Summer Vacation Essay Example for Free

Summer Vacation EssayThe summer i had was dire. I did so many different things. I went to camp, went to USA, and went to the land. I had so much free rein. I meet hope next summer is as exciting as this unmatched. First of all I went to my camp with tons of my friends. (name of camp) was so much cheer I played out money on ______ and me and my friends did so much different things. The only problem is that i had to wake up early. That was a bummer. Secondly i went to USA. I woke up early, and took a long bus ride. That wasnt that fun. But i went to very nice places. (list a couple places and explain part of it) Last, i went to the beach with my family.I got a great tan I love just sitting in the sand and soaking up the sun. I relaxed and it was really fun spending it with my family. I went swimming too. Of course its not as fun if i didnt go swimming, the water was so refreshing. In conclusion, my summer was so amazing and im really excited for next summer. The infamous Wh at I did on my Summer Vacation Essay, Im not sure I was forever assigned that one. Suddenly I see my egotism in Junior English. I was 16, flat chested, boyfriendless, wanting desperately to have the whole fitting popular judgement behind me.And it almost was, solely only almost because there I was sitting in my name brand jeans thought I probably spent all my birth sidereal day money on. I am also pretty sure that I woke up at least an hour before domesticate started to get my hair just right. I am still clueless with what to do with makeup save that never stopped me then. I wish I had had enough sense to throw on those old comfy jeans. The ones with the holes in them ( not on purpose), a soft t-shirt and pulled my hair into a ponytail scarcely that wardrobe would have to wait until college. But back to my 16 year old self, English was just a class.not one I curiously looked forward to either. If anyone had asked my favorite subject I never would have express English. I d subs cribe toed the essays and sentence diagramming. I did look forward to the reading lists, although , I tried not to appear too eager. I complained as much as the rest as the class, just at home I read them. Cover to cover. Usually well before the deadline. I hated homework of read chapters one and two. I read books, like I later well-educated to drink beer. Fast until I finished. I couldnt stop at the end of chapter two. I needed to know what happened like I needed another(prenominal) drink.And I liked the excuse to read, at this stage I of felt like I needed one. Reading was kind of cool for a while. Me and ramona Quimby were the best of friends in elementary school. I also went through a slightly embarrassing Babysitters Club phase, only when am pleased to report that the sweet-smelling Vally High Twins and I never clicked. Sometime in junior high those books seemed babyish, and replaced with talking on the phone, listening to unison ( really bad music I might add) and learnin g how to French kiss. So when we got our reading lists every year I dug in. So, back to the first week of English III.You already have most of the background, nevertheless what you dont know is that I was much than a bit guarded. I didnt like letting commonwealth in. Really in. Being vulnerable wasnt exactly effective in my family and well not that safe for anyone in high school period. That being said I would have killed for our first writing assignment to be what I did on my summer vacation. Surely I would have written something ridiculous or satirical. I doubt I would have truly written about our beach vacation where more than likely my parents screamed at each other, I got 3rd degree burns and most of my family got drunk and passed out.Possibly even me. I cant remember that summer in particular but they were all pretty much the same. Not to say there werent any cordially memories from those summer beach retreats. Surprisingly there are many, but at 16 you kind of gravitate towards the bad stuff. The melancholy teenager hanging on to anything to give her a thick wall to build around herself. Yes, I would have written something light and clever and given it a really zingy title. I was well known for my zingy titles. Instead Mrs. Lampo asked us to write not one silly essay but a collection of private personal ones.I believe it was called a me book. I cringed as she depict the assignment. Now, as a teacher I can see what she was trying to do. She precious to get to know us. Who we were, what we liked, how we wrote, how to reach us. The problem was, I was 16 and she was one of them. A grown up. A teacher. A mom of a kid in our class. She was not to be trusted. How could I write all these essays on who I was, my strongest influences, the things I was most proud of etc.. Maybe later in the year. Maybe by April or something when we had a chance to feel each other out. Not now.Not the first week. I can picture her clearly. She was about my moms age. Short, with short dark hair. She was always very smartly dressed, much more stylish than my mom and with her toes perfectly pedicured. She always seemed a bit shifty to me. She had this large mole on her face that I couldnt help but stare at as she lectured. It was about the size of a dime and I swear it got bigger as the year went on. It has made me really self councious about my own mole. I keep count oning about having it removed all because of the time I spent making fun of hers in the eleventh grade.She was probably a pretty good teacher, although she made me uneasy. Usually good teachers fall into one of two categories cold, hard and feared, but eventually that fear turns into reward and the cold starts to warm. This would be Mrs. Holmes my 6th grades science teacher and first F I ever received on a test. Next would be the warm and encouraging type. You learned so much simply because you wanted to please them. This would be my 10th grade English teacher, Mrs. Prejean who introduced me to Anne Sexton on the first day ( no damn summer vacation essays from her either).I wouldnt have memorized that ridiculously long Friends, Romans, Countrymen speech for anyone else. Mrs. Lampo didnt quite fit into either category. I suppose she was hard, but not especially challenging. I didnt warm to her, nor did I truly respect her. I did, however, like to argue with her. This was her fault of course. She introduced our poesy unit with this long flowery speech about how no opinion or interpretation of a poem could be wrong. There were no tedious questions or bad observations. Once again, as a fellow educator I can see what she was trying to do.She wanted to create a safe atmosphere for us to speak up and discuss. The only problem with that was she announced to my class that my observation was dead wrong only 15 minutes afterwards her flowery speach. I didnt burn with shame, sort of I took it as a challenge. Maybe this challenge was just what I needed to motivate me to rise myself to her academically or maybe all it motivated me to do was toilet paper her house and leave an egg in her mailbox with a sour note about Thoreau. Back to my first week assignmentThese personal essays had a cold fearful grip on me.Usually my writing treat involved mulling the topic over for a bit and then pouring it all out on paper the day or so ( or occasionally the period) before it was due. I didnt proofread or spellcheck. I finished them in a flurry and handed them in. I think I was afraid if I gave them a proper reading I would be too embarrassed to even have them graded. My spelling was not something to be envied. I never quite got a great grasp on grammar either. To this day I couldnt tell you what a gerrand is. I somehow managed to get As, although my paper were usually heavily marked with red..These essays were different. I was supposed to reveal something about myself. To her. To someone who could be my motherand that would be the last person I wanted to be ungua rded around. Sometimes I still feel that way. I briefly just considered making it all up. Some fictional crap that would contact her little assignment and still get me a good grade. It might even be fun, making things the way I wanted them to be instead of how they were. I also considered doing what I usually ( yes still) do when I am a bit uncomfortable and guardedbeing funny.Writing decent essays, but not digging in. Keeping them on the surface and full of satire. The struggle was I couldnt do either. It felt like I would be cheapening it somehow. I didnt trust this Mrs. Lampo or her mole. It was still too early to tell if she would earn my respect, but I realized the writing already had. That it didnt just get to scratch the surface or be passed off as a joke. That it was bigger than my fear. So I did it. I wrote about my fears and my hopes and my proudest moments. I impersonate it all on paper and fearfully turned it in.Who it was this 16 year old girl thought she was. I saved one of those essays. I think it is in my high school box up in my parents attic. I did get an A. I cant remember if it was really any good or not. I didnt sign up to be my high school newspaper editor or go on to pursue a degree in journalism. I didnt spend all my free time writing short stories instead of watching 90210, but it did teach me that this writing stuff was real. It had to be vulnerable, and it was most certainly to be respected, big hairy mole and all.