Once upon a time, there was a boy named Pan. Pan was just like your ordinary Maple Street kid; he loved tag, hide-and-seek, and pogo sticks. The parents of Maple Street would often sip lemonades on their front porches and relax as their children would play. Their only warning was to not bully, and to never cross the street which led to the forest. The kids had always listened to this advice, partly because they did not want to be spanked, but mostly because they feared the mysterious forest (which was known to house many demonic unicorns, giants, and griffins).
One day, Pan was playing an intense game of hide and seek with his best friends Will and Gabe. To make the day even better, his parents were busy inside cooking peach cobbler-- his favorite. In the eighth round, Pan found himself losing. He knew that the next hiding spot he chose would be key to his chance of winning. As Will ducked his head under a red mailbox to begin the long count to 300, Pan’s mind began to race. He could not just use a porch or tree this time, or even an upturned barrel. No, no, those were all far too obvious—even for Will. He needed a place no one could even dream of. While stroking his chin, as he often saw his father do, he turned and faced the forest. His heart began to beat with excitement as he pondered the possibilities. Magical stumps, ditches, creeks, ogre stomachs; the mysterious forest would be beyond exceptional. Without thinking or weighing any options, Pan began his bolt to the other side of the road.
But suddenly, in the middle of the street, Pan was deafened by the blare of a car horn, and saw the bright lights of an approaching truck out of the corner of his eyes.
Pan’s last thought had been about peach cobbler.
When Pan was later retrieved from the road, a human spatula was used to peel him off of the asphalt. He was flat and round, and his parents chose to dispose of him in the forest, for it was too hard to see him in that state.
While it hurt Will and Gabe to speak of the misfortune of their friend, not many kids could say their playmate was eaten by giants. Rumor had it that after Pan was tossed into the forest, the giants deemed him the human cake, more commonly known as “pancake”. In pure ecstasy over their luck, they pulled maple trees up by their roots and cracked them over his body, letting the sap run across him.
If only Pan had listened to his parents and never crossed the road, he could still be playing hide and seek to this day. If only Pan had listened, the giants would be less hungry for the blood of humans-- finding themselves far too spoiled after their treat. Think about Pan the next Saturday morning you sit down to your table with a stack of pancakes and a Mrs. Buttersworth, and remember to always listen to your parents.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Writing Assignment 7-- Draft 1
Once upon a time, there was a boy named Pan. Pan was just like your ordinary Maple Street kid, he loved tag, hide-and-seek, and pogo sticks. The parents of Maple Street would often sip lemonades on their front porches and relax as their children would play. Their only warning was to not bully, and to never cross the street which led to the forest. The kids had always listened to this advice, partly because they did not want to be spanked, but mostly because they feared the mysterious forest which had housed so many demonic unicorns, giants, and griffins of their past.
One day, Pan was playing an intense game of hide and seek with his best friends Will and Gabe. To make the day even better, his parents were busy inside cooking peach cobbler-- his favorite. In the eighth round, Pan found himself losing. He knew this hiding spot would be key to his chance of winning. As Will ducked his head under his mailbox to begin the long count to 300, Pan’s mind began to race. He could not just use a porch or tree this time, or even an upturned barrel. No, no, those were all far too obvious—even for Will. He needed a place no one could even dream of. While stroking his chin, as he often saw his father do, he turned and faced the forest. His heart began to beat with excitement as he pondered the possibilities. Tree trunks, ditches, creeks, ogre stomachs; the mysterious forest would be beyond exceptional. Without thinking or weighing any options, Pan began his bolt to the other side of the road. But suddenly, in the middle of the street, Pan was deafened by the blare of a car horn, and saw the bright lights of an approaching truck out of the corner of his eyes.
Pan’s last thought had been about peach cobbler.
When Pan was later retrieved from the road, a human spatula was needed to get peel him off of the asphalt. He was flat and round, and his parents chose to dispose of him in the forest, for it was too hard to see him in that state.
While it hurt Will and Gabe to speak of the misfortune of their friend, not many kids could say their playmate was eaten by giants. Rumor had it that after Pan was tossed into the forest, the giants deemed him the human cake, more commonly known as “pancake”. In pure ecstasy over their luck, they pulled maple trees up by their roots and cracked them over his body, letting the sap run across him.
If only Pan had listened to his parents and never crossed the road, he could still be playing hide and seek to this day. If only Pan had listened, the giants would be less hungry for the blood of humans-- finding themselves far too spoiled after their treat. And if only Pan had listened, their would be no confusion between the words hotcake and pancake—and the pastry world of breakfast would be a far simpler place.
One day, Pan was playing an intense game of hide and seek with his best friends Will and Gabe. To make the day even better, his parents were busy inside cooking peach cobbler-- his favorite. In the eighth round, Pan found himself losing. He knew this hiding spot would be key to his chance of winning. As Will ducked his head under his mailbox to begin the long count to 300, Pan’s mind began to race. He could not just use a porch or tree this time, or even an upturned barrel. No, no, those were all far too obvious—even for Will. He needed a place no one could even dream of. While stroking his chin, as he often saw his father do, he turned and faced the forest. His heart began to beat with excitement as he pondered the possibilities. Tree trunks, ditches, creeks, ogre stomachs; the mysterious forest would be beyond exceptional. Without thinking or weighing any options, Pan began his bolt to the other side of the road. But suddenly, in the middle of the street, Pan was deafened by the blare of a car horn, and saw the bright lights of an approaching truck out of the corner of his eyes.
Pan’s last thought had been about peach cobbler.
When Pan was later retrieved from the road, a human spatula was needed to get peel him off of the asphalt. He was flat and round, and his parents chose to dispose of him in the forest, for it was too hard to see him in that state.
While it hurt Will and Gabe to speak of the misfortune of their friend, not many kids could say their playmate was eaten by giants. Rumor had it that after Pan was tossed into the forest, the giants deemed him the human cake, more commonly known as “pancake”. In pure ecstasy over their luck, they pulled maple trees up by their roots and cracked them over his body, letting the sap run across him.
If only Pan had listened to his parents and never crossed the road, he could still be playing hide and seek to this day. If only Pan had listened, the giants would be less hungry for the blood of humans-- finding themselves far too spoiled after their treat. And if only Pan had listened, their would be no confusion between the words hotcake and pancake—and the pastry world of breakfast would be a far simpler place.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Writing Assignment 6-- FINAL DRAFT
I consider myself the Modern, Asian Robin Hood.
Nobody wants to be a nobody, and everybody wants to be a somebody.
Watching all of the news casts on unemployment, welfare, and homelessness-- I voluntarily pulled myself out of the Stanford Medical School program. I decided that the new path I had in my mind would be far more satisfying and original than just another over-achieving, Chinese doctor.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- My first aspect to consider would be clothing. Would I go about this in a hoodlum-like manner-- wearing excessively spacious jeans and ribbed tank-top? Or should I be truly ironic and wear a feathered cap and skirt? Deciding that both the projects-born and transvestite styles would not suit my clean-cut Oriental features-- I chose what was right in front of me, and what later turned out to be the wisest choice. A regular suit and tie. No one could ever suspect a man of my demeanor and grace of any felony if I was to be wearing a coat and tie, especially if I carried my good-will Hartman briefcase.
Money was never a problem for me growing up, I consider myself a very high-society kind of kid. But as I sat listening to lectures, surrounded by oceans of preppy California heart-breakers, who considered medical school just the doily on the rest of their tea-cup lives, a feeling of claustrophobia took over me, as did a legitimate fear that I would one day start this sort of generation.
The drop-out process was quick and painless, except for the begging from the dean-- a speech composed of two arguments. One obvious, that they could not afford to lose their top student. And a second reason, not so obvious, I was devastating their minority action committees.
My first steal was the most exhilarating. All it consisted of was a block of cheddar cheese, Pillsbury pre-made cookies, and kosher dill pickles. These eclectic, inexpensive tastes are something I had become accustomed to in undergrad. That first time, I laboriously scratched the bar codes off of everything with an old Hilton Garden Inn room key that I continued to carry from some conference. Then, one by one, ducking between stacks of pita chips and mountains of bouncy balls as to avoid the camera, I stuck each item into my briefcase with the precision of a neurosurgeon. I grabbed a Thai Noodle Bowl, for lack of a better product to put through self check-out, and quickly rang myself up and scuttled out of the automatic doors-- (praying the scanner didn’t blare its sirens.)
I awkwardly walk-jogged to my Kia and slid into the safety of the front seat. I immediately started the engine and sped off to the nearest homeless shelter. I distributed what little I had and promised that I would return every night.
For months I would continue this process, each time getting more and more. Taking risks as high as rotisserie chicken, and even shrimp tempura rolls. The initial small tinge of guilt, and fear, soon wore off. I repeated the phrase, “Steal from the rich, and give to the poor,” in my head with every criminal venture, to rationalize it as a highly moral and recognizable act.
As a mere citizen, I felt I was doing my part for the effects of the recession. Though perhaps I was not boosting the economy, and in fact might have been hurting it, I was helping to provide for the more immediate results, which were the hunger and homelessness which the unemployment and depression caused. The money which I had saved for medical school was what kept me living in my apartment, jobless. I soon began to dedicate almost all of my time to doing this. Recently, I have been able to hit five to six supermarkets per day. My silver Kia was slowly transformed from the car of a prestigious, stereotypical Stanford med student to the car of a criminal, of a man fighting the system, of a man in it for the eternal greater good.
My identification as the Modern, Asian Robin Hood as not caught on at the local shelters yet. If I have learned anything from my education, it is that fame and titles come long after death. But until then, it is words such as angel, bringer of hope, and the Chinese guy with all the food that keep me going in this continuing battle.
Nobody wants to be a nobody, and everybody wants to be a somebody.
Watching all of the news casts on unemployment, welfare, and homelessness-- I voluntarily pulled myself out of the Stanford Medical School program. I decided that the new path I had in my mind would be far more satisfying and original than just another over-achieving, Chinese doctor.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- My first aspect to consider would be clothing. Would I go about this in a hoodlum-like manner-- wearing excessively spacious jeans and ribbed tank-top? Or should I be truly ironic and wear a feathered cap and skirt? Deciding that both the projects-born and transvestite styles would not suit my clean-cut Oriental features-- I chose what was right in front of me, and what later turned out to be the wisest choice. A regular suit and tie. No one could ever suspect a man of my demeanor and grace of any felony if I was to be wearing a coat and tie, especially if I carried my good-will Hartman briefcase.
Money was never a problem for me growing up, I consider myself a very high-society kind of kid. But as I sat listening to lectures, surrounded by oceans of preppy California heart-breakers, who considered medical school just the doily on the rest of their tea-cup lives, a feeling of claustrophobia took over me, as did a legitimate fear that I would one day start this sort of generation.
The drop-out process was quick and painless, except for the begging from the dean-- a speech composed of two arguments. One obvious, that they could not afford to lose their top student. And a second reason, not so obvious, I was devastating their minority action committees.
My first steal was the most exhilarating. All it consisted of was a block of cheddar cheese, Pillsbury pre-made cookies, and kosher dill pickles. These eclectic, inexpensive tastes are something I had become accustomed to in undergrad. That first time, I laboriously scratched the bar codes off of everything with an old Hilton Garden Inn room key that I continued to carry from some conference. Then, one by one, ducking between stacks of pita chips and mountains of bouncy balls as to avoid the camera, I stuck each item into my briefcase with the precision of a neurosurgeon. I grabbed a Thai Noodle Bowl, for lack of a better product to put through self check-out, and quickly rang myself up and scuttled out of the automatic doors-- (praying the scanner didn’t blare its sirens.)
I awkwardly walk-jogged to my Kia and slid into the safety of the front seat. I immediately started the engine and sped off to the nearest homeless shelter. I distributed what little I had and promised that I would return every night.
For months I would continue this process, each time getting more and more. Taking risks as high as rotisserie chicken, and even shrimp tempura rolls. The initial small tinge of guilt, and fear, soon wore off. I repeated the phrase, “Steal from the rich, and give to the poor,” in my head with every criminal venture, to rationalize it as a highly moral and recognizable act.
As a mere citizen, I felt I was doing my part for the effects of the recession. Though perhaps I was not boosting the economy, and in fact might have been hurting it, I was helping to provide for the more immediate results, which were the hunger and homelessness which the unemployment and depression caused. The money which I had saved for medical school was what kept me living in my apartment, jobless. I soon began to dedicate almost all of my time to doing this. Recently, I have been able to hit five to six supermarkets per day. My silver Kia was slowly transformed from the car of a prestigious, stereotypical Stanford med student to the car of a criminal, of a man fighting the system, of a man in it for the eternal greater good.
My identification as the Modern, Asian Robin Hood as not caught on at the local shelters yet. If I have learned anything from my education, it is that fame and titles come long after death. But until then, it is words such as angel, bringer of hope, and the Chinese guy with all the food that keep me going in this continuing battle.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Writing Assignment 6-- Draft 1
I consider myself the Modern, Asian Robin Hood.
As the economic crisis continued to progress, I voluntarily pulled myself out of the Stanford Medical School program. I decided that my new path in mind would be far more satisfying and original than just another over-achieving, Chinese doctor.
My first aspect to consider would be clothing. Would I go about this in a hoodlum-like manner-- wearing excessively spacious jeans and ribbed tank-top? Or should I be truly ironic and wear a feathered cap and skirt? Deciding that both the projects-born and transvestite styles would not suit my clean-cut Oriental features-- I chose what was right in front of me, and what later turned out to be the most wise choice. A regular suit and tie. No one could ever suspect a man of my demeanor and grace of any felony if I was to be wearing a coat and tie, especially if I carried my good-will Hartman briefcase.
Money was never a problem for me growing up, I consider myself a very high-society kind of kid. But as I sat listening to lectures surrounded by oceans of preppy California heart-breakers who considered medical school just the doily on the rest of their tea-cup lives, a feeling of claustrophobia took over me, as did a legitimate fear that I would one day start this sort of generation.
The drop-out process was quick and painless, except for the begging from the dean-- a speech composed of two arguments. One obvious, that they could not afford to lose their top student. And a second reason, not so obvious, I was devastating their minority action committees.
My first steal was the most exhilarating. All it consisted of was a block of cheddar cheese, Pillsbury pre-made cookies, and kosher dill pickles. These eclectic, inexpensive tastes are something I had become accustomed to in undergrad. That first time, I laboriously scratched the bar codes off of everything with an old Hilton Garden Inn room key that I continued to carry from some conference. Then, one by one, ducking between stacks of pita chips and mountains of bouncy balls as to avoid the camera, I stuck each item into my briefcase with the precision of a neurosurgeon. I grabbed a Thai Noodle Bowl, for lack of a better product to put through the automatic scanner, and quickly rang myself up and scuttled out of the automatic doors-- (praying the automatic scanner didn’t blare its sirens.)
I awkwardly walk-jogged to my Kia and slid into the safety of the front seat. I immediately started the engine and sped off to the nearest homeless shelter. I distributed what little I had and promised that I would return every night.
For months I would continue this process, each time getting more and more. Taking risks as high as rotisserie chicken, and even shrimp tempura rolls. The initial small tinge of guilt, and fear, soon wore off. I repeated the phrase, “Steal from the rich, and give to the poor,” in my head with every criminal venture, to rationalize it as a highly moral and recognizable act.
As a mere citizen, I felt I was doing my part for the effects of the recession. Though perhaps I was not boosting the economy, I was helping to provide for the more immediate results, which were the hunger and homelessness which the unemployment and depression caused. The money which I had saved for medical school was what kept me living in my apartment, jobless. I soon began to dedicate almost all of my time to doing this. Recently, I have been able to hit five to six supermarkets per day. My silver Kia was slowly transformed from the car of a prestigious, stereotypical Stanford med student to the car of a criminal, of a man fighting the system, of a man in it for the eternal greater good.
My identification as the Modern, Asian Robin Hood as not caught on at the local shelters yet. If I have learned anything from my education, it is that fame and titles come long after death. But until then, it is words such as angel, bringer of hope, and the Chinese guy with all the food that keep me going in this continuing battle.
As the economic crisis continued to progress, I voluntarily pulled myself out of the Stanford Medical School program. I decided that my new path in mind would be far more satisfying and original than just another over-achieving, Chinese doctor.
My first aspect to consider would be clothing. Would I go about this in a hoodlum-like manner-- wearing excessively spacious jeans and ribbed tank-top? Or should I be truly ironic and wear a feathered cap and skirt? Deciding that both the projects-born and transvestite styles would not suit my clean-cut Oriental features-- I chose what was right in front of me, and what later turned out to be the most wise choice. A regular suit and tie. No one could ever suspect a man of my demeanor and grace of any felony if I was to be wearing a coat and tie, especially if I carried my good-will Hartman briefcase.
Money was never a problem for me growing up, I consider myself a very high-society kind of kid. But as I sat listening to lectures surrounded by oceans of preppy California heart-breakers who considered medical school just the doily on the rest of their tea-cup lives, a feeling of claustrophobia took over me, as did a legitimate fear that I would one day start this sort of generation.
The drop-out process was quick and painless, except for the begging from the dean-- a speech composed of two arguments. One obvious, that they could not afford to lose their top student. And a second reason, not so obvious, I was devastating their minority action committees.
My first steal was the most exhilarating. All it consisted of was a block of cheddar cheese, Pillsbury pre-made cookies, and kosher dill pickles. These eclectic, inexpensive tastes are something I had become accustomed to in undergrad. That first time, I laboriously scratched the bar codes off of everything with an old Hilton Garden Inn room key that I continued to carry from some conference. Then, one by one, ducking between stacks of pita chips and mountains of bouncy balls as to avoid the camera, I stuck each item into my briefcase with the precision of a neurosurgeon. I grabbed a Thai Noodle Bowl, for lack of a better product to put through the automatic scanner, and quickly rang myself up and scuttled out of the automatic doors-- (praying the automatic scanner didn’t blare its sirens.)
I awkwardly walk-jogged to my Kia and slid into the safety of the front seat. I immediately started the engine and sped off to the nearest homeless shelter. I distributed what little I had and promised that I would return every night.
For months I would continue this process, each time getting more and more. Taking risks as high as rotisserie chicken, and even shrimp tempura rolls. The initial small tinge of guilt, and fear, soon wore off. I repeated the phrase, “Steal from the rich, and give to the poor,” in my head with every criminal venture, to rationalize it as a highly moral and recognizable act.
As a mere citizen, I felt I was doing my part for the effects of the recession. Though perhaps I was not boosting the economy, I was helping to provide for the more immediate results, which were the hunger and homelessness which the unemployment and depression caused. The money which I had saved for medical school was what kept me living in my apartment, jobless. I soon began to dedicate almost all of my time to doing this. Recently, I have been able to hit five to six supermarkets per day. My silver Kia was slowly transformed from the car of a prestigious, stereotypical Stanford med student to the car of a criminal, of a man fighting the system, of a man in it for the eternal greater good.
My identification as the Modern, Asian Robin Hood as not caught on at the local shelters yet. If I have learned anything from my education, it is that fame and titles come long after death. But until then, it is words such as angel, bringer of hope, and the Chinese guy with all the food that keep me going in this continuing battle.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Writing Assignment 5-- Draft 3(Final)
I saw my mother remarry four times. Four times for everything but love. At some point in her life, she had let money outweigh love. That point must have been before my birth. That point might have been inexistent.
I do not believe my mother loves me-- not in the obvious, genuine way that a mother should. Growing up without knowing this kind of love, I have always analyzed the ambiguous, four-letter word far more than most children.
Growing up on a secluded plantation, I pored over books-- for I had a chronic fear of being ignorant. I had always read of loves, great loves, but it was not until I was fifteen that I ever saw it. Having recently snapped at my mother over something, I was sent to the barn to sweep hay as punishment-- happy to get a break from the overly dusted banisters and dull portraits of the main home.
While I was sweeping, breathing in the refreshing smell of manure and tobacco, I heard banging. I peered at the horses, but found them still in their stalls. I ambled over to the back door of the barn, unbolted it, and glanced outside. There, clapping, and beating drums in a circle, were over forty slaves. A curious girl, I was immediately intrigued. I had read enough books to quickly realize that it was a wedding. Together, in the middle, stood a man and a woman, holding hands, dancing around a broom from the house. I remember the groom’s face, how his white teeth contrasted so significantly with his dark skin in a huge smile. I had never seen a smile like this. And I remember the bride. She had her head thrown back in laughter, ankles continuing to bounce and move with the drums. But mostly, I remember their eyes. I remember how he looked at her like she was the only girl, the only person, that he wanted to look at. And her him.
**************************************************************
Finally ready to begin the ceremony, I started a long awaited walk from our compound to the back of the barn, where all of our family and friends were waiting. In the center of the boisterous circle, full of life, stood Jeremiah. My heart picked up its pace, and I fidgeted my hands.
The actual service-- the prayers, the broom, the drums-- are all a blur to me. It was when the party began did I regain consciousness. I looked Jeremiah as we danced, all attention on us. His smile was the best manifestation of the absolute trust he had in us. I couldn’t help but laugh at our differences. I, being such a cynic, felt so incredibly fortunate at that moment for having a man in my life like Jeremiah. I felt that I would never need anything more.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the master’s daughter peeking her head out of the back door of the barn. Rather than feeling spite or wonderment about her appearance, I merely felt sorry for her. I felt sorry because I knew she would never feel the way I felt at that moment, the way everyone should feel at some point in their life. Because without knowing pain, pain like the pain I have suffered as a slave, I don’t believe you can know true happiness.
She couldn’t know this feeling of absolute elatedness, and for that I felt sorry, yet cocked my head back in enjoyment all the same.
****************************************************************
As I closed the door, I could only think how I wished my mother would look at me like this. In a way in which our pupils would completely align. I wished I could see her smile, like the groom. Laugh, like the bride. I wished that I could make her do these things, that I could make her love me more. I rested my back against the wooden wall of the barn and broke into tears. I felt ridiculous, even selfish, for crying after seeing such happiness. Why did I deserve to cry while those, far more oppressed than me, felt joy? And how did those, whose lives were treated as property, feel something so much closer to life than I ever might?
I do not believe my mother loves me-- not in the obvious, genuine way that a mother should. Growing up without knowing this kind of love, I have always analyzed the ambiguous, four-letter word far more than most children.
Growing up on a secluded plantation, I pored over books-- for I had a chronic fear of being ignorant. I had always read of loves, great loves, but it was not until I was fifteen that I ever saw it. Having recently snapped at my mother over something, I was sent to the barn to sweep hay as punishment-- happy to get a break from the overly dusted banisters and dull portraits of the main home.
While I was sweeping, breathing in the refreshing smell of manure and tobacco, I heard banging. I peered at the horses, but found them still in their stalls. I ambled over to the back door of the barn, unbolted it, and glanced outside. There, clapping, and beating drums in a circle, were over forty slaves. A curious girl, I was immediately intrigued. I had read enough books to quickly realize that it was a wedding. Together, in the middle, stood a man and a woman, holding hands, dancing around a broom from the house. I remember the groom’s face, how his white teeth contrasted so significantly with his dark skin in a huge smile. I had never seen a smile like this. And I remember the bride. She had her head thrown back in laughter, ankles continuing to bounce and move with the drums. But mostly, I remember their eyes. I remember how he looked at her like she was the only girl, the only person, that he wanted to look at. And her him.
**************************************************************
Finally ready to begin the ceremony, I started a long awaited walk from our compound to the back of the barn, where all of our family and friends were waiting. In the center of the boisterous circle, full of life, stood Jeremiah. My heart picked up its pace, and I fidgeted my hands.
The actual service-- the prayers, the broom, the drums-- are all a blur to me. It was when the party began did I regain consciousness. I looked Jeremiah as we danced, all attention on us. His smile was the best manifestation of the absolute trust he had in us. I couldn’t help but laugh at our differences. I, being such a cynic, felt so incredibly fortunate at that moment for having a man in my life like Jeremiah. I felt that I would never need anything more.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the master’s daughter peeking her head out of the back door of the barn. Rather than feeling spite or wonderment about her appearance, I merely felt sorry for her. I felt sorry because I knew she would never feel the way I felt at that moment, the way everyone should feel at some point in their life. Because without knowing pain, pain like the pain I have suffered as a slave, I don’t believe you can know true happiness.
She couldn’t know this feeling of absolute elatedness, and for that I felt sorry, yet cocked my head back in enjoyment all the same.
****************************************************************
As I closed the door, I could only think how I wished my mother would look at me like this. In a way in which our pupils would completely align. I wished I could see her smile, like the groom. Laugh, like the bride. I wished that I could make her do these things, that I could make her love me more. I rested my back against the wooden wall of the barn and broke into tears. I felt ridiculous, even selfish, for crying after seeing such happiness. Why did I deserve to cry while those, far more oppressed than me, felt joy? And how did those, whose lives were treated as property, feel something so much closer to life than I ever might?
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Writing Assigment 5- Draft 2
I’d never seen hope like his. I still can not conceptualize his blind faith to God, or his ever-present optimism towards our world. All I had ever known was death in hundreds, and people being auctioned off as if they were property. I had accepted life as life, white as white. Black as black.
Our wedding had sort of just fallen into its right place naturally. This spoke to what our entire relationship had been up to this point—organic, genuine, and easy. He asked me to be his wife, I said yes, and that was that.
I was as giddy as any bride in her right mind should have been. I spent the morning with fifteen other women my age, most of which whose parents had come on the same ship as mine. They had pooled together all sorts of scraps of soaps, and rouges, from the house for me; we spent hours working on my materialistic beautification.
Finally ready to begin the ceremony, I started a long awaited walk from our compound to the back of the barn, where all of our family and friends were waiting. In the center of the boisterous circle, full of life, stood Jeremiah. My heart picked up its pace, and I fidgeted my hands.
The actual service-- the prayers, the broom, the drums-- are all a blur to me. It was when the party began did I regain consciousness. I looked Jeremiah as we danced, all attention on us. His smile was the best manifestation of the absolute trust he had in us. I couldn’t help but laugh at our differences. I, being such a cynic, felt so incredibly fortunate at that moment for having a man in my life like Jeremiah. I felt that I would never need anything more.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the master’s daughter peeking her head out of the back door of the barn. Rather than feeling spite or wonderment about her appearance, I merely felt sorry for her. I felt sorry because I knew she would never feel the way I felt at that moment, the way everyone should feel at some point in their life. Because without knowing pain, pain like the pain I have suffered as a slave, I don’t believe you can know true happiness.
She couldn’t know this feeling of absolute elatedness, and for that I felt sorry, yet cocked my head back in enjoyment all the same.
Our wedding had sort of just fallen into its right place naturally. This spoke to what our entire relationship had been up to this point—organic, genuine, and easy. He asked me to be his wife, I said yes, and that was that.
I was as giddy as any bride in her right mind should have been. I spent the morning with fifteen other women my age, most of which whose parents had come on the same ship as mine. They had pooled together all sorts of scraps of soaps, and rouges, from the house for me; we spent hours working on my materialistic beautification.
Finally ready to begin the ceremony, I started a long awaited walk from our compound to the back of the barn, where all of our family and friends were waiting. In the center of the boisterous circle, full of life, stood Jeremiah. My heart picked up its pace, and I fidgeted my hands.
The actual service-- the prayers, the broom, the drums-- are all a blur to me. It was when the party began did I regain consciousness. I looked Jeremiah as we danced, all attention on us. His smile was the best manifestation of the absolute trust he had in us. I couldn’t help but laugh at our differences. I, being such a cynic, felt so incredibly fortunate at that moment for having a man in my life like Jeremiah. I felt that I would never need anything more.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the master’s daughter peeking her head out of the back door of the barn. Rather than feeling spite or wonderment about her appearance, I merely felt sorry for her. I felt sorry because I knew she would never feel the way I felt at that moment, the way everyone should feel at some point in their life. Because without knowing pain, pain like the pain I have suffered as a slave, I don’t believe you can know true happiness.
She couldn’t know this feeling of absolute elatedness, and for that I felt sorry, yet cocked my head back in enjoyment all the same.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Writing Assignment 5-- Draft 1
I saw my mother remarry four times. Four times for everything but love. At some point in her life, she had let money outweigh love. That point must have been before my birth. That point might have been inexistent.
I do not believe my mother loves me-- not in the obvious, genuine way that a mother should. I believe she felt responsible, and has handled me as a tax. She must account for me for a certain number of years until I am no longer her liability. Growing up without knowing this kind of love, I have always analyzed the ambiguous, four-letter word far more than most children.
I grew up on a secluded plantation. I never left the property until I was thirteen. My mother was wealthy enough to hire a tutor for me, and someone to tend to all other jobs. I was born with a chronic fear of being ignorant. Thus, I pored over books in the hope I could escape the plantation life.
I had always read of loves, great loves, but it was not until I was fifteen that I ever saw it. Having recently snapped at my mother over something, I was sent to the barn to sweep hay as punishment-- happy to get a break from the overly dusted banisters and dull portraits of the main home.
While I was sweeping, breathing in the refreshing smell of manure and tobacco, I heard banging. I peered at the horses, but found them still in their stalls. I ambled over to the back door of the barn, unbolted it, and glanced outside. There, clapping, and beating drums in a circle, were over forty slaves. A curious girl, I was immediately intrigued. I had read enough books to quickly realize that it was a wedding. Together, in the middle, stood a man and a woman, holding hands, dancing around a broom from the house. I remember the groom’s face, how his white teeth contrasted so significantly with his dark skin in a huge smile. I had never seen a smile like this. And I remember the bride. She had her head thrown back in laughter, ankles continuing to bounce and move with the drums. But mostly, I remember their eyes. I remember how he looked at her like she was the only girl, the only person, that he wanted to look at. And her him.
As I closed the door, I could only think how I wished my mother would look at me like this. In a way in which our pupils would completely align. I wished I could see her smile, like the groom. Laugh, like the bride. I wished that I could make her do these things, that I could make her love me more. I rested my back against the wooden wall of the barn and broke into tears. I felt ridiculous, even selfish, for crying after seeing such happiness. Why did I deserve to cry while those, far more oppressed than me, felt joy? And how did those, whose lives were treated as property, feel something so much closer to life than I ever might?
I do not believe my mother loves me-- not in the obvious, genuine way that a mother should. I believe she felt responsible, and has handled me as a tax. She must account for me for a certain number of years until I am no longer her liability. Growing up without knowing this kind of love, I have always analyzed the ambiguous, four-letter word far more than most children.
I grew up on a secluded plantation. I never left the property until I was thirteen. My mother was wealthy enough to hire a tutor for me, and someone to tend to all other jobs. I was born with a chronic fear of being ignorant. Thus, I pored over books in the hope I could escape the plantation life.
I had always read of loves, great loves, but it was not until I was fifteen that I ever saw it. Having recently snapped at my mother over something, I was sent to the barn to sweep hay as punishment-- happy to get a break from the overly dusted banisters and dull portraits of the main home.
While I was sweeping, breathing in the refreshing smell of manure and tobacco, I heard banging. I peered at the horses, but found them still in their stalls. I ambled over to the back door of the barn, unbolted it, and glanced outside. There, clapping, and beating drums in a circle, were over forty slaves. A curious girl, I was immediately intrigued. I had read enough books to quickly realize that it was a wedding. Together, in the middle, stood a man and a woman, holding hands, dancing around a broom from the house. I remember the groom’s face, how his white teeth contrasted so significantly with his dark skin in a huge smile. I had never seen a smile like this. And I remember the bride. She had her head thrown back in laughter, ankles continuing to bounce and move with the drums. But mostly, I remember their eyes. I remember how he looked at her like she was the only girl, the only person, that he wanted to look at. And her him.
As I closed the door, I could only think how I wished my mother would look at me like this. In a way in which our pupils would completely align. I wished I could see her smile, like the groom. Laugh, like the bride. I wished that I could make her do these things, that I could make her love me more. I rested my back against the wooden wall of the barn and broke into tears. I felt ridiculous, even selfish, for crying after seeing such happiness. Why did I deserve to cry while those, far more oppressed than me, felt joy? And how did those, whose lives were treated as property, feel something so much closer to life than I ever might?
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