Sharing fom a Distance

Megan Barone



On March Friday the 13th, I left Alden High School unaware that it was the last time I would teach Rob Currin's senior students face-to-face. While working with them for seven weeks, I learned so much about myself as a teacher and even more about young adults. I met some of the most kind-hearted, inspirational students, and I feel incredibly grateful to have had this opportunity. These classes were essentially my introduction into this career. I was pushed to become a better teacher every day, and sometimes felt like I failed, but the effort and support of these students made those failures worth it. Although the future is uncertain, I am so much more excited to enter this field of education because of these students.

These five students started a narrative project during regular school hours and completed their projects at home. They were tasked with producing a narrative that tells the story of the themselves, their community, or their culture. Here are their stories.

Erin shares her message about confidence and fearlessness. 
She is a cancer survivor and passionate in theatre. 

Megan tells her story about navigating through 

the educational system with ADHD.

Zach's narrative is about remaining true to himself through

performing arts, despite the gender and social pressures he's faced.

Sam is an introvert advocate who boldly

shares her message about the power of silence.

The following is an excerpt from a student's narrative who wished to submit their work anonymously. It is a gorgeous, soul-touching piece.

            I could have written about many things for this assignment. I could have written about growing up during the recession, when running out of ramen noodles meant running out of food, and old socks were kept so holes could be cut for fingers to go through in the colder months. I could tell you in uncomfortable detail how I became accustomed to holes punched in walls and learned to recognize how dangerous someone was by the way they walked. I could recount how tough middle school was, when I was diagnosed with depression. Anxiety. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Bipolar Disorder. Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Maybe I could write about some reliable injuries, like shattered bones or how on my tenth birthday I had to think about the possibility of losing my foot. If I really wanted to, I could even tell you about waking in the middle of the night by screams and reviving overdosing family members who will never speak of it again.

            I don’t want to write about any of these things. They make people feel uncomfortable and frankly I’m tired of talking about it. People look at me, but they don’t see me. I think one of the constants of the human condition is at once desperately desiring to be seen and simultaneously suffering from the unbearable fear of that really happening. I have left pieces of myself everywhere I’ve gone and I’m afraid of what will happen when someone comes dusting for fingerprints. Everything is a diary, the way you walk, the way your teeth are shaped and colored, your handwriting, your bedroom. I don’t want people to think I am only the bad things that have happened to me or even the good things that have happened to me. I can’t help but wonder if it’s okay to be a trope, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s okay to be more than one. 

  If you wish to continure reading, please follow this link: Anonymous Narrative