School Pride Essays

School Pride Essays-21
Though Shelf Five is unfinished, it is no less hopeful or less promising than the previous four.

Though Shelf Five is unfinished, it is no less hopeful or less promising than the previous four.

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Everything ranging from the science fiction of gathers in those shelves.

Here is the embodiment of my curiosity and thirst for knowledge.

On “brain rest” for a concussion, I had missed the last two months of school and reading was forbidden, so I hid in my closet, or sat outside in the sweltering DC heat where I knew no one would follow me.

I hid the book under my bed for nighttime forays when I couldn’t sleep due to an almost constant migraine. I couldn’t understand how Jane was capable of moving on.

Now, well versed in the feeling of failure, I am also educated in perseverance and success.

I use these experiences to help those who come my way.

I will look upon this shelf in the future with a sense of wholeness, because I know that this bookshelf is me.","_modules_admissions_9_content_0_body":"field_58dd957c14807","modules_admissions_9_content":["body"],"_modules_admissions_9_content":"field_58dd956c14806","modules_admissions_11_tag_text":"Brontë","_modules_admissions_11_tag_text":"field_58dd955014803","modules_admissions_11_heading":"The Red Room","_modules_admissions_11_heading":"field_58dd955614804","modules_admissions_11_lead":"","_modules_admissions_11_lead":"field_58dd955e14805","modules_admissions_11_content_0_body":"My name is Brontë, and if you ask me, I’ll tell you my favorite book is . Throughout my life, I’ve read this book a total of three times, although it would be untrue to claim that the same person read it each time, as I believe I’ve been drastically different people at each reading.\r\n\r\n The first time I read it, I was in fourth grade.

I’d been raised on a diet largely composed of poetry and dreams, nurtured by parents whose literary tendencies allowed me to read just about anything.

As I became closer to the teachers and mothers, they began to share pieces of the children’s stories with me.

These young children had suffered in ways that were foreign to me, a fifteen year old, who had thought herself so mature.


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