an hour, but it was still raining by the time we had navigated our way out of the subterranean train station/mall and out onto the wet streets of Philly. I decided that I had a rough idea of how to get where we wanted to go. By this time we had decided we would stop to get cheese steaks before venturing down to the river. We went to Jim’s, which seemed like the place everyone had chosen as a haven from the rain. It was packed and we could barely move inside. A big black guy with a Star of David necklace curtly made my cheese steak, which I ate upstairs in a crowded room, huddled around a single table with my 6 other friends.

By the time we had finished our cheese steaks and had begun to dry out we had to once again venture out into the rain. By this time I was even more completely disoriented due to our detour to Jim’s, but I used my superior orientation skills to figure out our route. We ventured down towards the Delaware River, passing through the more historical parts of Philly and over I-95.

We reached Festival Pier about 15 minutes before the concert began. I had wanted to get there earlier, but of course my companions; the girls in particular, enjoyed whining. We did not get the front row positions I had wished for, but we were a respectable twenty to thirty feet back. Within a half hour of our arrival the population on the pier had increased tenfold, and the first band had taken the stage. They were called Love as Laughter. I had seen them once before a few months ago. The lead singer was drunk then, and he was drunk again at this venue, as were a plethora of my peers around me. Nevertheless, the band was very good.

After their set was over another opening band took the stage. This one I had never seen before, but they did a respectable job. Yet another group took the stage after the previous, but this was unexpected. While the two previous were indie rock bands, the three performers I saw before me were not. Instead they were a rap group, and an interesting one at that. Their performance at the start was amusing, but I quickly tired of it after about an hour. By this time three of my friends had sought shelter from the rain, which had begun to increase. The crowd around me was engaging in various illegal activities, which my friends and I were not participating in. Among the more memorable examples was a group of people smoking through a collection of George Bush masks, as well as a thoroughly inebriated young man running about with a very nasty black eye.

Sometime around nine the rap group, called Clipse, left the stage, and the stage crew began setting up for the main event.  Around fifteen minutes later Modest Mouse took the stage. From there they went into among one of the best sets I could have imagined. I was almost killed on various occasions from mosh pits, and had to make special efforts to make sure that one of the girls, weighing a little over a hundred pounds, was not crushed inadvertently. Despite all of this, I loved the atmosphere. The music, and the band captivated me in general. Almost a half dozen musicians populated the stage playing their respective instruments. Two drummers pounded frantically on their drums. The bassist and backing instrumentalists played seamlessly. However, the most entrancing musician on the stage was by far the lead singer, Issac Brock. His wildly offbeat way of performing was remarkable. He possessed a great amount of charisma, something unexpected from a man with a heavy lisp.

I forgot about the rain, about being soaking wet, about the hundreds of drunk people all around, and the fact that the last train was leaving soon, and that we had to get back to the train station. When Emily reminded me of this fact, I told her that I was willing to stay and hear the encore even if I had to sleep in Philly. They would not let me do this, so I countered with the suggestion that they could start back and I would catch up. So with that the rest of my friends left Mike and I to watch the encore.

We did not get through the whole set, but decided to start back and catch up with our friends. We broke into a light jog along Penn’s Landing, eventually catching up to our group. We were still in a rush to get back to Market Station, so we hopped onto an overpass over I-95, which was not among our brightest decisions. We were a motley crew jogging down the streets of Philly at eleven o’ clock at night. The girls were jogging barefoot down the sidewalk, unable to run in their flip flops. Even the bums were giving us looks. We made it into the station with just minutes to spare, out of breath and soaking wet. We ducked inside the then almost empty Market Station, walked quickly passed the hobos who had passed out in the doorways. We made it to the train platform, collapsing onto the benches of the platform just as the train came roaring in.