April 2000
Miscellaneous Learner Writings

This is a collection of adult learner writings from various programs around the country. Click on the title to jump to the story. After you read the story, click "Back to Top" to return here.

Home Remedies by Moses Jenkins

There was a trapper who came by our place every so often. He smelled real bad because of all the dead animals and dried blood. He drove a car with a crank on the front. This one time I remember he was crankin' that car, and the crank flew off right smack at his head. It peeled the skin right back past his hairline.

I remember my aunt grabbed a handful of cobwebs with some soot, and she put it right up under the skin and pulled that flap of skin back down and sealed it. Then she tied a white rag around his head. Yes, he survived.

Another time my cousin broke or cracked his arm on our place. My aunt again took vinegar and the red clay and made a cast for that arm. When it dried, it was as hard as a rock. We had sassafras trees nearby which made tea. We boiled the roots and let them dry to get the sassafras out of them. We children had to learn what plants could be used for medicine.

Moses Jenkins is a learner in the Indy Reads program at the Indianapolis-Marion County Public Library. This story appeared in Writing Our Lives (Volume III, Fall 1998), a collection of adult learner writings done in collaboration with The Writers' Studio at Butler University.

The Slumber Party by Sylvia Wooten

Last August, 1997, my sisters, Ruth, Patricia, Jamie, and myself had a slumber party. Now when we were little, my mother would not let us have a slumber party. She didn't believe in us sleeping over at anybody's house unless it was us family. So we waited until we were older: Jamie's in her late forties, Ruth, Pat, and I are in our middle fifties. We had to wait until we were grown, had children, plus grandchildren, before we could have a slumber party!

We spent the night at our oldest sister Ruth's house and we took pictures in our gowns, and we talked about our childhood, our grandchildren, times we spent with our mom and my dad. We stayed up until about two or three o'clock in the morning, eating and having a good time. We finally got to have a slumber party, which I think is very interesting because we had to wait until we had grandchildren to have it! But, it was well worth waiting for. But being at home, we didn't have to worry. My mother didn't have to worry because she knew where we were, and we just had a really great time that night.

The next day or maybe the day after that, my niece got a white limousine for us to go riding all over Indianapolis. So we did! We stayed in the limousine for about three and a half hours, laughing and taking pictures. Our mother was with us. This we will never forget because she was there with us, although we had already had the slumber party. We stopped at a restaurant and ordered some food. The driver went in to get it and brought the food back to the car. We rode around and ate and showed parts of the city to Patricia, who lives in California. We just had a great time! We acted like a mom and her children.

We had a great time. We'll probably never get to do it again, especially my mother. We'll never forget it.

A few years ago we had a slumber party with my mother. Patricia from California couldn't be here. So at that slumber party we decided that we weren't going to go to bed. The first person to go to sleep would have ice poured down her back! I knew I would probably want to go to sleep, so I got the biggest bottle of Mountain Dew that I could find. And then when it was time to go to sleep, around five o'clock in the morning, I couldn't sleep. We took pictures of some scales and the lady on the picture had a gun and was going to shoot the scales. We talked and looked at movies all night. That was really our first slumber party. The second time, my sister from California was here and it was just the girls. At the first party, Patricia called from California to see how we were doing.

These parties are some that we can tell our grandchildren about, and they can tell their grandchildren about--the "old ladies," or middle-aged ladies having a slumber party because their mom wouldn't let them have one when they were younger. We laughed and giggled and acted like teenagers. I guess there's nothing wrong with that. You're only as old as you feel. When we had our slumber parties, we didn't feel old at all. We felt young, energetic, happy, and excited. It's not every day that you get to have a second chance to do something you didn't get to do when you were younger.

Sylvia Wooten is a learner in the Indy Reads program at the Indianapolis-Marion County Public Library. This story appeared in Writing Our Lives (Volume III, Fall 1998), a collection of adult learner writings done in collaboration with The Writers' Studio at Butler University.

The New Puppy by Magnolia Evans

I had a pregnant little dog. One day my daughter went in the basement and heard a little puppy crying. She looked for it and found it. It was just born, but the dog was still pregnant and was for three more weeks. You know, that was something!

We had no way of feeding the puppy. We tried to give it milk out of a spoon but it came out of its nose. There we were, in a bad situation. We couldn't get out to get an infant feeder. The snow was very deep and it was cold too. It was the year of the big blizzard.

I remember my cat. She had three-week-old kittens. I called her to me. I gave her the puppy but she refused and hopped down off the the bed. I told her, "It's a baby," but she didn't want the puppy. Then I had no other choice. I put the puppy in the box with the kittens. She got in the box with the kittens and the puppy. She nursed the kittens and the puppy too. She loved the puppy and kept it clean until he got out of the box. Then I fed him, but he slept with her. Sometimes when she was out of the box he would push her down and try to nurse again, but I would stop him.

When he grew up his hair was as soft as the kittens'. He thought he was a cat and he thought she was his mother. In a way, she was his mother.

Magnolia Evans is a learner in the Indy Reads program at the Indianapolis-Marion County Public Library. This story appeared in Writing Our Lives (Volume III, Fall 1998), a collection of adult learner writings done in collaboration with The Writers' Studio at Butler University.

You Never Get Enough Reading by Robert Jones

I started a job in 1969. I worked from 1969 to 1998. I got laid off.

During that time I started a literacy reading program with my teacher. Her name is Maxine. She was teaching me very well how to read. But after I was laid off in 1998, I stopped going to class for a short time. So I started looking for another job. But after twenty-eight years on one job, it was hard to find another job without a high school education. But I kept on looking and looking until I found one in my classification. So I worked for a few months.

Then one day I was sitting at home and I came to my senses. Now I said, "Robert, you have to go back to learn to read a little more. You never get enough."

But I found it is very hard without an education.

Robert Jones is a learner in the Indy Reads program at the Indianapolis-Marion County Public Library. This story appeared in Writing Our Lives (Volume III, Fall 1998), a collection of adult learner writings done in collaboration with The Writers' Studio at Butler University.

Counting My Blessings by Lizzie Thomas

The nicest thing that ever happened to me was when the Lord gave me seven children. That was something that no one could ever take from me but the Lord. And I love them all. We've had some good times and they still get better as they get older.

The next nicest thing was when I moved here to Indianapolis and got my job at the Charcoal Steak House. I had been here two weeks and a lady said to me, "Do you want to work tonight in my place?"

"Yes," I said. She took me to the job and I worked that night. But I didn't go back the next night because I didn't know they wanted me there for good. The boss called me and asked me to come to work that night. She said that she would send someone to pick me up in a half hour! Thanks to God, I worked there for nine and a half years.

The next nicest thing was when I got my home. I knew I would not be able to buy this house when I looked at it because I had not been in Indianapolis very long. I didn't know many people here. When the man called me and told me that the house I looked at was mine, I didn't know what to do but to thank God for blessing me.

The next nicest thing was when the Lord blessed me with a church home to go to. I had dreamed about the church that I go to and now I've been there for 29 years. I like it very much.

The next nicest thing was when I got my brothers and sisters here to live with us in Indianapolis. God has been good to me and them. We all have good jobs and homes. God has blessed us with our good health. And lots of love to share with others.

The next nicest thing was when I was sent to GILL to learn how to read and write. They have helped me in so many ways to help myself. Thanks to GILL for sending me Beth Thomas for my teacher. She doesn't like for me to say "teacher," so I'll say my friend. She's a very good friend, and I'll never forget it.

I have much more to tell but I'd better stop now.

Lizzie Thomas is a learner in the Indy Reads program at the Indianapolis-Marion County Public Library. This story appeared in Writing Our Lives (Volume III, Fall 1998), a collection of adult learner writings done in collaboration with The Writers' Studio at Butler University.

Retirement! by Joseph Johnson

I am thinking about retirement. I have worked 45 years. I will be 62 years old in the year 2000. Then I will retire and begin to enjoy my life.

Maybe I will go back home and build a house in Alabama. I left home in 1966. I only get to visit for a week at a time. I have one son, one daughter, three sisters, five brothers, other relatives, and friends in Alabama. I would like to be near my family, so we can relive some of the things that we did growing up. We can go to church together again and share some ideas about our life as adults. I would also like to be back where the weather is mild in the winter. I like to fish in Alabama because you can fish all year round. I also like to hunt when it is in season. These are some of the things that I like to do in Alabama.

I would love to do some traveling and explore some parts of the United States that I have never been before. I would like to go to Minnesota and do some shopping in the World's Largest Shopping Center. I would also like to go see Six Flags in St. Louis and the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco.

I will still need other things to do after I retire. I will have a bigger garden so that I can grow corn, beans, greens, potatoes, and watermelons. I will be able to share my harvest with people in need.

After retirement, I will have more time to read. I will go to the library and take out books. I also will take the newspaper. Maybe one day I will write a book about my life and my schooling because it means so much to me at my age.

Joseph Johnson is a learner in the Indy Reads program at the Indianapolis-Marion County Public Library. This story appeared in Writing Our Lives (Volume III, Fall 1998), a collection of adult learner writings done in collaboration with The Writers' Studio at Butler University.

What My Tutor Means To Me by Jack Meadows

My tutor, Pat Walls, has influenced my life for the past three years. This lady has stood behind me and walked through some difficulties and sometimes carried me through some ups and downs in reading. She has given me the courage to change jobs, to better my life, to care more about myself and to feel like a part of society.

She has inspired me to follow through and to never give up. Pat has always been there for me. She helps me write essays and has given me the courage to get up in front of people to talk about my reading problem and my life in general to students and others. She has given me a new beginning and has been a good friend. At times she has been like a psychiatrist and her "fees" are great! There are times I don't want to come to class but I do because I have committed myself to learn. Pat is opening doors for me so my life can be better--she is my source for learning to read and write. When I come to class and I'm having a bad day, I leave with a smile because she gives me that uplift that I need. I know there are no negatives with her here.

Pat has a warm heart and cares for other people. I have been very lucky to have her stay with me for the past three years. I know students who have changed tutors and have been on a roller coaster ride and they have to keep on starting over again. I didn't have to do that. There is a special place in heaven for Pat and tutors like her.

Jack Meadows is a learner in the Indy Reads program at the Indianapolis-Marion County Public Library. This story appeared in Writing Our Lives (Volume II, Fall 1996), a collection of adult learner writings done in collaboration with The Writers' Studio at Butler University.

When the Boy Was Bad by Al Robbins

When I was ten years old, I was in the alley behind our house. I was throwing rocks down the alley when a car turned right in the alley and one of the rocks hit the windshield of the car. I just stood there looking at the car when the man got out of the car. He hollered, "Hey, kid, what are you doing?" I just stood there. He walked right up to grab me by the arm and said, "Where do you live?" I said, "Right there, sir."

He took me around to the side of my house and my dad was standing in the front yard. The man hollered at my dad, "Hey, sir, your son broke my windshield. Somebody going to pay for it?" My dad asked me what happened. I told my dad what happened. He told me to go in the house. So I went to my bedroom and sat on the bed.

About a half hour later my dad came into my bedroom with a belt and paddled me real good. My legs had red belt marks on them.

It had been a month now since I got a whipping from breaking the windshield. I was sitting at the kitchen table and my dad told me I was going to get nothing for Christmas because it cost a lot of money for that windshield. The next day was Christmas morning. When I go up I went into the living room to see what I got for Christmas. My sisters got new clothes and toys and my brothers got new clothes and toys. I looked at my dad and he handed me a box to open. I thought to myself, he still loves me. So I took the box to my room and opened it and it was a piece of coal. My dad was standing at my door. He said, "Son, that's your present," and he turned and walked away.

Al Robbins is a learner in the Indy Reads program at the Indianapolis-Marion County Public Library. This story appeared in Writing Our Lives (Volume II, Fall 1996), a collection of adult learner writings done in collaboration with The Writers' Studio at Butler University.

Our Daughter by G.J.

I am going to tell you a little bit about myself.

I got married to a wonderful man in June 1974. I love him very much and I want to love and respect him for as long as I live.

A month after we were married I got pregnant. We both loved the idea of having a little baby. We were both getting older and there was not too much time to wait to have a baby. We were very happy, and neither of us could wait for the baby to come into this world.

The time came for me to go to the hospital. I could not wait to see my baby's face. I had to wait for two days, but finally she arrived in this world. I was asleep and when I awoke I asked to see my baby. But when I looked at my husband's face I knew something was wrong. Doctor Gillespie came into the room and told us everything about the baby and what was wrong with her. I think my world went to pieces. What a big disappointment!

I was very angry. I wanted to die. They tried to calm me down, but nothing in this world prepared me for what happened in that hospital. Almost a month later, my husband wanted me to go to the nursery, but I was not ready for that yet. He tried to let me know that we were very lucky to have a little girl, because God chose us to be Angela's parents. We are the people he trusts to care for the baby.

Finally, after all the suffering and crying for one month, we went to see the baby. It was more difficult to look at my husband's face than anything because he was sad.

When the doctor came, he took us to see the baby, and when I saw Angela I wanted to run and forget everything, but that was not possible. I went in and nobody can imagine what went through my mind.

She was so little that I was scared to touch her. She was full of wires all over her body. I really was scared to touch her. Finally I did and gave her a bottle and I felt much better. I went to see her every day, and gave her a bottle and held her in my arms. I kissed that baby, and from there on I knew that I'd have to care for that baby.

God did not give us a normal baby. My husband and I still think that God was sending Angela to us for a reason. Today, Angela is twenty-one years old and she is a happy girl. She takes care of herself and sometimes takes care of us.

Saturday she brings us breakfast in bed, she helps clean house, and does dishes, and she helps me with the laundry.

Angela is very loving and she loves people. Everybody that is in contact with Angela tells us how wonderful she is.

We both love her very much, the same way we love the boys. There is no difference. I have two boys, one is 18 and one is 16. Both love their sister very much.

I think I'd be lost without her. I thought that it was not possible to love her because of my anger, but God gave us time to learn to love her and be patient.

She is not responsible for being the way she is. God wanted her that way and I have to learn to accept and give my blessing for what I have. Other people have worse, and they are happy.

G.J. is a learner in the Indy Reads program at the Indianapolis-Marion County Public Library. This story appeared in Writing Our Lives (Volume II, Fall 1996), a collection of adult learner writings done in collaboration with The Writers' Studio at Butler University.

The Right To Vote by Joseph Johnson

American people have the right to vote. A person has to register to vote. A person can get registered at the City County Building, State Fair, or when they get their driver's license.

I am a registered voter. I have voted since 1963. Some of the civil right leaders came to our church to help the church members learn how to vote. They brought polling machines to the church and each person had their turn at the machine.

To vote was a great experience for me and my family. We were afraid because so many churches and homes had been bombed.

People were beaten, and some were killed, but when the election came, I was there to vote because I wanted to be heard in government. I have voted in every election since.

Joseph Johnson is a learner in the Indy Reads program at the Indianapolis-Marion County Public Library. This story appeared in Writing Our Lives (Volume II, Fall 1996), a collection of adult learner writings done in collaboration with The Writers' Studio at Butler University.

Johnny the Innocent by John Corcoran with Carole C. Carlson

"Johnny Corcoran, step up here. Quickly, now." I could feel 40 pairs of eyes burrowing into my back. From my seat to Brother Abdon's desk seemed like a painful mile and a half. At St. Michael's School for Boys in Santa Fe, walking that gauntlet was more humiliating than throwing up.

What have I done to deserve demerits?

There were seven rows of old-fashioned hardwood school desks in our class--the kind with attached wooden seats and metal legs. I sat in row seven, in the very last seat at the back of the room, the place they called the dumb row. Why was I there?

Brother Abdon, a handsome young second-grade teacher who looked as if he didn't need a razor, stood behind his desk in his long black cassock and skull cap, tapped a yardstick on the floor, and motioned me to walk faster. My feet felt like I was wading through sand with my boots on.

"Two demerits, Johnny," intoned Brother Abdon. "One for not completing the sentences in your workbook and one for refusing to read the letters on the blackboard. Roll up your pant legs."

I thought Brother Abdon was my friend. At recess he encouraged my athletic ability and cheered when I won. Why did he punish me in the classroom? Standing in front of row seven, I could see every kid who walked up the aisle. The brother handed the yardstick to each boy, who took careful aim and swatted me on my calves. If they gave me a stinging blow, I would glare with my best IÕll Get You Outside look. If I got just a light tap, Brother Abdon would take the stick and issue a resounding whack on my benefactor's backside. It was a no-win situation.

When I finally slid into my seat, I avoided the brother's eyes and opened my reader, staring down at those weird lines that marched across the page like snowflakes, every one uniquely different. They seemed to melt before they made sense.

Nothing was wrong with my eyesight. I could pick out the most remote star on a clear New Mexico night or thread my mother's smallest needle. When I looked above the blackboard that lined the two walls of our schoolroom, I could see every detail on the portraits of 32 United States presidents who stared down on me. But those gigantic ABCs were from another planet.

In the second grade we were expected to recite the alphabet. But I couldn't do the ABCs--not until the sixth grade when I learned the alphabet song, and even then I only recited the letters from memory.

"Johnny, let's try again," Brother Abdon persisted. "A . . . B . . . C," he said slowly and then pointed at me. The idea was for a student to jump up and say "D-E-F," and then that student would point to someone else who'd say "G-H-I," and so on.

"Now, you tell me the next three letters, Johnny."

Couldn't he see I was invisible?

"Johnny, what are the next three letters? Speak up, now."

Here comes another demerit. It was easier to be quiet, lower my eyes, and pretend I wasn't there. Brother Abdon would tell me to "try harder," but I didn't know what I was supposed to try harder to do.

I looked down at my inkwell, wishing I could shrink so small that I could jump in and hide. But it was impossible for me to go unnoticed. My classmates were mostly boys from middle-class or wealthy Spanish and Mexican families, many of them boarders who lived in dormitories. The big, blond Irish kid who sat in Dumb Row, along with a few children from Mexico who couldn't speak a word of English, was conspicuous as a marshmallow floating in a cup of cocoa.

It didn't occur to me in the second grade, or in the third, that my seat at the back of the room, the demerits and punishment, all were related to my inability to read. I was like an American tourist trying to decipher the street signs or read a newspaper in Tokyo. Nothing made sense. I could understand numbers, but when the reading began I was in a foreign country. And the swats didn't hurt nearly as much as the humiliation.

R-r-r-ring! Saved by the bell again! We lined up like little soldiers, marched to freedom, and broke ranks with whoops and hollers when we hit the playground. That was my turf and recess was my salvation. Inside, no one would choose me for a spelling team; outside, I was king of the mountain!

This is an excerpt from The Teacher who Couldn't Read, an autobiography by John Corcoran. Written with Carole C. Carlson, this 1994 book (published by Focus on the Family, Colorado Springs, Colorado) tells about the life of a man who received a high school diploma, graduated from college, became a schoolteacher, and achieved many successes -- despite having low literacy skills. John has been a leader in the adult literacy field, having (among other things) served on the board of the National Institute for Literacy. He is a founding member of VALUE.

My Trip to Houston, Texas by Peggy McLand

This was most educational to me. The computer class was so easy step by step and teachers went around the room to see you doing it. If you had questions they helped you out. This changed my mind on computers, I really enjoyed it.

It was so good to see Barbara and ex-president George Bush in person at our meeting. I would love to shake their hands and say, "I voted for you twice." I took pictures of them.

I was so glad to go to a rodeo for the first time in my life. It was so different than on TV to be there in person to smell the animals and barn. Some horses were beautiful colors.

After it was over we had our dinner. Then we danced to the music. Boy it was loud. I even learned to dance for the first time in my life. It was so fun!

"Something to Think About -- Please Think About This"

For whatever reason (be it poverty or ignorance) people were held back from going to, continuing in, or finishing school. Here are a few examples and/or reasons: A parent dies or becomes very sick; the child has to go to work or stay home to look after or support the family. It's not their fault; it still happens. Negative messages from mother or father or anyone -- thinks work is better for the child, don't need an education, won't get far anyway. Still happens. Get and/or got married young. Husband and/or family keeps wife/girlfriend down, out of school, stuck. Still happens. Drugs, alcohol, bad decisions. Still happens. Violence in the home, isolation, being denied information about people, places, things. Still happens. My point is, sometimes there are circumstances beyond our control, and opportunities haven't always been there, and being an adolescent and having a generational history like any or all of the above, it only makes sense that bad decisions are made. Even today many teenagers leave home, get kicked out, or have to go to work, leaving schooling behind. And sometimes they just think they don't need to finish school to get a job only to find out that that's not true.

This composition was written by a literacy student in Canada. It was written in response to the threatened closure of the student's education program. It was published in Literacy Across the Curriculum (Vol. 14, Issues 1 & 2, p. 3), a publication of the Centre for Literacy in Montreal. The composition originally appeared in Something to Think About -- Please Think About This: A Report on a National Study of Access to Adult Basic Education Programs and Services in Canada by Susan Hoddinott (Ottawa: Ottawa Board of Education, 1998).  

A Story About My Life by Nenad Vanovac

I'm from Bosnia and coming to America was an important experience for me. My country Yugoslavia is at war. I came to America in September of 1994. I'm experiencing a new life here in America because of a change in language, work and schools for my children.

In my country, I owned a house. Today, I live in an apartment and pay six hundred dollars rent. I don't have a car. I work at a new job. I'm a line worker at Barber Foods. This is my first job in America.

My children do good in school. They speak good English. My son Bojan is six years old and he goes to Reiche School. My son Vedran goes to King School. My daughter Sonja is sixteen years old and she goes to high school. 

Nenad has been a student in the Casco Bay Partnership for Workplace Education in Portland, Maine. His story first appeared in the Fall 1995 edition of Writers at Work, the Partnership's journal of student writings.  

Being a Single Mom by Carrie Elliot

My name is Carrie Elliot and I am twenty-eight years old and the mother of one daughter. Shayne Lynne is nine years old, in the third grade, and quite mature for her age. For the past two years I've raised Shayne and worked a full time job. This is my story:

When I first divorced, I moved back home to my Dad's. I was hired at American Tool Co. right away. Shayne and I lived with my father and brother, Shane, for a little more than eighteen months.

Then, in February, we came across a terrific deal on rent. So, Shayne and I discussed our situation, we decided that we could do it together. We figured out our income and budget. Child support comes, but not often, so we've learned not to depend on it. Shayne understands, now that we pay rent, McDonald's is a rarity. Sometimes I'll pick up a cleaning job to provide a little extra. Baby-sitters are never a problem. Shayne has a lot of family that jump at the opportunity to sit for me. Instead of cash we pay with returned favors. During work hours Shayne is in school. In the summer we will juggle a schedule between her Uncle Shane and Aunt Jojo. It can be difficult and confusing, but it is free of worries and cash.

My daughter is pretty smart and understands a lot about life that maybe other nine year olds haven't had the opportunity to experience. After work I'll pick up Shayne Lynne at her Grandpa's and do any errands that are needed. This time could be spent banking, shopping, visiting friends, etc. We usually discuss her while on the road. After we arrive at home, there could be three hours or a half hour left to our day. Homework is supposed to be finished at Grandpa's, but if not it will be done now. Sally, our puppy, demands a lot of attention also, so we'll play with her a bit. A lot of the time we can be found on our couches, resting, vegging, and zoning, or WHATEVER!

After our busy sixty hour week, Saturday is looked upon seriously. Shayne is at Mimi's or Dad's and I am out. Dancing is the normal routine. I like to refer to it as VENTING! A week's worth of built up stress, tension, frustration, and aggravation need to be vented in a positive way. I found dancing is an unbelievable medicine and also wonderful exercise.

I believe that all the madness is actually a self-esteem must. I much prefer working over welfare, and single over unhappily married. There is a great deal of pride in our home. When our day starts at four a.m. and it's seven p.m., dinner isn't cooked, I'm not showered, and I've just stepped into the puddle that Sally left, I might forget being proud. But once I'm showered, dinner dishes are washed and Sally is on her runner, I'll remember.

Single working Mom is the correct term I suppose, but Shayne deserves her credit, too. She is a very good girl and does her best at helping out. Her chores include clearning her room, sorting laundry, feeding Sally. She even knows how to screen calls. She does well in school, we are switching schools in the fourth grade which will add two hours to our day. We are hoping that'll make life a little less hectic.

Humor is a must in our home. Without it we'd go BONKERS! Shayne Lynne has developed a wonderful sense of humor. There is a new baby in her family. Since Raven's arrival, Shayne has decided that we need another baby. So much so, that she is willing to share her room. My eyes with disbelief, I asked, "Well, what about a father or husband?" Her reply was quite frank, "We don't need no husband!" My feeling behind it all is if I can do it then anyone can.

I do feel very grateful for our family and friends and everything else in our lives. Even though I'm doing it alone, I'm really not. Ttheir love and support play just as big a part as my job and home. I find I'm tired a lot or may not have an extra twenty dollars to buy a surprise give for Shayne, or even myself, but it is all worth it. My daughter has the best of everything. Friends, family, toys and experience. She's watched me work, play, laugh, and cry to keep it all togethr. When it's her turn, she'll excel, I'm sure! 

Carrie has been a student in the Casco Bay Partnership for Workplace Education in Portland, Maine. Her story first appeared in the Fall 1995 edition of Writers at Work, the Partnership's journal of student writings.

Freeze by Gebru T. Nrayo 

In the middle of the night I escaped from the evil government with two friends. We were prisoners in minimum security. One day the security crew leader he opened our room and said, "Hey!! Listen up! You guys! Tomorrow you'll be going to change to central maximum security," he said and closed the room.

Three of us, were quiet for a while because we were terrified. We knew we would be tortured and shot to death. We all planned to escape, but how? We talked with each other for a while. One thing came in mind, do we have money? They said yes we did, and I collect the money from the others. We knocked on the door of our room. The security guard he came and said, "What's up?" Three of us we pretend how much we love them and want to have a party for them. The guard agreed and we give him the money for the party. In the evening we had permission for the party. Time to sing and dance in the small room. We make noise, sing song. Secretly we broke the window of the door. No one could hear because of the noise. Around 11 p.m. the guards ordered keep quiet.

In the middle of the night, best we can, we sneak and escaped out of the compound. We quickly got out of the city. We went in the deep of the forest. We were very frightened because of the danger of wild animals, especially constrictors (big snake). Our traveling was at night time and we slept during the day. We traveled without food and water. After days we crossed over the border into the neighboring country.

As soon as we crossed the border we heard, "Freeze." It was another dangerous maybe fatal situation. There were fundamental religious people surrounding us. They were very frightening. They had sophisticated weapons, machine guns, bombs, big rifles, and one had the biggest sword to cut off our necks. Immediately two of us started talking, saying that we were the same as them, again and again. One friend, he pretended he was deaf because he could not speak their language. We tricked them. We pretended we were thirsty for their religious flag, that we needed to hold it. We said we came for religious freedom. They were pointing their guns, ready to cut and shoot off our necks, but because of what we told them they turned away. We fooled them. They said we were lucky, that they killed many people for religion, for god, in that season. Many children and adults were sacrificed so they could go to heaven but the victims, they died and would go down to hell. Then they gave us some food and water and sent us to the government and the government gave us over to the United Nations. 

Gebru says "I have not enough words to thank God for satisfying my soul for being reunited with my own kid." He has been a student in the Casco Bay Partnership for Workplace Education in Portland, Maine. His story first appeared in the Fall 1995 edition of Writers at Work, the Partnership's journal of student writings.

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