Graf #2 -Worst Teacher
Let me start of by saying that I was not academically a good student, but my attendance was perfect, and I was willing to learn. I’ll never forget my 5th grade math teacher Ms King. Everyone said she was mean, and well, she was unless you were a brownnoser or was lucky enough to stay under her radar. I’m not one to brown nose, or was I lucky, so it seemed like me and my friend always got made examples made of us. Whether we asked a question out of turn, or some thing minor (we thought) we would get in trouble. She had a bad attitude, and honestly I think she truly disliked her job. There was one time she asked my friend David to stay after class to discuss something that he did that she did not like. During the discussion, it started to get a little heated, and David said “I’ll call my dad and he will come here and…” Then she slapped him right in the face! After that I lost what little respect that I had for her. I can’t seem to remember anything that happened for the rest of that school year. Maybe I simply blocked it out of my mind, but it’s probably better of that way. Luckily I had a handful of good teachers after her to show my what a really good teacher is , and learn from faculty that really love and enjoy what they do.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
graf #1 hands
Graf #1 Hands
My hands I guess can say a lot… it’s quite obvious by the scars, recent wounds and bruises that they bring home the bread for my family. I’m an automotive technician. It is quite apparent that my hands take a beating using tools of the trade to diagnose and repair vehicles. On the infrequent occasion that my wrench slips, or my hammer misses the chisel that I’m holding, I most likely will shed some blood. The scar that will permanently remain will serve as a reminder to be more careful next time. It’s a rewarding experience for me (however brief it may be) to know that I fixed something. My hands tightened what was loose…my hands replaced that worn component…my hands signed the inspection sticker…MY HANDS.
There are some things that my hands can’t say though. My hands can not tell you that they hug my wife and four children every night; they can’t tell you that they have served in the U.S. Army. These hands can not tell you how long the man attached to them has worked to finally earn his degree. After only three more classes, these hands will proudly accept a degree. Oh how sweet the day that these hands will hold that document. These hands can’t wait.
My hands I guess can say a lot… it’s quite obvious by the scars, recent wounds and bruises that they bring home the bread for my family. I’m an automotive technician. It is quite apparent that my hands take a beating using tools of the trade to diagnose and repair vehicles. On the infrequent occasion that my wrench slips, or my hammer misses the chisel that I’m holding, I most likely will shed some blood. The scar that will permanently remain will serve as a reminder to be more careful next time. It’s a rewarding experience for me (however brief it may be) to know that I fixed something. My hands tightened what was loose…my hands replaced that worn component…my hands signed the inspection sticker…MY HANDS.
There are some things that my hands can’t say though. My hands can not tell you that they hug my wife and four children every night; they can’t tell you that they have served in the U.S. Army. These hands can not tell you how long the man attached to them has worked to finally earn his degree. After only three more classes, these hands will proudly accept a degree. Oh how sweet the day that these hands will hold that document. These hands can’t wait.
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