Emerging from the Shadows
She stands a staggering 5 feet 2 inches tall, weighs a massive 95 pounds, and has short, brown hair and brown eyes. I see my older sister Leslie. Others see a model of perfection. Don't get me wrong, my sister and I are close and have been inseparable since birth. My mother has kept pictures of us ranging from the time we shared a playpen as babies to just recently at Leslie's graduation. For seventeen years, we've shared every life experience imaginable, and we've dealt with the trials and tribulations that come with growing up. But in September, she left home to attend the University of California at Irvine, leaving me to face life alone. However, it gave me the opportunity to live life by myself as Ryan, instead of Leslie's little brother.
Since the beginning, I have gone to the same school as Leslie, and almost every year I got stuck with a teacher that she had had the previous year. Being only eleven months younger than my sibling made the memory of Leslie, being the bright student that she is, easier for my teachers to recall. Every September for eleven years I was greeted by all of my teachers with the same "Oh you're Leslie's little brother." This was really no big deal. The following year, my fifth grade teacher said to me, "Oh you're Leslie's little brother?" This normally did not faze me since it happened to me several times before with different people, but on this occasion, it was the same person. This upset me a little.
At first this association with my scholarly sister did not bother me too much. If anything I found it beneficial because I believed that it would help me build relationships with my teachers. But with each passing year, the little comments and remarks literally ate away at my identity. Comments like "You did good, but Leslie got a better grade last year," can easily destroy a child's self-esteem. As I became older, I started believing that I was not growing up as myself, but rather as the product of someone else. It almost made me happy to see older teachers leave and others take their place. Unfortunately, school made up only half of the problem.
The other half occurred in the one place where it really should not but often did: at home.
Sweat dripping down my face and butterflies fluttering around my stomach as if it was the Garden of Eden, I took in a deep breathe and asked myself: "Why am I so nervous? After all, it is just the most exciting day of my life." When the judges announced for the Parsippany Hills High School Marching Band to commence its show, my mind blanked out and I was on the verge of losing sanity. Giant's Stadium engulfed me, and as I pointed my instrument up to the judges' stand, I gathered my thoughts and placed my mouth into the ice-cold mouthpiece of the contrabass. "Ready or not," I beamed, "here comes the best show you will ever behold." There is no word to describe the feeling I obtain through music. However, there is no word to describe the pain I suffer through in order to be the best in the band either. When I switched my instrument to tuba from flute in seventh grade, little did I know the difference it would make in the four years of high school I was soon to experience. I joined marching band in ninth grade as my ongoing love for music waxed. When my instructor placed the 30 lb. sousaphone on my shoulder on the first day, I lost my balance and would have fallen had my friends not made the effort to catch me. During practices, I always attempted to ease the discomfort as the sousaphone cut through my collar bone, but eventually my shoulder started to agonize and bleed under the pressure. My endurance and my effort to play the best show without complaining about the weight paid off when I received the award for "Rookie of the Year." For the next three seasons of band practice, the ache and toil continued. Whenever the band had practice, followed by a football game and then a competition, my brain would blur from fatigue and my body would scream in agony. Nevertheless, I pointed my toes high in the air as I marched on, passionate about the activity. As a result, my band instructor saw my drive toward music and I was named Quartermaster for my junior year, being trusted with organizing, distributing, and collecting uniforms for all seventy-five members of the band. The responsibility was tremendous. It took a bulk of my time, but the sentiment of knowing that I was an important part of band made it all worthwhile.
Because as long as I live, I aim to find my purpose, my voice, which I find most during my times of advocacy.
In fifth grade, I had a teacher by the name of Mrs. Sera. Even typing her name gives me this cold feeling inside; she eerily resembles Miss Viola Swamp from the children’s book Miss Nelson is Missing. Viola Swamp was “the meanest substitute teacher in the whole world.” Mrs. Sera, on the other hand, my full-time educator and seemingly just as mean. She had a long pointy chin, a fairly large nose, and extremely thin lips that rarely ever smiled just like Miss Swamp. During this year leading up to middle school, I struggled in every subject: math, science, social studies, and language arts. The only parts of the day I succeeded in were recess and lunch. I remember one day, I had a test in science. I received a 23%. This is still the lowest grade
Writing a self-reflective tirade is perhaps one of the most difficult tasks to perform. I have found myself pondering this topic for an unusually long time; no one has ever asked me to write about my culture-- the one thing about myself which I understand the least. This question which is so easy for others to answer often leads me into a series of convoluted explanations, "I was born in the U.S., but lived in Pakistan since I was six. My brothers moved to the US when I was thirteen" I am now nearly twenty, which means I have spent half my life being Pakistani, the other half trying to be American, or is the other way around?
Is college a beautiful illusion of that if we go then all our problems in life won’t be so hard or is it actually is a place people go to shape and mold themselves into better people. Andrew Hacker and Claudia Dreifus, in their essay, Are Colleges Worth the price of Admission? Says that whether or not you go to a public or private institution, the cost of attending college has doubled, compared to when our parents and every other generation before us went to college. They went on and made a few good point by saying how schools should engage the students more, also how they should replace tenure with multiyear contracts, but their arguments about postgraduate training and spreading donations around is where they might had begun to lose their audience.
In summary, the explication of “Design” served to process both poems by examining one, then identifying and comparing the changes. Such a maneuver provided a clearer perspective of Frost’s initial rendering and subsequent finished work. Thus, exposing their subtle differences resulted in a way to compare the work and draw a subjective conclusion regarding the more effective poem. However, one must remain mindful that without the lesser first “draft,” the second would have had no life. Indeed, an exercise in refinement, the poet revised this piece with a delicate hand, shaping precise images and giving voice to each word, producing a superior message which posed more questions than solid answers about whether life (or death) happens by coincidence, or by “Design.”
After learning about Robert Frost personally, I can understand his inspiration and appreciate the meaning behind his poetry. Following his technique throughout his pieces, it’s clear that his origin and relationships greatly influenced his style and the themes portrayed in his poetry. From landscape, to human nature, Frost creates everlasting feelings within his audience that by the enable them to learn a hidden message. Also, his common New England lingo and conversational speech, personalize the poem. From late nineteenth to mid-twentieth century, Robert Frost has shared his works with the entire world and his influence and impact on today’s society will never be forgotten.
Frost's poem addresses the tragic transitory nature of living things; from the moment of conception, we are ever-striding towards death. Frost offers no remedy for the universal illness of aging; no solution to the fact that the glory of youth lasts only a moment. He merely commits to writing a deliberation of what he understands to be a reality, however tragic. The affliction of dissatisfaction that Frost suffers from cannot be treated in any tangible way. Frost's response is to refuse to silently buckle to the seemingly sadistic ways of the world. He attacks the culprit of aging the only way one can attack the enigmatic forces of the universe, by naming it as the tragedy that it is.
Secondly, two main places make up the setting in "The Storm." Friedheimer's store, where Bobinot and Bibi ride out the storm, is only briefly described. The store was made of wood and the reader gives an illusion of ordinary surroundings. Bobinot and Bibi sat on empty wooden kegs while they wait for the storm to pass. The house, in which Calixta and Alcee wait out the storm is in the country. Examples such as these give a mundane portrayal to the setting. The characters' names are of French origin, indicating that and the story takes place in Louisiana. Calixa and Alcee give the reader more clues on location when they mention Assumption, a parish near New Orleans. The descriptions of "far-off cabins and distant wood" create a feeling of loneliness and isolation. The house has a front gallery where Bobinot's Sunday clothes are hanging. While referring to all the other rooms in the house, the bedroom is described in detail. The bedroom door is open directing the focus toward the "white monumental bed, its closed shutters, looked dim and mysterious." This graphic description of the bedroom foreshadows the encounter between Calixta and Alcee.
College Admissions: What motivates you to seek a college education Why is Berea College a good choice for you
Some say that mankind is complex beyond comprehension. I cannot, of course, speak for every other individual on this earth, but I do not believe that I am a very difficult person to understand. My life is based upon two very simple, sweeping philosophies: pragmatism in actions and idealism in thought. Thus, with these two attitudes, I characterize myself.
This story is set on a sultry afternoon in south Louisiana near Biloxi. The body of the story takes place in Calixta's home during a fierce summer storm. The atmosphere is charged with electricity and sexual tension caused by the storm and the unexpected arrival of Alcée Laballière who Calixta had not seen very often since her marriage, and never alone.
I also remember as young girl learning how to read and my favorite book that I could quote word for word was “Green Eggs and Ham” by Dr.Suess. I loved that book so much I still have that today. As I got older my love for reading and books started to diminish, I went to a private school for my elementary years and their curriculum was very intense. It was required to read a book from their approved list and complete a book report each summer before the school year began. Not to mention the numerous books reports I would have to complete during the school. At an early age books and reading was something I had to do and not what I wanted to do.
When I was younger I thought my sister was always going to be there. I never thought she would die so young. She died when I was in 5th grade so I was around 10 or 11 years old. We had our fights and now I wish more then anything that she was here. She missed my first homecoming, my graduation and many other important dates in my life and there is still more she will miss. Now that I'm the only child in my household, it’s terrible because...
Frost uses symbolism throughout all his works. In A Patch of Old Snow the narrator notices the patch of snow and assumes that it is something else instead straightaway. The snow was a symbol of the winter season while it was new and white but after a few weeks on the ground it is dirty and not cared about anymore like an old newspaper, which Frost compares it to. The narrator feels at fault about the misidentification and believes that he should have been able to acknowledge the snow right away and he should have recognized the beauty of winter as well. Then the narrator says the dirt on the snow looks like the print of a newspapers so it was not his fault for making the mistake and he should not have to take responsibility for the mistake. The narrator says the beauty of winter is only present in the perfect white and n...