I don't know what's wrong with me but something is eating my insides i can't explain it. Words don't seem to do the emotions merit. Only a bull like grimace feels as if it embodies my anger half fully. I am sorry you all had to experience this but read on or skim this. whatever you do do it because I'm venting and its to you my fumes i'm going to dispense.

I like myself, i like being myself. Myself, myself. that's a funny thing because some people seem to forget that "myself" is all their own. What do i mean? I mean my "self." I am self. and self is all mine. therefore it is "myself" in a Neanderthal kind of way. Too bad the word has been misconstrued to become a word people use thinking they've satiated all of its parameters. All of its confines. Some think they've found the fence and try to paint murals of themselves upon them so as to make the fence their own. But just because you find the border between self and hoi polloi does not mean all it takes to ensure individuality is crayola your picture on a fence. You need paint, you need inspiration, you need a reason. YOU NEED A TEMPLATE so the mural can be seen. Don't call yourself individual if you LOOK like everyone else, like thickets of transparency. That type of thing is for the fake, the wannabes, the people "too good" to speak, look or be near me. YOU KNOW what people i'm talking about. You've seen them before. If you haven't then (in a clichŽd way) you are those people.

My time is all mine. Moments run away from me faster than constructive thought steers from pits of daydreams. And still time is all mine. And yours. And his, hers, those kids, those leaves. Time is trapped in leaves, i know this because i leaf through leaves almost everyday and recognize the intrinsic age of every petal. So, what's with me? I must sound odd, i must sound like an idiot, i must be an idiot. Sorry scratch that. I'm not one. Look up "leaf" and you'll get my meaning. I'm not the same kid I used to be. I'm not the euphorically suffocating kid I used to be. I am not who i used to be. Who do i have to thank?... TIME. I wish i had TIME magazine because these people obviously understand that news is the progression of time, and that it be fitting that the embodiment of all news is the radial dial of time. But its too bad that i can't buy time by subscribing to the LA Times, TIME, or the NY TIMES. I can only allow time to be mine.........You can't buy time. Just like you can't buy friendship, you can only allow friendship to be yours, like photo booth pictures in wallets...............Now that's time and friendship combined.

I'm not poetic. I'm not literarily merited. I'm simply irritated. Thank you for your time, have a nice day.
-M.T. Pockets
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Oppression, Reflexion,Never a confession.
Emancipation, Niggerization, there is some relation.
Temptation, Elevation, Here comes the accusation.
Molestations, Invasions, It was a crime to have education.
Inventions, E-di-son, the light bulb became his inquisition.
Hypertension, brotha' named Benson, can't contain himself not to mention.
Bondations, Revelations, back then being born was like being given a slave application
-pochild
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You pledge alleigance to the flag,
You do not comprehend,
That same flag cloaks their daggers,
To the defenseless, they bring an end
-Subversionary
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To you my thoughts are insane because I refuse to live my life in vain,
channeling all of the anger and pain, into much less or maybe more,
productive cases of witnessing plagues.
-pochild
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I feel that the books that we read at school have no moral values. This year and last, I have been forced to read books such as, "Lord of the Flies," "The Crucible," "One Flew Over the Cookoo's Nest," Of Mice and Men," and others. In all of the books I have named someone has been killed or has killed their best friend: "Lord of the Flies" the book has kids on a island unsupervised, they ended up killing each other. "The Crucible" a group of girls accused of witchcraft, are killed. "One Flew Over the Cookoo's Nest", a man thought to have been crazy has half his brain taken out, and his best friend at the hospital kills him' "Of Mice and Men" George kills his best friend Lennie shoots him in the head. Now we go to school every day, we have to pollute oursleves with this garbage we have to read to pass and/or graduate, and we have these big in class discussions about how this can relate to our lives. I sit in class and think "OK, there are school shootings all across America." We are forced to read these books with much violence, and we blame it on everything except the people that educate us. We know that we remember what we see, but we remember more what we read. And yet we still wonder why we have school shootings? I encourage everyone to start speaking out about these books, I mean, at least give us a choice on what we read.
-Tonz of Fun
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It is still clear in my mind. I saw a group of kids at lunch-maybe 35 or 40 of them- standing in a cluster laughing about something. They were rapping, joking, unthreatening. From three different places, yellow-shirted security guards rushed upon them, ordering them to disperse. I didn't hear if they gave the kids a reason. Two days later, a Friday, music was emanating from the stage at lunch. Rap came on, and kids started gathering around the steps, laughing, dancing and joking. As the crowd grew the music paused, and stopped. The PA blared a voice informing everyone that rap couldn't be played unless people would stop congregating. The crowd slowly dispersed. I watched a hundred, maybe a hundred-fifty kids abandon their fun and, still dignified, return to their smaller bands of close friends.

I remember one Friday morning before all this, but two months ago, when seventy Christians gathered around the flagpole in front of the school in prayer and worship. They were there for a half hour, while one security guard watched. Every Friday since, the same thing has happened, and they have never been told to disband. So what's the difference? Omar MacDonald says, "they say it's against the school rules to rap." But what about the kids at the stage? They weren't even excercising their first ammendment right to free speech. They weren't being lewd, they weren't threatening, they broke no rule. Yet they were coerced into disbanding. They were a large group of Black kids practicing their culture. Sean Philllips says, "White people are playing hackey-sack in groups all the time, but we get broken up for rapping...it's cultural." But it's more than cultural, it's about rights. The Supreme Court has already established in Tinker v. Des Moines Independent School District that "It can hardly be argued that either students or teachers shed their constitutional rights to freedom of speech or expression at the schoolhouse gate. This has been the unmistakable holding of the [Supreme Court] for almost fifty years."(1). But what's more, it is totally unconstitutional for the school to make any rule against students' freedom of speech. For the school to even have a rule against rapping- an activity done by students among friends and outside of instructional time- would be in clear violation of our freedom of speech. "In our system, state-operated schools may not be enclaves of totalitarianism. School officials do not possess absolute authority over their students. Students in school as well as out of school are "persons" under the Constitution. They [have] fundamental rights which the State must respect, just as they themselves must respect their obligations to the State. In our system, students may not be regarded as closed-circuit recipients of only that which the State chooses to communicate. They may not be confined to the expression of those sentiments that are officially approved. In the absence of a specific showing of constitutionally valid reasons to regulate their speech, students are entitled to freedom of expression of their views....[S]chool officials cannot suppress "expressions of feelings" with which they do not wish to contend."(2) Thus, students are not required to stop rapping unless shown a good constitutional reason for why their freedom of speech should be revoked or restricted. Ultimately, the "important, delicate, and highly discretionary functions"(3) of the Administration must be executed "within the limits of the Bill of Rights."(4)

If the school systems expect us to take U.S. History and Government, both of which outline the principles and vitality of our Constitution, then they had better start abiding by it. Senior Stacy Kaufold explains: "Administration can rap their verses at us, but we can't even rap ours to each other."
-Metamorphasi

1. Tinker, 393 U.S. at 512-13
2. Tinker, 393 U.S. at 511 (quoting Burnside v. Byars, 363 F,2d 744 (5th Cir. 1966)).
3. W. Va. State Bd. of Educ. v. Barnette, 319 U.S. 624, 637 (1943).
4. Id.
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There are many flaws at our school, but to me, the most blatant one is our security guards. The security guards at our school are rude, lazy and don't fill their job description. Now, when I think of a security guard at a high school, I think of someone protecting the students. Maybe they are guarding entrances from possible ambushes like Columbine and the recent school shooting in Germany where 17 people were killed. Maybe they are preventing fights and stopping fights when they are too late to prevent them. Maybe they are roaming the school parking lot making sure no damage is done to the cars sitting there. On our campus though, maybe I'll see one scratching themselves. Or maybe standing in the shade on a hot day and only stopping anything occurring within twenty feet of them. Is this a security guard? No, it's a proctor.

Now, growing up through elementary school, a proctor made sure dress code was being enforced. This is a job that must be done, but not by a security guard. That's not their job. That somehow seems to be the only thing they do though. They think that keeping a strict dress code is a small part in keeping a safe school. With a recent gang threat to the school, it's obvious that this approach is not working. There are more important things a security guard can be doing also, like at least standing by a parking lot. Many kids entrust their cars in the school parking lot and on the street in front of the school. If someone keys a car in the parking lot and it is not spotted, that's one thing, but what happened to my friend's car is something that should never happen. During sixth period, my friend's car windshield was bashed in by a 2x4. Her car was not the only one, three other cars had their windows smashed in, each with a sticker saying "I love Jesus" or something similar. Now, if there was just one security guard even near the parking lot, this wouldn't have happened. How can they let something like this happen? My friend's car was obviously the last car bashed in because the 2x4 was found in her front seat and her parking permit was stolen. For a while she could not drive to school until she had her windshield replaced. When she did start driving to school again, the school didn't even have the decency to give her a new parking permit. She had to go through another registration process.

So they don't patrol the parking lot, but they are busy doing other things right? Maybe they are trying to make sure no one is ditching? Nope, they aren't doing that either. I had an off campus pass to leave during the middle of sixth and since I had the pass and noticed that the gate was now open, I just walked out of the gate. I passed by three security guards and not one of them asked to see my off campus pass. I even tried looking suspicious to see if I would be stopped, but to no avail. What about lunch? What are they doing then? Well, often times I see three or four in front of B-7, guarding the out of bounds line. Does it really take that many to guard that line? I don't think so.

Well, the security guards don't guard and they are lazy, so maybe they are helpful to students? That answer once again is nope. One time, a friend of mine's car battery died because he left his lights on during the day. His car was parked in the street and he ran up to the office to see if he could put it in the parking lot while he walked to a friend's house to get some jumper cables. The office said it would be okay so he and another friend went to push the car into the parking lot. Seeing one of the male security guards, they asked him to help push the car into the parking lot. This security guard's reply was a smirk and "Hell no." He then proceeded to hopping on his bike and riding away. Another friend of mine was arriving to the school right before the tardy bell rang. Knowing the bell was about to ring he sprinted to the gate with a security guard standing there. The bell started ringing my friend shouted "Please don't close the gate, my class is right there, I can still make it." The security guard said "Okay" and waited with the gate open until my friend got there. As he got to the gate, the security guard slammed the gate in his face and locked it, laughing obnoxiously in his face. I'd expect more maturity from freshman.

These stories are just a few of the many stories that show the problems with our security guards. I haven't even delved into the many little things that happen on a regular basis. I'm sure all of you have some story to tell and each story is more proof to the theory that these security guards do not fill their job description. Of every possible duty listed, they fail to even come close to completing any. On the other hand, these people do fill the job description of a different, less paid job, a proctor.
-LostinNeverland

Here's some riff raff, this is not preachy peachy stuff, its to be read and thought about, garner an opinion on the issue, question it, don't be some stupid idiotic moron who follows it because it "sounds" right or dismiss it because it goes against what Ms. Cleo said on television. Alright.

I was sitting down doing my homework and put down my pen to tend to some musical therapy when i fell into a minded stupor. I was listening to the noise surrounding my head which seemed to be emanating from the very core of my mind when all noise became omniscient yet nonexistent. Thought became the only clamor pulsating from the two heads phoning in voice. I then got up and began to type...

I was speaking to, or rather I over heard, no actually I was reminiscing about a conversation I had with someone a few days ago. This woman i was talking to was asking me about my Acadec speech because i had to recite it for a group of people who were told that it was very good (which is to me not true). This woman started off expressing her surprise in what i'd just completed. Maybe it was her surprise that i had spoken because i otherwise never did, maybe it was because she agreed avidly with what i had to say, or maybe it was her aura of racial surprise she seemed to be decisively trying to coat with complements. Whatever it was i listened and we began speaking about my future goals and what i wanted to do with my life. It hit me like a ton of bricks when i encountered her diatribe of what i should do, not because it was violating my cushion for opinionated ignorance but because she attributed success and intelligence with monetary wealth. She said i had an ability, a talent, that my speech was good and that i should publish it, she then asked me what i really wanted to do when i began to occupy the working world, and i told her, " i want to teach, run my own life and work someplace in the field of nanoscale sciences and theoretical physics." Instantly she was like "WOW!!", "i have a feeling you are going to make a lot of money when you get older," "Why,'" i asked her, because she obviously had no idea what nanoscale sciences was and obviously was vehemently overwhelmed by "theoretical physics" being lipped and voiced from my Neapolitan orifice.

After speaking with her i thought to myself on my walk to my car and on the drive home and while eating and while reading and before going to sleep. I thought to myself why is it these people think the answer to happiness, to success is to admit to money. Why is it so many of my peers want to go Stanford or Harvard because of the moniker they get to brandish if they graduate, why is it we were all six and answered to "what do you want to be when you grow up?" with things like "my dad", "my mom", "superman", "a scientist", "a doctor" and when asked why we'd say things like, "because i want to help people, because my mom/dad is strong, is brave, takes care of me, because i want to change the world." Now all i can decipher from these kids' teenage prose is "i want be a doctor because it is lucrative, i want be a plastic surgeon because they make bank and get fondle breast." This is all bullshit, i'm sorry but it is. I'm not about to tell you some pageantry riff raff, "we should change the world and buy all the kids in the world puppies," but you may consider the pregnancy of what i am saying and consider its birth into something you do today tomorrow or even days after today. It is my opinion (at this very moment - 2:54am) that every human being should work to better themselves and those around them by contributing to the progress of their community, family, or the celerity at which society simply progresses. No one should work because it will bring them the most money in the end. No one should work because their job is like attending "a how to milk a cow seminar" but still goes because it pays bank nevertheless. I want to teach because i have always had a feeling to teach, if i could live teaching for free then i would, if i could research theoretical physics and nanoscale sciecnes/engineering for free and STILL*live* i would. But i can't so i will do the next best thing and work for me, allowing the thought of monetary sustenance to do nothing more than undulate beneath every occupational action. there i'm done.

Hold up wait, you know what? Every morning I Van Gogh stones, Picasso staccato grained bricks and Monet strokes of path. I call upon Galileo for forks in the road and then after backing into yet another path i for a split moment Hubble over my previously passed path and scope in on all these idiots who Columbus their way into various segways, all rambling, "my means will prove to be most lucrative in di 'en,... my means will prove to be most lucrative in di 'en. "

I think that's funny.
-M.T. Pockets
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Bleeding flesh of wild beasts ground on stone, Bleeding flesh of berbere pepper pulverized to powder, Grandmother and inaht spend the remaining light with flour Barley and oats for the injera, gratitude shown in clean bone.

Tender flesh of tame creatures ground in market, Ground red of berbere exchanged in plastic, Woman sells packaged injera bread elastic Of wheat and rye, gratitude shown in money.

Only to sit idle uneaten in a foam box, Warmed in microwave, forks in, While watching BET, Where are the great Habisha now.

1.berbere- spice used to make traditional Ethiopian bread 2. inaht - mother 3. injera - traditional ethiopian bread 4. habisha - traditional word for ethiopian people (the word ethiopia came from the Roman word for "burnt face" that the Romans used to describe the continent of Africa)
-Ambessa
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In retrospect, both my parents and I underestimated the dramatic upheaval in store for me when they made their decision to move my family to Saudi Arabia. Being eleven years old at the time, I remember listening calmly to my father's voice buzzing over the long-distance line, and wondering what differences existed between Saudi Arabia and New York where I had grown up. Months later, as I sat contently watching my mother pack the last of our luggage, I still did not realize that I was about to step into an entirely new world, a world without familiarity and my old friends. The following years were challenging and satisfying -- I truly believe the trials of moving to a new environment taught me maturity and self-dependence at an early age.

As the day of departure, December 27th, 1995, approached, I tried to remember what I knew about our soon-to-be new home. I knew that I was born there long ago and that my father had lived there alone for many years in order to support my family financially. Other than that, Saudi Arabia was just an outlined blob on a map. What kind of life would it offer me? Were there potential new friends waiting for me in that blank space? These questions ran through my head as we made our farewells, some in person and some over the phone. I stared at the faces of the friends who filled the hallways, trying to memorize their features.

The trip to the airport passed uneventfully. My uncle was at the wheel of the minivan and my mother cradled my little brother in her arms. Tugging at her arm, I tried to maintain my calm facade. Once we were buckled in on the plane, however, memories of the city began to surge through my mind. Up to this point, I had done kept my feelings to myself, knowing that any demonstration of sadness or fear would upset my mother. Sitting there and waiting to depart the only land I had known, I realized that not only was showing my emotions okay, it was human. So I allowed myself to cry, smothering my tears within my hands. My unsuccessful attempt to muffle my cries caught the attention of many on the plane, but I did not care. I had finally realized that things would never be the same, and that my life's path had veered forever. As I mourned the loss of my previous life, however, I also resolved to create an even better one in the new land.

Who could have predicted that four years later, the same boy would once again face the same situation? Yet it was so. When I was sixteen, my family left Saudi Arabia because my mother could not bear to live under the strict laws that took away basic rights of women, but my father chose not to leave. He stayed because he was determined to ensure a comfortable lifestyle for his family, but promised that he would be following us soon. After the last checkpoint at Riyadh International, it was once again my mother, my younger brother, and I, leaving family and friends behind. As I walked down the long corridor, I anticipated the overwhelming feelings that I would face on the plane and concentrated on an antiquated Arabic wall tile to distract myself. Leaving Saudi Arabia proved just as difficult as leaving New York a few years before. In Saudi Arabia I had created a new life filled with loving friends and precious memories. I had accomplished my goal, of creating a rewarding new life. I did not doubt that I could do so again in California.

As I reflect upon these experiences, I realize that people often come to important realizations in times of emotional pain. Surely this was the case in my own life. What originally appeared to be cruel punishment to an eleven-year-old actually became an essential, shaping part of my life. Change has been a constant in my life, and I believe that, although a large portion of our personal relationships is temporary, even the most fleeting friendships can influence us. Had I not moved from New York to Saudi Arabia, and then onto California, I would not be as complete and mature a person as I am today.

I have been privileged, privileged to have moved from place to place, and privileged to have found supportive and considerate friends in each new home. Forced to make new lives and friends again and again, I became brave, knowing that I could retain my individuality and be embraced for who I am. I firmly believe that this perspective on life is important. I understand now that change is unavoidable, and rather than shying from it, I now welcome it. As Charles F. Kettering once said, "the world hates change, yet it is the only thing that has brought progress."
-Ambessa
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