Francis 1

Juliana Francis
Malcolm
UWRT 1103

Literary Narrative: Rough DraftFinal

Fitting in
My first memory is one thatfrom when I was four, it is a blurry memory, and maybe
even a little different then how it originally happened, but its how I remember it. It was the
day my aunt came to adopt me. After being bounced from home to home, she took me in. I
remember my her standing before me with a huge smile on her face and a little karaoke
machine in her hands. I had gripped the dirty door of my foster home and smiled up at her. I
knew of her; this was the woman who would come visit me every once in a while. She lifted the
machine to me and said I hope you like it! it was a welcoming gift that showed me that I was
recognized, sort of a token of love. It may not seem like much, or even very important, but it
was the beginning of who I am now. She took me from what I knew, and into a new world.
Before she took me in I had no friends, and most of the homes I lived in were ones I could
do whatever I pleased. I was a difficult child, and when my aunt finalized my adoption I
think it got worse. I was angry and violent and I dont remember everything that I had
done, but that a few weeks in to living with my aunt, I came home from school and she told
me to be nice to the other kids at school. Apparently I had been biting and scratching
and being an overall nuisance to the teacher. I tried, oh how I tried to be nice, but it was as
if no matter how hard I tried to be good, to be nice, the other kids just got in the way! The

Francis 2
absolute worst moment was during lunch one evening sometime in elementary school; I
was around seven or so.
The cafeteria lights were blinding me as I slid down the lunch line. My lunch tray
was slowly filling up with food and all I could think about was sitting down with the few
friends I had made this year and eating my lunch. I was having a normal day, and it all
came crashing down when this pudgy little boy walked up to me like he owned the place. I
remember thinking of just brushing him off and ignoring him, I mean, I was having such a
great day, a great week. I was making so much progress being nice, but he made a
comment that made me stop and turn to look at him in utter amazement. He had snickered,
in the way that children do when they know they are about to cause trouble, and said I know
why your mom didnt want you. That is the absolute worst thing you can say to anyone, let
alone a seven-year-old with mommy issues.
whatWhat did you just say to me? the question fell from my mouth like heavy
lead and I turned to look at him. Looking back on it now I know I should have ignored
him, I should have never asked, but I did, and it made my life even harder when he smiled
a wicked smile and said in a low voice,
I guess your mom didnt want you cause youre stupid.
It was no secret that I wasnt that great in school, I barely passed my classedclasses
and I could hardly keep up with the other children; and it was no secret I was adopted. The
other children ridiculed me and teased me to no end,; I was an outcast among those who
understood they had a mother and father and that I did not. My next actions would haunt
me for the rest of my life. The rage bubbled inside me, rising up like lava ready to burst.
The clatter of my food was deafening, and the sound of heavy plastic hitting flesh was a

Francis 3
satisfying sound. My tray connected with his face, his head, his hands; I was ruthless, my
tiny hands angry at something I could barely understand. The rest of the skirmish is just a
blur, the teachers pulled me off and escorted me to the office. I knew I was in trouble, I
knew what I did was wrong, but I also knew it was justified. I acted in self-defense, how
could I have known what was too much and what was not enough?
I had been bounced from home to home before my aunt found me and took
me in. I had never been in one place long, I barely had a chance to interact with children

my age, how could I have possibly known what was acceptable in that situation, or any
situation? I was unprepared in a world where everyone knew the rules, and so when my
aunt came to the school and gripped me by my arm, I was confused. She dragged me out
the school and into the car, her face was dark with anger, embarrassment, shame;
ultimately these are the emotions I interpreted as regret. I began to see myself as a mistake,
one she never should have taken under her wing. Mind you she had never said this to me,;
she was a loving woman who did her best to raise me alongside her two children, and I am
grateful for her every day. Despite my gratefulness now, back then I was filled with anger.
Feeling left out and shunned from school, I began walking a thin line of what was
acceptable and what was not. Looking on my actions now, I remember how I blurted out
answers in class, instead of raising my hand. I yelled out my anger, instead of
telling someone what was wrong. I hit kids who picked on me, instead of using my
words. I walked out of class whenever I felt like it, instead of asking permission. I
didnt understand what I was doing wrong. I do now, and looking back I can see what

I should and shouldnt have done, but try to view my situations from a childs point of
view: I hit that childboy because he told me I was unwanted, unloved, and the fastest way
to quiet him down was to hit him, to stun him. I walked out of class because I had to go

Francis 4
to the bathroom and the fastest way to get there was to walk out. I quieted him in a

way that no teacher is capable of doing. It was malicious, and violent; I was filled with hate and
acted on rage, but he never bothered me again. I know was I did was wrong; I can understand the
severity of what I did and I can accept my mistakes, but I still believe that to a child, thats what
they think is right. If I were nice it would mean telling a teacher; whatever teacher I told would
take that little boy into an office and sit him down in an uncomfortable plastic chair. She would
look him in the eye and say Johnny, (I made that name up) you cant hit Julie, that isnt nice,
say youre sorry.
Reading this now those two situations are completely different, and the
severity of them are different; but to a child it is all the same. I eventually learned
right from wrong but before I could do that, I had been sent in an He would look up at

her with innocent pearl eyes and smile prettily. He would say of course! with his fingers
crossed behind his back. His pretty smile would turn wicked the minute he turned his back to
her; he would look for me. He would know he just got away with a slap on the wrist, and he
knows he could get away with it againand I would know that too, and my voice would be
silenced as I endured ridicule from him. I didnt let that happen; I stopped his malicious intent,
with violence of my own; I stopped violence with violence and we never bothered each other
again. My way worked, but it was the wrong way; I eventually learned right from wrong but
before I could do that, I had been sent in and out of the principals office, and I remember
constantly being asked Do you know what was wrong with what you did? The question
was asked with judgment in her tone, I was just another nuisance to her. My reply was
simple.:

Francis 5
No. I wanted to know the same thing! What did I so wrong? Why was I sent there
time and time again? Why was I always sitting in that crappy plastic chair that made my
butt feel like pins were stabbing into me? Why?
The principal looked at me with pity, her oily hair held tight in a bun: professional. She was
well beyond me in years and the air around her reeked with sophistication, grace, and pompous. She knew
that she was better than me; she knew that my behavior was nothing more than a bug under her shoe that
she needed to squash out. With an upturned nose and eyes that squinted down at me, she sucked her teeth
and told me, You cant just do whatever you like. You cant hit children, and you need to stop.
That isnt nice.

Nice. Being nice means to act in a pleasant manner, but I still didnt understand why
I should be nice. My aunt had told me to be nice, the children and teachers told me to be
nice, and now here was the principal telling me to be nice. But why? I asked, Im sure my
voice was filled with desperation for an answer to a long standing question. And the
principals answer must have flipped some switch hidden in my brain.
Because itspeople like when youre nice to them, and that is what people like, and
thats what we find O.Kacceptable Her voice was soft and caring,. I dont remember her

name, and I dont remember muchexact details of her face, but her words struck some
cordchord in me. Her advice would be later stored right along with my adoption and

skirmish. I didnt begin to act nice right away, but I began to get quieter, calmer; I paid
attention to the things around me and to the way the other students were interacting. I still
had a quick temper and still got angry, but I was no longer the student the teachers wished
they could be rid of, and that was an accomplishment. I worked hard to make it where I am
now.

Francis 6
My friends think its hilarious to look back on my younger days. The fights and the
anger. They encourage me to be better, and I know what I can and cannot do with others. I
am still quick tempered. I am still badmouthed. I am still angry. I am still who I was, but in
moderation. Looking at me now, no one would see the countless moments I sat with tears in
my eyes, the countless lectures I had to endure about being nice. No one would see that
reckless child who just wanted to be seen and exceptedaccepted. All I hear now is youre
so nice and youre such a sweet girl. I learned to be nice so I would never again have to
hear, go to the principals office or youre such a bad child. And I will never hear the
words, why cant you be nice?
Because I am nice.