Parthi+Dasondi

First Grade Blues Parthi Dasondi “Parthi, you get your butt on that bus right now!” my mother growled. “But it smells bad!” I groaned. My mom literally yanked my shirt, pulled me down the stairs, and pushed me out the door. I sat on the squeaky, ugly chair with a thud. But, then again, I was excited for another day of first grade. The frown on my face was replaced with a million dollar smile, and butterflies danced around in my stomach. Beaming, I stepped off the bus. I remember that the wrinkly old whoopee cushion, or my so called “bus driver”, was shaking her head at me and whispering, “Oh, you poor bipolar child.” Ugh. I wish I had my seventh grade brain back then, so I could have given her a piece of my mind. Walking down the sidewalk, I tried to stay with all the midget second graders, so I would blend in. Those big, bad fifth graders scared the living daylights out of me. They towered over me like the Empire State Building towered over an ant. Their eyes poured into my soul, tearing my insides apart. OK. So they weren’t soul-sucking leeches, but they were almost just as bad. Running into the building, I breathed in the fresh “school” smell. I know, what the heck was I thinking? My eyes scanned the area, until they landed on the trophies, our most prized possession. Polished until you could see their refection, the trophies were like gifts from heaven. A golden aura surrounded the encased shelf. My little dinosaur arm reached out, mesmerized, desperate to touch them. Breaking my trance, a wrinkly prune screeched, “NO TOUCHING!” loud enough to be heard all the way to Antarctica. I gave her a dirty look and sauntered off in the wrong direction. She smirked at me as I made my way in the right direction. You see, as a first grader, I didn’t realize that the school had rules. So, being the kid I was, I called her a demented potato, and raced down the hall. Slightly sweaty, I walked into my classroom and proudly hung my Dora backpack on my own personal little hook, and sat down in my too-small chair. So many midgets in my class had the most hilarious names I had ever heard, but no one would dare laugh at me. I had that kind of reputation in first grade. I remember thinking about that, a smug, satisfied smile dancing across my face. Just then, some jerk came up behind me and said, “Move, Poopy. This is MY SEAT.” I felt my fingers curl into little fists as I said, “It’s not nice to call people names.” “I said, MOVE POOPY!” the little dweeb screamed. Alright, this kid was getting on my nerves. Gathering my pencils, I moved to a different table. Little did I know that this was not the last of the little twerp. The rest of the morning went by in a blur. Finally, it was time to satisfy my stomach. My teacher made us march in single file, like little toy soldiers, to the cafeteria. We had to stop at a corner to let another class pass. Behind me, an ugly little booger screeched, “POOPY, is that your name?” “NO! It’s Parthi,” I growled, turning around, only to find the kid from earlier that morning. The Indiana Jones theme song started to play in my head, as I glared at him. “POOPY, POOPY, POOPY!” screeched the little bloodsucker. Okay, now I had totally lost it. I was prone to taking my anger out on other people. Rage welled up inside of me, like a wildfire out of control. It spread through me, and lit up every bone in my body, as I swung my lunchbox, full force, at the kid’s face. For a second he just stood there. Then, he started to scream nonstop. //Uh oh//, I thought, //this could NOT be good.// My teacher turned around to see what was causing all the chaos, and her eyes popped out of her head when she saw the kid screaming. I didn’t know what to do, so I tried playing it cool, pretending that nothing ever happened. Calmly, she tried to soothe him, but that only made him scream louder. Between tears, he managed to get out, “She….hit…me…with…her….lunchbox.” before he started wailing again. I closed my eyes, ready to hear the teacher scream at me. “PARTHI, GO TO THE OFFICE NOW, YOUNG LADY!” barked the teacher. I hurried down the hall, running away from any further humiliation. As soon as I entered the office, my palms started to sweat, and my heart beat 500 times faster than normal. The secretary looked at me and told me to sit down. //Could she read my mind?// //Did the teacher mind message her or something?// All of my bravado slipped away, and I was shaking like crazy. The office was definitely not a cozy place. Green and gold paint was slathered all over the walls, and papers were flying everywhere. I didn’t have the nerve to speak, or breathe. The secretary led me into the lion’s den, or the principal’s office. Fear crawled through every inch of me. Before he could say anything, I burst into tears. “Parthi, relax. Don’t cry. Tell me what happened.” the principal cooed. I told him my story, and made sure to make the other kid look really bad. Nothing could cover up the damage that I had done. “Well, I’m afraid I have to give you three days detention.” He said. <span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic',sans-serif; font-size: 13pt;">“Ok.” I replied. I thought it went well, but then the fear came back all at once. My parents. The school was definitely going to call my parents. And they, they would NOT give me only three days of detention as a punishment. <span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic',sans-serif; font-size: 13pt;">I didn’t pay attention the rest of the day. A sour feeling filled my stomach as I walked up the steps to my house. Just as I had thought, my mother was waiting for me on the stairs, wearing a disappointed look. “How was school?” she inquired. <span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic',sans-serif; font-size: 13pt;">“Oh, you know, the usual.” I grimaced under her eagle eyes. <span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic',sans-serif; font-size: 13pt;">“Huh, so nothing happened?” she pressed. <span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic',sans-serif; font-size: 13pt;">“Okay, okay, I hit the kid,” I admitted. <span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic',sans-serif; font-size: 13pt;">“Why?! Why would you do that? Your father and I expect so much more from you.” She sighed. After that, she gave me the whole don’t-ever-do-that-again speech. She yelled and screamed, and spanked me. Just to satisfy her, I said, “Okay, Mom. I won’t do it again. I learned my lesson.” <span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic',sans-serif; font-size: 13pt;">What I was really thinking was, //Well, I ALMOST learned my lesson.// <span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic',sans-serif; font-size: 13pt;">AUTHOR’S NOTE: <span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic',sans-serif; font-size: 13pt;">Writing wasn’t my favorite topic. I always thought of myself as an okay writer, not terrific or talented, although my teachers always told me that. In elementary school, I used to get in trouble a lot. Believe me, it came with terrible consequences. Getting in trouble wasn’t easy. I wasn’t scared of the principal, but I was scared of my parents. Even though I would have been an extremely good child without all the times I got detention, I wouldn’t want to go back and change it for anything. My mistakes have made me who I am today, and I am so grateful for that. Learning from my mistakes has always been a key rule for me. My inspiration for this memoir is my friends. They all know how it feels to get it trouble. I just wanted to let them know that even though we all have made mistakes in the past, your mistakes make you. We’re wild, we’re free, and you can call us freaks, but that’s just the way we roll. **<span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic',sans-serif; font-size: 13pt;">PSA ** <span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic',sans-serif; font-size: 13pt;"> Suicide. The answer to your problems. Suicide. The answer to your pain. Suicide. I can finally get away. I can finally be alone. Right? This is what suicide is, right? No. Suicide is the process of killing yourself. Suicide is the lousy answer to most depressed teens’. Suicide is what leaves most of the world depressed. <span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic',sans-serif; font-size: 13pt;"> In the United States, almost 80 people kill themselves every day. That’s 80 less people attending the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade. That’s 80 less presidential votes. In one year, 32,000 people die each year because of suicide. Why? Why is suicide the only answer? Why is ending your life the answer? Worldwide, more people die of suicide, than homicide, war, and accidents combined. Did you know that suicide is the leading cause of death in college students? It is the third leading cause of death of people in the age group of 15-24. I still remember the day when one of my friends approached me and started to tell me all of the things they hate about themselves. He told me he would be forever alone, and how he would love to enter “sweet, blissful death.” He could have been joking, but I didn’t care. I’m going to change his mind. I’m not giving up. We can prevent suicide. We can take a stand. Tell someone they’re beautiful, talk to someone, a simple “hi” can change their lives. You never know. Change their mind, show them what life has to offer. <span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic',sans-serif; font-size: 13pt;"> Pain? It will end. Problems? You can face them. In the end, you’re still beautiful. You will still be the same person. Just think, you can prevent suicide. Being bullied at school? You want to end your life? You think no one cares? Think again. Who raised you? Who stuck by your side? Family. Friends. They care. So suicide is still the answer? No. Ending your life is not worth it. Don’t you want to grow up and live your life? Fall in love? Get married? Go scuba-diving? Have kids? Go to college? Have a job? Be independent? Suicide is never the answer. In fact, suicide is not an answer. Suicide is an excuse. An excuse to run away. Don’t run away. Chase behind it. Suicide is preventable. Talk to a psychiatrist, turn to someone for help. We can stop this. And we definitely, definitely will.