streets. The children are unable to attend school, and their parents work fulltime. These
children know that the consequence of an unsuccessful day is no food for the table. Similar
situations occurred during the Depression in the United States, but those American children
were faceless shoeshine boys of the twenties. This girl was real to me.
When we walked past her I gave her money. It was not out of pity but rather out of
admiration. Her smile of thanks did not interrupt her singing. The girl watched us as we
walked down the street. I know this because when I looked back she smiled again. We
shared that smile, and I knew I would never forget her courage and inner strength. She was
only a child, yet was able to pull her own weight during these uncertain times. On the streets
of Moscow, she used her voice to help her family survive. For this "Annie," there is no Daddy
Warbucks to come to the rescue. Her salvation will only come when Russia and its people
find prosperity.
Personal Growth Essay
Tom Zincer succeeded in his task. My science class's first field trip took place on a bitter cold
February day in Maine. Tom, our science teacher, led the group of relatively puzzled, well-
bundled students into the forest. I was right behind Tom, and the sound of his red boots
breaking through the thin layer of ice that covered the crusty snow seemed to bounce off the
trees and scare away the few singing birds that had not migrated south for the winter. We
stopped fourteen times during that four-hour field trip to hear Tom ramble on about the bark
of "this" deciduous tree and the habitat that "this" coniferous tree needs to grow. We
examined animal droppings and tracks in the snow and traced a bird's song back to its
singer. This was all meaningless to me. I was cold and bored and wanted the field trip to
end.
I would later write several essays in my journal about the fact that writing a detailed seven-
page analysis of the field trip took all the beauty out of the event. I would complain to Tom
about how boring and mundane his class was and how impossible it was to be so "anally"
observant. I argued that no field trip could ever be enjoyable if we had to write down and
later analyze the percentage of deciduous and coniferous trees, the air temperature, the
amount of snow on the ground, the slope of the course taken, the change in temperature
over the day, and a plethora of other minutia. Basically, I was lazy. No, no. I was not lazy. I
was just not ready; I was not yet ready to become an observer.
"Sam, just trust me on this one. You'll thank me later," Tom said at the conclusion of our
meeting. I had gone to see Tom privately in order to discuss how I could survive his class.
The minutia was killing me, and my slow death was reflected in my dismal grade. Upon
leaving that meeting, I made a personal and academic decision to develop my observational
skills, both to please my teacher and to avoid the disappointment of another "D+."
On my next field trip, I set out into the forest with two pencils cocked between my two ears
like guns ready to fire. My teeth were clenched with the determination to stay focused
throughout the entire field trip and write down every word that man uttered. However, I
constantly felt myself drifting, and while my mind wandered, the group advanced significantly