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What is independence
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Its 7:15 a.m. and the first alarm goes on, like usual I go back to sleep in my soft silky cream sheets, covered with another layer of blankets that I got a great deal in Macy’s. As I am reaching a deep sleep, my last alarm goes on, this one makes me get up from bed. I then have to get out my bed and slowly without trying to make a noise. Onto, my fluffy white 8 X 11 rug that unlike like him I love waking up to. As I am making my way through the two matching oaked furniture, the wide five dresser with a long mirror a jewelry stack on top of the dresser, a red Yankee cinnamon scent candle and in the middle of the wide dresser there’s baby Jesus in his handmade bed my grandmother passed on to me. Across the cold, dark chocolate wooden floor is the other oaked furniture unlike mine; this dresser has three tanks of beta fish, a navy blue Yankee hat collection, and a Calvin Klein black leather crammed freshly brand-new wallet. I stop and stare at myself in the gigantic two closet mirrors facing the bed, then open the sliding door and grab a victoria secret black sweater. Once I am getting...
Although The Landlady and The Inn of Lost Time are both different mystery stories with different plots, they still have some similarities. The Landlady is about the young inexperienced Billy Weaver staying at a very strange boarding house owned by a very mysterious landlady. The Inn of Lost Time is about Zenta the bodyguard and Tokubei the merchant staying at an inn and waking up to find that fifty years had passed. These two stories show similarities in their character’s inexperience, trickery, and strange hosts. One of the first similarities that these two stories show are their main character’s inexperience.
1. What are the three distinct classes of homes in the tenement houses? In what ways does each reflect the needs and resources of the renters?
Michelle Alexander’s book, The New Jim Crow, as well as Eugene Jarecki’s documentary, The House I Live In, both discuss the controversial issues surrounding the War on Drugs, mass incarceration, and drug laws. Ultimately, both Alexander and Jarecki concede that the court systems have systematically hindered growth and advancement in black communities by targeting young African Americans, primarily male, that have become entangled in drugs due to their socioeconomic status. There is a disturbing cycle seen in black underprivileged neighborhoods of poverty leading to drug use and distribution to make money that inevitably ends with the person in question landing in prison before likely repeating these actions upon their release. Both Jarecki and Alexander present their case, asserting that the effects of the War on Drugs acted as a catalyst for the asymmetric drug laws and
Everyone has specific characteristics and qualities that make them the way they present themselves. Young, middle-aged, and old people are constantly forming the essentials that affect their self-awareness through their daily activities. Forming one’s identity is an ongoing process, because every person in the world can change people one way or another. In The House on Mango Street, the experiences young Esperanza faced day to day develop her true individuality.
I rushed out of the bedroom confused. I began to realize what was going on. I ran to where I last saw her and she was not there. Never before I felt my heart sank. My eyes filled with tears. I dropped to my knees and felt the cold white tile she last swept and mopped for my family. I look up and around seeing picture frames of of her kids, grandchildren, and great grandchildren smiling. I turn my head to the right and see the that little statue of the Virgin Mary, the last gift we gave her. I began to cry and walked to my mother hugging her. My father walked dreadfully inside the house. He had rushed my great grandmother to the hospital but time has not on his side. She had a bad heart and was not taking her medication. Later that morning, many people I have never seen before came by to pray. I wandered why this had to happen to her. So much grief and sadness came upon
At the novel's end, Esperanza declares that she is too strong for Mango Street to keep her forever. What is the nature of her strength? How does Cisneros establish this characteristic elsewhere in the book?
The small legs that whisked back and forth in the open space of the vehicle were full of energy. The young girl spent the day with the two people she admired the most. A bigger version of herself sat in the passenger seat with her husband driving next to her. They laughed over conversation. Every so often, the girl would stick thin fingers against her mother’s shoulder to receive her attention. She would say something trivial and obvious, but her mother would still entertain her. She absorbed every phrase her daughter said as if each filled her with a tremendous joy and was the greatest thing ever spoken. Her mother had selected a black dress for her today with a large white ribbon tied around her midsection. Her hair had been combed back in two braids so that the tips were touching her shoulder blades. They were coming home late from a Christmas party at church.
Gently swaying back and forth in an old wooden rocker, I take a break from my journaling. While listening to the creaky hum of the tired oak thumping out a blue song, I think about the art of writing, painting with my words, and wonder what hampers my creative practice. A foreboding sense of unworthiness floats into my consciousness and I ask myself why do I feel this way. Rifling through my thoughts a fog wraps around me like a blanket not for comfort but instead to shield the feelings of inadequacy. I take a deep breath and inhale the reassuring sage scent of our family room. I press on in this process of self-discovery; an old black and white photo sitting on a shelf captures my eye. I see an image of myself as a smiling, confident child, which stirs uneasiness within. Following the muddled whisperings in my mind, I return to the day in the snapshot and consider what comes to pass.
January 2003: I lie contentedly in my bed, covers pulled up to my nose. I glance down to see the faded, but still brilliant quilt stretched across my bed. Used. Used many times. My Grandma has been gone for three years now but I still carry her with me. I remember the time she told me to never take one single breath for granted and realized that more times than not, I don’t, which is a step in the right direction. I vow that I will live by the guidelines of my Gram and breath in and out everyday, with purpose. The quilt has served its purpose. It has protected me at night and decorated any room that it was in. The quilt may not cover me now looking brand new, but it covers me with a story of its own. I shut my eyes and drift off to sleep, quilted by Gram.
11:14 p.m.-I slowly ascend from my small wooden chair, and throw another blank sheet of paper on the already covered desk as I make my way to the door. Almost instantaneously I feel wiped of all energy and for a brief second that small bed, which I often complain of, looks homey and very welcoming. I shrug off the tiredness and sluggishly drag my feet behind me those few brief steps. Eyes blurry from weariness, I focus on a now bare area of my door which had previously been covered by a picture of something that was once funny or memorable, but now I can't seem to remember what it was. Either way, it's gone now and with pathetic intentions of finishing my homework I go to close the door. I take a peek down the hall just to assure myself one final time that there is nothing I would rather be doing and when there is nothing worth investigating, aside from a few laughs a couple rooms down, I continue to shut the door.
"Time to get up, time to get up, let’s go let’s go,” yelled my nine-year-old cousin Kevin as he pulls off my warm blanket. The harsh cold of the Wisconsin Cabin wakes my 10 year old body up instantly. On any other day I would unleashed a fury of strikes to his chest that would leave him gasping for air, but on this occasion I gave him a pass. I leapt off of the top bunk bed with a grace and agility that is second only to members of the cat family. The cabin’s filled with radiant hues of red and orange from the dawning sun. The savory smell of honey glazed ham filled my lungs and my mouth began to water. Food is the last thing on my mind. My job was to assist my cousins with the daunting task of waking every single person in our 9 room cabin rental. It’s Christmas, but it won’t officially begin until EVERYONE’S present.
Ow. My head hurts. It has been lying against this wall for at least an hour now. I scratched the back of my head to move around my dark, curly hair. It was beginning to feel plastered against my scalp. It was a bit tangled from not brushing it for a day and my fingers did not run through it with ease; nevertheless, it felt good to keep the blood flowing. I was lying on a thin, light blue mat on the floor. My head was propped up against the cold wall as if it were a concrete pillow. My chin dug into my chest and I could feel the soft, warm material from my sleeveless sweater cushioning my jaw. I looked down. I could see the ends of my hair cascading over my shoulders. The red highlights matched quite nicely with my maroon sweater. My arms were folded over my belly and they appeared more pale than usual. My knees were bent, shooting upward like two cliffs. My baggy blue jeans covered the backs of my fake brown leather shoes. ("Christy, let me borrow your pants, the baggy ones with the big pockets. I can hide more stuff in those.")
Standing a mere three feet tall at most, it guards the door of my bedroom as a silent sentry. Its dual levels have been incessantly reordered to house each item in an aesthetic and efficient manner. The faded brown of the wood highlights the array of bright covers that lay at the front, patiently waiting to be withdrawn and analyzed once more. This humble bookcase is the crowning jewel of my personal space. The walls are lined with a diverse selection of truly enthralling books, all penned by arguably the most astute minds of all time. The knowledge of centuries lies at my finger tips, breathlessly hungering for me to turn the pages and absorb its riches.
I am jarred out of a relaxing sleep by a voice yelling my name in a loud whisper, and a light burning through my eyelids. Groggily, I open my eyes to see my father standing in the doorway to my messy room. He tells me that I need to get going, that it is 3:00 a.m., and I'm burning daylight. I find my clothes and get dressed. The whole time I wonder why I get up this early to visit the rugged outdoors. I want to go back to bed, but I know my dad will be back in to make sure I am getting ready, in a little bit. Instead, I put my boots and my wide-brimmed, black cowboy hat on, and walked out to catch the horses. The horses are all excited because it is dark and they are not that cooperative. My dad and I get them saddled and in the trailer, and go back into the house to get our lunch, water, and a cup of coffee. Now, we can head for the high country.
place I would have to go to before and after school. I have always loved my