I was eight, just a third grader. It was June 2016. I had my mind full, because the Copa America Centenario was happening, and my team, Argentina, was doing well, and had a good chance of making it to the final. When I got home one afternoon, my dad said, “We’re going to the Copa America final at Metlife! I have tickets!” I couldn’t believe my ears. I could be watching Argentina play in the final, live! That weekend, I watched Argentina vs. U.S.A. – the semi-final – with anticipation. After ninety minutes of waiting, I knew I was going to see my favorite international soccer team play, with my favorite player: Lionel Messi! The next week was the longest week I could remember. I went from counting the days, to hours, to minutes. Finally, the big night arrived! As we arrived at the Metlife Stadium, I heard the announcer talking about how you should drink Pepsi, and how they sponsored the game. I stepped into the stadium. Many smells filled my nostrils: hot dogs, burgers, chicken and so many other things. But I didn’t want any of it. I was too nervous to eat. I looked around. The stadium was huge! Each floor was packed with vendors that were selling all of these delicious things, and hundreds of people trying to find their seats. All of the Argentinian and Chilean fans were chanting in Spanish, the Argentinians in blue, the Chileans in red. Even though I couldn’t understand what they were saying, I could feel the strength in their singing, the passion. I was one of those fans. A few years before, my dad’s friend from work had given me my first Argentina shirt, with Messi’s name on the back. When I got that shirt, I didn’t know who Messi really was, but since that day, I had followed his career and watched Argentina play many times. Now Messi was my idol, and Argentina was my team. I had to pinch myself to believe that I was actually going to see him play in less than an hour! After a completely excruciating 40 minutes of waiting, while the two teams warmed up and my nerves took over, the game began. The first 10 minutes of the game were very even and then Argentina took control of the ball and I started to relax. I was about to ask my dad for something to eat, when an Argentinian, Marcos Rojo, fouled a Chilean player and got a red card! My heart sank. How could Argentina win the final when they had one less player than Chile? That thought got stuck in my head until a Chilean player also got a red card, and the teams were even once again. The rest of the first half went by with little action and so did the second half. Because the score was still 0-0, and the teams couldn’t share the trophy, they played another 30 minutes of soccer. For the first time that day, that week, the reality dawned on me that Argentina might not win, but I pushed that thought away. I believed too much in this team for them to let me down. I sat on the edge of my seat until extra time was over. There was still no score. It was down to a penalty shootout. Messi was going to take the first penalty for Argentina, but it was Chile’s turn first. Everyone in the crowd in front of me was standing up, blocking my view, so I had to listen to the crowd to know whether or not the Chilean player had scored. Penalty shootouts are usually a 50-50 battle, so there was no way of knowing who would win. Suddenly, a roar from the Chilean fans filled the stadium. He had scored. A sinking feeling tried to penetrate my confidence, but I wouldn’t let it. I had believed in this team for too long for them to let me down now. Then it was Argentina’s turn. “Piece of cake,” I muttered to myself, as Messi got ready to take the penalty. The whole crowd became silent, just like they were holding their breath. Out of nowhere, everyone gasped, and I saw the best player in the world bury his face in his hands and walk away to his team. He had missed! Tears started to pool in my eyes. He was the player that I’d wanted to see play more than anyone. And he’d let me down. I didn’t even care if Argentina won anymore. “He missed,” my dad said breathlessly. “I … I know,” I stuttered back. My dad and I stood and watched as Chile won the penalty shootout and the tournament. My eyes became two faucets, and poured and poured. I got up from the slippery plastic seat and cried, “I don’t want to see them lift it!” (the trophy). “Okay, okay. We’ll go then,” said my dad. The train ride went by very quickly because I slept like a baby. It was, after all, 1:00am. As we pulled into Penn Station, my eyes popped open, and I was removed from dreamland. After the taxi ride home, just as my dad and I walked into the apartment my mom said,“I’m sorry.” I felt like throwing my Copa America scarf against the wall and storming into my room. I felt like giving up on Messi and Argentina for good. I wanted to do so many things because of the way I was feeling. But I didn’t do any of them. Instead, I walked over to my mom and gave her a hug… As I lay my head on my pillow, I thought about what had happened at the Metlife Stadium. Messi was probably feeling way worse than I was. I thought of all the amazing goals I had seen him score before on TV. I couldn’t stop liking him because of one bad penalty. I knew I’d be cheering for Argentina again the
personal narrative
Writing My Own Path
By Sabrina Guo, 12 Writing My Own Path As a child, I loved the smell of libraries. I would flip through the pages of any book, and take a good, long sniff. My favorite scent was sweet–a bit of lemon and coffee, mixed with paper, of course. However, other books had a bitter smell and were covered with all kinds of food stains, which I hated because it reminded me of how books were sometimes treated just as paper and nothing more. I thought of each book as a life–a key to a specific person’s brain. At the same time, I hated books. I respected them and liked their smells, yes, but I absolutely loathed words. Every time I tried to read something as minor as a news headline, words would swarm around me like taunting wasps. While other kids talked about their new favorite books, I was the wallflower, standing away from the crowd and nibbling slowly on my sandwich. A memory: when I was five, I learned that To Kill a Mockingbird was a book loved all around the world. I decided to read it–after all, if there were so many positive reviews, how could I not love it? In addition, I was determined to open myself up and conquer my fear of words. I asked my father to check it out at the library. When he walked through our door with it, I was giddy with excitement. I flipped through it, smelling it like a perfume tester. It was unique and unlike any other book I’d smelled before–like moss drenched in rain, bittersweet and mature. Greedily, I started reading the first page. But almost immediately, dark words started to choke the air around me. The enlarged first letter pounced on top of me, and the rest of the words quickly followed, swimming around me. I tried to push my fears away, telling myself I wasn’t going to be engulfed this time. My fear of reading was going to end right there, right then, that second, with that very book. But because of its advanced language, I had no idea what was happening in the story. It was boring and tiring… and I was only halfway down the first page. I exhaled, telling myself there would be a next time. Then I slammed the book shut in frustration. Although I had a complicated relationship with books, I did love writing song lyrics. After school, I would transform my tangled thoughts into strings of words, which I wrote down in a tiny notebook about the size of my hand. Little did I know that these song lyrics were actually poems; later I would take a risk and reshape my lyrics into a more literary form. And that was how I took my first step into writing. From there, I decided to experiment with reading again. I borrowed many types of library books, but it was fantasy that finally hooked me. Fantasy made me feel like I was soaring above moonlit clouds, plucking shimmering stars from the sky and collecting them inside of my heart. These stories gave me an amazing sense of freedom, adventure, and suspense. And after a while, my interests expanded to other genres; I even started to read some news articles, which had intimidated me so much before. My father and I like to watch the news together, and last year, as coverage of the refugee crisis increased, he encouraged me to dig deeper into the topic. It can sometimes sound like it’s a simple, fast process to immigrate to the United States; but as I read up on the issue, I discovered that it’s far from easy or quick. It can actually take up to several years to go through all the necessary steps! Even after reaching the U.S., refugees can still face economic and emotional difficulties, along with discrimination. After learning all of this, I decided to write a blog about it, as I am a blogger and contributing writer to the children’s magazine, Stone Soup. I was also inspired to write a poem addressed to refugee children, welcoming them to their new home in the United States. I tried to explain some of things that they might encounter in their new country, from academic pressures to peer pressure. Writing the poem enabled me to think more deeply about what a refugee child might experience after leaving their home country. It challenged me to think outside of my own life and circumstances, and this poem was one of the first works I’d written truly from my heart. Around that time, William Rubel, the founder of Stone Soup, mentioned in his weekly newsletter that he hoped to create a platform to showcase refugee children’s art and writing. Due to my interest in the refugee crisis, I immediately volunteered to help. He suggested that I begin researching organizations, photographers, and artists who were working with refugee children. Through doing this, I found many amazing organizations. One in particular, Another Kind of Girl Collective (AKGC), really struck me. This organization, founded by Laura Doggett, holds photography and film workshops for Syrian refugee girls living in Jordan. AKGC aims to give refugee girls the deeply necessary space, training, and equipment to develop their preferred art forms, along with providing them a platform to share their own stories and experiences. The girls prove themselves not to be passive and tragic beings, which is sometimes how the media portrays them, but rather hardworking, creative, smart, and motivated visionaries. Because of how much I admired Laura’s work, I reached out to her through email, asking if I could interview her. I had doubts about whether she would respond. After all, I was just a twelve-year-old girl, and she was surely busy with her extremely important work. So you can imagine my elation when I did hear back from her! She told me she would be happy to give me an interview. She was heading to Jordan and even invited me
The Count Down Round
I fingered my pencil nervously as I stared ahead at the big screen. A new question appeared. This was it. After this question, it would be my turn. I was terrified and excited at the same time. I have been looking forward to my turn for a long time but as it got closer, I became nervous. I was at the Mathcounts chapter competition and this was the countdown round. In the countdown round, a math problem is projected onto a screen for two kids to solve. The one who figures it out the fastest presses a buzzer. After three questions, the kid who answered more questions correctly goes on to the next round and the other one leaves. It is very intense, since there are only forty five seconds to solve each problem. MathCounts is a math competition with different parts. First, there are two individual rounds where your score and ranking come from. That determines whether or not you get an award at the end. Then there is a more fun round where you get to work with a team. Finally, there is the countdown round. Only one person represents their school during the countdown round. The countdown round doesn’t actually affect your score, it is just for fun. But in my opinion, it is still the scariest out of all the rounds. I didn’t have to do the countdown round. I chose to do it because I enjoy it. But as my turn came closer, I got more nervous and I almost regretted the decision to do it. The countdown round takes place right before the awards, so everyone’s mind is on the awards. We’ve all worked hard for this and we all want the award, but there’s only so many to give out. My parents say that it doesn’t matter what I get. That even if I do badly, I still learned a lot from preparing. That what matters is the journey, not the destination. But still, it would feel good to get an award after practicing for this so much. Everyone is there in the award room waiting, watching from the long rows of seats spiraling upwards in the huge room, as the kids down below, answer the questions. Sitting there in the front you can feel everyone’s eyes on you as you rush to solve the problem. I heard applause. This round was over. As they called my name, I walked to the front of the room and sat down in one of the two chairs for the participants. I smiled at my friend as she sat down in the other chair. My friend and I were both representing our schools in the countdown round. We were both hoping that we wouldn’t have to go against each other, but the people in charge didn’t know that. I held the buzzer in my left hand and my pencil in my right hand, ready for the question. The first problem was an equation where they wanted the smallest value of x. I started thinking, going through the options. I was pretty sure that the answer was two but not sure enough to buzz in. Then, my friend buzzed in. “Four,” she said. The moderator said that it was wrong. Then I buzzed in and said “Two.” They announced that two was correct. Then, the next question appeared on the screen. I did the problem and answered correctly. The round was over. I shook hands with my friend and then I went back to my seat to wait for my next turn. Next, there were two more people. The winner would go against me next. Did I stand a chance? I knew the girl in that round. I knew that she is very good in math and very fast. I wondered what the boy was like? The first question appeared on the screen. The moderator began to read it aloud. He’d barely begun when the boy buzzed in. I didn’t even know what the question was. I hadn’t finished reading it. “That is correct.” the moderator said. The same thing happened with the second question and the round was over. How can anyone be so fast? I knew that I didn’t stand a chance against this boy. Still, part of me was hoping that I could answer at least one of the questions. When it was my turn, I went down the stairs to the seats. The first question appeared on the screen. This one was an equation that I had to solve. I started to write it down and solve it but then the boy pressed his buzzer. He was correct. I tried again for the second question but I wasn’t fast enough. I lost at the countdown round but I didn’t really mind. It was fun anyway. As scary as it was, I enjoyed it. The same things that make it scary, the short amount of time to solve each problem and the huge room of people watching you, also make it exciting, an adventure. I would never choose not do it. Even though the competition was only a couple of weeks ago, I am already looking forward to next year’s countdown round.
