My dad prefers to shaves his head, and from what I've seen in photo albums, he used to have thick hair that he would style with afro picks. Sometimes he forgets to cut it for a few days and it becomes a short, fuzzy layer on top of his head that feels like velvet. My brother has thick, tightly curled hair that grows insanely fast, which I don't think is fair at all. It seems like every two weeks he needs a haircut because his hair has grown another three inches. My mom's hair is soft and grows quickly as well. She likes to keep it short, but I'm always trying to convince her to let it grow. I think if she were to leave it to get as long as possible, she'd look amazing. A few years ago she started finding gray hairs, which I know made her upset, but I like to think of them as silver strands that make her hair stand out. To hide the grays, she goes to the hairdresser to dye it or gets hair pieces added.My hair is like my maternal grandmother's, thick, soft, and relatively fast-growing. In its natural form, my hair is extremely curly and unruly and spreads out from my head in all directions. When I was younger my mom used to tell me that I was carrying the world on my head. My sister has the same type of hair as my dad's mom, short and thin and slow-growing. It isn't very long because the ends will start to split when it gets too far down her shoulders, but lately she has been taking better care of it and is seeing major growth.

My first name, Adjoa, means female born on Monday. Each Ghanaian child born is given a name that corresponds to the day of the week of their birth. The names come from the names of the days themselves and sound very similar to them. There is a male name and a female name for each day, and the various names can me altered and spelled differently to make them stand out. My middle name, Tiwaa, came from my great-grandmother on my father's side. She was the oldest of nine sisters and had eleven kids herself. My nickname, TJ, which stands for Tiwaa Junior, came from my middle name. I'm the only child in my family with only one middle name, and I've always wondered why that was. My sister's full name is Naana Aba Kwedjuah Ewool. Her first name translates to "queen mother" and her first middle name Aba came from my father's mother. Her second name, Kwedjuah, was the name of the first woman in Ghana to fetch water from the stream. Kwedjuah is also her "day-of-the-week" name. My brother's name, Paapa Kweku Otoo Ewool, was put together from various men on my father's side. Paapa comes from my dad, who's also called Paapa, and from my great-grandfather, named Otoo as well, who I never met. Kweku is his "day-of-the-week" name, meaning male born on Wednesday.

In fifth grade, I had two teachers. My main one, Mr. Michanczyk, taught Social Studies and English. The other, Mrs. Rustick, taught Science and Math. Their two classes would start with their actual teachers for the first two subjects and switch after lunch for the second two. Science class involved a lot of partner work with worksheets and games to help us learn better. One day, Mrs. Rustick handed out partners and instructed us to find a partner that we hadn't yet worked with. Being an elementary schooler at the time, I wouldn't have been caught dead working with a boy, so I decided to pair up with a girl I had seen in class but had never talked to, Kathryn Dobyns. As it turned out, Kathryn and I had a lot in common, and she made me laugh. Our assignment was to match pictures on flashcards to their names. We finished relatively quickly, and to pass the time we decided it would be a good idea to imitate cavemen. We took a flashcard with a drawing of fire on it and used pencils to "start" our very own fire. We then proceeded to hold other flashcards over the fire and pretended to eat them. Somehow we progressed to picking a classmate and pretending to eat them from where we sat. When we finished with one side of the room, we turned and looked at Danie. At the exact same time, Kathryn and I whisper-shouted, "We make fire, we eat Danie!" We were so stunned that for a second all we did was stare at each other before bursting into hysterics. Later that day, as I stepped on the bus to come home, I passed Kathryn sitting in one of the seats. We recognized each other, I sat with her, and we became inseparable.

When people ask me where I buy my clothes, the most common answer I give is "from a thrift store!" Over the past couple of years I have taken a huge interest in thrift shopping at places like Goodwill and similar organizations. While some people may not find thrift stores appealing, I think they have a certain odd charm about them that makes them fun places to be. In fact, most of my favorite articles of clothing and accessories were bought at thrift stores. Prices at thrift stores are always low and the things I buy are good investments, at least in my opinion. Sometimes I don't even buy anything, I just like to browse through the clothing racks to get ideas about outfits that I could possibly put together. The clothes at thrift stores are interesting and usually one-of-a-kind so I don't have to worry about wearing the same outfit as anyone else at school. Going thrift shopping is something I like to do with my sister because I can get her opinion on whether or not I should buy certain things and can give her my own advice about her purchases. Buying clothes from thrift stores is a good way to save money while being able to buy things that I like. Since my style is one that doesn't require a lot of brand names, I like finding things at thrift stores that some of my peers probably wouldn't even look at. The clothes I look for are pieces that I can pair with things I already own to make newer and better combinations of outfits to wear. Sometimes, though, I buy clothes that are a little more daring than what I would usually look for and see if I can't tone them down so they aren't as shocking to look at as they first were. If I ever got the chance to work in a thrift store I would take it in a heartbeat.

In sixth grade, I played on two soccer teams in two different leagues, one FASA and one Parks and Recreation. My afternoons were filled with shuttling from game to game and practice to practice in my mom's van. One Thursday, towards the end of Parks and Rec practice, my coach of four years began to set out cones for one final game before it was time to leave. Four cones were spread out in a large square with people at two of the four cones facing each other. The rules were simple: dribble the ball around the square and back to your cone before the person from the other line catches you! Then pass the ball to the next person in your line and start again. After a few rounds the two lines would switch so that everyone got a chance to chase and be chased. When my coach noticed that the dribblers had been caught by the chasers several times he decided to slightly change the rules. Now the chasers had to run backwards around the square to try and tag the dribblers! Since I was almost last in the chasers line I had to wait a short while for my turn. As I watched my teammates backpedal as quickly as they could towards the dribblers I couldn't help but get excited. When my turn came I was ready. I faced my fellow chasers and took off as soon as the whistle was blown. I rounded the first and second cones successfully and noticed that the dribbler was still a ways ahead of me. A sudden burst of energy propelled me faster in my pursuit. I then noticed just how fast I was going and began to panic and attempted to slow myself down, pinwheeling my arms around to try and return to a reasonable speed. This caused me to lose my balance and fall backwards. At the time, the only way I felt I could stop myself from hitting the hard ground with my tailbone was to stick my left arm out behind me. Even so, I hit the ground with a thump and a sickening crunch in my wrist. When the adrenaline of my run subsided, I began to feel the pain. My coach stopped the drill and called my mom who drove me to the hospital for an X-ray and an ace bandage. The next day I got a cast put on that I had to wear for the next eight weeks. The best part of the whole experience was that I got to wear bubble wrap on my arm during games for my safety and the safety of the players around me, although it never made it through a whole game because I felt the need to pop every last bubble.

In Ghana, and Africa in general, it is common for people to have dogs. However, very few of these dogs are kept as pets. Most of them are used as guard dogs to protect houses and the people inside. These guard dogs are seldom fluffy or lighter than 100 pounds. The bigger and meaner-looking the dog, the better. Like most guard dogs, they live outside and are released at night to protect their owners from any dangers that might lurk behind the house's perimeter. Until very recently, my aunt who lives in Accra, Ghana had two German Shepherds named Rufus and Doofus (our names, not hers). They lived in two large cages next to the house and were let out at the end of each day to prowl around the fenced-in yard. Rufus and Doofus were large, loud, and scary. When my family and I would arrive at the house from he airport, it was usually late and the dogs had been set loose, so we children had to be carried in so we wouldn't get bitten by the animals who were not used to strangers. Over the course of out stay, my siblings and I grew more confident around the dogs and even ventured out to their cages on a regular basis to feed them and attempt to play with them. Once the dogs grew used to our presence, only barking a few times when we approached their cages.We too grew used to the dogs that slept right outside our bedroom window and came to like them more than we had initially. Visiting other relatives, however, was nowhere near as easy. Most times when we went to see other family members we arrived at night and had to be carried inside so we wouldn't be hurt by the unfamiliar dogs. These new dogs were not our beloved Rufus and Doofus, and so we were afraid to go near them. We felt that these dogs weren't capable of being as nice as the dogs we were used to and avoided the new animals at all costs. Coming back to my aunt's house was a blessing, as we came back to the joyful barks of our protectors. Leaving them was especially hard, because we knew that it would be a long time before we would come back to see them. We also thought that in the time we were away, Rufus and Doofus' memories of us would fade and we would once again have to be carried inside at night so they would not feel the need to attack us.

My mom came from a family of eight, with one brother, five sisters, and both of her parents. She is the second youngest and has the second largest amount of children herself. My oldest aunt has a son and a daughter, both of whom are close to finishing college and grad school. We don't see them much. My mom's second oldest sister has no kids of her own but adopted a son last August. The third oldest sister lives in England with her son and comes to visit us as often as she can. My only uncle is next, with four kids, two girls and two boys. The eldest is a girl who also lives in England with her mom. The second oldest, a boy, lives with his mom, too. My uncle's youngest children, fraternal twins, spend their time with their parents in Maryland and with our extended family in Ghana. My mother is next, with my brother, my sister, and me, and the youngest of the Brew family has no children. Because we are such a large family, we rarely get the chance to come together in our entirety due to schedule conflicts and other things. However, each summer there is always someone visiting someone in one place or another. We even have unofficial designated places to stay on three continents. When relatives from Ghana or England come to America, the duration of their visit is spent at my house. When we travel to England, my third oldest aunt's house is the place to be. In Ghana, my fourth aunt, who is a second mother to each of her nieces and nephews, opens her doors to us. No matter the size of the house or the amount of people inside, her house always has enough room for us and more. The young twins and my aunt's adopted son are the rowdiest of the bunch, and visits are often spend chasing after them to make sure they stay out of trouble. This can easily get tiring, as it is usually just me doing the chasing. Eventually the older kids stop worrying about them and let them go about their business, which results in about ten minutes of blissful silence before whines pierce the air and the kids demand attention yet again.

In the movie we watched on Friday, Ana dreamed to pursue her education after high school and go to college. Though nervous at first, she was convinced by her teacher to take a chance and apply. Despite Ana's obvious intelligence, her mother refused to entertain the idea of her youngest daughter forgoing factory work in favor of college. Her traditional views that women belong either at home or at work clashed with Ana's hopes for an education and the two argued often. In the vignette "Alicia Who Sees Mice", Alicia was also expected to take on the motherly role in her household because her mother had died and she was the oldest female in the house. Because of her gender and age, she was expected to rise with the sun and begin a long day of cooking, cleaning, and little else. Although Ana's mother was still alive, she was expected to do numerous chores because her older sister went to work. Her, who believed herself to be pregnant but was actually going through menopause, felt too unwell to help. Also unlike the vignette, Ana's mother and father initially refused to let Ana go to college even with a full scholarship to Columbia University. Though Alicia was expected to look after the house in her mother's absence, her father still allowed her to attend university and learn as much as she could. Alicia attended university to ensure that she wouldn't be spending her life in a factory or behind a rolling pin. Ana wanted to get an education so she wouldn't suffer the same fate as her older sister, who Ana realized was being cheated out of her money by the large retailers. Ana lashed out at her parents' decision, messing up a dress in the factory and secretly dating a boy she had met in school. She tried to explain to her sister that she and the other factory workers were not being paid as much as they deserved for the dresses, but her sister did not understand and refused to listen. After a visit from her teacher, Ana's father had a change of heart. He gave Ana his blessing and allowed her to travel to New York City to attend Columbia. Her mother, however, would not see her daughter off at the airport and refused to leave her room. Although she did not receive a blessing from her mother, Ana flew to college. When she emerged in the last scene, she walked just like her mother had taught her.

Technically, TJ isn't my only nickname. When I was in elementary school, I wanted a nickname that only my sister would call me. I decided on Squirt because I had read multiple books about older siblings using that nickname for their younger brothers and sisters and wanted to be a part of that. In the books, the older brother or sister would affectionately call his or her younger sibling Squirt and it strengthened the already strong sibling bond. Though I don't remember my sister's initial reaction to my telling her my nickname of choice, I am about 80% sure she laughed it off. However, I can say that she never once called me Squirt. For the next few years my almost-nickname was forgotten, and no more conversations were had about the subject. In eighth grade during the school soccer season, my sister and her friend who had been on the team in previous years came by a few times a week from high school to help out the coach. It was there that the name Squirt made a reappearance. My sister is to keep things to herself, especially when these things concern me. One day, without my knowledge, my sister told one of the team managers, Joseph Hildebrand, the story behind Squirt. From then until the end of the year, that's what he called me. It's a rare day that the two of us are in the same place and Squirt is not yelled at least once. Last year, I didn't have any classes with him or any of his friends, so I didn't hear this "nickname" very often. This year, however, it has made a resurgence in the four out of eight classes we have together. Apparently, Squirt has become closely associated with me, especially among the males who went to Battlefield Middle. The name itself has earned some questions from concerned teachers who are unsure whether or not to put a stop to it. However, as most times I ignore it, the name doesn't bother me as much as it did in middle school. I've even begun to respond to it, probably much to my past self's chagrin. Sometimes I get word of people I don't know very well referring to me as Squirt, which in itself is a little weird but kind of cool. In the end, I learned that I can't escape the stupid things I did in elementary school and have gradually come to terms with my new name.

When I was younger, my favorite thing to wear was a purple party dress that I thought looked good with everything. It had ruffles at the sleeves and hem and had a string of white pearls and satin lining down the front. It belonged to my sister before me, and it was the dress she was wearing on her third birthday, which was also the day I was born. It was actually her best friend's dress before it was my sister's, but somehow it made its way to me. I thought that dress was the most beautiful thing in the world. If my mom had let me, I would have worn that dress every day. It was my go-to outfit of choice for special occasions, or any occasion really. Every time I invited friends over to play dress-up I made sure to save my favorite dress for myself. I used to come home from school, change into the dress, and I wouldn't take it off until it was time to go to bed, although I remember many days where I put it back on after my nightly shower and wore it to sleep. When we moved in the summer before second grade, that dress was the first thing I packed. I decided not to wear it on move-in day for fear of getting it dirty. Later, when I unpacked it and put it on, I managed to get a good look at what had been so important to me barely a week before. It was then that I realized that my magical party dress was nothing more than a worn heap of fabric that was meant for someone much smaller. It came up to mid-thigh, and I knew I was too old to get away with wearing something so short.

My sister and I share a birthday and have had combined birthday parties since I can remember. Last year, when I turned 15 and she turned 18 we threw a big party to celebrate. We spent almost a week getting ready, buying supplies and cleaning up the house. When my sister took her senior pictures, the photographer took some shots of the two of us to put on our invitations and make them look more professional than pen and paper cards. The invitations were then sent to our closest family and friends who came from all over to celebrate with us. Our house was filled with music, the smell of food, and people. There were people from school there, as well as family members we hadn't seen in a while. Those are my favorite kinds of parties, where everyone involved in my life comes together. My sister and I split our time entertaining our friends and family members. One of our good friends made our cake, which was separated into three parts: one for my sister, one for me, and one for both of us. We baked cookies, cupcakes, and more cakes, with plenty of snacks and dinner to go around. We even sent notices to our neighbors telling them that there would probably be noise late into the night but they were welcome to join us if they wanted! The party was complete with two outfit changes and a DJ. My aunt had ordered tailor-made dresses for us to wear the summer before and they made their debut at the event. It was nice to see everyone in their finery and I loved having them here. In typical African fashion, the party ended about four hours after the time on the invitation. By the time everybody did leave, My family (especially my sister) and I were asleep on our feet. All of us decided to save cleaning up for the next morning, when we would be fully awake and capable of making an impact on the clutter. Although most girls in America have lavish Sweet 16 parties, I was happy to have my big Sweet 15 and share it with my favorite person. It was nice to dress up, dance, and take pictures on what was truly a magical night.

I've wanted to be a pediatrician since I can remember. My mom tells me that I used to talk about "being a baby doctor" before I even started kindergarten. I've always loved children as well as taking care of people, so being a pediatrician seemed like a good way to pull those two things together. In a big family, there is always someone's little brother or sister that needs to be watched, and that job fell on my shoulders from a young age. My own experience with pediatricians hasn't always been the best, though. When I was young I spent multiple hours each week in the doctor's office getting different kinds of blood work done. I hated it. I remember multiple instances where I attempted to escape the labs in the basement of the building, either run up the stairs or catch the elevator to the parking lot, and hitchhike home. I was even convinced that my doctor was a vampire determined to remove all of my blood for his own personal stash. Each time I went in for a visit it seemed that I "needed another blood test." This also convinced me that the facility itself was evil and that my parents should find another office immediately. This began a lifetime's worth of distrust of Kaiser Permamente. Even now, I still cringe inwardly whenever the name is mentioned.I shared my thoughts with my family, who may or may not have looked at me like I was crazy. My friends were very attentive, listening to my latest news of evil Dr. Vamp with wide eyes. Logically, I know that my doctor was not, in fact, a vampire, just a concerned expert who tried his best to make me feel better. However, my six-year-old self wouldn't be swayed. All the effort I've put into school has been geared toward getting me ready for the rigorous expectations of medical school. I've always told my family that I would take care of them in their old age and be able to support them. I feel that, as a pediatrician, I would be able to do just that. I know that it will take a while to reach my goal and get my dream job, so for now I'll just focus on getting my grades up to a level with which my parents and I are satisfied.

When I was younger, I spent the better part of every day outside. From the time I woke up until the streetlights came on, I could most likely be found on the playground, in someone's yard, or in a tree. My friends and I liked to make up games and play for hours. Because I was the only girl my age in the neighborhood, most of the games we played involved fighting and a damsel in distress. If we weren't running around making as much noise as humanly possible, we were high up in crab apple trees trying to find one that didn't taste like acid. (It never worked.) Other days we sat on the steps of someone's front porch battling with Yu-Gi-Oh cards and trying to build up our collections. My siblings and I liked to sled down our basement stairs on a sled with only a couch cushion to break our fall. Most times, we went so fast that the cushion did little to stop us from making multiple dents in the wall. When the dents became too obvious to explain away, we switched to our main stairs. Another one of my favorites was torpedo, where one person would be "it" and call torpedo and everyone else playing had to run from their line to base behind "it" to be safe. If you were tagged, you became "it" and had to help them catch the other players. Our neighborhood was built around a circle of grass and trees that was affectionately nicknames "The Circle." The Circle was the center for all activities in the neighborhood and was large enough to accommodate all the kids in the neighborhood at once. Sometimes everyone in the neighborhood gathered together in The CIrcle for neighborhood cookouts and block parties. The Circle was also the place where friendships were made and ended. Another of my favorite games was the classic "don't touch the lava" adventure. We played it inside, outside, on the playground, upstairs, downstairs, everywhere. The stakes rose and fell wherever we played it. The bigger and more challenging the course, the better the prize. The smaller the space, the less impressive the reward.

The house across the street from my house is one of the prettiest yards I've ever seen. It belongs to a man named Steve, who prides himself on being the winner of the Yard of the Month at least four times a year. Early every morning he takes a walk along the edge of his yard, surveying his property and making sure it looks the way he wants. He mows his lawn at least twice a week and has every gardening tool known to man. If any of his neighbors need help with something in their yards, Steve is the first one they call. He trims the bushes around his house, cares for a number of different types of flowers, and is even prone to using scissors to keep his grass in line. He even vacuums the cherry blossom petals that fall on the grass in the springtime. He is so protective of his yard that he has cameras installed at all angles that alert him is anything even touches his most prized accomplishment. If a stray ball were to find its way into Steve's yard he'd be outside in a flash looking for the culprit. The neighborhood kids know not to walk on his yard, either, or else they'd be in for a stern talking-to. Every month Steve changes the flags that hang over his yard to match the upcoming holidays. He has one for every month. In January it's a snowflake, in February a heart, and a four-leaf clover for March. In April the flags are decorated with Easter eggs, in May a big yellow sun, and in June a beach pail and shovel. He does other things, like putting miniature American flags around his mailboxes and the mailboxes of all the other residents for Memorial Day and three crosses for Easter. Steve is very friendly and likes to buy flowers for the women of the neighborhood for Mother's Day. He likes to shop at farmers' markets and share his purchases with us. This past weekend he brought over the best-tasting strawberries I've ever had, and I don't even like strawberries! Steve likes animals, and is often seen interacting with some of the outdoor cats that live in our cul de sac. His favorite is Pumpkin Head, who likes to sit in our driveway for some odd reason. I think he wishes he had a cat of his own.

Both of my parents were raised in Ghana. In school they learned multiple languages such as French, English, and other native Ghanaian languages. While the official language is English, there are hundreds of native dialects that the people speak and pass on to their children. Many of the words and sounds can change depending on the region. Some of them I know only by name, but the two my family speaks are called Twi and Fanti. I actually know more Fanti than Twi, but the two sound so similar that it is easy to understand what's being said. A few months after I was born, my parents took me to Ghana so we could spend time with my extended family. My sister took a similar trip shortly after she was born as well. We also went to get comfortable with the languages we would hear for the bulk of our lives. Most of my relatives can speak English but prefer not to, so it is helpful to be able to understand what they are saying. The older the relative, the less English spoken. However, I rarely get to practice with my extended family because many of them live far away. When they do visit though, I get to practice my knowledge with people I don't get to see every day. I also speak German semi-fluently, as I've known the language since I was six. This summer I hope to learn sign language. It has always appealed to me that people are able to communicate with their hands and I'd like to try it. My goal is to be able to put together simple sign language sentences by the time school starts. When my siblings and I were little we were fascinated by Spanish. Every chance we got we would practice our "Spanish," which was nothing more than made up sounds that sounded vaguely like the actual language. Sometimes we continued our game in public to make it seem like we knew what we were saying.

The first house I lived in was a sturdy brick town house that was affectionately nicknamed "The Brown Home." It was the last in a long row of houses and sat facing the street in a cozy neighborhood in Fairfax. It had a fenced-in back yard, a yellow front door, and a bay window that I spent hours sitting in front of as a little kid. That window was easily one of my favorite things about the house. It was in the living room at the front of the house and gave me the perfect spot from which to spy on our neighbors or report a visitor. I used to curl up on rainy days with a blanket and a good picture book and watch the drops descend. In the summertime, when it was hotter than I felt like enduring, I would lay down in the full range of the sun and soaked up its rays from inside. The window was also the perfect front-row seat for thunderstorms. The booms of the thunder would shake the window panes slightly and the lightning seemed brighter than ever when I looked through the glass. The house itself had three bedrooms, three-and-a-half bathrooms, and a finished basement where many a birthday party was held. The basement had an office with another little room inside it where my dad hung a punching bag. My brother and sister and I didn't use the bag for hitting; it was a much better swing than punching bag. On the wall at the bottom of the basement stairs was usually a forgotten couch cushion left from our latest stair sledding adventures. Behind it was usually a new scratch in the paint made by our sleds. One side of the main basement room was home to my dad's workout equipment. It was also where my brother dropped a thirty pound weight on my foot. The kitchen housed a hanging TV, the sliding door to the backyard, and our oven Kelly. Kelly was short, mustard yellow, and easily the prettiest oven I've seen to date. I'm not entirely sure where the name Kelly came from or why our oven was named in the first place, but I never complained. I loved Kelly like a pet. It nearly broke my heart when she stopped working and we had to throw her away.

On my birthday, exactly one year after I was born, a black lab soon to be named Troy was born. Troy was my next-door neighbors' dog, but he was so sweet that everyone thought of him as the neighborhood dog. Everybody knew Troy. Little kids barely out of diapers, parents, and even the elderly stopped what they were doing to greet the temperate pup if they met him on the sidewalk. Never in all my years of living in that neighborhood did I hear Troy growl. I don't even think I ever heard him bark! Everything Troy did, you couldn't help but fall in love with him even more. Although everyone in the neighborhood loved Troy, it wasn't always that way. Each child in the neighborhood had been afraid of Troy at some point or another in their lives. This fear usually started at a very young age and caused the children so stay far away from Troy. At some point, these children decided that enough is enough. They gathered their courage, walked right up to Troy the next time he was out for a walk, and pet him. After the initial pet, these children realized that Troy, despite his size, was no more harmless than a butterfly. Troy loved the attention he received from his neighbors and was always up for a tummy rub. I felt extremely privileged to be his next-door neighbor and frequently told my friends about this honor. Having the same birthday as Troy made me feel special as well, and I often referred to Troy as my little brother. Troy was so calm and trustworthy that he could roam the sidewalks and the playground without his owners worrying about the trouble he might get into. The kids of the neighborhood thought of Troy as a sort of protector, someone who was always there to make sure we were safe. He was very good at his job, too. If someone were to get hurt on the playground, Troy would walk them (or carry them, if they were light enough) home so they could be taken care of. Then he would make his way back to the rest of the children to continue his watch. When I heard of Troy's passing a few years ago, I was extremely upset. Although I would never see him again, I am glad we kept in touch with his owners and were able to keep Troy's memory alive.

It seems like every time my family takes a trip, I get lost. Whether it's on purpose or by chance I have no idea, but it happens and it happens a lot. I've gone missing at the store, on the beach, and even in amusement parks. If you can name it, I've been lost there. It was 2006. My family and I had taken a summer trip to Disney World as a last hurrah before school started. It was the end of the day and the park was getting ready to close. In order to go back to the house where we were staying, we had to ride the trolley to the guest parking lot. Using the buddy system so nobody would get lost, we made our way to the exit. The walkways leading to the trolleys were scattered with various signs for upcoming movies, attractions, and other advertisements. As a child who made a point not to overlook anything, I felt the need to examine each ad in detail. At first it didn't make a difference how quickly or slowly I scanned the pictures, but as we neared the gates the crowd became thinner as people filled the trolleys and rode out to their cars. Noticing a particularly shiny ad, I let go of my cousin's hand and stepped closer to read it. After about five minutes I turned to rejoin my buddy, only to find that I couldn't see her. In fact, I didn't see anyone I knew. It was then that I realized that I was in deep trouble. Since this was before I had a cell phone, I couldn't call my parents to tell them where I was. In the back of my mind I knew I should stay where I was so that my family could retrace their steps and come find me, but instead I made my way towards the exit. To exit the park, everyone had to wait in line and leave through turnstiles. As I approached the lines, I heard shouts. It was my family! I ran to them and was immediately bombarded with questions. While the whole ordeal was pretty scary back then, it has become a running joke to not let me wander off by myself on any family trips.

When I get older, I want to live in a house that is, before anything else, affordable. I don't want to have to worry that I won't be able to pay my mortgage bills in time. If I were to focus too much on how much I owed I know I would end up resenting the house even though it was my decision to purchase it. My future house won't be so big that I get lost trying to find the bathroom, but it won't be so small that I can never have more than a few people over at a time. I'd like it to be brick with lots of bay windows so I can sit and read while looking out at the scenery. I want to live in a nice neighborhood with lots of families so I never get bored. I don't want my neighbors to be more than fifteen years older than me so I can feel comfortable spending time with them. I hope my neighbors are friendly and welcoming, and fun to be around. My neighbors will be the kind of people to hike a mountain on a Tuesday morning in October just because. They'll be the kind of people you can invite over and not have to worry about keeping them entertained. I want my house to be clean, and classy, but I also want it to look lived-in. Houses that are decorated to look like museums are no fun to be in. There will be a color scheme in each room and furniture to match. I won't hire a maid or butler because I want to be able to say that I worked hard to make my house look the way I want. My house will have a large salt water pool in the backyard and enough space for a small-sided game of soccer every once in a while. I also want two gardens, fruits and vegetables in the back, and flowers in the front. I'll plant strawberries, carrots, blueberries, raspberries, and pear trees. I want a front porch with a swing so I can relax on hot summer days with a tall glass of lemonade. I'll also build a fire pit in the backyard so I can host bonfires and roast marshmallows. I'll even build a deck so I can be safe from bugs when the weather gets humid.

When I was younger, my mom told me stories she had learned while she was growing up. Most of them had lessons to be learned. My favorites had animals as the main characters. She often told us tales of Anansi the spider, a cunning trickster who repeatedly got himself into trouble and learned his lesson the hard way. One of the stories was called Anansi and the Pot of Beans. In this story, Anansi went to one of his relatives' houses for a party. He hadn't eaten all day and arrived so hungry he believed he could eat a horse. After walking inside, Anansi smelled something delicious. It seemed to be coming from the kitchen! He made his way through the house as fast as he could, not even stopping to greet the other party guests. When he reached the kitchen he took a big sniff. His nose led him to a giant pot of beans cooking on the stove. Anansi reached for a spoon, dipped it in the pot, and was about to taste it when a voice told him to put the spoon down and wait for the food to be finished. Anansi waited until the person was gone, removed his hat, and filled it with the delicious beans before anyone could stop him. He then ran from the house, clutching his prize. As he reached the yard, he put his hat on his head. Big mistake. The hot beans burned his scalp and sizzled his hair right off! This story and others like it were told to my siblings and me to teach us about moral values and right from wrong. There are even songs to go with the stories that I get stuck in my head sometimes. I appreciate these stories because they taught me the right way to do things in a way I could understand, even at a very young age.