Tuesday, January 21, 2020
My Town :: essays papers
My Town To give you a better view of "My Town," I will perch him atop the highest point of the some-kind-of-wonderful city of Hillside: The Giza pyramid-shaped pile of garbage majestically sitting in the town dump. The movie theater is to the west; a neon-pink fluorescent sign frames this week's shows: Th' Bach, Scram 3, and y' of Th' Bholdr. Teenage employees relinquish all responsibility for the missing "E"s. A makeshift lemonade stand is set up a block away. Sometimes, its determined entrepreneurs, the set of five-year-old twins, Brooke and Blake Simone like to mix their drink of choice with "extra flavoring," such as leaves, rocks, and the occasionally, yet classic family of ants. Needless to say, the single dime in their yellow Teletubbie cash box has not multiplied since their first day of business. The strip mall to the north has been replaced by Car Max, the automobile superstore. Unfortunately, the abundance of cars has not, in fact, improved anyone's driving skills, or lack of them. Further west is Proviso West High School; the peeling, forest-green painted fence that protects the school grounds failed to prevent kleptomaniacs from stealing seven car stereos from the parking lot last December. The football field behind the school patiently waits with its freshly mowed green splendor for the team of big, burly boys (and one girl) to actually win a game. At 5:30 AM, a shivering Student Council vice-president with the intent to do extra work trudges the perimeter of the edifice, praying for an open door to a building that doesn't like to be occupied outside of the normal school hours. Psychologically, two opposing beliefs surface for why I dream of dancing sugarplums and college diplomas rather than a pin on my Dairy Queen hat that reads "Employee of the Month." A child is either influenced by his surroundings and peers or repelled into the opposite direction. As a magnet gone a rye, I am thankful that Hillside has not influenced me to blend in with the crowd; neither the cemetery across the street from school nor the various monument and flower shops entice me to- pardon my morbidity- just drop dead. The strategically located bowling alley down the block does not tempt me to ditch school. Certainly, the smell of the garbage dump has turned me off to the wide-eyed world of garbage disposal and handicapped my nose, thus threatening me into giving a hoot.