Letter to my English Proffeser

Dear Mr.L

May 6th, 2017

I am writing this narrative to counter what had been previously stated in my essay on the year past. Typically, my mindset is that of an optimist, however experiences seem to have degraded in character since. My optimism has severely changed to the dismal and sobering truth that high school students do not instantly gain maturity, and teachers seem to care significantly less about your issues. In order for me to keep my studies at a higher priority, I selected the classes with more rigor. As the freshman year progressed, my social status had been decreasing as well as many other things. Not many people were supportive of my endeavors, and especially not the jocks or the upper class "fuckboys" for lack of better words. I feel as though the reason they do things like this is so they feel accepted among their groups because they are too insecure to get any real friends.

There were however, things that had been on the rise, such as the unintentional contact of my oppressors or that irritating, psychotic instructors would misplace my homework (Hence my satisfactory grades). "Bullying" as my health teacher would call it, was not too much of an issue for many of the popular students at Burbank High School, however they did not seem to leave me alone. Whether it be jabbing me in the hallways or mockery, there was always a way that imbeciles would try to erk me. Getting into fights with other students had also been major to the rise of social awkwardness, which I did try to avoid, but that was what made me ponder, study, and experiment ways for my story to be heard. The whole year I seemed to be getting injured, frequently by others, and because of the stupidity of my Physical Education teacher Mr. Wells. No matter how much I was in pain, I still needed to run until all four appendages fell off due to exhaustion, and Mr. Wells made me. Another instance is where I had been brutalized by a senior who hyperextended my left leg because (to make long story short) he was angry at the placement of my backpack.

Up until recently, I had reached the epiphany that no matter how a person may jab at you with words, they mean nothing and that getting overly dramatic over a the frivolity of such issues was useless: I would just continue life like any other. As silly as it may be perceived, I am eluded to the fact that this generation no longer is taught that "sticks and stones may break my bones but names may never hurt me" childrens rhyme. I suppose now it will never be relevant. Frustration on the other hand is a tangible thing. It was felt very much through my freshman year, and I still feel like it will not end until my graduation from this concentration camp.

My friends are only known to be real when they stick up for you through tough situations and don't leave you by yourself. This year revealed to me that I only have a few true friends (Even though one may have turned out to be a pothead) Many of the old people I knew have lost interest in what I can offer in a friendship, and the feeling is definitely mutual. There are those who can offer support, kindness, and help where it is needed, and others who offer only the synthetic reassurance, with no follow through. I have gauged friendships and out of all the people I truly know, only about 10-15 are really my friends.

To sum up what this is alluding to, I no longer look forward to the next years of my schooling because I will need to deal with others who really don't care, bullies, and the stresses of being a teenager at the (Not so) sanctuary that is the dank and dirty hole of a place I call home. As much as I do look forward to the essential education in the coming years there are only a small handful of reasons I would actually look forward to going to "jail". I hope that if the person who is reading this would stick up for others, and also make changes to their actions for the better of themselves and peers.