Perfection
I need to capture this moment. I need to paint a picture so that many years from now, when my adventures are long since over, when I have nothing but my memories to look back on a life spent as a student trying to understand the intricacies of different cultures, I can recall this brief moment in my life. When I am old and gray and am waiting for the light of my life to expire, I can read this and truly feel the same thing I am feeling right now. I need to hold on to this memory.
I’m 23 years old and very much alone in a country that is not my own, where faces do not look like mine, where every place I go I am stared at because I am the oddity in the everyday pattern of life. I’m always conscious of myself, of my every step, knowing that whatever I do or don’t do, whatever I say or don’t say, someone is judging me, my character, and my country because of my actions. It’s not an easy way to live. But, there is one place in this culture where I feel like I am home, where I want to run when I just want to fit in with the rest, where people don’t stare or gawk at me because I am a white face in the middle of Korea. I run to the girl’s high school where I teach English. I enter the walls of Jung Ang Girls High School and I know that I am where I belong for the time being, that no matter what, I will not feel like the outcast of society. In Korea, this is the place that I can truly call home.
Teaching at an all girl’s high school in the middle of Jeju Island, South Korea is one of the best things that has happened in my 23 years of existence. Everyday I watch my students’ progress, not only with their English ability, but also with their understanding of the world. Everyday I teach them about the wonders of the world, never focusing too much on all things American because we are just one country in the world. What they need to learn from me is not how we celebrate Halloween, Thanksgiving, or Christmas.
John F. Kennedy’s assassination has been a mystery since it happened in 1993. John F. Kennedy was shot in a moving car in Dallas, Texas. The murder surprised the nation in a time of peace and calmness, It was also “... the first time the vivid immediacy of such acts was brought into the homes of millions” (“The Warren
America’s well-being was shattered on November 22, 1963, the day of John F. Kennedy’s assassination. Although authorities arrested Lee Harvey Oswald as the president’s killer, a multitude of citizens in our country believe a conspiracy was involved, and that Oswald was not the lone assassin. The film JFK encompasses facts that support conspiratorial actions being part of JFK’s assassination. These facts support a disparate opinion and gives viewers and movie characters the chance to formulate their own opinions instead of blindly following that of another. In JFK, Oliver Stone displays certain events in different perspectives in order to prevent blind following from inattention.
Scott, Peter D. Deep Politics and the death of JFK. Washington, D.C.: National Geographic Society, 2003
This area, in many, ways represents the heart of the "American Melting Pot," the population of the City and subsequently of the student body, represents virtually every race, nationality, ethnicity, and religious and cultural tradition in the world. The students enrolled in City public schools alone, speak 140 different primary languages ranging from Chinese, Japanese and Korean, to Russian, Urdu, Bengali and Arabic. For this reason, and others City educators have seen it as an important responsibility to educate students about the different cultures and ethnicities surrounding them. The excitement over traditional year-end festivities celebrating traditions such as Christmas, Chanukah, Ramadan and Kwanzaa, presented an opportunity to teach the students about and encourage respect for different cultures in the community. Because some of these traditions have religious origins, special care was taken in determining what representative symbols could appropriately be displayed in the public schools without violating the First Amendment, by seeming to promote religion. This was articulated in the Holdiay Display Memo.
"John Fitzgerald Kennedy." Dictionary of American Biography. New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1981. U.S. History in Context. Web. 17 Jan...
At approximately 12:30 p.m. on November 22nd, 1963 the world was shockingly stunned by a horrific incident that has forever changed the view of the events that occurred during this day. While our President was riding a convertible motorcade down Elm Street in Dealey Plaza, Texas he was abruptly struck by two penetrating bullets in the upper back and head. Our 35th President of the United States of America had been fatally assassinated by Lee Harvey Oswald, a sniper from the sixth floor of the Texas School Book Depository Building. However, did Lee Harvey Oswald, a crazy lunatic act alone in the assassination of President Kennedy. Both first – hand knowledge and visual evidence allows people to re – examine the events of this day and prove that there were other gunmen involved in the bombardment of our youngest elected president.
When people from the South Bronx neighbourhood go to stores, hospitals, or churches outside of their own area, there is a sense of rejection. “They’re right. I don’t belong in a nice hospital. My skin is black. I’m Puerto Rican. I’m on welfare. I belong in my own neighbourhood. This is where I’m supposed to be.” (Kozol, 176) This is the common reality that plagues the adults. Consequently, a society that discriminates against people due to their skin colour and status contributes to the negative way these children think. If the adults are having a difficult time dealing with the issues already, what possibly could be on the minds of their children? Majority of the children believe they do not fit the social norms of the American society and therefore are treated like outcasts. The poverty-stricken children discuss with Kozol the reasons why they feel this way. “If you go downtown to a nice store, they look at you sometimes as if your body is disgusting. You can be dressed in...
This stage of my adolescent life was very memorable. This was the time when my life was becoming more complicated as I struggled to find my own racial identity, and constantly questioning myself, “Who am I?” “Where do I belong?” while facing the pressure of “fitting in” as a biracial teen in prejudicial Asian society.
For millions of evacuees around the world, finding support from their communities can be a significant obstacle while trying to rebuild their new lives (Fantino & Colak). For the main character, Há, in Thanhha Lai’s novel, Inside Out and Back Again, not being accepted by her peers causes difficulty during her adjustment to American life. She is constantly bullied and excluded at school, which results in her having tantrums at home (Lai 209-211). However, as soon as Há begins to make friends and gain support from her neighbor, Mrs. Washington, she starts to feel like she is “Back Again” and supported by community members (Lai 253). The struggle of being accepted by peers is experienced by Há’s family and real refugees alike, until they can find
Netzley, Patricia D. The Assassination of President John F. Kennedy. New York: New Discovery, 1994. Print.
Knowing that it would be four years of relentless pestering, I knew that someday I would surpass my tormentors; I would keep under cover of my books and study hard to make my brother proud one day. It would be worth the pain to someday walk into a restaurant and see my former bully come to my table wearing an apron and a nametag and wait on me, complete with a lousy tip. To walk the halls of the hospital I work in, sporting a stethoscope and white coat while walking across the floor that was just cleaned not to long ago by the janitor, who was the same boy that tried to pick a fight with me back in middle school. To me, an Asian in an American school is picking up where my brother left off. It’s a promise to my family that I wouldn’t disappoint nor dishonor our name. It’s a battle that’s gains victory without being fought.
One Saturday morning, while other teens were probably sleeping in, I woke up early to get ready for my first day of Korean school. My mother had gracefully accepted my urge to learn Korean a few weeks before and enrolled me in a Korean school located at a nearby high school. As I arrived, I could feel the warm sunlight shining in my face while I saw other children who were definitely younger than me scurrying around and playing in the quad. My mom and I stepped into the office and met with the director. He was an older gentleman who looked experienced. They conversed in Korean, while I was questioning myself deciding if this was the right choice. Several minutes later they finished and my mom whispered in my ear, "I will pick you up at one when your first lesson ends." I waved and then director told me to go to room five. I did not know what to expect as I was finding the room, still deciding to back out at the last minute. This was what I wanted and I had to go on with it. For what seemed like a long time I found the room and gently opened it to see what was in store for my new skill.
Before I was five, I thought I was Chinese. However, I wondered why I couldn’t understand the Chinese patrons of Chinatown restaurants. Upon learning my true ethnicity, I pulled out a mammoth atlas we had under the bed. My father pointed to an “S”-shaped country bordering the ocean, below China. It was then that I learned my parents were refugees from Vietnam. “Boat people,” my mother, still struggling to grasp English back then, would hear kids whispering when she walked through the halls of her high school. Like many refugees, although my parents and their families weren’t wealthy when they came to America, they were willing to work hard, and like many Vietnamese parents, mine would tell me, “We want you to be success.”
Growing up, I always felt out of place. When everyone else was running around in the hot, sun, thinking of nothing, but the logistics of the game they were playing. I would be sat on the curb, wondering what it was that made them so much different from me. To me, it was if they all knew something that I didn’t know, like they were all apart of some inside joke that I just didn’t get. I would sit, each day when my mind wasn’t being filled with the incessant chatter of my teachers mindlessly sharing what they were told to, in the hot, humid air of the late spring and wonder what I was doing wrong. See, my discontent
"A picture can paint a thousand words." I found the one picture in my mind that does paint a thousand words and more. It was a couple of weeks ago when I saw this picture in the writing center; the writing center is part of State College. The beautiful colors caught my eye. I was so enchanted by the painting, I lost the group I was with. When I heard about the observation essay, where we have to write about a person or thing in the city that catches your eye. I knew right away that I wanted to write about the painting. I don’t know why, but I felt that the painting was describing the way I felt at that moment.