Plans as a Writer

Do you have any plans to how you want to use your writing as a place for you to think?

I’ve always kept a journal to write about things in my life. I remember the night when I found out that my sister is going to have a little girl, and I pulled my journal out and had to write she’s having a girl several times. It helps me realize things. It helps me acknowledge things in my life so that I don’t lock them away just like my past.

In writing in this course did I find there were issues of craft that I wanted to change (style writing)?

Not really. I’ve always just written what I feel, and I’ve never given much account with for style writing and content. To me, my style of writing has always been a journal. I don’t expect it to ever be outside of that.

Are any of you starting to think about being in a writers group or going to a work conference?

Not likely. I’m comfortable, to the extent in this class but I’m not comfortable with exposing all of my writing (or any of my writing) to an outside audience. My writing is reserved to the people I have daily contact with.

Have I thought about how I plan to use my writing in my career?

I plan to be a high school English teacher. I suppose I can use some of my writing to give benefit to some of the students I’ll be having contact with. I haven’t given it too much thought because my brain has not registered to the idea of me being a teacher as of yet.

Do you have any interests that you’d like to write about outside of my career?

Not really. The most I’d like to write about is my personal story, but only once I’m sure that my story has been mostly played out. I know that the story is never over, but I want to have a clear focus. I don’t plan to write a novel, or plan to write short stories. I don’t plan to write. I don’t plan, I just do it.

Do I plan to show my writing to anyone who had an impact on that writing?

No. Even though it feels like I’ve opened up Pandora’s Box, I’m not ready to share my story with my family. I’ve got enough closure from myself; I don’t need them for it.

Do I have any long term/short term plans for publication?

Nope. I don’t plan to ever be published. My story is mine, and I intend to keep it like that.

Reflective Essay so Far

I should have written down a question that I wanted to open this essay with. I remember in a class, not this class, that one of my teachers asked us what kind of story we wanted to tell. I think it was my children’s literature class. I’m not comparing my children’s lit class to this class, but indirectly they are very similar. Probably my favorite essay of this class was my memoir, because it helped me reconnect with a part of my past that I had locked away in my memory. In my children literature class, one of the assignments was to write your own short story. Even though the story was fictional, it helped me open up a door of emotions that most people forget as they grow up. My memoir was a continuation of this experience. The subjects were not the same. My children literature story was about a 6-year-old girl who has her best friend move away (Also part of my past, if you’re interested) and of course my memoir was about the dysfunctional organization that my family was when I was 10 and 11. In a way, they both represent a void that was present in me for much of my adolescence, and in part, will always exist. The lack of secure emotions open into a large freewrite and journal entries that would make a child psychologists head spin. Anyway, I’m getting off topic, if I even have a topic at this point.
For my childrens literature class, one of our final projects was to identify a meaningful learning experience that we had achieved in that class. I’m not too proud to say I did not have a strong focus or experience to write about. In a way, when you asked us what is the most important thing you learned about writing in this course is I learned very little about writing at all. One of the few things I did learn about my writing this semester, is that there is no proper way to teach someone to write. Everyone has their own style, their own experiences, and their own free will. Writing is about expression and not conforming to standards. It’s about self realization, regardless of genre. Every piece of creative non fiction has something to do with self realization, and personal involvement.
For the sake of this essay, I should go back to the beginning of writing my memoir. Back before I had a topic and back before I had a focus. Seems like it was an eternity ago now. I remember thinking that I didn’t really know what to expect from this class. I knew we had essays, and I knew the definition of creative non fiction. The one question I couldn’t answer was what I wanted to reveal about my life, and my past in this essay. I remember you telling us the difference between a personal essay and a memoir was that in a memoir, you had to step away and look at your topic from another glance. I decided that I would write about my childhood right then and there. I didn’t expect anyone to see the connection between my dysfunctional family and the web of closure that I didn’t want anyone else to see. In the beginning, I don’t even think I realized the connection between the two subjects. For quite a while, it felt like I was writing about someone else’s life rather than my own.
Prior to writing this essay, my childhood was a book that almost always stayed closed. Even when I was a teenager, I would clam up to everyone who ever talked or asked me about my childhood. Even my family, who had been there and not been there during the years when my life had changed chose to ignore the past and keep the book closed. That was the reassurance I needed.

Amazingly, after years of locking up my childhood and all the memories that I chose to forget, I opened the book myself by choice.

One of the first memories which I can honestly say triggered all the rest of the memories was one night, years after this situation with my sister and I. We were having a fight over something stupid. I think she was complaining about wanting to go online and I was online (we were still using dialup at this point.) After a few angry words and possibly some threats too, I said I HATE YOU. Needless to say, she shut her mouth fast. Then you asked the question which would redefine our lives forever. “Why can’t we be close like “Normal” sisters? Why do you hate me?” That was the strongest opening point of my essay. That’s where I think my story begins. Only by the end of the story could I really answer that question to her. We Were Different.
I’m not sure how, but I remember laying in room with that question being asked over and over again. I started remembering. For a few moments, I was not 15 or however old I was at the time of the fight, but I was ten-years-old again. Laying in my bed, next to my window where I had been looking out for years. Laying there, I was ten-years-old and the alone in the house.

Reading through my essay again, I found my line I’ll remember all of this. I’ll remember all of these memories.”
It’s a bit ironic that one of the stronger points of my essay was telling myself that I would never forget this. For years, I had forgotten about it. For years, it wasn’t a part of my life. It did bring me back to where I needed to be. During the time frame of when I wrote the last segment to now, I was lost in a daze. The only imagery I could see and feel in my mind was laying there alone. I didn’t know how to wake up from it. I don’t remember how I woke up from it last time. I don’t completely understand how I coped, how I moved on, and how I created a new life with no past. This is getting a bit too off topic.
The next thing I remembered (in my original draft) was being a freshman in high school. Somehow, I had erased the last four years of my life between laying in my bed and high school. The first day of school, and seeing the teachers reactions when they saw my last name. I remember hearing about all the stories about my sister. My first day of high school can be compared to the first day in this class. That has a long writing process. I didn’t know or understand what I wanted people to know about me. Was I just the little sister to the legend, or was I my own person?

Blog 16- Questions to Reflect

What is the most important thing I learned about writing in this course?

Hard to say. I guess this would be a focus for my reflective paper. I guess I can say that I learned that when you write about something, it’s never over. Nothing is ever over.

What is the most important thing I learned about my writing process in this course?

I learned when was the best way for me to write. I never used to freewrite. I used to think it didn’t have a purpose. I learned how to overturn my sleep cycle, and think more clearly.

Which essay was the hardest from me to write? What did I learn from writing it?

The nature essay was horrible for me to write. I’ve never been into nature and it goes against my form of writing. I remember you talked to us about nature is a system. In my mind, that meant that everything had to work out. I know real life isn’t like that.

Which essay did I learn the most from writing?

Probably my memoir. It was the essay that felt the most real to me. Even though everything I wrote is true, my other essays just felt wrong to me. Like I wasn’t the one who should be writing that story. The memoir felt personal.

What do I want to write my reflective essay about?

Ack, direct question. I haven’t really decided this one yet. I’ll have to do some more freewriting.

What do I NOT want to write about for my reflective essay. Why?

I don’t want to write my reflective essay about current events. So, my job at target, and my sisters pregnancy are out of the question. They haven’t played out yet, and I’m not ready to interpret the world out of them yet. Life comes before writing. You can’t write faster than you live.

List of Activities Blog 14

1. Most times, when I start writing, I don’t have a topic or a focus. I start to free write and see what comes to my mind. I’m constantly second guessing my topics. I’m never sure how much information I’m comfortable giving out.

2. I do best with writing that although involves me, does not have myself as the central focus. This is why my Personal essay was about my sister, and her journey. My memoir was about my family and its journey and my journalism essay about my job and its employees.

3. Try to describe the scenario, or the key points of the scenario, as if I don’t know anything about the topic.

4. I don’t do outlines. I just let my writing stroll through my memory, and refuse to edit until the story is told.

Blog 13- Rhetorical Analysis of Publication Venues

Rhetorical Analysis of Publication Venues


1. Analysis of the editorial description of essays accepted
See http://www.cupofcomfort.com/share.htm#guidelines
Explores the occurances which are ordinary and extraordinary. They also shed light on the events that change or define our lives. “Refreshingly Real Stories Of Extraordinary Experiences In Ordinary Lives”
Welcomes personal, non fictional stories. Gives an emphasis on truth and has sever sub-genres that relate to different audiences. These include friends, women, mothers, daughters, and teachers. There is also a specialized section for Christmas stories, and inspirational stories.

Reading dates: Submissions are read on a rolled basis, and each sub-genre has a different date.
.
2. Description of several representative essays published in your venue;
sample essays= on their website.
Bedloe, Maura, "Something More," (Courage)
Holt, Joyce, "Angel Wings;" (Inspiration)
Massand, Nancy, "Time Out." (Mothers and Daughters)
Scher, Edie, "The Lady in the Blue Dress." (A Cup of Comfort)

subject matter (defining/uplifting/relationships) - varied subject material – visible limitations include works that do not teach a lesson, experience an epiphany, and end positively.
voice: Uplifting literature+ philosophical reflecting - essays accepted here will need to include a meaning, or moral, to serve as a central focus.
depth of discussion: many of these stories are carefully crafted to expose the message in a unique way. They no do drudge extra information or give negative highlights without a solution. Can be compared to Chicken Soup Magazine.
form (modes of writing) description, narration, dialog; Dialog compromises the “small talk” of the story. Most of the emphasis is given on the imagery and movements.
artistry: Very high- much emphasis on creativity in terms of imagery and angles. They place value on the ordinary, blessed with imagery. It gives it another life. There is value on originality, and the usage of recurring images or phrases,
length: up to 2000 words

3. Niche
audience - literary, passionate audience - interested in releasing emotions about the events in their life. Looking for closure. Looking for a connection to resolve their past or present morals.
purpose - publish beautiful, well-crafted writing that idealizes the situations that many families encounter. Although it critiques to friends and family alike, there is a niche that brings people together.

4. Other
Accepts email submissions-prefers them- = see website for specifics
The writer is notified shortly after the deadline date.
Publishes unsolicited manuscripts
No mention of pay.

Revised Memoir

My sister and I have become very different people. Currently, I am a 23 year old junior in college working two jobs and going to school full time. My sister, Jennifer, is a 26 year old recent college graduate expecting her first child. My parents have never tried to treat us equally and my sister has never stopped running from their expectations. Floating through school, through boyfriends, through housing—nothing in here life has been stable. I believe that the decisions that impacted us during our adolescences have made us who we are today. Unfortunately, there is recurring question my sister continues to ask. “Why can’t we be close like “Normal” sisters? Why do you hate me?” She could never realize we have never been like “normal” sisters. We have always been us. My sister was first at walking, talking, reading, writing and unfortunately finding trouble and following it. It was almost as if we were born from two different families. It wasn’t until years later my sister acknowledged the fact that I had known all my life. We were different. Sometimes, I wonder whether we were born differently, or if our adolescents through us into an alternate reality.
When I was 10 years old my family was going through a difficult time. My grandfather had just recently passed away and my father was still an emotional wreck. He had not been working for the last several months, and my mother was paying most of our bills. My sister had just turned 13, and had begun to develop a less than appropriate temperament. She was constantly referred to as a rebel child. My parents had little assets to accommodate what was going on in their lives, much less to help my sister Jennifer.
My parents would be sitting at the dinning room table paying some bills. Jennifer would come down the stairs, “I’m going out. Bye” Before my parents could get two words out of their mouth, she was gone. Later that night, “John, did Jennifer say where she was going” my mother would ask. He would reply “No idea” as they both sat mindlessly in front of the television.
Originally I used to blame my sister for abusing my parent’s tolerance. After several months of my sister constantly breaking the rules my parents decided to try something new. My godparents had referred them to an organization called “Tough Love.” Every Tuesday night they would go to these “tough love” meetings. The goal was to control my sister through the advice of the people in the organization.
Often times I would imagine my parents at these meetings. I could see them sitting in a circle say, “Our names are John and Maryanne and we can’t control our daughter.”
Our routine would become so predictable.
Walking home from school at 3:30 in the afternoon, I would walk through the door and call my grandmother to tell her I was home. Every Tuesday my mother would walk in the door at 5 pm. “Hello? Jessica?” she would call when she entered the door knowing I’d be home. “What do you want for dinner?” I didn’t really have many options. I would usually have some sort of pasta. While I was finishing homework, my father would enter. At 5:45 we would have a brief dinner. “Jessica, how was your day?” My father would ask. “It was okay.” My social life never had much interaction. This was probably the only reason my parents had no issues with my adolescence.
For years, they would just refer to this place as “the group.” While I was growing up, my parents tried to ignore the seriousness of this situation with my sister. More amazingly, while my parents were at these meetings my sister was elsewhere. She often didn’t make it home before I fell asleep. I’m not sure whether they didn’t know she was out, or just didn’t know how to react to her.
My mother would kiss my forehead right before they left. “Don’t stay up too late Jess.” I would nod, and say goodnight. Later that night I would be watching Full house. I could imagine that being the perfect family. Nothing like mine. None of the kids would ever be left alone all night every Tuesday.

At times, I am still angry about what those years did to my family. I would come home from school expecting a war zone in progress. Sometimes I really wondered if I didn’t come home, would they even notice? Some days I would take the extra ten minute walk to my grandmother’s house instead. I could hear from the television room from when my grandmother would call my father.
“John, Jessica is over here. She walked here from school.” My grandmother was my stone during these years. She was still mourning the loss of her husband, and I was mourning the loss of security in my family. She would never pry me for information like my parents did. It was almost like clockwork. At 5 PM my mother would stop at my grandmothers after she got off of work. “Jess, it’s time to go home.” The three minute drive home was filled with silence. She would ask about school, and then I was in my room.
Coming downstairs for dinner, right before they would leave for the group every Tuesday night was always the same.
“But why do you guys need to keep going to the group? It’s not helping us.” I would plea with my parents. My father would respond, “That’s why we’re going. We need help. We don’t know how to fix this.” I would sigh, and whisper to myself “just leave us here. Doesn’t make a difference to you.”

During the first year that my parents had been attending “the group” we nearly had a meltdown. My father and sister were having a fight. Although no one can remember the exact reason for the fight, it was not exactly an uncommon occurrence.
“Just Leave Me Alone!” my sister would yell at my father. “This is my life and I can take care of myself.” My father has always been very passive. Trying to reason with my sister was as easy as knocking down a brick wall. She stormed down the stairs with my father directly behind her. He was breathing heavily. “I’m fed up with all of this.” Right as she finished saying that, she was gone. “Jess, Jess, go get my medicine. I can barely breathe.” I was scared. It was the most surreal thing I had ever seen happen to my father. “Here Dad, here’s your pills.” His eyes closed as I gave him the bottle. “DAD, DAD” I was screaming. I grabbed the phone and immediately called 911.
“911 Emergency. How can I help you?” the operator would say. “My dad was having trouble breathing and he’s not answering.” I remember the pace of my heart, which was pounding with fear. “The ambulance is on the way.”
The ambulance came immediately. When it pulled up, my neighbor came next door to see what was wrong. “Theresa, something happened to my dad. He and my sister had a big fight” I said. “Did you call your mother yet?” and I shook my head no. My neighbor had seen my sister and I grow up. She had always been there for us.
“Maryanne, you need to come home. Jennifer and John had a fight and the paramedics are here.” I can only imagine how fast my mother hung up the phone and ran out the door.
When my sister returned, the ambulance was just leaving. She walked through the door as if nothing had happened. “What the hell happened?” She looked right at my father, and deciding to walk upstairs to her room without an answer. I had never seen her with such a guilty face until that day. My mother looked as if she was alone. “Thank you for being so responsible Jess. You did a very important thing today.” She refused to look my sister in the face. I could imagine what my mother’s eyes were saying. “This is our family and you are ripping it apart. You need to change. You need to grow up.” Sitting at the dinner table, my sister was full of shame and regret. Things were very quiet that evening. After that night, I tried to look the other way when my sister and parents were arguing. This family struggle continued for the next few years. I’ll remember all of this. I’ll remember all of these memories.”
My family went through hard times the next few years. When she was 15, my parents did one of the most difficult things they had ever done. My parents were talking to my sister’s Godparents.
“We really don’t know what to do anymore. She never listens to us. We were hoping that she could stay with you for a little bit this summer. We need a break.” Her godparents accepted saying that it would be “no problem.” I could see the pain and regret on my fathers face that things had escaladed to this.
During my freshman year of high school my sister and I shared the same school for the first time. Nearly all of my teachers knew who I was because of her, and needless to say it was not always a good thing. “Is it true she has been kicked out of the house? She has been in so many fights. I heard she was even kicked out of conflict mediation.”
My sister had always felt like the world was going to bow down to her every whim. Sneaking out, stealing, smoking on our schools field, and to no avail the world would protect her. Regardless of how many fights she was in “I’ll still graduate. I’ll still be alright.” No matter how many times she had been suspended for smoking “I’ll still graduate. I’ll still be alright.”
I believe the biggest block in her road happened during the summer before her senior year. It’s been such an infamous incident that most of my family refuses to ever bring it up. I recently asked my mother about it, from a brief memory I had. It was a typical night. “I’m going out. Bye.” At this point, my parents didn’t know how to react to her. About an hour later, I was upstairs and heard the phone ring. It was 10 PM at night. The call came from Bellevile Police. My sister had been picked up for being with some older kids who tried to steal from a liquor store. My father said “I’ll be right there.” I didn’t want to imagine the war zone when my sister got home. I went back to my room and tried to ignore the screaming that came from downstairs. I’m not sure what my parents could have said to her, but they must have meant it. Shortly after this incident she began to face the reality if she was kicked out, she was an adult. “I guess I’ve been putting you guys through a lot haven’t I? I’m sorry. This is who I am.” Things weren’t perfect. They still aren’t perfect. My parents have learned a lot about accommodation though.
I’ve never fully accepted the decisions my parents and my sister made during those years. In relevance, the decisions they made probably helped our family survive.
They have always been there for me when I need them to be. Because of this experience, they realized that I need my personal space and I also need parents. They realized that if they constantly pressure me for information about my life I will close them out of my life just as she did. Although my sister and I have very little in common, we still come from the same family.

Blog #9

#1
There is a tree next to the library that has small pin like needles that remind me of a Christmas tree. The shape of the tree is very peculiar because in many ways, it reminds me of a spider. Hanging from the leaves are golden cones that remind me of honeycomb. Surrounding the cones, there are about a dozen bees circling the tree. You’ve taught us to appreciate nature writing as a system. This tree has many forms of systems. The tree has a moist bark, and is directly in the sunlight. In the shade of this tree is a small tree/weed that is apparently dying. This smaller plant is weak, due to its lack of resources. The larger tree is absorbing all the sunlight, nutrients, and moisture in the air. They provide a balancing effect between the combs and the bees: among the natural word. The golden cones hanging from the trees also act as a host for the bees which are circling. Although it is not apparent whether the cones are meant to be there as a beneficiary or if they are a source of weakness, the bees are circling it as if it is honeycomb. Bees have a natural attraction to the color yellow. Whether they are serving any ecological resource, they provide a memorizing relationship between the bees and the combs. They also provide a balancing effect between the combs and the bees: among the natural word. I think my reflection would deal with a balancing of natural resources in comparison to what we have to share in our own natural lives.

#2
In comparison to the first tree which had a series of balances to nature, the second tree I saw had no balance and was nearly completely rotted. Despite being rotted, there is moss growing on the ground and the leaves were not dried out at all. Although the bark is extremely hard, and easily breakable, there still is moisture in the leaves. It is directly in the sunlight during noon time, and possibly for most of the afternoon. For a reflection, I would like to do a compare contrast position comparing the limited resources and the rotting of the tree. There are so many parallels I use that comparison for in the natural/non-natural world.

#3
I'd probably try to do something with those bees. Finding out about their fascination with yellow, and if there’s a hormonal reason they are so attracted to the yellow cones on the first tree.

Ideas for Nature Essay

While I was out observing at Kean University, I found two trees that interested me.

One of the trees was on the side of the library, it reminded me of a spider shaped christmas tree. The leaves felt like pine, without the smell. They were rough like a cactus would feel like. Along the brances were golden pieces of what looked like honeycomb. There were a few bee's swarming around the golden pieces. The park was exceptionally smooth, almost like it was full of nutrients. There was a side plant which was wilting underneath the large tree. The small plant was in the shade, as if it recieved little to no sunlight.

Further down on campus, down by the reflection garden I found a extremely large tree with the entire middle rotted. Along the ground, there was moss which was growing among leaves which had fallen. The branches that still hung from the tree were breaking off with apparent signs of rotting. The bark of the tree was very rough and easily breakable. I'm believing that the tree was dehydrated. Consequently, the leaves were not dried out or easily crumbling. On each of the branches there were spiky little balls hanging from the leaves. Many of these had also fallen onto the floor. Inside the middle of the tree, where it was rotted, there was a wide array of colors. I saw a wide mixture of browns, blacks, yellow-green spots mixed together. Even more apparent, inside the bark of the tree were holes spread through the middle.

Essay on Truth- Blog 7

What is your story about? Are the details you selected true to that focus?

My memoir is about the struggles that my family went through with my sister, and my own personal feelings of abandonment, inferiority, weakness, and disregard that were approached at that time.

Are there any "facts" which you are uncertain of which you have set forward as true?

Most of the details in my memoir I have full and clear memory of because this was an emotional standpoint in my adolescence. The only details I was unsure was the name of the group, and the exact time when my parents would leave.

Have you made changes in setting, time, or sequence which are unacknowledged?

No, all of the settings, times, and sequence are in chronological order over the time period of several years.

Have you fabricated dialog which you cannot remember (without acknowledging that you do not remember exact words)?

One of my first initial scenes when my sister was elsewhere and my parents were sitting watching TV is slightly sketchy. I do remember the name of my sister coming up, as well as her whereabouts but I’m not sure on the exact words.

Have you written your experience - or does your story cast you in terms of a "type" (like Frey)?

I’m not quite sure what this question is asking. At the time this situation occurred, I had no written acknowledgment of it (like a diary, journal, etc) but I remember the situation very well so I do not believe it is cast in terms of a type.

Are there relevant details which you deliberately left out? Why did you leave them out? Anything you are trying to avoid?

No, any details that occurred during the course of my story were not relevant to this memoir.

Can you detect any hedges, evasions, revisions which represent the self as more sophisticated, experienced, thoughtful, etc than the self at the time of the writing?

Not at this current time. When I was writing, I tried to put myself in the place that I was in during this occurrence. I’m sure that there will be revisions once I step back and look at this essay from a more updated perspective, but I haven’t done that yet.

What is suggested by what you selected to represent, and what you chose to leave out? Have you selected details to make your story more dramatic, more persuasive, or more "profound" than it merits? Does it need to be balanced by the addition of other selections in order to make it "true"?

While writing this story, I tried to suggest the roles of a family and how parents’ decisions make a big impact on their children’s’ adolescence. I would not consider this a dramatic or persuasive essay, but it is far from profound. It’s a work in progress.

Does the tone of your essay reveal anything about your relationship to your material? Why do you think you chose the tone you take in your essay (humorous, ironic, serious, self-righteous, respectful, lyrical . . . .)

Absolutely. That is what I was going for. I want my essay to reveal the abandonment, inferiority, weakness, and disregard that controlled my adolescence in many ways. I want my story to reveal that decisions made when we were children are going to have a presence in our adult lives.

Have you demonized or idealized any of the people in your story? If so, what was your motive? Why do you think you wrote to that particular need?

After re-reading the story, I realized that I have demonized my sister. Although everything in this essay is true, I have let out the fact that she has severely changed in the years after all of this.

If there are some pieces of the truth that you intend to hold back, can you tell this story "truthfully" despite those missing pieces? What might you need to add to make sure you do not misrepresent what your story is about?

As I mentioned previously, I have not left out any relevant information into this essay. I can say that this story is told very truthfully despite outside information.

Truth- Frey- Blog 6.5

The association with truth in a non-fiction novel is fleeting. This is because we are so often we are often blind to our histories. We explore the history and story of our lives as a personal experience and often non judgmental. Also, often times the best of stories is surrounded by a conflict. We try to block out the negative elements in our life. We have difficulty establishing a solid argument without divulging too much personal information. In the case of Frey, a Million Little Pieces can be translated into jumbles of a life segmented for entertainment. I’m sure there are parts of his book which are completely false, but in a sense it gives gratification to his life. Every writers wants to feel gratification for what they have written, even when it is unjustified.

Ever since Oprah started discussing Frey’s novel it has gone sky high in publicity. Frey plays many roles that are on opposite ends of the spectrum. He’s a victim, a criminal, a martyr, a humanitarian, and a member of the underworld. Every writer attempts to justify their lives in their writing, but Frey does it in an unusual way. Where as a writer would normally try to accommodate to the readers life, he attempts to draw the reader into his lifestyle.

Revised Memoir- 6.1

I’ve lived in the same house for my entire life. Through my 23 years of life, my house has been filled with joy, anger, aggression, sorrow, and every emotion in between. As we have grown up together, my sister and I are very different people. There have been times my mother has said that she would never know we are sisters. My mother reminds me of the small differences, like how my sister was constantly crying as an infant and how I almost never did. Growing up, we were treated vastly different. My sister was first at walking, talking, reading, writing and unfortunately finding trouble and following it.

When I was 10 years old my family was going through a difficult time. My grandfather had just recently passed away and my father was still an emotional wreck. He had not been working for the last several months, and my mother was paying most of our bills. My sister had just turned 13, and had begun to develop a less than appropriate temperament. She was constantly referred to as a rebel child. My parents had little assets to accommodate what was going on in their lives, much less to help my sister Jennifer.
My parents would be sitting at the dinning room table paying some bills. Jennifer would come down the stairs, “I’m going out. Bye” Before my parents could get two words out of their mouth, she was gone. Later that night, “John, did Jennifer say where she was going” my mother would ask. He would reply “No idea” as they both sat mindlessly in front of the television.
Originally I used to blame my sister for abusing my parent’s tolerance. After several months of my sister constantly breaking the rules my parents decided to try something new. My godparents had referred them to an organization called “Tough Love.” Every Tuesday night they would go to these “tough love” meetings. The goal was to control my sister through the advice of the people in the organization.
Often times I would imagine my parents at these meetings. I could see them sitting in a circle say, “Our names are John and Maryanne and we can’t control our daughter.”
Our routine would become so predictable.
Walking home from school at 3:30 in the afternoon, I would walk through the door and call my grandmother to tell her I was home. Every Tuesday my mother would walk in the door at 5 pm. “Hello? Jessica?” she would call when she entered the door knowing I’d be home. “What do you want for dinner?” I didn’t really have many options. I would usually have some sort of pasta. While I was finishing homework, my father would enter. At 5:45 we would have a brief dinner. “Jessica, how was your day?” My father would ask. “It was okay.” My social life never had much interaction. This was probably the only reason my parents had no issues with my adolescence.
For years, they would just refer to this place as “the group.” While I was growing up, my parents tried to ignore the seriousness of this situation with my sister. More amazingly, while my parents were at these meetings my sister was elsewhere. She often didn’t make it home before I fell asleep. I’m not sure whether they didn’t know she was out, or just didn’t know how to react to her.
My mother would kiss my forehead right before they left. “Don’t stay up too late Jess.” I would nod, and say goodnight. Later that night I would be watching Full house. I could imagine that being the perfect family. Nothing like mine. None of the kids would ever be left alone all night every Tuesday.

At times, I am still angry about what those years did to my family.
“But why do you guys need to keep going to the group? It’s not helping us.” I would plea with my parents. My father would respond, “That’s why we’re going. We need help. We don’t know how to fix this.” I would sigh, and whisper to myself “just leave us here. Doesn’t make a difference to you.”

During the first year that my parents had been attending “the group” we nearly had a meltdown. My father and sister were having a fight. Although no one can remember the exact reason for the fight, it was not exactly an uncommon occurrence.
“Just Leave Me Alone!” my sister would yell at my father. “This is my life and I can take care of myself.” My father has always been very passive. Trying to reason with my sister was as easy as knocking down a brick wall. She stormed down the stairs with my father directly behind her. He was breathing heavily. “I’m fed up with all of this.” Right as she finished saying that, she was gone. “Jess, Jess, go get my medicine. I can barely breathe.” I was scared. It was the most surreal thing I had ever seen happen to my father. “Here Dad, here’s your pills.” His eyes closed as I gave him the bottle. “DAD, DAD” I was screaming. I grabbed the phone and immediately called 911.
“911 Emergency. How can I help you?” the operator would say. “My dad was having trouble breathing and he’s not answering.” I remember the pace of my heart, which was pounding with fear. “The ambulance is on the way.”

The ambulance came immediately. When it pulled up, my neighbor came next door to see what was wrong. “Theresa, something happened to my dad. He and my sister had a big fight” I said. “Did you call your mother yet?” and I shook my head no. My neighbor had seen my sister and I grow up. She had always been there for us.
“Maryanne, you need to come home. Jennifer and John had a fight and the paramedics are here.” I can only imagine how fast my mother hung up the phone and ran out the door.
When my sister returned, the ambulance was just leaving. She walked through the door as if nothing had happened. “What the hell happened?” She looked right at my father, and deciding to walk upstairs to her room without an answer. I had never seen her with such a guilty face until that day. My mother looked as if she was alone. “Thank you for being so responsible Jess. You did a very important thing today.” She refused to look my sister in the face. I could imagine what my mother’s eyes were saying. “This is our family and you are ripping it apart. You need to change. You need to grow up.” Sitting at the dinner table, my sister was full of shame and regret. Things were very quiet that evening. After that night, I tried to look the other way when my sister and parents were arguing. This family struggle continued for the next few years. I’ll remember all of this. I’ll remember all of these memories.”
My family went through hard times the next few years. When she was 15, my parents did one of the most difficult things they had ever done. My parents were talking to my sister’s Godparents.
“We really don’t know what to do anymore. She never listens to us. We were hoping that she could stay with you for a little bit this summer. We need a break.” Her godparents accepted saying that it would be “no problem.” I could see the pain and regret on my fathers face that things had escaladed to this.

During my freshman year of high school my sister and I shared the same school for the first time. Nearly all of my teachers knew who I was because of her, and needless to say it was not always a good thing. “Is it true she has been kicked out of the house? She has been in so many fights. I heard she was even kicked out of conflict mediation.” In her senior year of high school she began to face the reality that in one more year if she was kicked out, she was an adult. “I guess I’ve been putting you guys through a lot haven’t I? I’m sorry. This is who I am.” Things weren’t perfect. They still aren’t perfect. My parents have learned a lot about accommodation though.
I’ve never fully accepted the decisions my parents and my sister made during those years. In relevance, the decisions they made probably helped our family survive.
They have always been there for me when I need them to be. Because of this experience, they realized that I need my personal space and I also need parents. They realized that if they constantly pressure me for information about my life I will close them out of my life just as she did. Although my sister and I have very little in common, we still come from the same family.

Memoir Essay- Blog 6

I’ve lived in the same house for my entire life. Through my 23 years of life, my house has been filled with joy, anger, aggression, sorrow, and every emotion in between. As we have grown up together, my sister and I are very different people. There have been times my mother has said that she would never know we are sisters. My mother reminds me of the small differences, like how my sister was constantly crying as an infant and how I almost never did. Growing up, we were treated vastly different. My sister was first at walking, talking, reading, writing and unfortunately finding trouble and following it.

When I was 10 years old my family was going through a difficult time. My grandfather had just recently passed away and my father was still an emotional wreck. He had not been working for the last several months, and my mother was paying most of our bills. My sister had just turned 13, and had begun to develop a less than appropriate temperament. She was constantly referred to as a rebel child. My parents had little assets to accommodate what was going on in their lives, much less to help my sister. Originally I used to blame my sister for abusing my parent’s tolerance. After several months of my sister constantly breaking the rules my parents decided to try something new. My aunt and uncle had referred them to an organization called “Tough Love.” Every Tuesday night they would go to these “tough love” meetings. The goal was to control my sister through the advice of the people in the organization. The routine was very simple. I’ve come home from school at 3:30. My mother would make me something fast for dinner at 5 and by 6 PM they were out. Most times they didn’t come home before I went to sleep. For years, they would just refer to this place as “the group” For several years, my parents chose not to disclose the severity of this situation. More amazingly, while my parents were at these meetings my sister was elsewhere. She often didn’t make it home before I fell asleep. I’m not sure whether they didn’t know she was out, or just didn’t know how to react to her. You would think that if you’re having problems with your kids, the worst thing to do is to leave them alone on a regular basis.
My parents went to this organization for several years; they have stated that nothing they learned there helped with our situation. At times, I am still angry about what those years did to my family.

During the first year that my parents had been attending “the group” we nearly had a meltdown. My father and sister were having a fight. Although no one can remember the exact reason for the fight, it was not exactly an uncommon occurrence. After several minutes of yelling and screaming, my sister ran down the stairs and stormed out the house. My father stormed down the stairs, and when he reached the bottom he sat down breathing heavily. I was sitting in the same room, watching and my dad began complaining of chest pains. He almost lost consciousness. My mother was still working. I was scared. I grabbed the phone and called 911. My mother was still at work so I called her immediately after. She rushed home and came about 10 minutes after the ambulance. (Despite her commute usually being well over 30 minutes.) The ambulance was there within minutes. My neighbor came next door when she saw the ambulance. My neighbor had watched myself and my sister grow up and was worried that something horrible had happened. My sister returned home about 30 minutes later just as the ambulance was leaving. My father was lying inside on the couch, recovering. When my mother saw my sister, she said nothing to her and walked away from her. Things were very quiet that evening. After that night, I tried to look the other way when my sister and parents were arguing. This family struggle continued for the next few years.
My sister finally started to work things out with my parents four years later. Through that time, she had gone through more arguments, fights, groundings, and eventually being kicked out of my house for two months. In her senior year of high school she began to face the reality that in one more year if she was kicked out, she was an adult. When they began to cooperate my parents stop going to “the group.” My parents did learn something about the experience with my sister. They have always been there for me when I need them to be and also realize that I need my own personal space. They realized that if they constantly pressure me for information about my life I will close them out of my life just as she did. My sister and I finally have one thing in common, our family.

Feedback? I'd like to know if I should be putting it in a different style or if I need to put more details in it.

Analysis: Blog Five

Personal essays are the most difficult types of essays to analyze because so much of the content is prevalent in daily life. I’m the type of person who realizes that nothing ever turns out perfect, and that our imperfections are often our greatest achievements. So, in one aspect, I’m satisfied that my work is still a piece in progress. Even though everyone’s essay is technically a piece in progress, some may not recognize it or even acknowledge it. Even since I finished writing my essay, more events have occurred and these events will shape my family for the rest of our lives. My sister found out she is having a girl on Thursday, and in less than a day my parents had decided to turn my old room into a nursery for after the baby is born. They’re ecstatic about being grandparents.

Some of the things I was not satisfied with are the lack of information I put into my essay. Sometimes when I read it I feel like it’s just a detailed history more than a story. In all the books I read outside school, I look at them two ways. Sometimes a story is indepth, interesting, and I feel myself connecting with the character. In this case, after stepping back and re-reading I feel like I’m just sitting there listening but not having any part of the story. Very unusual considering it’s a personal essay, but if this wasn’t about my family/my life I would feel like an outsider in this essay.

I would have liked to make this essay feel more personalized, but I’m not really sure how to do that. I would have liked to have some more technical aspects of an essay, but I realize it was not fitting to this assignment.

Family Freewriting- Blog 3

When I was about 10 years old my family was going through a lot. My sister was a "rebel" child and my parents didn’t know what to do. Every Tuesday night starting when I was 10 they would go to these “tough love” meetings and try to get advice on how to deal with my sister. Every Tuesday night, they would leave me home alone from 5pm on until I went to sleep. My sister was elsewhere, but they never seemed too concerned. They never even explained until years later why they had gone in the first place. I still get angry about it. You would think that if you’re having problems with your kids, the worst thing to do is to leave them alone on a regular basis.
Later that year, I was downstairs watching TV. My father and sister were having a fight and she stormed out of the house. My father started getting chest pains and almost lost consciousness. My mother was still working and I called 911 and then called my mother. The ambulance was there within minutes. When my sister came back from her walk, she saw an ambulance and was almost as scared as me. I remember my neighbor coming next door when she saw the ambulance. Things were very quiet that evening. My sister finally started to straighten out when I was 14, and only then did my parents stop going to those meetings.
My parents are very important to me too. I live at home with my mother and dad, and even though they’ve done some things in the past that I’ll never forgive them for I love them. They give me my space most of the time these days, but whenever I get home they ask me how I’m doing. They don’t completely understand my crazy lifestyle, but they are there for me.

"My Father Always Said"

In Schwartz’s essay, she introduces us to the events that she found on the trip to her families original home in “Rindheim”. In the years past World War II, many Jewish families left Germany and other European countries. Schwartz is a first generation American in her family, and each of her experiences is a precedent in her family.

Segment One: We’re introduced to Schwartz’s family history, and how her family relates to the American style. This teenager who has grown up in America can not seem to grasp her family’s rules, as most teenagers do not. It is interesting that although there are extreme cultural differences between her father and herself she recognizes them as the same person. In the first segment, she states that her father fled with their family because everyone else did it. When Schwartz tries to use her fathers argument against him, it backfires. They are opposites, both culturally and maturely.

Segment Two: This is where we began to depart in the past of Schwartz’s father. Schwartz has grown up in Brooklyn, NY and even in the best areas it has always been a busy fast paced city. Once arriving in Rindheim, Schwartz realizes that her father was raised on a farm. Very shortly after she arrives at the house, she presumes her father to be a “hick.” That draws the cultural barrier straight in the middle. From her father’s adolescence, the word hick was probably never introduced. Upon meeting an old neighbor of her father, and spoke primarily in German. This separates the language barrier.

Segment Three: This is where we are introduced to the religious values that Schwartz’s family had to give up when they immigrated to America. This is before the history of the holocaust became public knowledge, as is evident by Schwartz’s ignorance of Kristallnacht. In many cases, this is where we can identify with Schwartz’s father. His heart, which was fulfilled with the joy of going to temple, is now empty and shattered just like his burned temple. The Jews who returned to Rindheim only return to visit graves of lost ones. I wouldn’t even just say that they had to be loved ones. Every life that was lost, whether they were known or unknown, is shattered like the glass in his temple. This is where Schwartz begins to understand her father.

Segment Four: This is where they visit Schwartz’s fathers’ school. They talk about the differences between Jewish schooling and Christian school. Even though they learned different things, and Christians went to school more than Jews, after class let out they were all just kids. There was no cultural barrier. This is the first parallel Schwartz can identify with her life in Queens. They also discuss how her parents met, but she didn’t seem to have too much of an opinion about it.

Segment Five: This segment is probably the most visual of the entire essay. It discusses Schwartz’s personal experience, not just her families history. She tries to relate her own life, her personality into the life that her father escaped from. This is where Schwartz visits her paternal grandparents grave. She tries to imagine them. What they’re life would have been, but all she could see was their graves with stones on them. She learns that putting stones on a loved ones grave is a tribute to those lost lives. “The dead souls need the weight of remembrance, and then they rise up to God more easily.

Segment Six: Schwartz recognizes that eighty-seven Jews had been deported to concentration camps from Rindheim. This is when Schwartz is introduced to remorse and pain because unlike losing a loved one that you had the chance to know, she never had the chance to meet these people. She has no idea who or what family she had lost during those years, and she may never know. This is where the cultural barrier is non- existent. She could relate to the people whose lives she never knew. She could relate to her father, and how he grew up. I believe that this trip was more for her father than for Schwartz. It was to help him reconnect with his past, and say goodbye to it.

Rough Draft for Personal Essay

It all happened so very quickly. In only a few short days we were transformed from a family of four to a family of five with a sixth on the way. In a matter of days, what we had thought would have taken months or years to complete had happened.

I’ve always considered my family like a cloud with silver lining. Each generation had its flaws, and with our flaws come miraculous things. I’ve been raised in a cluster of three cousins and a sister. Regardless of our age differences we were always raised the same. There have been countless times when asked how many siblings I have, that I have replied “there are five of us.” Up until a few months ago, I didn’t believe that things would ever stray from there.

I can remember the day as if it was yesterday. Well, in all honesty it was only three month’s ago. June 13^th. It was originally a typical Wednesday. I had decided to stay home and relax that night. This was the first night I had met my sisters soon to be husband. I was sitting outside with my parents on the deck. My sister and her boyfriend walked through the gate and within a moment announced that they would be moving in together. Although she’s been with him for over a year at that point, I had never met him and my parents had just met him twice. In moments, they announced that they were going to have a baby.

It took the rest of the night for those words to be believable. I remember training myself to believe it. She is going to have a baby. She is going to have a baby. Regardless of the training I forced myself into to realize it, I was not surprised. Over the years I’ve used several adjectives to describe my sister. Irresponsible. Immature. Reckless. Unreliable. Throughout all that time the concept of pregnancy ever became real to me. I would joke about it with my friends. Deny it to my parents. Presume that it was a reality that even she would realize the seriousness of. But of course, I was mistaken. Throughout the next few days I tried to ignore the reality and identify any of my sisters’ positive characteristics. Not a very easy task. Unmarried. I could surpass that. Unmarried couples have children every day. Unhealthy, both physically and mentally. Between her smoke clogged lungs, her anxiety and depression I realized things were not exactly permissible. She has been smoking for the last thirteen years. Suffering, and medicating from depression and anxiety for the last five years. I saw my sister as if she was a stack of cards ready to fall apart. To make matters worse, my sister has a less than semi-stable financial life. She has very little savings, and several thousand dollars in student loans. Despite all her endeavors, she seemed genuinely happy that she was expecting a child.

About two months later my extended family was gathered for our monthly family dinners. This was the first introduction my extended family would have the chance to meet my sisters’ boyfriend. We come from a very close-knit family and my family can be very judgmental when meeting a new boyfriend. After a few minutes, her boyfriend announced that they were engaged and that she was expecting. Not the best first impression he could have made on my family. I’ve been with my boyfriend for four years and they still do not respect him. Much of my family shares the same opinions of my sister as I do, and they all believe that this is too soon. My father attempted to make peace by suggesting that they sit down for dinner and discuss this after. My family has had the same seating arrangements for many years, and needless to say none of us were happy to move because of my sisters’ fiancé. My Uncle Nicky, who is my sisters Godfather and normally sits right next to her had the most serious issue. Our calm family dinner only lasted for about twenty minutes when my sister began to preach her fiancé’s positive points. Although I realize she was only trying to help my family accommodate this new situation, it resulted in a series of arguments. These arguments lead to the eventual dismissal of my sister and her fiancé. This is going to the first child born since my grandmothers passing two years ago. Prior to her death, she was matriarch of our family. Since then, her son whom is my sisters’ godfather has resumed the role of patriarch. Our family is stressed by the news of her pregnancy, but we still resume the roles of a family.

My family has several pre-requisites before gaining admittance into our family. Once you are with us, you are with us for life and treated as one of our own. My two cousins who are already married, one of which with children recognize these pre-requisites as mandatory. Each of my cousins met their current husbands and gave my family exposure before things went into the subject of marital status. My sister was expected to follow this process. This engagement has caused conflict that has divided my family.

Tonight was when the engagement progressed to the next level. As I mentioned previously, my family gathers together once a month for a family dinner. When I arrived with my parents shortly before my sisters arrival things seemed to have calmed down. I saw my two little cousins, age 7 and 4, playing in the empty part of the dinning room. I wondered to myself in five years from now how they would remember this; how having a new little cousin would affect them. Shortly after 6 PM my sister opened the door and proceeded into the dinning room. She was alone this time although she was physically growing bigger. She proceeded to her normal seating next to our uncle, her godfather. Upon greeting her he kissed her head much as my grandfather did when we were younger. In my family, it is a sign of compliance. It reminds us that although we are flawed, we are loved. Only once did the conversation of her fiancé progress into our ritual. My sister said, “He is going to be a part of this family. He is a part of mine.” Her godfather responded only with a stare of acceptance for her sake.

My sister is currently five months pregnant. I must admit, I am proud of her. In the past three months, with the help of her fiancé she has quit smoking and consolidated her student loans. Her fiancé, Christopher, plans to take care of her in the following months during her pregnancy and after. I’m on the verge of realizing that although this engagement and pregnancy was not planned in a year from now, it will be as if it had never happened. There is no ideal path to parenthood.

For my thematic elements of this essay, I can say that every day changes things a little bit more. In the next week, I will be moving into my sisters’ old room and she will find out whether she is having a boy or a girl. In another month, my sister will invite her fiancé to my aunts’ house once again. In two months, my sister will be setting up a nursery for her expectant child and in 4 months from now, we will have a newborn child to welcome into our family.

For my family, my immediate family of five siblings, we are going to have a third child born into this generation. Just like my two younger cousins, Christopher and Caitlin, my sister’s child will be blessed with the same moral values that we were once. Despite our flaws, we are family.

Design Plan

I've edited this plan since my orginal writing and it should make better sense now. I plan on writing about how my sister's pregnancy effects my family as a whole. Since this essay is meant to be personal, I’ve decided to write about my sisters pending pregnancy and the effects that it has on my immediate family. I’ve decided that my purpose will be to inform people about the mental and social changes that occur during pregnancy and how it affects the entire family that supports the expecting mother. We are in a society in which more financial responsibility is being pushed onto people who are less reliable. She is a recent college graduate, with several thousand dollars in student loans and a less than a reputable health. She has been smoking for the last thirteen years and has several bouts of anxiety and depression. My goal for this piece is to stress the importance of family.My audience will most likely be families in which someone is expecting. Expecting parents will be looking for advice, and comfort in the upcoming months and years. I would hope to encourage people to not stray from reality because they feel overwhelmed, but to grab hold of the wonderment of their lives, such as watching their newborn child sleep. I would like to stress how the child affects both sets of parents as the child reaches infancy and progresses every year. Even though this is my sister’s first child, I have cousins who had children in the recent years and I’ve seen them grow up. My family is naturally close. We get together every month at my aunts house, so in part, we have all had a hand in raising them. There is no such thing as a predictable path to parenthood and the journey itself is often the best experience a parent can receive.