Waking up to the whines of my neighbors’ children reminds me it’s that time of the year again: back to school. My eyes are sore, considering I only had four hours of sleep, but I pull myself together and remember a wise combination of words,“hustling is a virtue.”
Though it’s only the first day, my morning feels like a routine. Before I head off, I text my dad to tell him I’m going to school and kiss my mom goodbye. The first thing I notice is the fluctuating flow of traffic on Tweedy Blvd., obviously due to the first day of school.
As I get closer to campus, I begin to feel uneasy. The thoughts in my head run wild.
“Will my friends be in my classes again? Will I even like the classes I’m in? Are my teachers going to like me?” They get the best of me and before I know it, there I am, I’m at school. The journey begins.
I walk into homeroom, which is different from my freshman and sophomore year. The teacher and class have changed, but not the students. I smile at familiar faces and run up to give them a hug, telling them how much I missed them, despite the fact that I never once thought of them over the summer.
We get our schedules and everything checks out fine, except one thing: it’s not fine. I freak out over the absence of newspaper. My friends tell me to settle down, “Your counselor will fix it for you.” I trust in my counselor and hope for the best. The bell rings and we’re off to first period: AP English.
The day goes by quick, with every class either being an introduction to the subject or a review of the class syllabus. Some teachers had us do a meet-and-greet activity, hoping for everyone to get to acquainted. By the end of the day, everyone knew a kid named Luis, considering there was four of us in my U.S. History class.
Despite my schedule mix up, the day felt like a smooth ride until I reached a speed bump: my sixth period, French. There’s nothing wrong with the subject or the teacher, but what threw me off was the class location. French class is located on the third floor of the A Building, a building I like to associate with students who don’t really care about academics. Not to mention, it’s on the third floor and I despise stairs with a passion.
Initially, the class didn’t seem all that bad. The teacher greeted us with a friendly “bonjour” as we walked in and everyone responded back with enthusiasm. The A Building wasn’t as bad as I thought it was. However, as soon as the “tardies” began to show up, it all went downhill. The tardy kids were beyond rude. They insulted the teacher behind her back, they touched her stuff and they mocked her. It made me angry, I’ve never experienced that amount of disrespect towards a teacher.
However, the teacher kept her up high spirits; she went as far as calling us her best class of the day. I don’t know if that’s what she told all her other classes, but if we’re her best class, imagine how bad her other five must be. I felt bad knowing I would sign out of her class in a matter of days. When the bell rang, I smiled and said “au revoir.” She smiled back and said something in French. I don’t know what it meant but it sounded nice.
After school, I hug my friends and rush home to start the homework I’ve been given. It’s only a sample of what’s to come in the following weeks. All I know is that it’s going to be a heck of a ride.