Memoir Draft 3

 

Little kids will lie. They will lie about the candy they ate before dinner, they will lie about the number of hours they spent watching TV, and they definitely will lie about whether or not they brushed their teeth. However, although it is unfavorable to exercise the frustrating interrogation that follows a child’s lie, often times it is when they tell the truth that the most damage is done. Children can be brutally honest because of their complete lack of awareness regarding societal norms, and unfortunately, I’ve been on the receiving end on more than one occasion.

“You’re really pretty.” I looked down at a seven-year-old girl’s cheerful face beaming up at me. “Aw that’s so sweet, but you are the prettiest!” I told her. “…But you have a bunch of bumps on your face, why do you have that?” Her words hit like a jab to the side. Another instance was when we were sitting on the couch watching a movie while I let her play with my hair. Sometimes she would climb on my shoulders or grab onto my arms. On this particular occasion she was grabbing onto my arms and, unconcerned with the implications of her words, said to me,“You have jiggly arms like my mom,”and then proceeded to play with my arm. I responded awkwardly with a forced smile and suggested we kept watching the movie. She was just seven years old and yet had managed to pick out every single one of my insecurities, oblivious to the searing impact it had on my very young and fragile mind. I had to remind myself that I was the mature one now which was a good thing. She was just a kid.

At a young age, my babysitter, Maria, was my idol, but I remember ‘crossing the line’ as a child and learning what was and was not appropriate. We would mess around and play fight a lot but whenever she really had to pee I would sit on her belly, directly above her bladder, and not only make her have to pee more, but I was physically impeding her from going to the bathroom. I never thought that this particular situation might seem ‘not okay’ or ‘inappropriate.’ To me it was just extremely funny: I saw no boundaries. When I told her things like, “You know, your teeth are kind of crooked,” I had no concept of what was offensive or impolite, it was just facts. Every once in awhile she conducted a short, stern talk, but she was understanding as I slowly learned. I loved being silly and she loved me.

Nevertheless, eventually there comes a time in life when you realize that you have made ‘the switch’ from being a child to being somewhat of an adult, whether it’s gradual or all of a sudden. Sometimes there are blurred lines which make it difficult to operate as a person because you want the freedom of childhood without the pressures of adulthood; the privileges of age but not the consequences. Soon you learn to think critically instead of irrationally, and this switch happened all of a sudden for me. I knew I wasn’t a kid anymore when middle school came along and I realized that I was, indeed, in charge of my future. I knew I wasn’t a kid anymore when I got my driver’s license and learned what it meant to be responsible for my own life and the lives of those around me. I learned I wasn’t a kid anymore when I went from having a babysitter to being the babysitter.

All these experiences, not just one, have taught me what it means to truly think about how what I say and do impacts my life, and how these decisions influence others as well. I think critically when I decide how to respond and react to the little girl looking up at me who knew nothing about the effect of her words. I think critically when I flip on the turn signal and check my blind spot. I think critically when I choose how to balance my time and what will further help me to succeed in the future. I remember how much I looked up to my babysitter, and now I believe a part of growing up and learning to think critically is also a part of becoming a leader and role model for others. I am who I am because of those who shaped me, and now I believe I am ready to do the same for others.

Memoir Second Draft

Little kids will lie.

They will lie about the candy they ate before dinner, the number of hours they spent watching TV, and the five dollar bill they may or may not have taken. Though it is unfavorable to exercise the frustrating interrogation that follows a child’s lie, often times it is when they tell the truth that the most damage is done. Children can be brutally honest due to their lack of awareness regarding societal norms, and unfortunately, situations such as this have happened to me on more than one occasion.

“You’re really pretty.” I looked down at the seven-year-old girl’s cheerful face beaming up at me.

“Aw that’s so sweet, but you are the prettiest!” I told her. “But you look like you have bumps on your face what is that?”

Her words hit me like a jab in the side. Another particular instance was when I sat down on the couch and she said, “Oh my gosh! You’re making the couch tip! You’re fat!” I responded with a forced smile and suggested we keep watching the movie; she was just a seven-year-old and had managed to pick out every single one of my insecurities, oblivious to the searing impact it had on my very young and fragile mind. I had to remind myself that I was the mature one now and that was a good thing. She was just a kid.

My babysitter, Maria, was my idol, but I remember ‘crossing the line’ as a child and learning what was and was not appropriate. We would mess around and whenever she really had to pee I would sit on her belly directly above her bladder to tease and be silly. I never thought that to an outsider to this particular situation might seem ‘not okay’ or ‘inappropriate.’ To me this was just fun: I saw no boundaries. When I told her things like, “You know, your teeth are kind of crooked,” I had no concept of what was offensive or impolite. Every once in awhile she conducted a short, stern talk. I was learning and she was understanding. I loved being silly and she loved me.

Eventually there comes a time in life when you realize that you have made ‘the switch’ from being a child to being somewhat of an adult, whether it’s gradual or all of a sudden. Sometimes there are blurred lines which make it difficult to operate as a person because you want the freedom of childhood without the pressures of adulthood; the privileges of age but not the consequences. Soon you learn to think critically instead of irrationally, and this switch happened all of a sudden for me. I knew I wasn’t a kid anymore when middle school came along and I realized that I was indeed in charge of my future. I knew I wasn’t a kid anymore when I got my driver’s license and learned what it meant to be responsible for my own life and the lives of those around me. I learned I wasn’t a kid anymore when I went from being babysat to being the babysitter.

All these experiences, not just one, have taught me what it means to truly think about how decisions impact my life, and how these decisions can influence others. I think critically when I decide how to respond and react to the little girl looking up at me who knew nothing about the effect of her words. I think critically when I flip on the turn signal and check my blind spot. I think critically when I choose how to balance my time and what will further help me to succeed in the future. I remember how much I looked up to my babysitter, and now I believe a part of growing up and learning to think critically is also a part of becoming a leader and role model for others. I am who I am because of those who shaped me, and I now I am ready to do the same for others through careful thought process and meaningful deliberation.

Memoir Draft 1

Little kids will lie.

They will lie about the candy they ate before dinner, the number of hours they spent watching TV, and the five dollar bill they may or may not have taken. Though it is unfavorable to exercise the frustrating interrogation that follows a child’s lie, often times it is when they tell the truth that the most damage is done. Children can be brutally honest due to their lack of awareness regarding societal norms, and unfortunately, situations such as this have happened to me on more than one occasion.

“You’re really pretty.” I looked down at the seven-year-old girl’s cheerful face beaming up at me.

“Aw that’s so sweet, but you are the prettiest!” I told her. “But you look like you have bumps on your face what is that?”

Her words hit me like a jab in the side. Another particular instance was when I sat down on the couch and she said, “Oh my gosh! You’re making the couch tip! You’re fat!” I responded with a forced smile and suggested we keep watching the movie; she was just a seven-year-old and had managed to pick out every single one of my insecurities, oblivious to the searing impact it had on my very young and fragile mind. I had to remind myself that I was the mature one now and that was a good thing. She was just a kid.

In the second draft of my memoir I will delve further into some various experiences throughout my childhood in which I examine my experience growing up, and where the line exists that distinguishes childhood from adulthood. I want to talk about the struggles of being on both sides and what my experiences have taught me. I also want to discuss what I learned from my role model as a child and about being a role model for others.

Final Lyric Essay

Sitka, Alaska

 

Driving quietly down the long, dark road.

Spruce trees lining the asphalt, shielding the night sky from view.

We are rolling steadily through the inky blackness.

There’s no use for AC when there’s clean, fresh air, crisp in my nose. It was cold outside anyway.

No one speaks as we roll deeper and deeper into the mountains.

Booming base breaks the still, silence of Alaska.

I could feel the music dancing in my ears and the frosty air pouring in through the windows, transforming the dewy night into a somber dream.

It had been six months since she’d last seen Sitka, the majority of those months spent on the road, accompanied by her best friend, Mason. We’d finally reached the end of our excursion, having gallivanted down the sloping summits of Maroon Peak, in Pitkin County, Colorado.

Mom had cautiously granted me the open road, and the open road, me, without her, for the first time since I was 16.

Cars weren’t of too much use in Sitka. I had my 1979 beach cruiser to get around, boats constantly sailing across the harbor.

Rounding swooping slants in the road and tumbling along shallow riverbeds, scarce puddles dappled reflections of the yellow moon in my eyes.

It didn’t feel quite real, but for so long it hadn’t really felt quite real. From the moment I stepped foot outside Sitka, from the moment he sailed away on a night so much like this one.

“Can I listen?” Mason mumbles through cold breath, voice tired, but untroubled.

I plug in another headphone jack and we watched as notes pranced along the dashboard, flickering in our ears as we made our way deeper into the mountains, closer and closer towards Sitka.

 

That Leotard

 

It took every ounce of incentive in me to pull the pale, pink tights up my damp, sweaty legs. They were thick and uncomfortable and I dreaded the tugging and picking and pulling of them until I could finally get the waistband to stay stationary above my clumsy hips, making a crease in my belly as I bent over. The tights weren’t the worst part, however. Next came the tight, spandex leotard that clung to every curve and every divot on my body; and looking up as I pulled the straps up and over my shoulders, I thanked the universe that at least, of all the colors, it was black. Now, as if the reflection of my silhouetted body looking back at me in the mirror, stretching along the entirety of the dance studio wasn’t self-deprecating enough, I had to put my long, brown hair up into a neat, tight bun, the last shard of security I felt I had left.

I was 14 years old, at the height of my most insecure stage in growth, and beginning my freshman year of highschool. This was our first day of class and I dreaded being there. I hated ballet but this was a required class in order for me to continue dance throughout the school year. Stepping into the classroom wearing that leotard felt like stepping into that classroom naked. I had made the choice to keep my bra on under the leotard even though we were told not to, and as we began doing pirouette combinations across the studio, it became very evident that I was the only girl who had chosen to do so. In the midst of all the spinning, I was immediately called on by my instructor and she made an example out of me in front of the whole class. “This will NEVER be ok,” she said; holding me hostage at the front of the class. Everyone was looking at me, and some of the best dancers in the class were whispering and smiling; it stung.

When I returned home from class that day, I ran upstairs, ripped off my leotard and pushed it to the very back of my bottom dresser drawer. That is where it remains to this very day. Being so young at the time, especially during such an awkward period of development, this one incident felt like an earthquake, and my entire world was crumbling into teeny tiny pieces. It was those girls laughing at me, and the discomfort I felt in my own skin that heightened the insecurities I felt about my body. The whole idea of Ballet stresses the importance of perfection and uniform movement. The art of Ballet is about being the same, people included. I was not the same as these girls. I looked at these girls all I could see were a bunch of people who fit in, who were comfortable with themselves, happy being there, and all with similar body types and heights. I was short, paunchy, miserable and I certainly did not want to be there.

Throughout the time I was taking these classes, finally arriving home and taking that leotard off was the best part of my day for the longest time. While I was in those classes my eyes were always on the clock as I counted every minute, every second until the class would be over. Nevertheless, all the while I was in these classes for, I had failed to realize something very important. I became accustomed to placing importance on the wrong aspects of my life. I was giving value to what brought me down instead of what lifted me up, comparing myself to others instead of learning to love myself. I kept going to these classes because they were what I believed, at the time, to be the epitome of how I should be. I thought that if I just kept going, maybe, maybe I would magically start to dance like them, become friends with them, even look like them. It took me a long time after that until I realized how wrong I was.

All the while, I am still unsure what it was that drove me to care so much. I continued to dance throughout high school, but instead of ballet I chose to take contemporary and modern classes. These dance forms encourage outside-of-the-box thinking which is exactly what I needed. I didn’t need to conform to any image at all, I could just be myself, wear whatever I wanted, and dance how I wanted to. This really helped me to accept myself, and when the time came for me to take an extra-credit ballet intensive, I dug through my clothing to find that old leotard and I wore it with pride instead of shame. No, I didn’t look like every other girl there but my confidence refused to budge. It took a lot of time for me to reach this point with my self-confidence, and I am still and will probably always be working on it, but I am so happy I am done caring about what others think and changing myself for other people; trying to be something I am not; but it’s a work in progress.

Now I am in college, but I still have the leotard, although I know I will never need it again. It is sitting idly, pushed to the very back of my dresser drawer back at home. I haven’t thrown it out. I guess I have kept it as a reminder of what I have learned and how far I have come. I still hate it because it brings back old memories, and I never purposefully move it around or touch it, but it’s there. Now, don’t take this the wrong way, because I am proud of the challenges I have overcome and the hardships I have lived through. I am allowed to despise the feelings associated with a particular article of clothing. Yet, despite the sour taste that leotard has left in my mouth I can also look at it and feel proud and happy. We cannot pick and choose the parts of our past we’d like to keep or give way. We can try and shove the bad parts to the back of a drawer in our closet, but that won’t change whether they happened or not. I am allowed to hate that leotard because I have earned my right to hate it. I keep it because it is a part of me. I keep it because I know that at this point in time, as a young college student who all-around doesn’t actually know too much about all of life’s struggles just yet, I know that a piece of clothing can’t hold me back. This is something I have learned, this is something I have overcome, so I keep that leotard there in my closet, and it will always remain there.

Lyric Essay Annotations

Caramelo by Sandra Cisneros

  • Mostly a description of a photo? Or just a description of a childhood
  • Extremely descriptive
  • First person context

One Day – Paradise Valley II

  • Reads like slam poetry
  • First person
  • Write a piece that stems from a single object
  • Like a journal, very personal

One Day – Manila, Philippines

  • Also written in first person
  • It makes sense even though it doesn’t really make sense
  • You have to wonder what exactly they are leaving out and fill the gaps with your own ideas and imagination about what’s really going on
  • It can be a whole essay about a single moment → It is, about a picture

Recipe: Marshmallow Rice Krispy Treats – Matt Roberts

  • Interesting to look at a recipe like a piece of creative writing
  • We and us
  • Use of many metaphors
  • Writes as simple as can be, using very bland simple statements with a lot of interesting word choice pulls the reader in
  • Unexpected
  • Strong beginning statements draw the reader in
  • Body senses make it more real!
  • Use of metaphors and similes
  • Jumps from topic to topic very quickly, not a lot of time to adjust to each statement being made, yet it flows smoothly
  • All in first person
  • Repetition “I would”
  • Attention to detail
  • Foreshadowing at the beginning creates a ‘finished piece’

The Heart as a Torn Muscle – Randon Billings Noble

  • Also like slam poetry, similar to first essay
  • Not sure what’s going on, similarly, you have bto fill the gaps with what you think is going on
  • It’s a mystery until you read more
  • It is a huge metaphor
  • My favorite essay

Friday Workshop 10/5

I noticed, with the comments that were made on my Personal Essay Draft 1, that the majority of them had a lot to do with how I concluded my essay. It was mentioned a few times that with an essay about personal growth and development, that I should not leave the essay on a negative note. It was not my aim to do this in the beginning, I think what I was trying to do was show both sides to personal development and growth; that it isn’t always this magical thing where you wake up and realize something and then from then on you never have any issues regarding the topic ever again, as if it is something you can just flip a switch and fix. This is not how it works, and I meant to leave the reader with a sense of melancholy. After reading the comments I decided I agreed with them to a certain extent, and that I needed to expand on my conclusion in order to better convey how I wanted to end my essay originally. I have now just posted my second draft (previous post) in which I have expanded a lot more on my conclusion as well as fixed some things and re-wrote some parts here and there throughout my essay.

Personal Essay Rough Draft #2

That Leotard

It took every ounce of incentive in me to pull the pale, pink tights up my damp, sweaty legs. They were thick and uncomfortable and I dreaded the tugging and picking and pulling of them until I could finally get the waistband to stay stationary above my clumsy hips, making a crease in my belly as I bent over. The tights weren’t the worst part, however. Next came the tight, spandex leotard that clung to every curve and every divot on my body; and looking up as I pulled the straps up and over my shoulders, I thanked the universe that at least, of all the colors, it was black. Now, as if the reflection of my silhouetted body looking back at me in the mirror, stretching along the entirety of the dance studio wasn’t self-deprecating enough, I had to put my long, brown hair up into a neat, tight bun, the last shard of security I felt I had left.

I was 14 years old, at the height of my most insecure stage in growth, and beginning my freshman year of highschool. This was our first day of class and I dreaded being there. I hated ballet but this was a required class in order for me to continue dance throughout the school year. Stepping into the classroom wearing that leotard felt like stepping into that classroom naked. I had made the choice to keep my bra on under the leotard even though we were told not to, and as we began doing pirouette combinations across the studio, it became very evident that I was the only girl who had chosen to do so. In the midst of all the spinning, I was immediately called on by my instructor and she made an example out of me in front of the whole class. “This will NEVER be ok,” she said; holding me hostage at the front of the class. Everyone was looking at me, and some of the best dancers in the class were whispering and smiling; it stung.

When I returned home from class that day, I ran upstairs, ripped off my leotard and pushed it to the very back of my bottom dresser drawer. That is where it remains to this very day. Being so young at the time, especially during such an awkward period of development, this one incident felt like an earthquake, and my entire world was crumbling into teeny tiny pieces. It was those girls laughing at me, and the discomfort I felt in my own skin that heightened the insecurities I felt about my body. The whole idea of Ballet stresses the importance of perfection and uniform movement. The art of Ballet is about being the same, people included. I was not the same as these girls. I looked at these girls all I could see were a bunch of people who fit in, who were comfortable with themselves, happy being there, and all with similar body types and heights. I was short, paunchy, miserable and I certainly did not want to be there.

Throughout the time I was taking these classes, finally arriving home and taking that leotard off was the best part of my day for the longest time. While I was in those classes my eyes were always on the clock as I counted every minute, every second until the class would be over. Nevertheless, all the while I was in these classes for, I had failed to realize something very important. I became accustomed to placing importance on the wrong aspects of my life. I was giving value to what brought me down instead of what lifted me up, comparing myself to others instead of learning to love myself. I kept going to these classes because they were what I believed, at the time, to be the epitome of how I should be. I thought that if I just kept going, maybe, maybe I would magically start to dance like them, become friends with them, even look like them. It took me a long time after that until I realized how wrong I was.  

All the while, I am still unsure what it was that drove me to care so much. I continued to dance throughout high school, but instead of ballet I chose to take contemporary and modern classes. These dance forms encourage outside-of-the-box thinking which is exactly what I needed. I didn’t need to conform to any image at all, I could just be myself, wear whatever I wanted, and dance how I wanted to. This really helped me to accept myself, and when the time came for me to take an extra-credit ballet intensive, I dug through my clothing to find that old leotard and I wore it with pride instead of shame. No, I didn’t look like every other girl there but my confidence refused to budge. It took a lot of time for me to reach this point with my self-confidence, and I am still and will probably always be working on it, but I am so happy I am done caring about what others think and changing myself for other people; trying to be something I am not; but it’s a work in progress.

Now I am in college, but I still have the leotard, although I know I will never need it again. It is sitting idly, pushed to the very back of my dresser drawer back at home. I haven’t thrown it out. I guess I have kept it as a reminder of what I have learned and how far I have come. I still hate it because it brings back old memories, and I never purposefully move it around or touch it, but it’s there. Now, don’t take this the wrong way, because I am proud of the challenges I have overcome and the hardships I have lived through. I am allowed to despise the feelings associated with a particular article of clothing. Yet, despite the sour taste that leotard has left in my mouth I can also look at it and feel proud and happy. We cannot pick and choose the parts of our past we’d like to keep or give way. We can try and shove the bad parts to the back of a drawer in our closet, but that won’t change whether they happened or not. I am allowed to hate that leotard because I have earned my right to hate it. I keep it because it is a part of me. I keep it because I know that at this point in time, as a young college student who all-around doesn’t actually know too much about all of life’s struggles just yet, I know that a piece of clothing can’t hold me back. This is something I have learned, this is something I have overcome, so I keep that leotard there in my closet, and it will always remain there.