“WAIT! Can you spell it for
me?”
¡EL ALFABETO!
....¿Si?
A (ah) B (beh) C (seh) D (deh) E (eh) F (efeh)
L (eleh) M (emeh) N (eneh) Ñ (enyeh) O (ooh)
P (peh) Q (cooo) R (ereh) S (eseh) T (teh)
U (oooo) V (beh) W (doble beh) X (equis)
Y (eeegriega) Z (seta)
Whenever you come across
someone who speaks Spanish and he/she doesn’t understand the way to say your
name, you’ll simply need to spell it out the letters in spanish to them. If you
don’t, they might say “¿QUE?”
Example:
Stranger: ¿Hola, Cómo se
llama?
Me: Me llamo Adam.
Stranger: ¿Qué? No entiendo.
Me: Adam, ah-deh-ah-emeh ¿Si?
Stranger: ¡Muy bien, gracias!
lunes
Monday
martes
Tuesday
miércoles
Wednesday
jueves
Thursday
viernes
Friday
sábado
Saturday
domingo
Sunday
How can I put this idea on paper in a way that makes sense?
Yawing all day because it took me all night to come up with a thesis.
Irritated because I didn’t get the grade I wanted.
Writing is something that I have to do to pass my classes.
Reality is that I rather use my spare time to do something that is easier for me.
I envy those who can create words that make me want to read them over and over.
The ease of writing comes to me occasionally.
Every once in a while I do write something awesome.
¡Hola! (oh-la) Hello!
¡Buenos días! (bwe-nose-d-as) Good morning!
¡Buenas tardes! (bwe-nas-tar-dez) Good afternoon!
¡Buenas noches! (bwe-nas-no-chez) Good evening!
Asking someone how they are/ mas saludos(more greetings)¿Cómo está?(formal) (como-es-ta) How are you?
Masomenos (mas-o-men-os) Alright.
(Muy) Mal (muy-mal) (Very) Terrible/Awful
¡Chao! (ch-ow) Bye!
¡Hasta luego! (asta-lu-egg-oh) See ya later!¡Hasta pronto! (asta-pron-toe) See ya soon!
¡Hasta mañana! (asta-man-ana) See ya tomorrow!
¡Qué le vaya bien! (kay-le-va-ya-bee-in) Have a good one!
i write to feel the rhythm of the keys dance under my finger tips. to hear the clicking that marks the release of thoughts that have hung heavy in my head waiting for the sweet and sacred moment were they flow through my hands and mark a moment of pure exploration that frees the mind of the weight that weighs so heavy on every action it makes. i write to state the things that i can't say the things the lips will not move to express. it comes out in an easy pouring motion sloppy at first until the mind settles into the pattern a flow a grove that gives the sense of purpose or meaning. a connection of the mind and soul that creates a picture not with paint or pen but words that mean nothing but everything all at once that drives ones to the point of joy and sorrow which each passing word. the joy that the meaning that you have been searching so hard for draws nearer to you with every key that you hit but the sorrow that it will all come to an end and may remain as words that the world many never understand but meant so much to you that you shake to the point of explosion. writing leads one to the point of insanity having to find a way to express hours days years of though into short simple sentences that take only small parts of your soul which you have put firmly into these some time meaningless thought. it then leads you on a roller coster of ups and downs through the inevitable writers blocks, distractions and trials that lay in the path to true expression. i write to make to the impossibly far away feeling of completion. the feeling that everything has been said and nothing has been left unsaid or explored. my simple true is that i will never reach that blissful release i search for but i write for if the one day comes that i can find it i am there to greet it with pure passion into my arms and accept my truth, my writer identity. this is why i wrote, write and will forever continue writing…
Writing can be a very challenging subject for some people but for others, it is the easiest thing in the world. Writing for me has always come easy because always know what I am going to write before I even start. I think that these are one of the reasons why I am so attached to writing, since it comes easy to me. I also write because it is also a way for me to express my feelings and emotions. Writing is like an extension of myself because I can see myself in everything I write. It can make me feels better because the pen and the paper always listen to what you say. I also write because I can escape to a world where I can be whoever and whatever I want to be. I can write a poem about Jamaica and then I can picture myself there with my family and friends. This is one of the most important reasons why I write. When I first heard my sixth grade teacher tell me this, I did not believe her until I experienced it for myself. Every time I write a 2fer, I am happy because I get to write in a different way in the form of a more informational and unbiased way. I don’t get to state my opinions but instead, I used outside sources to prove a point. This is different from when I write about my own personal experiences. I write because it comes easy to me and it is just an added bonus when I get to sure my writing with my teachers and my fellow students.
Why I write ?
I write because
What
is in a NAME?
A
destiny, a person
A
truth about whom
You
will become
Is
it the red of
Rose
petals falling
Gently
on
The
green grass
As
the wind caresses
The
skin of a new
Born
child
Who
is called . . .
By
a NAME
Is
it the life lived?
By
and by scrapping
To
prosper yet falling
Failing
not reaching the
Top
of the pyramid of
Success,
but in return
Dying
at the bottom of
The
abyss, that cold
Breath
that touches you
Just
as you live your last
Heart
beat, and
How
your family
And
friends mourn . . .
The
personality
Behind
a
NAME
A
NAME is
Merely
letters in
An
order
Its
has
A
singular purpose
It
was given at
Birth
And
reused after
Death
Common
yet
Original
to you
So
a NAME is only
A
NAME
It
is important how, you,
Make
people remember it
But
I also write because
I wish . . .
I wish I could call you
To tell you how I feel
To speak you name in whispers
And let my love be real
I wish that you would hold me
And tell me all is right
To hold me close in warm embrace
With in your arms all night
I wish that I could love you
And tell you all about me
But some things are meant for secrets
And our love just isn’t to be
I wish that you would love me
And say my name with care
And sit by me as the sun goes down
As I play in your hair
I wish that there were no boundaries
Between both you and I
And that your love could life me up
Until I reached the sky
I wish that I could tell you this
With out a care our doubt
But as it is this little voice
Stays in me with out a shout
I wish the little voice would scream
“I love you more and more”
But it has been hurt many times
In the past before
I wish you knew how I felt for you
And would tell me that you’re the same
Because my heart is waiting for you
With a fire that can’t be tamed
So I wish that love could prevail
And could set us all free
But honestly, I wish that your love
Was mostly, meant for only me
I write because I love poetry
I bare all of my soul
It helps explain me
And have my story told
I write because no one listens
To the story of my life
So instead I create a story
Of another welding a knife
I write because it let me live
Through the characters I create
And then the life I wish I had
Is now fully sedate.
I don't know
It's a way to save my ideas,
my make-believe stories of worlds that live in my head have a home on paper
It organizes my thoughts,
Those family trees of my characters, their ages, interests, secrets, dreams.
I write to remember,
So my ideas won't be jumbled up in the every day thoughts that occupy my mind like a nebulous shroud.
I write to give information
I write so a form of my ideas can be shared with others
That is why I write.
The beauty of writing, thats another reason.
The scratching of a pencil
The swoosh of a pen
the click clack of keys
For some it sounds right, similar to the sound of a cleat hitting a soccer ball or the swish of a ball going through a basket.
It belongs.
That beauty is something that cannot be replaced
That is why I write.
I write because I love it
It feels right,
My gut tells me this is what I was meant to do
It is one of the oldest forms of communication
yet through the years it has never been replaced by any other technology.
No one can upgrade writing
for it's strength and stubbornness
I revere it.
Thats why I write.
Life issues haunt us all
So instead of picking up a bottle
I pick up a pen and
Let my story begin...
I write to free my brothas and sistas
My story isn't the only important one
So I will tell the story of June
Suffering from post-love depression
She was never taught this lesson
So she slits her wrist to pour out a confession...
Or for my brotha from another momma
Who never had a poppa to tell him
How a real man is supposed to act.
It's hard for a mother to play father
And keep food on the table..
So little David sold a brick got locked up
And now by the government she is labled
So when I write I tell their true stories
Like they are fables..
I write to tell a story
It's funny how many people could actually relate
Your fate isn't just your alone..
You would be surprised how many lives
Your pen could save.
I write because this is what I love
No matter what I've gone through
My pen has always been here
My poetry book is my soul
I put my right hand on it
When I tell the truth..
Writing tells the story of the life I live
I am constantly faces with quandaries that stretch
The boundaries on my tight-knit life.
You can validate my soul by reading my poems..
My book pass no judgement
My pen keeps all my secrets
My mind brings these things together in unison.
I create a 3 dimensional world
On a 2 dimensional surface
This is why I write..
Over the years, writing has evolved into a major aspect of my life. As a young child, I would look at books and newspapers, astonished with the amount of words that one had written. Initially I couldn't understand the significance of writing so much. Why do the writers of textbooks care so much about the information it contains? How do authors of novels not get tired of writing so much after 100 pages?
These questions weren't answered until I began to explore writing in my own way. I often found myself digging deep into my imagination when i read stories. Looking at some of my favorite story lines like "X-Men" and "Star Wars" and thinking about how I could develop my own. I would then take those concepts to write alternate story lines for some of the stories I read, and even incorporate my own ideas. This process revealed the captivating aspects of writing and built my confidence in the subject.
In my teenage years, I found myself approaching writing from a different perspective. Instead of writing the fantasies in my imagination, I wrote more about the reality of my life. I discovered music as being an effective outlet in my life. Being able to turn my thoughts into lyrics and then mix them with other melodies. It's like being able to manipulate the thoughts that you can't control in your brain into a product that you know like the back of your hand.
Writing has changed me as a person, but more importantly, has allowed me to change it, morphing language into my own thoughts, and my thoughts into something tangible.
I write because I want my ideas to spread beyond word of mouth. It's easy to tell a person what you want them to hear but truly allowing yourself articulate a point worth real consideration requires ample thought. Writing gives the outlet to devolop my words and choose how I go about a point. Its means to portray the most elaborate idea into simple elegance or turn a hardened belief into a thoughtful persuasion. It acts as a filter that both refines but better explains myself while still carrying a my original thought with it.
I’ve always believed that home is
important because home is where my heart is. Home is where my memories are.
Every happy and sad thing that has happened to me is brought back to this
place. I’ve lived here almost all of my life. If I ever moved away from this
neighborhood and my memories, I would be a disaster. It’s where I can go and I
won’t be judged. I can come here after a rough day and be greeted by my family.
While everything else in my world is spinning around, this is the one thing
that never changes. It’s where I’m safe.
I can go back to when I first walked into
my house when I was 5. I was down the basement and I couldn’t find my way
upstairs. My dad was bringing things into the house since our basement door is
next to the driveway. It’s easier then dragging things all the way to our front
door, which is on the side of our house. When I saw him I ran over and said
“Daddy! I can’t find the door! Help me!” He laughed and then said, “Turn around.” As I turned around I
saw the door to walk up into my living room. When I got upstairs there was
almost a ton of change in random spots in the rooms. I was so excited; it felt
like a treasure hunt, and so I ran around the house collecting any change that
I saw.
I love looking back on that memory and
thinking about how easy things were. The biggest problem that I had was that I
couldn’t find the door out of my basement. Now I have to worry about what
people I trust, what my grades are like, not letting things get to me, along
with a hundred other things. Nevertheless, every rough time there is, a hundred
great memories that come along.
One
of my favorite memories in this house took place after a
concert my friend and I went to, she came over my house to sleepover. We ended
up staying up until 3:30 am, hanging out in my bedroom. Most people don’t like
staying in my room for too long. Everything in my room is pink, my bedding, lamp,
desk, walls, rug; even my ceiling is painted pink. It is very bright, even
sometimes I don’t like being up in my room for too long. There are also a lot
of pictures and posters. It was one of the funniest nights I have had though.
When
we first got home from the concert, we just hung out and talked for a little.
As the night carried on we got extremely hyper, because we were both
tired and we each had a can of Mountain Dew. About halfway though the night I
brought in my little brother’s Yamaha keyboard. Neither of us know how to play
keyboard so when we tried, it ended up sounding like nails on a chalkboard. I
felt really happy because it was fun and neither of us has to try to act
perfect. Later on, we decided to randomly call people and play the keyboard
while on the phone. Every time we would dial a number and listen to the phone
buzzing as we waited for them to answer, we would laugh hysterically, thinking
about the reaction of the person we were calling. When someone would pick up,
we would shout “Hello! Hi! Hey!” in funny voices and then slam random buttons
on the keyoboard. People thought we were completely insane, asking, “What is
wrong with you? Why are you calling me?” Every person that we called hung up on
us within 5 minutes.
About
an hour before we actually fell asleep, we turned on my old, bulky, silver
television that my grandmother gave me. We started watching That 70’s Show, one
of our favorite television shows. We were also quoting every line that a
character would say and cracking up. After a while we got really tired so as we
were still watching That 70’s Show, we both fell asleep.
That
night was just fun and that’s the night that I realized why home is important
to me. It is important to me because it’s a stable place in the world.
Everything changes, but this place never does. I have grown up in this same house and my
bedroom has grown along with me. From my princess room, to just all pink, to
how it is now. Now it is exactly how I want it, it has pictures all over my walls;
there is just enough space all of my belongings and me. It’s organized perfectly
for me, not too neat but at the same time its not too messy, and I know where I
want everything to go.
I remember when I got my room the way it is now. It was a
Saturday, 2 years ago; the movers said they would at my house any time between
1-4 pm. It was 3:30pm and I have been staring out of my window for the past 2
hours, impatiently waiting for my new bedroom-set to be delivered. I had my
room completely cleared out, except for my television. Other than there was just
pink walls and ceiling, both windows with their curtains pulled up, and an open
door. I was completely ready for my new bedroom, so over excited that I
couldn’t even go 10 minutes without running towards my window to check if the
movers have finally arrived. Every time I would hear a car rush by I would run
outside and be greeted with disappointment.
At
3:45 I heard something, it was the pounding of large tires on a road. I looked
out the window and screamed downstairs to my mom “THEY’RE HERE!” as I stormed
down the flight of stairs that was separating me from her. I stared out of the
window as the movers checked their paperwork to make sure it was the right
house, slammed the trucks doors, and started walking up to my front steps. When
they finally knocked on the door, it was like a symphony. “Hello, we have a
bedroom set delivery for the Flite family.” They said when we opened the door.
When
they were upstairs putting the furniture together, it felt like life times were
passing by. They finally finished and left the house at 4:10. When they left I
raced up my steps into my room to see how it looked. I loved it. It looked so
different then before, instead of a cleared out room of nothing, my room now
had a queen sized bed, and a matching dresser, They were each a light washed
wood color with 2 rows of silver wood panels at the top.
Home is my place. It’s where I am free and happy. My little brother was
born three months premature and for about 6 months I had to live at my
grandma’s house. It just didn’t feel the same. Her house is nice and it’s big,
but it’s not my house. It has a
different feel to it. Home gives me a feeling of safety and security. It’s the
one thing that never changes, while people and life does. I love my house and I
love the feelings that come from it.
Setting- Jake talking to his best friend Mike on the phone.
Hey buddy, how have you been?
That’s good I haven’t talked to you in centuries. By the way how has the job search been going for you?
That sucks. However, when you do get a job, I hope your last resort isn’t to work at a crappy oil refinery like me.
So you are telling me that you have not heard about the health risk while working in an oil refinery? (Surprised)
There are too many health risks to keep up with. I have to deal with keeping myself safe while working in the disgusting gloomy environment due to chemical polluted air. Also, my ears are being damaged every time I go to work because of the industrial noise. The impact of the noise is 5 times worst then having my IPod turned up to maximum volume.
Who are you telling? I feel bad too because my wife and three kids worry about me everyday when I go into work. Seeing the looks on my baby’s faces when I go off to work is heartbreaking. (A sad toned voice)
Aw shut up man, I’m serious! If you were here to witness you would definitely be on the same boat with me. (Serious)
Listen man, the health risk is only half of the issue. You have to worry about fires, explosions, and water waste. I have to rely on other people to do their job to prevent those things from happening. It’s mind boggling because when I am at work, that’s one of the only things I think about.
I know, this is a very dangerous job.
No man… It’s my pleasure because I would not want you to go into working in this profession if I had a chance to stop you.
Alright man, have a good day. Oh yea, and don’t be a stranger!
Setting- 69-year-old Maddie is being visited by her oldest daughter
Amie while in Departments of Corrections in Washington D.C. Maddie is a
Washington D.C White House protester that was arrested.
Amie what did my lawyers say?
I would never think that I would be counting my days in jail at the age of 69 for trying to help my society and the people that took me into custody. They had the nerve to do that to a little, hunched back, elderly lady that was doing no harm. I mean, I have gray hair for god sakes Amie!
After all this justice is served how much do you want to bet that Obama still won’t have an opinion on any of this. This is preposterous! I didn’t vote for him so he could sit his “hiney” down in his swivel chair and not have opinions. I voted for him so he could do everything he said he would, one of the things being to help change the Earth’s climate and environment.
The protesters including me were not there to cause any conflict, but to surface this whole pipeline situation. We spent hours in the church training for this event and where did we end up? I even remember one of the chants. (Stands up and presents her chant) Obama Stop the Pipeline- Yes he can!. (Guard tells her to sit down because she was being disruptive and her visitor had to leave in the next 5 minutes because of her outburst).
Amie you have to promise me one thing before you leave.
You have to promise to try your hardest to put your two cents in to help stop this 1,700 mile Keystone XL pipeline full of oil traveling through 6 states that is very dangerous.
That’s my girl! I love you.
Setting- Tasha is talking to her best friend Maxine outside of Mitchell Hall. They are about three minutes away from protesting about the Keystone XL pipeline.
Max are you ready this is big!
You are nervous? Max snap out of that its time to put your game face on.
Yes I did get arrested two weeks ago when protesting in front of the White House. However, I am ready to get my point across again. I am overly excited that Joe Biden is going to be here. That just means another person in the government can hear what I have to say. I will get arrested 5 times if that means stopping this 1,700 mile hazard.
Maxine just do what we practiced in the dorms. Every time you go to think about what to say or how to say it just think about all the lives the pipeline risks.
Just trust me… Nothing feels better than holding up a sign and standing up for what you believe in.
Copper Stream
October 15, 2011
Revised Essay:
I got my first
camera when I was seven years old on a cold wintery day. I was at my grandma’s
house when my mom and dad called me to the sofa and they handed me a plastic
box. At first, I thought it was a Hello Kitty key chain, but when I turned it
over, it was a camera! It wasn’t a camera that came in a fancy glossy box like
my cameras come in now but it was a simple five mega pixel, battery operated,
silver plastic camera from Kohl’s. I roughly cut it out of the plastic case, so
I wouldn’t get cut by the thick plastic and pulled it out in slow motion. There
it was, with this quarter pound camera, I could hold all of my memories here. I
could pause time for half of a millisecond on a 2-inch screen and keep that
forever.
All of my cousins
ran up to see my camera and the first thing that they said was: “Why does it
look and feel like a toy? Are you sure it’s real?” I didn’t care what they said
but it was the best thing my mom ever got me because it started my love for
photographing my family and my life. And with one press of the hand and a faint
capture sound from the camera, my first picture instantly appeared on the
two-inch screen. My first picture…an outlandish view of my monkey toes. With
that camera, it started my collection of my wide array of cameras such as my
silver Canon 8 mega pixel, then to my Canon 10.1 mega pixel, and now I
currently use my asphalt black Canon Power Shot SD780 IS, 12.1 mega pixel
camera.
All it takes is one
little camera to start my hobby in taking pictures. I take pictures of
everything and anyone I know. All I want is to remember everything I do in my
life. This once in a life time moments that you can’t always remember on the
top of your head. Yep, those are the moments. Like the time I jumped off of a
forty-foot tree-pole or that other time where I stuck my hand inside of sixty
year olds’ leg and then picked it up. It was supper heavy. Wait…don’t believe
me? Well, sadly you can’t take a picture while your examining a body, now can
you but that moment is forever engraved in my head. Simple days like those are
the days I want to remember. I constantly take pictures and every so often
people get annoyed but I think of it as a: “Hey, I’m helping you with your
memories too.” People don’t understand how powerful pictures can be.
Except my family,
they cherish every moment together and we never let go of any “Kodak moment”
opportunity. Well, figuratively because we use Canon brand cameras. In every
part of my family’s houses, aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, there are
framed and polished pictures on the wall, four by six pictures hanging off of
the mirrors, taped on or stuck in a little corner, and frames scattered through
out the house, on the mantles, tables, and some times even the floor. My mom
always says: “Say gnaw day gal gaching gal sung seen” and roughly translating
from Cantonese that would mean “Wash the pictures of your family only”, and
translating from roughly to clean would be: “Print out pictures of only our family.”
But I always sneak a few of my friends without her knowing it.
Weeks later, to my
utter surprise, while cleaning out my hamster’s cage, my dad, in the blink of
an eye, appeared at the back yard door and he told me: “TURN OFF THE WATER and
come to the basement.” Being myself, I stubbornly asked what was wrong with
cleaning my hamster’s odor-filled cage – which I hadn’t cleaned for two weeks,
with a childish smirk. After that one question, he gave me the death stare and
blatantly across his face read: anger, frustration, and impatience. This was
the second time in fourteen years – This was the second time in my life of
fourteen years.
The first time was
a complete blur because I was six years old and wailing at the top of my lungs.
I think I yelled at my mom and dad about how I was smarter than them and how I
could do anything and everything I wanted because of my intelligence. My
stubborn, spoiled intelligence. My dad did not stand for that so he picked me
up and threw me out of the door – not literally, more so placed. Standing
barefoot, on the “beat up” welcoming mat we had out side of the door, my
three-year-old sister opened the door for me and she: “Say sorry to mommy and
daddy. So they are not mad.”
I wasn’t going to
go against that look again, so I shut off the water, leaving the cage out side
and Alfred in his ball. Usually, when I go down the stairs I listen to my feet pit-pat
but this time there was another sound. What was it? The dryer? No, it
sounded watery and leaking. The washing machine? No, that sound isn’t the same.
The water sounded free, flowing wherever it wanted too. I turned the corner and
my feet got wet instantly, my mom was standing there confused and angry. We
quickly evacuated all of our things out of that small room and I helped clean
up the mess after putting away Alfred in his coconut-scented cage. After moving
all of the beach toys to the other room, I found a pitch-black bag with the
gray “EXPRESS” logo on it. In that bag, contained two of my mom’s twenty by
thirty wedding pictures, framed up and now water damaged. I got this cold
feeling in my cheeks like all of the blood just left my face and ran some where
else. Just like the water running out of the photo frames, just like the
preserved memories running out and only leaving behind wavy sheets of memories.
Crease and wave, crease and wave, crease and waves EVERYWHERE.
I was the saddest
of all that my parents’ twenty by thirty wedding pictures were water damaged.
My parents didn’t seem as sad as I. How could they not be as devastated as I
was? Their wedding pictures were ruined. That special day led to my sister and
I and where we were today. So many stories were past around each other about
that picture and all it took was water to cringe up the paper. I wasn’t going
to stand for this so I promised my self that my first paycheck would go to
their pictures. And lo and behold, I got my first paycheck!
There were so many
things to do, to buy, and to have! I cashed in my paycheck with my parents at
TD Bank. In my mind, there were so many things I could do with fifteen crisp,
clean twenty-dollar bills. I could spend it all on clothes; spend it on a long
wanted bag, or just save it. I could use all of this money on myself. But I was
reminded of the ruined wedding pictures when I went to put all of the clothes
into the dryer, one night. I knew what I was going to get. It was a long lost
goal, promised years before. And what perfect timing, my parent’s anniversary
was coming up. Dinner and two perfect frames for the big one-six anniversary.
Secretly with just
one hundred and forty-six dollars in my hands, I walked in to the
picture-framing store on 21st and Chestnut. In and out of the store with a nice
deal was what I was aiming for. While walking in the store, I realized that
this store was really hot and the pictures in this store all had a different
story of his family in it, whether it was written onto the frame or the picture
itself. I found the owner of the store in the back just finishing up matting a
picture of the sunset to the engraved golden frame. The owner was a big man
with a graying mustache and goatee. I introduced myself and with an unsure
voice, told him I didn’t know what I wanted yet, so Mr. Allan escorted me to
the front of the store and pulled out at least forty hundred different frames,
twenty hundred different types of matte paper, and a list of sizes. It was like
a never ending maze of frames and then he finally asked me after seeing that
little frustrated crease appear between my eye brows:
“What’s the
occasion for the two pictures?” – He asked like he already knew the answer.
“My parent’s
sixteenth anniversary gift.” – I smugly said with a smile.
With that answer,
he automatically knew what was needed. After a lot of questioning between the
canvas print and the framed matte print, I don’t know if he wanted me out of
the store or just gave me a discount for knowing me for such a long time, but
we concluded the price of one hundred and forty dollars. So, two pictures:
framed, enlarged, and matted all by Friday. I chose Friday because Friday was
their anniversary day, sixteen years together. Mr. Allan handed me the yellow
receipt copy and everything was done. With a wave, good-bye and a polite “Thank
you, see you Friday!” I spent the half of my paycheck on restoring my parents
adored wedding memories. I was going to give them back their special day with
these pictures!
On every vacation,
heaps of pictures are taken and hordes of pictures are printed out. Who
wouldn’t want an eight-gigabyte memory card filled with pictures? Nonetheless
every year, once a year, my family goes on one big trip together to Virginia
Beach for a couple days which means one big family on one glorious beach. And
every year that we arrive home my mom chooses pictures to print out but there
is this one picture that will always hang on my wall. It’s a unique picture in
a unique pearl color fish scale imitation frame. She told me, "Although
this picture is dull and has almost a color-less gray horizon, my family and I
are livening our surrounding up with our bright and vibrant personalities,
shirts, and shorts."
Taking pictures on
vacation hold the experience you had and holds it until the end of time. It’s
all the matter of memory versus experience. The photographers in my family all
know that. We seize the moment to keep hold of the past on every vacation.
Pictures are something that will help us remember what we did down the road of
life.
Day-by-day, I take
pictures of anything from over sized pigeons and people walking their hairless
cats to my friends and family. I never let go of any moment. Pictures are what
trigger the past and shoot the memory back into the present. They trigger the
repressed memory in the back of our mind. Everything memorable moment should be
kept, big or small. Even in every moment you’re with me, pictures will be
taken. That’s how it is; I stop the present to look back at the past in the
future. Taking pictures gives us another way with which to share our lives and
our loves with the rest of the world. I will ceaselessly take pictures, holding
every memory in a book, and looking back to see what a picture tells me. I will
show the world my life.
Eight years of
taking pictures on my own, learning it all, day-by-day and still learning. With
the average photographer, getting the perfect light and knowing which
background gets the best of each shot. If you hand me a camera, I can get a
perfect shot in a heartbeat. Pictures can give anyone so much power. The power
to hold your past in a convenient four by six or an enlarged sixteen by twenty,
your most prized memories, no matter how small the memory they hold. Pictures
are taken everywhere, at home, on vacations, and…well, everywhere. All moments
in life are important, but not all are special.
9-12-20
Descriptive Essay
On
the second shelf of the left side of the TV case, towards the bottom stands my eighth
grade graduation diploma. Whenever I look at the certificate patched with a
leather bound cover, I remember the when I first received it.
I was sitting on the
stage with my fellow classmates. It was almost done. Just ten more minutes. She
was halfway through calling all the names. Five more to go until my name was
called. One down, my hands were sweating madly. Two down, I could feel my heart
drumming. Three down, I began to feel dizzy. Four down, oh crap!
“Jasmin Husain,” called Ms. Knight, our school
counselor. It was time for me to go and take my diploma from Ms. Sydnor.
I slowly walked around the empty and barren stairs in front of me until the top
of the glossy wooden stairs of the stage. I went down the stairs one by one carefully,
holding on to the cold steel railing. I didn’t want to trip on these ridiculous
heels and ruin my dress. After I made it down the stairs, I walked two feet
over to Ms. Sydnor. She shook my sweaty hand and said, “Congratulations Jasmin,
you’ve come a long way and you have a long way to go.” She handed me the navy
blue, leather bound diploma. Carrying the thick diploma, I followed my friend
out of the Gymnasium door.
This was one of the
most important memories in my life. It was the moment in my life when I made the
transition from middle school to high school. I felt accomplished, like I had just
achieved a goal that I was waiting to reach my entire life. My diploma was a
symbol of me growing up and moving on.
As I look back at the TV case, more artifacts start to
bring back memories. On the bottom shelf of the
TV case lays an old, dusty, black VCR with two missing buttons. I try to recall
how many my family had to replace the VCRs that my little sister and I had
broken. As I observe the absent buttons, another memory runs across my mind.
My little sister Tajnia was extremely naughty and
mischievous. She would trash everything that she was able to get her hands on.
This was like the hundredth time that she broke the VCR.
“Aah NO! Not again Tajnia! Did you really just break all of those
buttons out of these holes again?” Yelled my dad to baby Tajnia’s slobbering,
and glowing face.
“I can’t
believe we have to go out and buy another VCR, this one wasn’t even a year
old!” Dad continued to complain as we all filed in to the car.
This
was the fourth time that we were going out to Wal-Mart to buy a TV since we had
come to Philadelphia. The first time it was me. I absently stuck sugar daddy
candies into the new cassette holder. At the time I was just a baby but
currently I was a big girl. I was seven years old and I knew how the world
worked. I had matured over the past two years. I knew all the specific things
that made dad upset. So, I had, long ago, stopped committing those crimes.
Tajnia, on the other hand still hadn’t learned the lesson.
This
was another one of my very important memories. This memory this memory
represents family. There are many different definitions of “family.” Family, to
me, means a group of people who you can look up to. Family members are people
who understand you, accept your mistakes, and help you to become the best
person that you can be. In this memory Tajnia looked up to me, hoping that she would,
one day, learn not to make the mistakes that made dad upset. She hoped that she
would also mature and learn from her mistakes like I did when I was her age.
I start to laugh at myself thinking of all these ancient memories. My
living room has many if the same layout as any other living room, but it holds
memories that are very specific and special to my family and me. Every small
detail in the room stands out. From the vase of artificial flowers to the
knitted tissue box cover, from the stains on the walls to the spills on the
carpet carries something out of the ordinary.
