Julia, I followed your advice with the two sentences thing. Thank you, I think it does sound better that way. Everyone else - here's more!
You won’t find a more judgmental or more discriminating group than that of teenagers. We hate certain foods and like all manner of strange clothing. We can’t rip ourselves away from inane videos on YouTube, and yet can’t watch a ten-minute video in class for more than five seconds. And, it’s hard to find a more widely scorned activity among this unpredictable group than writing for fun. We’re forced to write all day in school, so who in their right mind would do it willingly?
Of course, writing itself is not actually a bad thing, even if having to do it for school makes it seem so. And, as it turns out, one form of free-writing can be healthy – keeping a journal.
The word “journal” comes from the French word “le jour,” meaning day. The basic idea of one is to write down the daily events of life and reflect on them. The oldest known journals are from the Middle East and Asia, and there are some that have even become famous, such as The Diary of Anne Frank, written during the Holocaust by Anne Frank while in hiding from the Nazis.
Although keeping a journal may seem like a daily hassle instead of daily relief, the latter is much more true than the former. According to James Pennebaker, professor of psychology at the University of Texas, a study has shown that writing down your experiences, especially about emotional upheavals in your life, can be beneficial. For example, documenting these experiences can “enhance immune function, reduce anxiety and depression, improve sleep, and lift performance at school or work” (Words). The study, conducted by the professor himself, had students writing for just 15-20 minutes a day about a traumatic event from their pasts. The students who wrote in their journals about both the facts of the event and the emotions surrounding it experienced the health benefits listed before.
Deb Western, a social worker and lecturer at La Trobe University, has described the effects of writing down your life as relieving, and clarifying. She speaks from personal experience, as she conducted a study among women with depression who kept journals for a set amount of time.
Pennebaker and Western have not been the only ones to investigate this phenomenon. Joshua M. Smyth, who conducted his research at the State University of New York, discovered that keeping a proper journal can reduce the symptoms of chronic illnesses in their writers. Smyth’s subjects were 112 people with asthma or arthritis. After four months of keeping journals, half of the group that expressed their worry over certain events in their lives showed improvement in their conditions. Only a fourth of the people who wrote about “neutral events,” such as their daily routine or plans for the day, experienced any improvement.
Besides being good for your physical health, journal writing is also psychologically healing. For example, Keith Bellinger was in a car crash in 1991 that crushed three vertebrae in his back. He had been keeping a journal before, but totally enveloped himself in the writing as he hadn’t before the accident. He reported that reading his previous entries and adding new ones helped him get a new perspective on his accident and stopped him from wallowing in self-pity. If it weren’t for his journal, he wouldn’t have had the “strength to carry on,” he said. In fact, therapists now recommend what Bellinger did for himself – keeping a journal to explore traumatic events. “Writing acts as
a conduit through which obsessive or negative thoughts find a safe place to rest outside of one’s mind” (Transformative). So, through journaling, patients can find peace in letting out their emotions on paper.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Some more of my expository essay
Is it sounding "expository" enough?
You won’t find a more judgmental or more discriminating group than that of teenagers. We hate certain foods, like all manner of strange clothing, can’t rip ourselves away from inane videos on YouTube, and yet can’t watch a ten-minute video in class for more than five seconds. And, it’s hard to find a more widely scorned activity among this unpredictable group than writing for fun. We’re forced to write all day in school, so who in their right mind would do it willingly?
Of course, writing itself is not actually a bad thing, even if having to do it for school makes it seem so. And, as it turns out, one form of free-writing can be healthy – keeping a journal.
The word “journal” comes from the French word “le jour,” meaning day. The basic idea of one is to write down the daily events of life and reflect on them. The oldest known journals are from the Middle East and Asia, and there are some that have even become famous, such as The Diary of Anne Frank, written during the Holocaust by Anne Frank while in hiding from the Nazis.
Although keeping a journal may seem like a daily hassle instead of daily relief, the latter is much more true than the former. According to James Pennebaker, professor of psychology at the University of Texas, a study has shown that writing down your experiences, especially about emotional upheavals in your life, can be beneficial. For example, documenting these experiences can “enhance immune function, reduce anxiety and depression, improve sleep, and lift performance at school or work” (Words). The study, conducted by the professor himself, had students writing for just 15-20 minutes a day about a traumatic event from their pasts. The students who wrote in their journals about both the facts of the event and the emotions surrounding it experienced the health benefits listed before.
Deb Western, a social worker and lecturer at La Trobe University, has described the effects of writing down your life as relieving, and clarifying. She speaks from personal experience, as she conducted a study among women with depression who kept journals for a set amount of time. So, not only is keeping a journal physically healthy, but it’s psychologically beneficial as well.
You won’t find a more judgmental or more discriminating group than that of teenagers. We hate certain foods, like all manner of strange clothing, can’t rip ourselves away from inane videos on YouTube, and yet can’t watch a ten-minute video in class for more than five seconds. And, it’s hard to find a more widely scorned activity among this unpredictable group than writing for fun. We’re forced to write all day in school, so who in their right mind would do it willingly?
Of course, writing itself is not actually a bad thing, even if having to do it for school makes it seem so. And, as it turns out, one form of free-writing can be healthy – keeping a journal.
The word “journal” comes from the French word “le jour,” meaning day. The basic idea of one is to write down the daily events of life and reflect on them. The oldest known journals are from the Middle East and Asia, and there are some that have even become famous, such as The Diary of Anne Frank, written during the Holocaust by Anne Frank while in hiding from the Nazis.
Although keeping a journal may seem like a daily hassle instead of daily relief, the latter is much more true than the former. According to James Pennebaker, professor of psychology at the University of Texas, a study has shown that writing down your experiences, especially about emotional upheavals in your life, can be beneficial. For example, documenting these experiences can “enhance immune function, reduce anxiety and depression, improve sleep, and lift performance at school or work” (Words). The study, conducted by the professor himself, had students writing for just 15-20 minutes a day about a traumatic event from their pasts. The students who wrote in their journals about both the facts of the event and the emotions surrounding it experienced the health benefits listed before.
Deb Western, a social worker and lecturer at La Trobe University, has described the effects of writing down your life as relieving, and clarifying. She speaks from personal experience, as she conducted a study among women with depression who kept journals for a set amount of time. So, not only is keeping a journal physically healthy, but it’s psychologically beneficial as well.
Monday, December 27, 2010
A Bit of My Expository Essay
Here's the first bit of my expository essay, though it's mostly the beginning. I have some more, but it's mostly in the form of notes. I'm having trouble with the whole idea of expository, because I think mine will sound too opinionated. Could I have some help with the definition of expository again?
You won’t find a more judgmental or more discriminating group than that of teenagers. We inexplicably hate certain , like all manner of strange clothing, can’t rip ourselves away from inane videos on YouTube, and yet can’t watch a ten-minute video in class for more than five seconds. And, it’s hard to find a more widely scorned activity among this unpredictable group than writing for fun. We’re forced to write all day in school, so who in their right mind would do it willingly?
Of course, writing itself is not actually a bad thing, even if having to do it for school makes it seem so. And, as it turns out, one form of free-writing can be healthy – keeping a journal.
The word “journal” comes from the French word “le jour,” meaning day. The basic idea of one is to write down the daily events of life and reflect on them. The oldest known journals are from the Middle East and Asia, and there are some that have even become famous, such as The Diary of Anne Frank.
You won’t find a more judgmental or more discriminating group than that of teenagers. We inexplicably hate certain , like all manner of strange clothing, can’t rip ourselves away from inane videos on YouTube, and yet can’t watch a ten-minute video in class for more than five seconds. And, it’s hard to find a more widely scorned activity among this unpredictable group than writing for fun. We’re forced to write all day in school, so who in their right mind would do it willingly?
Of course, writing itself is not actually a bad thing, even if having to do it for school makes it seem so. And, as it turns out, one form of free-writing can be healthy – keeping a journal.
The word “journal” comes from the French word “le jour,” meaning day. The basic idea of one is to write down the daily events of life and reflect on them. The oldest known journals are from the Middle East and Asia, and there are some that have even become famous, such as The Diary of Anne Frank.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
I know what my topic is!
Okay, I'm going to do the Legend of Zelda games for my project. They've been released in many different incarnations, and there's an entire culture grown beyond the games since that first one (like fanfiction and timeline debates).
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Project Ideas
Hello, everybody! This is just an update for the topics for all the mythology projects we're doing. For the multi-media project, I'm probably going to discuss some type of fairy-tale character. I'm debating between Snow White, Rapunzel, or Cinderella. For the expository essay, I'm going to write about keeping a journal.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Sort of Complete Draft for the Essay
I still need a beginning paragraph, and I plan on having more supporting information. And a title. But this is basically it.
Using embryonic stem-cells to treat diseases is wrong and unneeded. An embryo, the beginning of human life, is created and then destroyed for the sake of treating another’s disease, but it’s unnecessary to do so. Adult stem-cells work just as well, don’t require this destruction, and can come from the sick person themselves, so there is less of a chance of them rejecting the treatment (Underwood). It is wrong to destroy what is indisputably the beginning of human life for the sake of embryonic stem-cell research when adult stem-cells are proven to be more effective.
Embryonic stem-cells are cells that are extracted from a certain part of an embryo, as the name describes, but this cannot be done without the resultant destruction of the embryo itself (Stem). It is theorized that they can be used cure genetic diseases and even regenerate organs, but “despite millions of dollars of research, not one--not one--embryonic stem-cell trial has resulted in the successful treatment of a human patient” (Forbes).
Adult stem-cells, on the other hand, are cells taken from the tissues of us grown humans. Again, a pretty self-explanatory name. They’ve actually been successful in saving people’s lives in surgeries. Not only that, but scientists have discovered a way to alter adult stem-cells so that they function exactly the way embryonic stem-cells do. “These cells, called induced pluripotent stem cells (iPS), can do everything an embryonic stem cell is capable of, only without having to destroy a human embryo” (Forbes). Also, with adult stem-cells coming from the patient themselves, it’s more likely that their body will not reject the treatment and they can be well again.
“Over the years, adult stem cells have resulted in 73 successful treatments for various diseases like Alzheimer's, Type 1 Diabetes, Parkinson's, and various forms of cancer” (Forbes). So, I ask you, if adult stem-cells are obviously working so well and embryonic stem-cells have yet to show any successes, why do we bother with them?
For some reason, scientists still have reservations about using adult-stem cells over embryonic. Last year, a clinical trial was conducted in which ten people, paralyzed from the waist down, received a low-dose treatment of embryonic stem-cells injected into their spinal cords. “Although it's not clear yet whether the treatment is effective or safe, the restoration of even partial [motor function] would be a huge advance” (Underwood).
However, the article reporting this also said scientists were reluctant to use the newly discovered iPS cells: “[They]… will not be used as replacement tissue for spinal cords and other organs. Because iPS cells have subtle (and potentially dangerous) differences from true embryonic stem cells, many doctors are leery of putting them directly into patients …” (Underwood). But wait, didn’t we just see above that we weren’t sure if embryonic stem-cells were safe, either? So we have established that both iPS adult stem-cells and embryonic stem-cells are not determined to be completely safe, and we’ve also established that iPS cells have garnered much more success thus far. Which one would you bet your money on to be more helpful?
So here we are, wasting money on embryonic stem-cell research when adult stem-cells are ethical and work more effectively to treat diseases conditions such as paralysis.
In addition, using an embryo as treatment for diseases is killing a baby. Could you do that morally? If you think that it’s not murder, just answer these questions.
Would you kill a perfectly healthy eight-year-old? Probably not, assuming you’re not a psycho serial killer. How about an equally healthy five-year-old? I’m guessing that you would not extinguish the life of a two-year-old or baby just born an hour ago. But would you kill the baby the day before it was born, or a month?
At which point, in your opinion, does the embryo start being human?
Whatever your view is in this aspect, embryos are undeniably the start of a human life. To cut off that life at the very beginning is to stop that adorable, smiling baby from coming into the world and making something great. The unrealized potential for the embryo is astounding.
Luckily, this doesn’t have to happen anymore. Adult stem-cells have already surpassed embryonic stem-cells in their ability to treat diseases and conditions like paralysis, and they already show promise in curing genetic diseases such as Huntington’s (insert citation here). Whether using embryos in stem-cell research is murder in your eyes or not, it’s true that adult-stem cells are more effective in making people healthy. If only scientists would see that too…
Using embryonic stem-cells to treat diseases is wrong and unneeded. An embryo, the beginning of human life, is created and then destroyed for the sake of treating another’s disease, but it’s unnecessary to do so. Adult stem-cells work just as well, don’t require this destruction, and can come from the sick person themselves, so there is less of a chance of them rejecting the treatment (Underwood). It is wrong to destroy what is indisputably the beginning of human life for the sake of embryonic stem-cell research when adult stem-cells are proven to be more effective.
Embryonic stem-cells are cells that are extracted from a certain part of an embryo, as the name describes, but this cannot be done without the resultant destruction of the embryo itself (Stem). It is theorized that they can be used cure genetic diseases and even regenerate organs, but “despite millions of dollars of research, not one--not one--embryonic stem-cell trial has resulted in the successful treatment of a human patient” (Forbes).
Adult stem-cells, on the other hand, are cells taken from the tissues of us grown humans. Again, a pretty self-explanatory name. They’ve actually been successful in saving people’s lives in surgeries. Not only that, but scientists have discovered a way to alter adult stem-cells so that they function exactly the way embryonic stem-cells do. “These cells, called induced pluripotent stem cells (iPS), can do everything an embryonic stem cell is capable of, only without having to destroy a human embryo” (Forbes). Also, with adult stem-cells coming from the patient themselves, it’s more likely that their body will not reject the treatment and they can be well again.
“Over the years, adult stem cells have resulted in 73 successful treatments for various diseases like Alzheimer's, Type 1 Diabetes, Parkinson's, and various forms of cancer” (Forbes). So, I ask you, if adult stem-cells are obviously working so well and embryonic stem-cells have yet to show any successes, why do we bother with them?
For some reason, scientists still have reservations about using adult-stem cells over embryonic. Last year, a clinical trial was conducted in which ten people, paralyzed from the waist down, received a low-dose treatment of embryonic stem-cells injected into their spinal cords. “Although it's not clear yet whether the treatment is effective or safe, the restoration of even partial [motor function] would be a huge advance” (Underwood).
However, the article reporting this also said scientists were reluctant to use the newly discovered iPS cells: “[They]… will not be used as replacement tissue for spinal cords and other organs. Because iPS cells have subtle (and potentially dangerous) differences from true embryonic stem cells, many doctors are leery of putting them directly into patients …” (Underwood). But wait, didn’t we just see above that we weren’t sure if embryonic stem-cells were safe, either? So we have established that both iPS adult stem-cells and embryonic stem-cells are not determined to be completely safe, and we’ve also established that iPS cells have garnered much more success thus far. Which one would you bet your money on to be more helpful?
So here we are, wasting money on embryonic stem-cell research when adult stem-cells are ethical and work more effectively to treat diseases conditions such as paralysis.
In addition, using an embryo as treatment for diseases is killing a baby. Could you do that morally? If you think that it’s not murder, just answer these questions.
Would you kill a perfectly healthy eight-year-old? Probably not, assuming you’re not a psycho serial killer. How about an equally healthy five-year-old? I’m guessing that you would not extinguish the life of a two-year-old or baby just born an hour ago. But would you kill the baby the day before it was born, or a month?
At which point, in your opinion, does the embryo start being human?
Whatever your view is in this aspect, embryos are undeniably the start of a human life. To cut off that life at the very beginning is to stop that adorable, smiling baby from coming into the world and making something great. The unrealized potential for the embryo is astounding.
Luckily, this doesn’t have to happen anymore. Adult stem-cells have already surpassed embryonic stem-cells in their ability to treat diseases and conditions like paralysis, and they already show promise in curing genetic diseases such as Huntington’s (insert citation here). Whether using embryos in stem-cell research is murder in your eyes or not, it’s true that adult-stem cells are more effective in making people healthy. If only scientists would see that too…
Thursday, November 4, 2010
First bit of free-choice essay. No bookends yet, or title.
I flip-flopped on topics a bit, but finally settled on embryonic stem-cell research.
Using embryonic stem-cells to treat diseases is wrong and unneeded. An embryo, the beginning of human life, is created and then destroyed for the sake of treating another’s disease, but it’s unnecessary to do so. Adult stem-cells work just as well, don’t require killing a child, and can come from the sick person themselves, so there is less of a chance of them rejecting the treatment (Underwood). It is wrong to destroy what is indisputably the beginning of human life for the sake of embryonic stem-cell research when adult stem-cells are proven to be more effective.
Embryonic stem-cells are cells that are extracted from an embryo, as the name describes, but this cannot be done without the resultant destruction of the embryo itself (Stem). They theoretically can be used cure genetic diseases and even regenerate organs, but “despite millions of dollars of research, not one--not one--embryonic stem-cell trial has resulted in the successful treatment of a human patient” (Forbes).
Adult stem-cells, on the other hand, are cells taken from the tissues of us grown humans. Again, a pretty self-explanatory name. They’ve actually been successful in saving people’s lives in surgeries. Not only that, but scientists have discovered a way to alter adult stem-cells so that they function exactly the way embryonic stem-cells do. “These cells, called induced pluripotent stem cells (iPS), can do everything an embryonic stem cell is capable of, only without having to destroy a human embryo. Because of this development, there is likely no medical benefit that can come from embryonic stem-cell research that cannot be obtained from adult stem cells” (Forbes). Also, with adult stem-cells coming from the patient themselves, it’s more likely that their body will not reject the treatment and they can be well again.
“Over the years, adult stem cells have resulted in 73 successful treatments for various diseases like Alzheimer's, Type 1 Diabetes, Parkinson's, and various forms of cancer” (Forbes). So, I ask you, if adult stem-cells are obviously working so well and embryonic stem-cells have yet to show any successes, why do we bother with them?
Using embryonic stem-cells to treat diseases is wrong and unneeded. An embryo, the beginning of human life, is created and then destroyed for the sake of treating another’s disease, but it’s unnecessary to do so. Adult stem-cells work just as well, don’t require killing a child, and can come from the sick person themselves, so there is less of a chance of them rejecting the treatment (Underwood). It is wrong to destroy what is indisputably the beginning of human life for the sake of embryonic stem-cell research when adult stem-cells are proven to be more effective.
Embryonic stem-cells are cells that are extracted from an embryo, as the name describes, but this cannot be done without the resultant destruction of the embryo itself (Stem). They theoretically can be used cure genetic diseases and even regenerate organs, but “despite millions of dollars of research, not one--not one--embryonic stem-cell trial has resulted in the successful treatment of a human patient” (Forbes).
Adult stem-cells, on the other hand, are cells taken from the tissues of us grown humans. Again, a pretty self-explanatory name. They’ve actually been successful in saving people’s lives in surgeries. Not only that, but scientists have discovered a way to alter adult stem-cells so that they function exactly the way embryonic stem-cells do. “These cells, called induced pluripotent stem cells (iPS), can do everything an embryonic stem cell is capable of, only without having to destroy a human embryo. Because of this development, there is likely no medical benefit that can come from embryonic stem-cell research that cannot be obtained from adult stem cells” (Forbes). Also, with adult stem-cells coming from the patient themselves, it’s more likely that their body will not reject the treatment and they can be well again.
“Over the years, adult stem cells have resulted in 73 successful treatments for various diseases like Alzheimer's, Type 1 Diabetes, Parkinson's, and various forms of cancer” (Forbes). So, I ask you, if adult stem-cells are obviously working so well and embryonic stem-cells have yet to show any successes, why do we bother with them?
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Complete Draft - and yes, I know I still have work to do. Plus a title.
When an eight-year-old child is bored, you don’t expect her to go after books as her first choice of relief from said boredom. However, one sleepy Friday afternoon, that’s exactly what I did while visiting my grandparents in their California home. My siblings were off on their own doing who knows what, and there were a few convenient shelves just around the corner full of books that used to belong to my aunts and uncles. I had read a lot of the books on the lower shelves already, specifically the Nancy Drew books, and was looking for something new. As my eyes roamed the titles, they alighted upon a name: Judy Blume. I recognized her name from Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing, so I figured something else good had to come from her. Later, my grandma caught me reading her book, Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret, a coming-of-age novel intended for teenage girl. She took it away from me quickly, explaining, “This book isn’t appropriate for you, Annie. Maybe you can read it some other time.”
Limiting the book selection available for young children is, unfortunately, a necessary evil. We have to take away the book when something inside might be too inappropriate or too scary for an eight-year-old. As we get older, the content of books is not a problem where appropriateness is concerned, and you’d think that would mean we would be allowed to access any type of literature. However, there are those that seek to prevent that from happening by challenging books, trying to prevent them from remaining on the shelves of libraries across the nation. But as grown-ups, we have to be able to handle literature of any kind that is out there now, and there’s no point in keeping us in the dark then. Besides, just because a “harmful” type of literature is out there doesn’t mean we have to expose ourselves to it. It’s a choice. So, censorship of books may be necessary for toddlers and elementary school kids, but as we get older, censorship becomes a hindrance. The banning of books as a form of censorship is simply unfair.
Parents don’t want their children exposed to vulgarity, violence, or overly mature topics when they read, and it’s perfectly understandable for them to prevent them from reading books containing such material when their children are younger. But some people in the community take that censorship too far, trying to protect not only their own children but everyone in the community from the so-called bad influences or topics in books. That is where the censorship of books gets to be a problem.
Public and school libraries are constantly challenged by upset parents who claim that some books on their shelves should be removed. They argue that the material is inappropriate or in some other way mentally harmful to readers. But you’d think that people would trust others to make good decisions about what they read. Besides, “harmful” books have even included a picture book entitled Sylvester and the Magic Pebble, in which all of the characters were animals. That one was banned in one library because the police took offense at the fact that the police in the book were portrayed as pigs (List).
The parents of young readers can help their children pick appropriate reading material, and older readers should be expected to choose books that they feel comfortable with. The banning of books is restricting our right to choose what we read. Censoring should fall to parents when it pertains to their children, not the government-funded public libraries. And when it comes to adults choosing for themselves, isn’t that what we are meant to do? If a person finds a book offensive or overly creepy, he or she doesn’t have to read it. But just because they don’t like it doesn’t mean others are of the same opinion.
Over 6,000 books have been challenged across the country since 1990, and it’s estimated that only ¼ of such challenges are ever actually reported (Muse, 22). To make matters worse, 546 books were challenged in 2006 alone, a 30% increase from the year before (Souza). These people are trying to tell others what they should and shouldn’t read, and that’s not acceptable. Maybe your parents can tell you what you can and can’t do, but are you about to let someone you don’t even know tell you that Sylvester and the Magic Pebble is not appropriate for you?
Sometimes, it’s the best books that are falling through the cracks. For example, the Harry Potter series, which supposed promotes witchcraft, is the most-challenged series in history according to the ALA (“Should Schools Ban…”, Souza). But, the series has also sold over 400 million copies worldwide and hooked children worldwide on books (“Harry Potter”). The Giver, written by Lois Lowry, is on the ALA 100 most-challenged books list for 1990-2000, as many have complained of its alleged sexual explicitness and violence (Souza). However, the book was required reading in my middle school for seventh graders, and it’s a book that serves as a warning to the world for what may happen if society becomes controlling. Not only that, but George Orwell’s 1984 is among one of the top banned books of the 20th century (EDITORIAL). This particular book has left such an indelible mark on society, with the movie and the warnings of “Big Brother,” that banning it would do nothing anyway. What’s the point in trying?
Books like 1984 that are important for adults to read are being banned without shame. Most of the time, books are challenged because the material is inappropriate for younger readers or for the target audience. Well, who’s to decide what’s appropriate for a child and what’s not?
Parents are the ones to decide. If you’re a parent, do you like the idea of your young kid reading stories about violent killings? Probably not. So, I’m guessing that you wouldn’t let your child read that violent story until they were older, if they still had any interest. But being an adult yourself, do you like the idea of other adults telling you what you and your child can and can’t read?
Well, that’s exactly what those who seek to ban books are doing. With every challenge comes the chance that a book will be taken off the shelves, whisked away into a void from which they will never reappear.
Books that include violence, profanity, vulgarity, or strongly offensive views on religion are the ones that the banners want to hide. However, all of these things exist in real life, and are unavoidable there. We can’t try to block out the real world from literature. “Exposure to a broad array of thoughts, ideas and material better prepares each of us – even children – to think for ourselves and make informed decisions throughout life” (EDITORIAL).
So, six years after I first picked up Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret, I decided to take another look. It turns out that there was definitely some content in there that was inappropriate for my age back then, but it was nothing to me now. Another curiosity concerning the book is that it has actually been challenged and even banned for what is simply “teenage girl” content in the real world (need to cite here). Looking back on it, I wouldn’t let my eight-year-old self read it.But I wouldn’t let it be banned, because who knows? I’m guessing eight-year-olds aren’t always the ones who want to read it anyway.
Limiting the book selection available for young children is, unfortunately, a necessary evil. We have to take away the book when something inside might be too inappropriate or too scary for an eight-year-old. As we get older, the content of books is not a problem where appropriateness is concerned, and you’d think that would mean we would be allowed to access any type of literature. However, there are those that seek to prevent that from happening by challenging books, trying to prevent them from remaining on the shelves of libraries across the nation. But as grown-ups, we have to be able to handle literature of any kind that is out there now, and there’s no point in keeping us in the dark then. Besides, just because a “harmful” type of literature is out there doesn’t mean we have to expose ourselves to it. It’s a choice. So, censorship of books may be necessary for toddlers and elementary school kids, but as we get older, censorship becomes a hindrance. The banning of books as a form of censorship is simply unfair.
Parents don’t want their children exposed to vulgarity, violence, or overly mature topics when they read, and it’s perfectly understandable for them to prevent them from reading books containing such material when their children are younger. But some people in the community take that censorship too far, trying to protect not only their own children but everyone in the community from the so-called bad influences or topics in books. That is where the censorship of books gets to be a problem.
Public and school libraries are constantly challenged by upset parents who claim that some books on their shelves should be removed. They argue that the material is inappropriate or in some other way mentally harmful to readers. But you’d think that people would trust others to make good decisions about what they read. Besides, “harmful” books have even included a picture book entitled Sylvester and the Magic Pebble, in which all of the characters were animals. That one was banned in one library because the police took offense at the fact that the police in the book were portrayed as pigs (List).
The parents of young readers can help their children pick appropriate reading material, and older readers should be expected to choose books that they feel comfortable with. The banning of books is restricting our right to choose what we read. Censoring should fall to parents when it pertains to their children, not the government-funded public libraries. And when it comes to adults choosing for themselves, isn’t that what we are meant to do? If a person finds a book offensive or overly creepy, he or she doesn’t have to read it. But just because they don’t like it doesn’t mean others are of the same opinion.
Over 6,000 books have been challenged across the country since 1990, and it’s estimated that only ¼ of such challenges are ever actually reported (Muse, 22). To make matters worse, 546 books were challenged in 2006 alone, a 30% increase from the year before (Souza). These people are trying to tell others what they should and shouldn’t read, and that’s not acceptable. Maybe your parents can tell you what you can and can’t do, but are you about to let someone you don’t even know tell you that Sylvester and the Magic Pebble is not appropriate for you?
Sometimes, it’s the best books that are falling through the cracks. For example, the Harry Potter series, which supposed promotes witchcraft, is the most-challenged series in history according to the ALA (“Should Schools Ban…”, Souza). But, the series has also sold over 400 million copies worldwide and hooked children worldwide on books (“Harry Potter”). The Giver, written by Lois Lowry, is on the ALA 100 most-challenged books list for 1990-2000, as many have complained of its alleged sexual explicitness and violence (Souza). However, the book was required reading in my middle school for seventh graders, and it’s a book that serves as a warning to the world for what may happen if society becomes controlling. Not only that, but George Orwell’s 1984 is among one of the top banned books of the 20th century (EDITORIAL). This particular book has left such an indelible mark on society, with the movie and the warnings of “Big Brother,” that banning it would do nothing anyway. What’s the point in trying?
Books like 1984 that are important for adults to read are being banned without shame. Most of the time, books are challenged because the material is inappropriate for younger readers or for the target audience. Well, who’s to decide what’s appropriate for a child and what’s not?
Parents are the ones to decide. If you’re a parent, do you like the idea of your young kid reading stories about violent killings? Probably not. So, I’m guessing that you wouldn’t let your child read that violent story until they were older, if they still had any interest. But being an adult yourself, do you like the idea of other adults telling you what you and your child can and can’t read?
Well, that’s exactly what those who seek to ban books are doing. With every challenge comes the chance that a book will be taken off the shelves, whisked away into a void from which they will never reappear.
Books that include violence, profanity, vulgarity, or strongly offensive views on religion are the ones that the banners want to hide. However, all of these things exist in real life, and are unavoidable there. We can’t try to block out the real world from literature. “Exposure to a broad array of thoughts, ideas and material better prepares each of us – even children – to think for ourselves and make informed decisions throughout life” (EDITORIAL).
So, six years after I first picked up Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret, I decided to take another look. It turns out that there was definitely some content in there that was inappropriate for my age back then, but it was nothing to me now. Another curiosity concerning the book is that it has actually been challenged and even banned for what is simply “teenage girl” content in the real world (need to cite here). Looking back on it, I wouldn’t let my eight-year-old self read it.But I wouldn’t let it be banned, because who knows? I’m guessing eight-year-olds aren’t always the ones who want to read it anyway.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
On the right track now....
Okay, so I actually got rid of a lot of stuff and wrote in some other things, so I feel like I'm more on the right track now. I still haven't done bookends, though.
Censorship is, when it comes to young children, a necessary evil. We don’t like having to withhold information, but we have to when something might be too inappropriate or too scary for a three-year-old. But for teenagers and adults, what is left in books that needs to be kept from us? As grown-up human beings, we have to be able to handle literature of any kind that is out there now, and there’s no point in keeping us in the dark then. Besides, just because a “harmful” type of literature is out there doesn’t mean we have to expose ourselves to it. It’s a choice. On top of that, whether the book is fictional, historical, or a memoir, writing is a form of free speech, which is a right in our country. Censorship is a violation of that right. So, censorship of books may be necessary for toddlers and elementary school kids, but as we get older, censorship becomes a hindrance. The banning of books as a form of censorship is simply unfair.
Adults deem some information and some topics unsafe for children to know. And I admit, there are topics that would traumatize children if they knew about it from the get-go. Plus, parents want to keep their children “innocent” for as long as possible, and that’s understandable. But some people in the community take that censorship too far, trying to protect not only their own children but everyone in the community from the so-called bad influences or topics in books. And here is where the censorship of books gets to be a problem.
Public and school libraries are constantly challenged by upset parents who claim that some books on their shelves should be removed. They argue that the material is inappropriate or in some other way mentally harmful to readers. But you’d think that people would trust others to make good decisions about what they read. Besides, “harmful” books have even included a picture book entitled Sylvester and the Magic Pebble, in which all of the characters were animals. Do you know why that one was banned in one library? Because the police were offended that the policemen in the book were pigs.
The parents of young readers can help their children pick appropriate reading material, and older readers should be expected to choose books that they feel comfortable with. The banning of books is restricting our right to choose what we read. It violates our right to free speech. Censoring should fall to parents when it pertains to their children, not the government-funded public libraries. And when it comes to adults choosing for themselves, isn’t that what we are meant to do? If a person finds a book offensive or overly creepy, he or she doesn’t have to read it. But just because they don’t like it doesn’t mean others are of the same opinion.
Over 6,000 books have been challenged across the country since 1990, and it’s estimated that only ¼ of such challenges are ever actually reported (Muse, 22). To make matters worse, 546 books were challenged in 2006 alone, a 30% increase from the year before (Souza). These people are trying to tell others what they should and shouldn’t read, and that’s not acceptable. Maybe your parents can tell you what you can and can’t do, but are you about to let someone you don’t even know tell you that Sylvester and the Magic Pebble is not appropriate for you to read?
Sometimes, it’s the best books that are falling through the cracks. For example, the Harry Potter series, which supposed promotes witchcraft, is the most-challenged series in history according to the ALA (“Should Schools Ban…”, Souza). But, the series has also sold over 400 million copies worldwide and has won numerous awards, including four Whitaker Platinum Book Awards and three Scottish Arts Council Book Awards (“Harry Potter”). The Giver, written by Lois Lowry, is on the ALA 100 most-challenged books list for 1990-2000, as many have complained of its alleged sexual explicitness and violence (Souza). However, the book was required reading in my middle school for seventh graders, and it’s won a Newbery Medal (“The Giver…”). Not only that, but George Orwell’s 1984 is among one of the top banned books of the 20th century (“EDITORIAL…”).
Censorship is, when it comes to young children, a necessary evil. We don’t like having to withhold information, but we have to when something might be too inappropriate or too scary for a three-year-old. But for teenagers and adults, what is left in books that needs to be kept from us? As grown-up human beings, we have to be able to handle literature of any kind that is out there now, and there’s no point in keeping us in the dark then. Besides, just because a “harmful” type of literature is out there doesn’t mean we have to expose ourselves to it. It’s a choice. On top of that, whether the book is fictional, historical, or a memoir, writing is a form of free speech, which is a right in our country. Censorship is a violation of that right. So, censorship of books may be necessary for toddlers and elementary school kids, but as we get older, censorship becomes a hindrance. The banning of books as a form of censorship is simply unfair.
Adults deem some information and some topics unsafe for children to know. And I admit, there are topics that would traumatize children if they knew about it from the get-go. Plus, parents want to keep their children “innocent” for as long as possible, and that’s understandable. But some people in the community take that censorship too far, trying to protect not only their own children but everyone in the community from the so-called bad influences or topics in books. And here is where the censorship of books gets to be a problem.
Public and school libraries are constantly challenged by upset parents who claim that some books on their shelves should be removed. They argue that the material is inappropriate or in some other way mentally harmful to readers. But you’d think that people would trust others to make good decisions about what they read. Besides, “harmful” books have even included a picture book entitled Sylvester and the Magic Pebble, in which all of the characters were animals. Do you know why that one was banned in one library? Because the police were offended that the policemen in the book were pigs.
The parents of young readers can help their children pick appropriate reading material, and older readers should be expected to choose books that they feel comfortable with. The banning of books is restricting our right to choose what we read. It violates our right to free speech. Censoring should fall to parents when it pertains to their children, not the government-funded public libraries. And when it comes to adults choosing for themselves, isn’t that what we are meant to do? If a person finds a book offensive or overly creepy, he or she doesn’t have to read it. But just because they don’t like it doesn’t mean others are of the same opinion.
Over 6,000 books have been challenged across the country since 1990, and it’s estimated that only ¼ of such challenges are ever actually reported (Muse, 22). To make matters worse, 546 books were challenged in 2006 alone, a 30% increase from the year before (Souza). These people are trying to tell others what they should and shouldn’t read, and that’s not acceptable. Maybe your parents can tell you what you can and can’t do, but are you about to let someone you don’t even know tell you that Sylvester and the Magic Pebble is not appropriate for you to read?
Sometimes, it’s the best books that are falling through the cracks. For example, the Harry Potter series, which supposed promotes witchcraft, is the most-challenged series in history according to the ALA (“Should Schools Ban…”, Souza). But, the series has also sold over 400 million copies worldwide and has won numerous awards, including four Whitaker Platinum Book Awards and three Scottish Arts Council Book Awards (“Harry Potter”). The Giver, written by Lois Lowry, is on the ALA 100 most-challenged books list for 1990-2000, as many have complained of its alleged sexual explicitness and violence (Souza). However, the book was required reading in my middle school for seventh graders, and it’s won a Newbery Medal (“The Giver…”). Not only that, but George Orwell’s 1984 is among one of the top banned books of the 20th century (“EDITORIAL…”).
Monday, October 25, 2010
A bit more of my persuasive essay
I haven't written much more on this essay than what I have posted before, but here it is.
Censorship is, when it comes to young children, a necessary evil. We don’t like having to withhold information, but we have to when something might be too inappropriate or too scary for a three-year-old. But for teenagers and adults, what is left in books that needs to be kept from us? As grown-up human beings, we have to be able to handle literature of any kind that is out there now, and there’s no point in keeping us in the dark then. Besides, just because a “harmful” type of literature is out there doesn’t mean we have to expose ourselves to it. It’s a choice. On top of that, whether the book is fictional, historical, or a memoir, writing is a form of free speech, which is a right in our country. Censorship is a violation of that right. So, censorship of books may be necessary for toddlers and elementary school kids, but as we get older, censorship becomes a hindrance. The banning of books as a form of censorship is unnecessary.
Adults deem some information and some topics unsafe for children to know. And I admit, there are topics that would traumatize children if they knew about it from the get-go. Plus, parents want to keep their children “innocent” for as long as possible, and that’s understandable. But, at that point, we get caught in a vicious cycle. As children get older, we realize that they need to know these things. But, we don’t know how to tell them, and we keep putting it off until some other kid at school tells them about it. That’s where censorship starts to get bad – we don’t know when to stop withholding information.
With children, there’s the same problem with censoring books. Public and school libraries and constantly challenged by upset parents who claim that some books on their shelves should be removed. They argue that the material is inappropriate or in some other way mentally harmful to readers. But you’d think that people would trust others to make good decisions about what they read. Besides, “harmful” books in the past have included the Harry Potter series and even a picture book entitled Sylvester and the Magic Pebble, in which all of the characters were animals. Do you know why that one was banned in one library? Because the police were offended that the policemen in the book were pigs. Ridiculous.
The parents of young readers can help their children pick appropriate reading material, and older readers should be expected to choose books that they feel comfortable with. The banning of books is restricting our right to choose what we read. It violates our right to free speech. Censoring should fall to parents when it comes to their children, not the government-funded public libraries. And when it comes to adults choosing for themselves, isn’t that what we are meant to do? If a person finds a book offensive or overly creepy, he or she doesn’t have to read it. But just because they don’t like it doesn’t mean others are of the same opinion.
Let’s look at some so-called “harmful” books that have been banned in places across the country. For example – the Harry Potter series. The Harry Potter books are the most-challenged books of the 2000s. Over 400 million copies of the books have been sold worldwide, which means at least 400 million people have read them. (And that doesn’t even count how many people those books have been lent to, or the many that have checked them out of libraries. Let’s just say it adds up to a lot of people.) The reason most fanatically protective parents call for its removal from the shelves is its “promotion” of witchcraft. Apparently, readers are not expected to know the difference between reality and fantasy and will be led down the path to evil witchery if they read these books.
You can laugh here. It’s okay. However much it sounds like a joke, though, it’s not.
Yes, the Harry Potter books are banned because people think readers will try to become “witches” after reading it. Well, I have something unfortunate to tell you – witches aren’t real! I started those books in kindergarten and even then I knew it wasn’t real. Readers are underestimated by overprotective parents and members of the community. But nobody likes a person who always thinks they know best for you.
So, let’s peek into this twisted world of banned books a little more. I’m not sure if it will surprise you, but A Light in the Attic, a book of poems by Shel Silverstein, has been previously challenged for teaching children bad behavior, so-called “suggestive” illustrations, and glorifying Satan.
Have you ever read any of Shel Silverstein’s poems? If not, I must tell you that they are pure whimsy. Who would want to ban whimsy, I ask you? And I challenge you to find a reference to Satan in there. Good luck.
I also started my other essay, but I'm still not sure about the topic. It's that people should keep journals and why. Comments?
Censorship is, when it comes to young children, a necessary evil. We don’t like having to withhold information, but we have to when something might be too inappropriate or too scary for a three-year-old. But for teenagers and adults, what is left in books that needs to be kept from us? As grown-up human beings, we have to be able to handle literature of any kind that is out there now, and there’s no point in keeping us in the dark then. Besides, just because a “harmful” type of literature is out there doesn’t mean we have to expose ourselves to it. It’s a choice. On top of that, whether the book is fictional, historical, or a memoir, writing is a form of free speech, which is a right in our country. Censorship is a violation of that right. So, censorship of books may be necessary for toddlers and elementary school kids, but as we get older, censorship becomes a hindrance. The banning of books as a form of censorship is unnecessary.
Adults deem some information and some topics unsafe for children to know. And I admit, there are topics that would traumatize children if they knew about it from the get-go. Plus, parents want to keep their children “innocent” for as long as possible, and that’s understandable. But, at that point, we get caught in a vicious cycle. As children get older, we realize that they need to know these things. But, we don’t know how to tell them, and we keep putting it off until some other kid at school tells them about it. That’s where censorship starts to get bad – we don’t know when to stop withholding information.
With children, there’s the same problem with censoring books. Public and school libraries and constantly challenged by upset parents who claim that some books on their shelves should be removed. They argue that the material is inappropriate or in some other way mentally harmful to readers. But you’d think that people would trust others to make good decisions about what they read. Besides, “harmful” books in the past have included the Harry Potter series and even a picture book entitled Sylvester and the Magic Pebble, in which all of the characters were animals. Do you know why that one was banned in one library? Because the police were offended that the policemen in the book were pigs. Ridiculous.
The parents of young readers can help their children pick appropriate reading material, and older readers should be expected to choose books that they feel comfortable with. The banning of books is restricting our right to choose what we read. It violates our right to free speech. Censoring should fall to parents when it comes to their children, not the government-funded public libraries. And when it comes to adults choosing for themselves, isn’t that what we are meant to do? If a person finds a book offensive or overly creepy, he or she doesn’t have to read it. But just because they don’t like it doesn’t mean others are of the same opinion.
Let’s look at some so-called “harmful” books that have been banned in places across the country. For example – the Harry Potter series. The Harry Potter books are the most-challenged books of the 2000s. Over 400 million copies of the books have been sold worldwide, which means at least 400 million people have read them. (And that doesn’t even count how many people those books have been lent to, or the many that have checked them out of libraries. Let’s just say it adds up to a lot of people.) The reason most fanatically protective parents call for its removal from the shelves is its “promotion” of witchcraft. Apparently, readers are not expected to know the difference between reality and fantasy and will be led down the path to evil witchery if they read these books.
You can laugh here. It’s okay. However much it sounds like a joke, though, it’s not.
Yes, the Harry Potter books are banned because people think readers will try to become “witches” after reading it. Well, I have something unfortunate to tell you – witches aren’t real! I started those books in kindergarten and even then I knew it wasn’t real. Readers are underestimated by overprotective parents and members of the community. But nobody likes a person who always thinks they know best for you.
So, let’s peek into this twisted world of banned books a little more. I’m not sure if it will surprise you, but A Light in the Attic, a book of poems by Shel Silverstein, has been previously challenged for teaching children bad behavior, so-called “suggestive” illustrations, and glorifying Satan.
Have you ever read any of Shel Silverstein’s poems? If not, I must tell you that they are pure whimsy. Who would want to ban whimsy, I ask you? And I challenge you to find a reference to Satan in there. Good luck.
I also started my other essay, but I'm still not sure about the topic. It's that people should keep journals and why. Comments?
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
What I have of my persuasive essay so far...
Censorship is, when it comes to young children, a necessary evil. We don’t like having to withhold information, but we have to when something might be too inappropriate or too scary for a three-year-old. But for teenagers and adults, what is left in any media that needs to be kept from us? As grown-up human beings, we have to be able to handle media of the kind that is out there now, and there’s no point in keeping us in the dark then. Besides, just because a “harmful” type of media is out there doesn’t mean we choose to expose ourselves to it. It’s a choice. On top of that, whether the media is books, video games, or television, media is a form of free speech, which is a right in our country. Censorship is a violation of that right. So, censorship may be necessary for toddlers and elementary school kids, but as we get older, censorship becomes a hindrance.
Adults deem some information and some topics unsafe for children to know. And I admit, there are topics that would traumatize children if they knew about it from the get-go. Plus, parents want to keep their children “innocent” for as long as possible. But, at that point, we get caught in a vicious cycle. As children get older, we realize that they need to know these things. But, we don’t know how to tell them, and we keep putting it off until some other kid at school tells them about it. That’s where censorship starts to get bad – we don’t know when to stop withholding information.
With children, there’s the same problem with censoring books. Public and school libraries and constantly challenged by upset parents who claim that some books on their shelves should be removed. They argue that the material is inappropriate or in some other way mentally harmful to readers. But you’d think that people would trust others to make good decisions about what they read. Besides, “harmful” books in the past have included the Harry Potter series and even a picture book entitled Sylvester and the Magic Pebble, in which all of the characters were animals. Do you know why that one was banned in one library?
Because the police were offended that the policemen in the book were pigs. Ridiculous.
The parents of young readers can help their children pick appropriate reading material, and older readers should be expected to choose books that they feel comfortable with. However, people are too sensitive, and they expect that everyone else is offended by the same books, when really, we think they’re fine. The censoring of books is restricting our right to choose what we read. It restricts our freedom of speech. Censoring should fall to parents when it comes to their children, not the government.
Adults deem some information and some topics unsafe for children to know. And I admit, there are topics that would traumatize children if they knew about it from the get-go. Plus, parents want to keep their children “innocent” for as long as possible. But, at that point, we get caught in a vicious cycle. As children get older, we realize that they need to know these things. But, we don’t know how to tell them, and we keep putting it off until some other kid at school tells them about it. That’s where censorship starts to get bad – we don’t know when to stop withholding information.
With children, there’s the same problem with censoring books. Public and school libraries and constantly challenged by upset parents who claim that some books on their shelves should be removed. They argue that the material is inappropriate or in some other way mentally harmful to readers. But you’d think that people would trust others to make good decisions about what they read. Besides, “harmful” books in the past have included the Harry Potter series and even a picture book entitled Sylvester and the Magic Pebble, in which all of the characters were animals. Do you know why that one was banned in one library?
Because the police were offended that the policemen in the book were pigs. Ridiculous.
The parents of young readers can help their children pick appropriate reading material, and older readers should be expected to choose books that they feel comfortable with. However, people are too sensitive, and they expect that everyone else is offended by the same books, when really, we think they’re fine. The censoring of books is restricting our right to choose what we read. It restricts our freedom of speech. Censoring should fall to parents when it comes to their children, not the government.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Complete DRAFT - Still Have to Revise
Kakkoraphiophobia
“Annie? Annie? Are you listening?” I jerked out of my reverie and faced my friend Amanda, who apparently had been trying to get my attention.
“I’m sorry,” I replied, shaking my head a little as though I was trying to get rid of a bad dream. “I was distracted.”
The two of us and my other friend, Aiden, were walking together through a cafeteria in Raritan Valley Community College. We were there for a field trip, to learn about the Holocaust and hear survivors speak. Right now, the three of us were on our way to one of the mini-workshops with about thirty other kids. After about an hour and a half, the workshop was supposed to be over and we would head back to the cavernous auditorium for a presentation on Illuminations of Genocide. An artist had created these paintings to show the different genocides throughout the years. After, we would hear another survivor speak, and another student would also present a writing piece.
At the end, before we left, it would be my turn…
A few weeks before this field trip, my classmates and I were presented with the opportunity to create a piece of writing about stopping genocide. It could be an essay or a poem. I was unsure about whether or not I wanted to enter, but then the night before it was due, I managed to whip up a twelve-line poem. I turned it in to my writing teacher and thought I would never hear of it again. It wasn’t as if I expected my entry to win anything, what with it being so last-minute.
Sure enough, I did hear about it again. My measly poem had been chosen as a winner by the board. But, there was a catch – I had to read it at the Illuminations of Genocide exhibition on Tuesday evening, and then again in front of students from at least five different schools two days later.
That was something I was not prepared for. Public speaking – especially a poetry reading kind of public speaking – was something I had little to no experience with. Plus, it was a lot of people. I’m no performer, not a solo one, in any case. I had no clue how I was supposed to stand up at that podium in front of a thousand kids my age – who probably didn’t even care about the poem in the first place – and read my writing to them. It seemed to be an impossible task.
On Tuesday night, I had barely survived reading my poem in front of no more than those thirty-odd people who attended the Illuminations of Genocide presentation. This was literally three hundred times worse.
And that was what was racing through my mind when Amanda tried to get my attention. “Is there something wrong? She asked, her brown eyes getting wider with interest.
“I’m just nervous about the poem,” I replied shakily, twisting my mouth into a frown. I had it folded up my poem neatly in my purse. The night before, I had practiced reading it with my teacher once again, and I had highlighted the words I wanted to accent during the presentation. Everything and everyone was ready but me, and I could feel that slim sheet of paper weighing down my purse as though it were a brick instead.
“Oh, you’ll do fine,” she said as she waved her hand through the air, like she was trying to swat away all my worries. “Besides, you’ve already done this on Tuesday, right? This time will be no different.”
Aiden piped up at this time. “And anyway, didn’t you volunteer for this? You did send in the poem, after all.” Both he and Amanda had submitted their own poetry entries, but hadn’t gotten feedback. I had felt bad about winning because of that, but I had been happy that mine was chosen. Now I just felt hollow.
I shrugged casually, pretending that my nerves had passed, and said, “Yeah, I know I did. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.” Then, we continued our short journey to a conference room. As we walked through a hushed library, the college students inside stared at us younger kids. All I could think about as we moved on was that the auditorium would be the same way, except everyone would be staring solely at me. Don’t think that way, Annie, I chided myself silently. Remember, they’re middle school students. How much do you think they’ll care about or pay attention to your poetry?
We entered the conference room. A man in a suit, who turned out to be a lawyer, began his presentation. “Okay, today we’re here to talk about hate crimes…”
A long while later, the other students and I were yawning and stretching as we left our seats. Really, it had only been about an hour, but each second ticked by sluggishly for me, like I could see my time trickling away. I almost wanted to chase after it and shout, “No, wait! I need you!” Absently, I wandered my way out of the library, my feet following the others while my mind wandered in the woods of worst-case scenarios.
The group trudged through the small cafeteria again and up carpeted stairs. My school had ended up in the nosebleed section of the auditorium, all the way at the back and high in the air. As we entered the section, I was stopped by my writing teacher, Ms. Borbely, before I got to my seat.
“Annie! You’re going to be reading at the end, so you need to be sitting near the podium for this part of the presentation,” she explained. I could tell she was excited about this – her eyes were sparkling and she was bouncing up and down a little. She and I exited the same way I came in and descended those carpeted stairs.
Instead of heading toward the library as I had before for the workshop, the two of us headed into the double doors of the lower floor of the auditorium. I was clutching my purse like a life preserver, no doubt wrinkling my paper with the poem on it, as we walked down the aisle between the left and middle sections of seats. The kids on this level were unfamiliar to me, being from other schools, and I just knew I was being stared at again. It was noisy in the auditorium, but the silence would come later.
Ms. Borbely finally stopped at the forefront of the auditorium, at a short row of three seats directly in front of stage right. She and I sat down, and she leaned over and said, “You’re going to read at the very end. After this presentation, another girl will read. Then it’ll be your turn.” Smiling, she practically squeaked, “This is so exciting! Are you still nervous?”
“A little,” I admitted. But I was lying. I was a lot nervous, more than I would ever admit to anybody. However, I was going to pretend that this wasn’t happening in less than an hour, and take in the presentation.
After the Holocaust survivor left the stage, Peppy Margolis, who was in charge of this program, got up to the podium. She boomed, “Could we please have the next reader come to the stage?” After getting no response, she again asked for a girl with an unfamiliar name. People were turning their heads this way and that, craning their necks for a look at the back of the auditorium, trying to find her. But she didn’t show.
Finally, one teacher shouted, “One of the groups isn’t back yet from the workshops!” Oh, dear God, I thought. If she’s not here, then…
That’s when Peppy Margolis came down the steps and asked me, “Could you read now instead? The other girl can read at the end.”
“Oh, of course,” I responded smoothly, calmly, as though a hurricane wasn’t brewing where my stomach should have been. This was just great. At least before, I had been able to find solace in the fact that I didn’t have to go until the end. Well, that source of comfort disappeared fast.
Shakily, I removed the folded poem from my purse. I went up the short set up steps, unfolding the piece of paper as I went. I waited, trembling, behind the podium while Peppy took the microphone.
“Now,” she announced, “We will have Anne Nazzaro read her poem ‘The Solution.’”
Just then, a shockingly loud roar rose from the far reaches of the auditorium. My friends Amanda, Aiden, and a few others had stood up and were clapping, and Amanda yelled “Yeah, Annie!” before being silenced by a look from Mrs. Miller, a fearsome writing teacher. I could even hear distant screams of “We love you, Annie!” from two students jumping up and down in one of the front rows of that top section. I think everyone in my entire grade was clapping or shouting or possibly even both. The raucous applause had started before I had even begun. The uproar was crazy, with all the clapping and yelling, and I couldn’t hold back a grin. My confidence bolstered by their display, I stepped up to the mike.
Though I felt much better after their enthusiastic reaction, I was still afraid, just less so. I gripped the mike firmly, adjusted it to my height, and began.
It was exhilarating and terrifying all at once. As I read, I accented words that I had highlighted on my paper, went softer, then louder, and tried to look up as much as possible. When I did, blank faces stared back at me. All was hushed, except for the echoes of the applause I swore I could still hear. I clung to the microphone the entire time, as though it were a buoy in stormy seas. But even as I hung on for dear life, I knew I would come out on top. Again, time seemed to have slowed down, but why I wouldn’t have known. Was the world trying to savor the few moments I was up there? Or just make them all that more agonizing? As I whispered my last word, I gazed directly into the crowd, and then it was over.
The applause afterward was enthusiastic, and I left the podium and walked down the side of the auditorium with Ms. Borbely, headed toward our school’s section. One of the Holocaust survivors, a blond woman, actually stopped Ms. Borbely on the way and asked if she could have a copy of the poem, which was what made me feel really good about it. Somehow, I, a girl who has had no real hardship in her life, was able to write something that resounded with someone who had gone through real trials. That moment was when I seemed to wake up. What I had done, it wasn’t so hard. I could probably even do it again. All the fretting and inner storms were so useless, I felt silly. I hadn’t had to go through the Holocaust; I just read a poem. That lady had done the first thing and had talked to all of the kids in that auditorium too, and for longer than I had. Perspective on this situation was what I had needed, and she had unwittingly given it to me.
So, I was able to go back up to my seat and smile and laugh with my friends, really laughing at myself. I was such a fool, having let my fears run wild with hypothetical situations. (What if I had tripped on the steps? What if I messed up the words? What if my poem combusted spontaneously?) But in the end, what I’ve gained from this is not to freak out over such situations. They’ll turn out alright in the end, and no one will even really guess how nervous you are. So, I’m going to be calm from now on when I have to speak in front of people. Maybe.
Sorry, I know it would be easier to read if I could get it to indent at the beginning of paragraphs, but I can't. I plan to mess around with the ending a lot before it's done.
“Annie? Annie? Are you listening?” I jerked out of my reverie and faced my friend Amanda, who apparently had been trying to get my attention.
“I’m sorry,” I replied, shaking my head a little as though I was trying to get rid of a bad dream. “I was distracted.”
The two of us and my other friend, Aiden, were walking together through a cafeteria in Raritan Valley Community College. We were there for a field trip, to learn about the Holocaust and hear survivors speak. Right now, the three of us were on our way to one of the mini-workshops with about thirty other kids. After about an hour and a half, the workshop was supposed to be over and we would head back to the cavernous auditorium for a presentation on Illuminations of Genocide. An artist had created these paintings to show the different genocides throughout the years. After, we would hear another survivor speak, and another student would also present a writing piece.
At the end, before we left, it would be my turn…
A few weeks before this field trip, my classmates and I were presented with the opportunity to create a piece of writing about stopping genocide. It could be an essay or a poem. I was unsure about whether or not I wanted to enter, but then the night before it was due, I managed to whip up a twelve-line poem. I turned it in to my writing teacher and thought I would never hear of it again. It wasn’t as if I expected my entry to win anything, what with it being so last-minute.
Sure enough, I did hear about it again. My measly poem had been chosen as a winner by the board. But, there was a catch – I had to read it at the Illuminations of Genocide exhibition on Tuesday evening, and then again in front of students from at least five different schools two days later.
That was something I was not prepared for. Public speaking – especially a poetry reading kind of public speaking – was something I had little to no experience with. Plus, it was a lot of people. I’m no performer, not a solo one, in any case. I had no clue how I was supposed to stand up at that podium in front of a thousand kids my age – who probably didn’t even care about the poem in the first place – and read my writing to them. It seemed to be an impossible task.
On Tuesday night, I had barely survived reading my poem in front of no more than those thirty-odd people who attended the Illuminations of Genocide presentation. This was literally three hundred times worse.
And that was what was racing through my mind when Amanda tried to get my attention. “Is there something wrong? She asked, her brown eyes getting wider with interest.
“I’m just nervous about the poem,” I replied shakily, twisting my mouth into a frown. I had it folded up my poem neatly in my purse. The night before, I had practiced reading it with my teacher once again, and I had highlighted the words I wanted to accent during the presentation. Everything and everyone was ready but me, and I could feel that slim sheet of paper weighing down my purse as though it were a brick instead.
“Oh, you’ll do fine,” she said as she waved her hand through the air, like she was trying to swat away all my worries. “Besides, you’ve already done this on Tuesday, right? This time will be no different.”
Aiden piped up at this time. “And anyway, didn’t you volunteer for this? You did send in the poem, after all.” Both he and Amanda had submitted their own poetry entries, but hadn’t gotten feedback. I had felt bad about winning because of that, but I had been happy that mine was chosen. Now I just felt hollow.
I shrugged casually, pretending that my nerves had passed, and said, “Yeah, I know I did. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.” Then, we continued our short journey to a conference room. As we walked through a hushed library, the college students inside stared at us younger kids. All I could think about as we moved on was that the auditorium would be the same way, except everyone would be staring solely at me. Don’t think that way, Annie, I chided myself silently. Remember, they’re middle school students. How much do you think they’ll care about or pay attention to your poetry?
We entered the conference room. A man in a suit, who turned out to be a lawyer, began his presentation. “Okay, today we’re here to talk about hate crimes…”
A long while later, the other students and I were yawning and stretching as we left our seats. Really, it had only been about an hour, but each second ticked by sluggishly for me, like I could see my time trickling away. I almost wanted to chase after it and shout, “No, wait! I need you!” Absently, I wandered my way out of the library, my feet following the others while my mind wandered in the woods of worst-case scenarios.
The group trudged through the small cafeteria again and up carpeted stairs. My school had ended up in the nosebleed section of the auditorium, all the way at the back and high in the air. As we entered the section, I was stopped by my writing teacher, Ms. Borbely, before I got to my seat.
“Annie! You’re going to be reading at the end, so you need to be sitting near the podium for this part of the presentation,” she explained. I could tell she was excited about this – her eyes were sparkling and she was bouncing up and down a little. She and I exited the same way I came in and descended those carpeted stairs.
Instead of heading toward the library as I had before for the workshop, the two of us headed into the double doors of the lower floor of the auditorium. I was clutching my purse like a life preserver, no doubt wrinkling my paper with the poem on it, as we walked down the aisle between the left and middle sections of seats. The kids on this level were unfamiliar to me, being from other schools, and I just knew I was being stared at again. It was noisy in the auditorium, but the silence would come later.
Ms. Borbely finally stopped at the forefront of the auditorium, at a short row of three seats directly in front of stage right. She and I sat down, and she leaned over and said, “You’re going to read at the very end. After this presentation, another girl will read. Then it’ll be your turn.” Smiling, she practically squeaked, “This is so exciting! Are you still nervous?”
“A little,” I admitted. But I was lying. I was a lot nervous, more than I would ever admit to anybody. However, I was going to pretend that this wasn’t happening in less than an hour, and take in the presentation.
After the Holocaust survivor left the stage, Peppy Margolis, who was in charge of this program, got up to the podium. She boomed, “Could we please have the next reader come to the stage?” After getting no response, she again asked for a girl with an unfamiliar name. People were turning their heads this way and that, craning their necks for a look at the back of the auditorium, trying to find her. But she didn’t show.
Finally, one teacher shouted, “One of the groups isn’t back yet from the workshops!” Oh, dear God, I thought. If she’s not here, then…
That’s when Peppy Margolis came down the steps and asked me, “Could you read now instead? The other girl can read at the end.”
“Oh, of course,” I responded smoothly, calmly, as though a hurricane wasn’t brewing where my stomach should have been. This was just great. At least before, I had been able to find solace in the fact that I didn’t have to go until the end. Well, that source of comfort disappeared fast.
Shakily, I removed the folded poem from my purse. I went up the short set up steps, unfolding the piece of paper as I went. I waited, trembling, behind the podium while Peppy took the microphone.
“Now,” she announced, “We will have Anne Nazzaro read her poem ‘The Solution.’”
Just then, a shockingly loud roar rose from the far reaches of the auditorium. My friends Amanda, Aiden, and a few others had stood up and were clapping, and Amanda yelled “Yeah, Annie!” before being silenced by a look from Mrs. Miller, a fearsome writing teacher. I could even hear distant screams of “We love you, Annie!” from two students jumping up and down in one of the front rows of that top section. I think everyone in my entire grade was clapping or shouting or possibly even both. The raucous applause had started before I had even begun. The uproar was crazy, with all the clapping and yelling, and I couldn’t hold back a grin. My confidence bolstered by their display, I stepped up to the mike.
Though I felt much better after their enthusiastic reaction, I was still afraid, just less so. I gripped the mike firmly, adjusted it to my height, and began.
It was exhilarating and terrifying all at once. As I read, I accented words that I had highlighted on my paper, went softer, then louder, and tried to look up as much as possible. When I did, blank faces stared back at me. All was hushed, except for the echoes of the applause I swore I could still hear. I clung to the microphone the entire time, as though it were a buoy in stormy seas. But even as I hung on for dear life, I knew I would come out on top. Again, time seemed to have slowed down, but why I wouldn’t have known. Was the world trying to savor the few moments I was up there? Or just make them all that more agonizing? As I whispered my last word, I gazed directly into the crowd, and then it was over.
The applause afterward was enthusiastic, and I left the podium and walked down the side of the auditorium with Ms. Borbely, headed toward our school’s section. One of the Holocaust survivors, a blond woman, actually stopped Ms. Borbely on the way and asked if she could have a copy of the poem, which was what made me feel really good about it. Somehow, I, a girl who has had no real hardship in her life, was able to write something that resounded with someone who had gone through real trials. That moment was when I seemed to wake up. What I had done, it wasn’t so hard. I could probably even do it again. All the fretting and inner storms were so useless, I felt silly. I hadn’t had to go through the Holocaust; I just read a poem. That lady had done the first thing and had talked to all of the kids in that auditorium too, and for longer than I had. Perspective on this situation was what I had needed, and she had unwittingly given it to me.
So, I was able to go back up to my seat and smile and laugh with my friends, really laughing at myself. I was such a fool, having let my fears run wild with hypothetical situations. (What if I had tripped on the steps? What if I messed up the words? What if my poem combusted spontaneously?) But in the end, what I’ve gained from this is not to freak out over such situations. They’ll turn out alright in the end, and no one will even really guess how nervous you are. So, I’m going to be calm from now on when I have to speak in front of people. Maybe.
Sorry, I know it would be easier to read if I could get it to indent at the beginning of paragraphs, but I can't. I plan to mess around with the ending a lot before it's done.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Poems from Class Today
Remember Those Donuts?
Remember those donuts?
Oh, you don’t?
Well, I ate them
When dad brought them home
While you were asleep.
I’m sorry
You didn’t get any.
And then there's this one, which isn't as good as the first, in my opinion.
All This Time
So you mean
All this time
I was reading upstairs
You were downstairs
taking care of that dog?
The one that ate my homework yesterday?
The one I don't really like?
I’m sorry
I wasn’t here to help.
Remember those donuts?
Oh, you don’t?
Well, I ate them
When dad brought them home
While you were asleep.
I’m sorry
You didn’t get any.
And then there's this one, which isn't as good as the first, in my opinion.
All This Time
So you mean
All this time
I was reading upstairs
You were downstairs
taking care of that dog?
The one that ate my homework yesterday?
The one I don't really like?
I’m sorry
I wasn’t here to help.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
The Continuing Saga of... my Memoir Drafts (Part 2)
Here's the most up-to-date version of my memoir. Critique and enjoy!
“Annie? Annie? Are you listening?” I jerked out of my reverie and faced my friend Amanda, who apparently had been trying to get my attention.
“I’m sorry,” I replied, shaking my head a little as though I was trying to get rid of a bad dream. “I was distracted.”
The two of us and my other friend, Aiden, were walking together through a cafeteria in Raritan Valley Community College. We were there for a field trip, to learn about the Holocaust and hear survivors speak. Right now, the three of us were on our way to one of the mini-workshops with about thirty other kids. After about an hour and a half, the workshop was supposed to be over and we would head back to the cavernous auditorium for a presentation on Illuminations of Genocide. An artist had created these paintings to show the different genocides throughout the years. After, we would hear another survivor speak, and another student would also present a writing piece.
At the end, before we left, it would be my turn…
A few weeks before this field trip, my classmates and I were presented with the opportunity to create a piece of writing about stopping genocide. It could be an essay or a poem. I was unsure about whether or not I wanted to enter, but then the night before it was due, I managed to whip up a twelve-line poem. I turned it in to my writing teacher and thought I would never hear of it again. It wasn’t as if I expected my entry to win anything, what with it being so last-minute.
Sure enough, I did hear about it again. My measly poem had been chosen as a winner by the board. But, there was a catch – I had to read it at the Illuminations of Genocide exhibition on Tuesday evening, and then again in front of students from at least five different schools two days later.
That was something I was not prepared for. Public speaking – especially a poetry reading kind of public speaking – was something I had little to no experience with. Plus, it was a lot of people. I’m no performer, not a solo one, in any case. I had no clue how I was supposed to stand up at that podium in front of a thousand kids my age – who probably didn’t even care about the poem in the first place – and read my writing to them. It seemed to be an impossible task.
On Tuesday night, I had barely survived reading my poem in front of no more than those thirty-odd people who attended the Illuminations of Genocide presentation. This was literally three hundred times worse.
And that was what was racing through my mind when Amanda tried to get my attention. “Is there something wrong? She asked, her brown eyes getting wider with interest.
“I’m just nervous about the poem,” I replied shakily, twisting my mouth into a frown. I had it folded up my poem nearly in my purse. The night before, I had practiced reading it with my teacher once again, and I had highlighted the words I wanted to accent during the presentation. Everything and everyone was ready but me, and I could feel that slim sheet of paper weighing down my purse as though it were a brick instead.
“Oh, you’ll do fine,” she said as she waved her hand through the air, like she was trying to swat away all my worries. “Besides, you’ve already done this on Tuesday, right? This time will be no different.”
Aiden piped up at this time. “And anyway, didn’t you volunteer for this? You did send in the poem, after all.” Both he and Amanda had submitted their own poetry entries, but hadn’t gotten feedback. I had felt bad about winning because of that, but I had been happy that mine was chosen. Now I just felt hollow.
I shrugged casually, pretending that my nerves had passed, and said, “Yeah, I know I did. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.” Then, we continued our short journey to a conference room. As we walked through a hushed library, the college students inside stared at us younger kids. All I could think about as we moved on was that the auditorium would be the same way, except everyone would be staring solely at me. Don’t think that way, Annie, I chided myself silently. Remember, they’re middle school students. How much do you think they’ll care about or pay attention to your poetry?
We entered the conference room. A man in a suit, who turned out to be a lawyer, began his presentation. “Okay, today we’re here to talk about hate crimes…”
A long while later, the other students and I were yawning and stretching as we left our seats. Really, it had only been about an hour, but each second ticked by sluggishly for me. I could see my time trickling away. I almost wanted to chase after it and shout, “No, wait! I need you!” Every passing moment brought me closer to my impending, terrifying failure. Just the thought of it sent my heart racing. Absently, I wandered my way out of the library, my feet following the others while my mind wandered in the woods of worst-case scenarios.
The group trudged through the small cafeteria again and up carpeted stairs. My school had ended up in the nosebleed section of the auditorium, all the way at the back and high in the air. As we entered the section, I was stopped by my writing teacher, Ms. Borbely, before I got to my seat.
“Annie! You’re going to be reading at the end, so you need to be sitting near the podium for this part of the presentation,” she explained. I could tell she was excited about this – her eyes were sparkling and she was bouncing up and down a little. She and I exited the same way I came in and descended those carpeted stairs.
“Annie? Annie? Are you listening?” I jerked out of my reverie and faced my friend Amanda, who apparently had been trying to get my attention.
“I’m sorry,” I replied, shaking my head a little as though I was trying to get rid of a bad dream. “I was distracted.”
The two of us and my other friend, Aiden, were walking together through a cafeteria in Raritan Valley Community College. We were there for a field trip, to learn about the Holocaust and hear survivors speak. Right now, the three of us were on our way to one of the mini-workshops with about thirty other kids. After about an hour and a half, the workshop was supposed to be over and we would head back to the cavernous auditorium for a presentation on Illuminations of Genocide. An artist had created these paintings to show the different genocides throughout the years. After, we would hear another survivor speak, and another student would also present a writing piece.
At the end, before we left, it would be my turn…
A few weeks before this field trip, my classmates and I were presented with the opportunity to create a piece of writing about stopping genocide. It could be an essay or a poem. I was unsure about whether or not I wanted to enter, but then the night before it was due, I managed to whip up a twelve-line poem. I turned it in to my writing teacher and thought I would never hear of it again. It wasn’t as if I expected my entry to win anything, what with it being so last-minute.
Sure enough, I did hear about it again. My measly poem had been chosen as a winner by the board. But, there was a catch – I had to read it at the Illuminations of Genocide exhibition on Tuesday evening, and then again in front of students from at least five different schools two days later.
That was something I was not prepared for. Public speaking – especially a poetry reading kind of public speaking – was something I had little to no experience with. Plus, it was a lot of people. I’m no performer, not a solo one, in any case. I had no clue how I was supposed to stand up at that podium in front of a thousand kids my age – who probably didn’t even care about the poem in the first place – and read my writing to them. It seemed to be an impossible task.
On Tuesday night, I had barely survived reading my poem in front of no more than those thirty-odd people who attended the Illuminations of Genocide presentation. This was literally three hundred times worse.
And that was what was racing through my mind when Amanda tried to get my attention. “Is there something wrong? She asked, her brown eyes getting wider with interest.
“I’m just nervous about the poem,” I replied shakily, twisting my mouth into a frown. I had it folded up my poem nearly in my purse. The night before, I had practiced reading it with my teacher once again, and I had highlighted the words I wanted to accent during the presentation. Everything and everyone was ready but me, and I could feel that slim sheet of paper weighing down my purse as though it were a brick instead.
“Oh, you’ll do fine,” she said as she waved her hand through the air, like she was trying to swat away all my worries. “Besides, you’ve already done this on Tuesday, right? This time will be no different.”
Aiden piped up at this time. “And anyway, didn’t you volunteer for this? You did send in the poem, after all.” Both he and Amanda had submitted their own poetry entries, but hadn’t gotten feedback. I had felt bad about winning because of that, but I had been happy that mine was chosen. Now I just felt hollow.
I shrugged casually, pretending that my nerves had passed, and said, “Yeah, I know I did. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.” Then, we continued our short journey to a conference room. As we walked through a hushed library, the college students inside stared at us younger kids. All I could think about as we moved on was that the auditorium would be the same way, except everyone would be staring solely at me. Don’t think that way, Annie, I chided myself silently. Remember, they’re middle school students. How much do you think they’ll care about or pay attention to your poetry?
We entered the conference room. A man in a suit, who turned out to be a lawyer, began his presentation. “Okay, today we’re here to talk about hate crimes…”
A long while later, the other students and I were yawning and stretching as we left our seats. Really, it had only been about an hour, but each second ticked by sluggishly for me. I could see my time trickling away. I almost wanted to chase after it and shout, “No, wait! I need you!” Every passing moment brought me closer to my impending, terrifying failure. Just the thought of it sent my heart racing. Absently, I wandered my way out of the library, my feet following the others while my mind wandered in the woods of worst-case scenarios.
The group trudged through the small cafeteria again and up carpeted stairs. My school had ended up in the nosebleed section of the auditorium, all the way at the back and high in the air. As we entered the section, I was stopped by my writing teacher, Ms. Borbely, before I got to my seat.
“Annie! You’re going to be reading at the end, so you need to be sitting near the podium for this part of the presentation,” she explained. I could tell she was excited about this – her eyes were sparkling and she was bouncing up and down a little. She and I exited the same way I came in and descended those carpeted stairs.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
A Gift I Once Gave
I didn't share this in class, but I figured someone might want to read it.
I once gave the gift of a Unicorn vs. Narwhal play set to my friend for his fourteenth birthday. The set included a pink unicorn figurine, a narwhal, and three different detachable “battle horns” for each of them. It was a complete joke of a gift, and it was a joke on purpose, but even then I knew he would like it amid the laughter. I figured it was perfect, because one of his code names (like a username of sorts) had to do with a unicorn. And, when he, his cousin, and I were in Newspaper Club together, we would talk about narwhals often, his cousin arguing that narwhals were better, while I knew my friend secretly disagreed and sided with the unicorns. And, well, I was on the internet, and I found this curious little site called mcphee.com, which has all sorts of useless and funny merchandise. Then, I saw that Unicorn vs. Narwhal playset, and I knew immediately what to do. I didn’t actually pay for it, my mom did, but I was the one who wrapped it and forced my friend to open it while we were at Newspaper Club. I know that two plastic figurines aren’t a typical gift for a fourteen year old boy, but as something to make him laugh, I knew it was worth it. And he did like it. Immediately after his opening it, his cousin asked if he could have the narwhal and another girl requested the unicorn. He said no way, which signaled to me that he enjoyed the gift. All in all, I think it was a successful gift. It definitely had meaning, though not a very serious one. It showed that I knew him well enough as a friend to get that perfect gift. Plus, I knew exactly what would make him smile, and I think that’s what made the gift count the most. That Unicorn vs. Narwhal play set symbolized our bond of friendship in the oddest way imaginable, but since we’re both quirky people, it was also the best way imaginable.
I once gave the gift of a Unicorn vs. Narwhal play set to my friend for his fourteenth birthday. The set included a pink unicorn figurine, a narwhal, and three different detachable “battle horns” for each of them. It was a complete joke of a gift, and it was a joke on purpose, but even then I knew he would like it amid the laughter. I figured it was perfect, because one of his code names (like a username of sorts) had to do with a unicorn. And, when he, his cousin, and I were in Newspaper Club together, we would talk about narwhals often, his cousin arguing that narwhals were better, while I knew my friend secretly disagreed and sided with the unicorns. And, well, I was on the internet, and I found this curious little site called mcphee.com, which has all sorts of useless and funny merchandise. Then, I saw that Unicorn vs. Narwhal playset, and I knew immediately what to do. I didn’t actually pay for it, my mom did, but I was the one who wrapped it and forced my friend to open it while we were at Newspaper Club. I know that two plastic figurines aren’t a typical gift for a fourteen year old boy, but as something to make him laugh, I knew it was worth it. And he did like it. Immediately after his opening it, his cousin asked if he could have the narwhal and another girl requested the unicorn. He said no way, which signaled to me that he enjoyed the gift. All in all, I think it was a successful gift. It definitely had meaning, though not a very serious one. It showed that I knew him well enough as a friend to get that perfect gift. Plus, I knew exactly what would make him smile, and I think that’s what made the gift count the most. That Unicorn vs. Narwhal play set symbolized our bond of friendship in the oddest way imaginable, but since we’re both quirky people, it was also the best way imaginable.
Very First Draft
My first bit of my memoir. It is definitely not polished or complete, but I'd like feedback!
“Annie? Annie? Are you listening?” I jerked out of my reverie and faced my friend Amanda, who apparently had been trying to get my attention.
“I’m sorry,” I replied, shaking my head a little as though I was trying to get rid of a bad dream. “I was distracted.”
The two of us and my other friend, Aiden, were walking together through a cafeteria in Raritan Valley Community College. We were there for a field trip, to learn about the Holocaust and hear survivors speak. Right now, the three of us were on our way to one of the mini-workshops with about thirty other kids. After about an hour and a half, the workshop was supposed to be over and we would head back to the cavernous auditorium for a presentation on Illuminations of Genocide. An artist had created these paintings to show the different genocides throughout the years. After, we would hear another survivor speak, and another student would also present a writing piece.
At the end, before we left, it would be my turn.
A few weeks before this field trip, my classmates and I were presented with the opportunity to create a piece of writing about stopping genocide. It could be an essay or a poem. I was unsure about whether or not I wanted to enter, but then the night before it was due, I managed to whip up a twelve-line poem. I turned it in to my writing teacher and thought I would never hear of it again. It wasn’t as if I expected my entry to win anything, what with it being so last-minute.
Sure enough, I did hear about it again. My measly poem had been chosen as a winner by the board. But, there was a catch – I had to read it at the Illuminations of Genocide exhibition on Tuesday evening, and then again in front of students from at least five different schools two days later.
That was something I was not prepared for. Public speaking – especially a poetry reading kind of public speaking – was something I had little to no experience with. Plus, it was a lot of people. I’m no performer, not a solo one, in any case. I had no clue how I was supposed to stand up at that podium in front of a thousand kids my age – who probably didn’t even care about the poem in the first place – and read my writing to them. It seemed to be an impossible task.
“Annie? Annie? Are you listening?” I jerked out of my reverie and faced my friend Amanda, who apparently had been trying to get my attention.
“I’m sorry,” I replied, shaking my head a little as though I was trying to get rid of a bad dream. “I was distracted.”
The two of us and my other friend, Aiden, were walking together through a cafeteria in Raritan Valley Community College. We were there for a field trip, to learn about the Holocaust and hear survivors speak. Right now, the three of us were on our way to one of the mini-workshops with about thirty other kids. After about an hour and a half, the workshop was supposed to be over and we would head back to the cavernous auditorium for a presentation on Illuminations of Genocide. An artist had created these paintings to show the different genocides throughout the years. After, we would hear another survivor speak, and another student would also present a writing piece.
At the end, before we left, it would be my turn.
A few weeks before this field trip, my classmates and I were presented with the opportunity to create a piece of writing about stopping genocide. It could be an essay or a poem. I was unsure about whether or not I wanted to enter, but then the night before it was due, I managed to whip up a twelve-line poem. I turned it in to my writing teacher and thought I would never hear of it again. It wasn’t as if I expected my entry to win anything, what with it being so last-minute.
Sure enough, I did hear about it again. My measly poem had been chosen as a winner by the board. But, there was a catch – I had to read it at the Illuminations of Genocide exhibition on Tuesday evening, and then again in front of students from at least five different schools two days later.
That was something I was not prepared for. Public speaking – especially a poetry reading kind of public speaking – was something I had little to no experience with. Plus, it was a lot of people. I’m no performer, not a solo one, in any case. I had no clue how I was supposed to stand up at that podium in front of a thousand kids my age – who probably didn’t even care about the poem in the first place – and read my writing to them. It seemed to be an impossible task.
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