Mrs. Doll-Personal Narrative

It was 7:05am on a Thursday morning, when I had woken. I lied down in my bed gazing at the ceiling as my obnoxious alarmed screamed at me to get up and prepare for another day of school. I was beyond exhausted. It was November 17th. Thanksgiving break was just around the corner waiting for me to relax and get my mind off the prison we call school.

Today was for real “Click” the door went as I walked into the hall. I was seeing so many faces, excited for the season to start. As excited as we were, the 6th graders looked nervous. And a 5,6,7,8 Waiting for my mom to get home the to go to dance try-outs, so nervous. I was running all around the house to find my dance shoes.

It was a normal day at Kaneland John Shelids, my school. I walked into the school and to class with my two closest friends straight off the bus, normal. "Good Morning, class!" Mrs. Richards, My teacher kindly implies as we walk through the door of the classroom. "Good morning!"

Reading Rosario Ferre's “ The Youngest Doll” states that women were treated like objects in 1970s Puerto Rico. Women have been oppressed and mistreated for the most parts in history that has been observed. The fight is still going on for equality, but back in the 1970s things were different and not the best for women's rights, although they were better than the years before that. In the story, as the reader reads, we are made to sympathize with the youngest as She is forced to sit outside so the doctor could show her off. ‘Each day he made her sit out on the balcony so that passersby would be sure to see that he had married into high society”(Ferre). This shows that a man would show of his woman the same way he would show off his new luxury

I jumped off the bus excited and ready for my first day at McDole Elementary School. I arrived at room 132, and I was greeted by my teacher. "Hi Jenna, I'm Mrs. Bright,"she greeted me. "Hi!" , I replied happily.

It was a cloudy fall day, this particular morning in first grade. The air was cold and wind slowly crept up my back mysteriously. The walk to John Stewart Elementary School was horrible. Yesterday, I had gotten into a fight with my friend, Ava about what she thought I said. To make matters worse, it turned out to be Thursday which meant that I had to walk with Ava to school.

I walk over to Nora 's cozy chair, and sit down. The bottom of the chair has a slight bump, stand back up, and put my hand on the cushion. I feels hard, as if there 's something hiding underneath it. I take a chance and lift up the chair cushion, to see if there is indeed anything hiding under there. In the middle of the frame of the chair. I find something I wasn 't expecting, Nora 's Journal. I gently pick it up and look at it.

I jumped off the bus excited and ready for my first day at McDole Elementry School. I arrived at room 132, and I was greeted by my teacher. "Hi Jenna, I'm Mrs. Bright,"she greeted me. "Hi!" , I replied happily.

Back in the days when everybody was old and inept or youthful and absurd and me and Sugar were the main ones without flaw, this replenish proceeded onward our piece with nappy hair and legitimate discourse and no cosmetics. Furthermore, actually we giggled at her, chuckled the way we did at the garbage man who continued on ahead like he was some hotshot president and his grieved ass horse his secretary. What's more, we kinda despised her as well, detested the way we did the winos who messed up our parks and pissed on our handball dividers and stank up our passages and stairs so you couldn't midway play find the stowaway without a goddamn gas veil. Miss Moore was her name. The main lady on the piece with no first name. Also, she was dark as

Donna, Jenny, and I found a campsite to forage from. We had just ran out of gas so we left the car behind and walked. We found 3 old, rusty trailers(This is sensory detail and coordinating adjective) and a shaded porch! We might’ve just found the strand of hope we needed!

Miss Sadie Miss Sadie no longer sits in her rocking chair on her porch on summer days. But I still can see her. The old chair squeaking with every sway of her big, brown body. Her summer dresses stained from cooking. I smell her sweet smelling kitchen.

It was a frigid, windy morning in the fall and I was on the bus laughing with my friends. "Hey Sophie & Hannah sit with us!" I called out to them. Finally we got to Kaneland John Shields Elementary school, I walked into my 1st grade class.

From the time I was four years old to around eight years old, I visited my great aunt and grandparents who lived in Canada for a week or two each summer. Among the memorable experiences of these short trips are: squealing and smiling as I fed ducks near my grandparents house, staring up at the ceiling of the local swimming pool as I floated on my back through the “lazy river”, turning my head away from the television screen in terror while watching movies that I was without a doubt too young to be watching (Needful Things based off the Stephen King novel being a great example of this), and learning about insects and other creepy, crawly creatures at the local bug zoo. Throughout the yearly visits to this strange version of a zoo, my favorite

I gulped as I stepped down from the bus, it was almost the start of school. I walked up the sidewalk to the school yard, thinking about how many people in my class I would know. We entered the school through an open fence, and walked down a straight area with benches on either side. This passage lead to the main part of the yard. The ground was concrete, and there was many things in the yard such as a basketball court, a small grass area, benches, and much more.

Betty still hasn’t woken up since we got caught dancing in the woods with Tituba. She is still wearing the same long baby blue dress she was wearing last night. Her long, thick brown hair is sprawled all over her pillows. When I touch her skin, it is ice cold. I know she is faking it, but when I shake her and call her name she is unresponsive and still as a statue. Her pale face doesn’t show any signs of waking. Even in the morning, with the sun coming in from the window beating on her face and the birds chirping loudly, she still has not woken. My uncle has rarely left her bedside. I can often hear him loudly praying and sobbing. You can see how distraught he is just by looking at him. His face shows a mixture of sadness and anger. Even when