Home Sweet Home I have always live on Lucille Street. This is the street I learned how to play hopscotch on. This is the street I fell off my first bike on. And this is the street I have learned to appreciate the last fifteen years of my life on. My neighborhood is somewhat nice. Not the finest or the worst, but us. By us I mean my mom and I. Yes just the two of us. Before we were five —Mom, Dad, Melissa, Laura, and me. But boy how things do change over the years. My mom and dad divorced when I was a little girl and my sister went off to college. Down my barrio is the Junior High School, Anthony’s Video Store, my mom’s good friend, and even two people I have known for quite some while now. My house was my mom’s when she was a little girl. My grandfather built it. I guess you could say it’s still standing strong. It’s a three bedroom, two bathroom, one carport, and white, brick house. Not to fancy, not to spiffy, but us.
Busted For the longest time I thought being sneaky was the key to both getting what you want and not getting caught. Boy was I wrong! When I was about seven years old I would forever watch my mom put on makeup. Blush, lipstick, eye shadow, mascara, I loved it all. Well, I didn’t have any of course and my mom refused to buy it for me. She said makeup is not made for those who have no money to buy it, oh and not for those who couldn’t even toast bread yet. I didn’t argue with her or anything like that, but I did do something. One day my mom and I went out of town to Wal-Mart. As we went into the store we just so happened to walk past the makeup aisle. While my mom was looking at the bags to put her house full of makeup in, I was looking at some shimmery jade eye shadow. I looked at the price and it read $5.50. My mouth dropped. $5.50! I was lucky if I had a penny in what I wished was a purse but was only my pocket. I reached in my pocket hoping to get some pocket change out of it. As I pulled my hand out all I seemed to have was some lint and some ticktacks. I thought it’s only this one little eye shadow and if I were real careful my mom wouldn’t find out. So as we reached the checkout counter my mom was paying and we were about to leave when I walked past what seemed to be an exit. Suddenly a loud alarm goes off. I cover my ears. An old lady was talking to me, but I just couldn’t hear. I said I can’t hear you I think I may be deaf. As I was getting my hearing back the lady repeated herself again. “Little girl please empty your pockets.” So I did. “Open your hand”, she says. So I did. “Do you have a receipt for this item?” A what? I mean I was only seven years old so how on earth was I suppose to know what a receipt was? I told the lady sorry and as my mom was walking back to the counter to return the item I didn’t pay for she said, “What a great color.” We walked out of the store and my mom now had yet another eye shadow to put in her house full of makeup. I was grounded for what seemed to be a year but was only a week. For that one long week I watched my mom put on the shimmery jade eye shadow that was once mine for a whole seven minutes.
Sarah Sarah, it’s an everyday name. Sarah, it’s a name that everyone has and doesn’t really stand out from all the others. Unlike all the others my name did not run in the family. It was not my grandmothers or my great grandmothers. It wasn’t even make known that it would be my name until my mother first saw me. I call that poor planning. Sarah, princes of Abraham, that’s what it means. Although I don’t really know who Abraham is and why I am his princess, but I am. My name is just there, not different or unique. Why couldn’t I be a Giselle or an Odette or even a Melanie, something pretty and different? Regardless, Sarah is the name I was given and the name I’m stuck with forever. Not that I completely dislike it or anything like that, but I don’t one hundred percent like it, is all.
Down South South Texas. The name says it all. It’s hot, humid, and there’s no rain what so ever. It’s a place where the grass isn’t always greener on the other side. I’ve always wanted to live in a place where it rains or snows. I wouldn’t even mind living in a place where there’s earthquakes and tornadoes. But I don’t. Little old Hebbronville…so south that some people have to look on a map ten times and say, “I still don’t see it”. Despite what the South is all about, I think this is the direction I will be staying in… as long as it’s visible on a map.
Snoopy Sno As you know, summer is usually a fun time. No more school, no more homework, just a time to relax and get away. Well, last summer was far from fun for me. I got a job at what I thought would be the coolest place to work at, Snoopy Sno. It was my first day and a girl who had been working there for quite some time now showed me the ropes. Making the raspas was the easy part. But when kids order like twenty rainbows, it’s not too easy. Clean the counters, sweep the floor, scrub the windows, fill the flavors, and count the money. How on earth am I supposed to remember all of this? Little league season is the worst part of the summer. Ice pops, ice cream, chips, corn nuts, candy, lucas, fruit cups, all this and much more. One day after a game a coach and his little league crew came to the stand. I thought, “Oh no…” While I was waiting for the coaches orders, he said, “Four medium leveled strawberries, three small granny smith apples, five large rainbows, and one salty dog for myself.” Let me tell you…my hands were the color of the rainbow…for two days. I was exhausted. Not to mention, it only paid $4.75. Whoever said that was minimum wage? Well, I kept working, but I gave my two weeks’ notice at the end of the summer and in the end, I earned myself a pretty penny.
One Tough Soldier Mannie isn’t a name you hear very often, especially if that’s the name you call your grandmother. Mannie is the name of my beautiful, loving, caring, eighty year old grandmother. Grandma, Wela, Granny, Nana, these are all names my grandmother refused to be called. Why? I still don’t know. What I do know though is she called her grandmother that and this is the name her sisters grandchildren call her. Mannie. What does that mean anyway? All of my fifteen years I still have no clue as to what it means or how it came about in the first place. I’ve been told it means peanuts. How true that may be, I don’t know? My Mannie is the sweetest person I know. She is the kind of person that will always stick up for you and protect you. Like the time my sister kept throwing marbles at my head and she gave me ice cream to make it all better. Or the time I jammed my finger and she kissed it and said I should get five dollars for being a tough soldier. I remember when I was a little girl every day after school my sisters and I would go to her house until my mom got home. She would help us with our homework and when we were done she would always make me peanut butter and banana sandwiches and she would even cut them into little triangles for me. I would get an ice cream for dessert. I would always love to play dress up with her long silk robes, her high heels, and her red lipstick. She hated when we did that, but I kept on anyway. The years pass by so quickly. My grandmother has been in and out of the hospital for so many years now. She’s very weak now, but her smile makes mine even bigger. She can’t do much now, but every time she says, “I can’t” I tell her yes you can Mannie because you’re a tough soldier.
A White Christmas Christmas. A holiday that everyone I know loves. Ever since I was a little girl I would watch Christmas movies all the time during the holidays. What I would notice the most in these movies is that it would always snow. I just wished it was the same here where I live. I wished and hoped it would snow for so long, but it just wouldn’t. Well, one night I was watching a Christmas movie of course and as I looked out my window I saw white, soft flakes falling. I opened my door and went outside. It was snowing. For the first time I had seen snow. I danced in the snow, I had snowball fights with my sisters, and I made snow angels. As fluffy as a cats tail, as thick as my sisters hair, and as perfect as can be. I was fourteen when I saw my first white Christmas.
Do I Hear A Vote Anyone? As of now I am a sophomore. This is where everything really starts to count. Grades, sports, clubs, community service, UIL, and so much more. It was the day to pick class officers and student council members. Freshman and sophomores were to report to the gym and sophomores on the other. As I waited I was looking at the freshman and remembered back last year when I was sitting in those same seats eager to be nominated for something, anything, but I wasn’t. It’s a whole new year now and I feel a little more confident. We began the meeting by starting with class officers. I wasn’t nominated for president or vice president, but as nominations were going out for treasurer my name was said. I thought wow that’s me! As the nominees stepped out for the votes to be tallied my stomach was tingling like the way your feet do when they fall asleep, like a big, heavy beanbag. We were let back into the gym. I was eager for the results, my fingers were crossed. This year your class treasurer is…not me. My heart dropped. I will admit I was disappointed, but I realized there is so much you can do in high school and that being a class officer is not that big of an honor. I will just have to work harder next time. I have to remember that nothing you work for is ever easy.
Game Point Tennis. Tennis. Tennis. I love tennis. I’ve been playing since the seventh grade. Tennis is one of the few sports I play that I can say I truly love to work for. Sprinting, serving, volleying, agilities. All so much work, yet so much fun to do. Last year I did pretty well. I was in doubles with my classmate, Jessica Soliz. Having a partner really boosted my confidence. Jessica had my back and I had hers. The one thing I can say I wasn’t too thrilled about was always coming in second or third. Always fighting for the top spot. Well, Jessica got hurt. So I was then partnered with Regina Hinojosa, another good classmate of mine. She was my good friend, and like Jessica we both had each other’s backs to pick up when we were slacking off in a game. Well, tennis season passed by so fast. Before I knew it, district was here. As I woke up at five that morning, I prayed. I prayed that God keep me strong through every game and that I would not give up. If this meant having tennis elbow for a week, spraining my ankle, or even playing in the rain, I would stick it out. “Pain over matter” is what my coaches always told me. Regina and I were doing great at the beginning. Playing game after game. There wasn’t any time for us to just sit down and rest. We had to keep on. Before we knew it, we were competing for first…against Santa Rosa. The two same girls Jessica and I got our by earlier that year. I wasn’t afraid though; we were ready for the challenge. It was getting dark and we didn’t have time to practice, so we shook our opponents’ hands and started the game. We were down one to nothing. We caught up and it was one all. My confidence was lifted. As I served I felt a sharp pain in my back and let me tell you, it hurt. I served again, no good. I double faulted. I had just given them that point. I had to remember no pain, no game. Time flew by and the score was already seven to one. We were so behind. Well, it just so happens that the tables turned, and Regina and I were playing awesome. From a slice to a backhand to a forehand. We were tied at that game forty-all. The little chunky, dark, short girl was serving. As she was about to throw the ball in the air, I looked up, not losing sight of it at all. BAM! It hit the net. Fault. She had one try left. If she missed this, we could continue the game. Game point. She served her last ball. As I was looking at the ball, I bit my lip. It was the hardest, most powerful serve. Regina hit it back. They turned it, as I ran up to the net to hit it back…and I missed. Santa Rosa beat us eight to one. They got our top spot we had been working for for so long. I was crushed. I didn’t get a trophy, but I did get a medal. I was glad I got this far and I couldn’t wait for next season.
A Little Cracked, A Little Bumpy, But Still Here I love to write. I write a chapter of my life for each move that I make. What I remember about Lucille street is a three bedroom, two bathroom, one carport, white, old brick house. A house I have lived fifteen years in, but have not started a life in. Three years from now, I will pack my bags and say my goodbyes. I will remember all the good things from my childhood. My eye shadow, my loss, my name, my direction, my grandmother, my nomination, my white Christmas, my summer job, and my family. My mom knows I will return, though she and I will both be sad and cry. It’s not the end. I will take this book with me and start a new chapter in what I can call a new beginning.