Reading Response (Week 5)

The concept of "narrative distance" really interested me because it is something that I struggle with--I never know how closely I should write or how distant--I tend to mix both together, which confuses the context and flow of my writing. "Skilled narrative writers put the reader there and let her witness it, have the experience and feel it. That's much more powerful than a secondhand version of reality" (104). I feel like I still need to work on this ability to write for the reader to feel, aka show not tell.

I also found "Remember, the ending is your destination. It is a lot easier to write the rest of the piece when you already know where you are going" (121) as an interesting quote for me. I always seem to want to change my endings even after I have written leading up to it. For me, it's harder to pick my destination then fill in the beginning and middle--while I'm really delving into the middle area, I seem to find a new angle and idea and completely change the end.

I agree with what many people have posted in that last week's reading were more captivating than this week's. It was hard for me to relate to "First Family of Astoria," even with Trillin describing Astoria as this and that and this and that. I almost felt like that is what threw me off a little--I didn't really feel like I understood what Astoria and Astorian meant. In Kidder's piece, I really enjoyed the back and forth dialogue that goes on--like in "Telling True Stories," the best dialogue is not just a quote but a conversation--and you really get the sense of that in "Memory."The end of the piece even ends with dialogue, which I think is very effective.

Feature Article for Week 5: Profile

Hey guys, don't hate me...but I changed the article I want to discuss. (It's a lot shorter though :))

It's "A Jungle of Bamboo is Growing Atop the Met" By Carol Vogel in the New York Times Art & Design Section

I had a hard time picking a good profile about a person, so I wanted to find a location profile to add to tomorrow's discussion.

I picked this article because right off the bat, the writer describes the bamboo structure and its building process in a very personal way--people listening to music known to most. Then it switches, saying that the workers look like tightrope walkers, monkeys, etc--bringing in the imagery of a circus-like frenzy. I like how Vogel focuses on the feel and the look of the structure before really getting into the details of who, what, where, when, why. I think this is a very effective opening for the piece. I feel as though describing a location is much harder to make entertaining than describing a person and their actions. So I picked this piece because it opens with a strong description to a location profile.


If you still want to read the other article:

"Food Fighter" By Nick Paumgarten

The article is on John Mackey, the co-founder and chief executive of Whole Foods Markets. I chose this article because it is a profile that not only focuses on a person but also a location. Throughout the article, both Mackey and the Whole Foods Markets themselves are described, expanding on a sort of "father-child" relationship. Mackey treats Whole Foods as his child, his mind, his life--so it is only fitting that the article embodies profiles of both himself and his creation.

In terms of Mackey, Paumgarten describes his character and his passion for his chain of stores in a devoted and fatherly manner. As he describes Mackey, he also does a great job of describing the Whole Foods chain and its effect on the public. The relationship between Mackey and Whole Foods is developed as well as the relationship between Whole Foods and the public. Paumgarten delves deeper into Whole Foods and how communities have come to accept, reject, judge, and identify with it.

I just really enjoyed how Paumgarten showed Mackey's success and Whole Food's success developing together--along with public involvement as well.

Personal Piece Rewrite

Host Mom’s Grade School Classroom

I sat uncomfortably on the sole wooden chair in the kitchen—my back straight, my legs pasted together, my hands in my lap. Nodding continuously, I stared at the white wall in between my host mother and the digital clock that told me how long she had been talking to me. I mumbled “oui” every once in awhile to make sure that she thought I was paying attention. I was trapped in an elementary school classroom.
From September first to January 18th, I studied abroad in Strasbourg, France. The eleven of us in the group were placed with separate host families, and within the first few hours in the city, students were driven away to their new home. I was the last one standing. Instead of a welcoming pick-up, I boarded a taxi that navigated me to my apartment where my host mother stood in front of the building—a 50-year old, single mother with graying hair and cigarette-stained teeth.
“Je m’appelle Marina.”
“Simone,” she said with no hello, nice to meet you, or welcome.
She grabbed one of my overweight suitcases and started to drag it to the elevator. She muttered in French. Seeing her discontent with my overabundance of luggage, I tried to say something to lighten the mood.
“Désolée. J’ai beaucoup de choses. C’est très...” I paused.
“I’m sorry. I have a lot of things. It is very…what is the word for heavy,” I thought to myself, “An easy word.”
I asked her what the word for “heavy” was. Her snappy response shaped the rest of my home-stay experience: I don’t speak a lick of English. I can’t help you.
I knew that my time abroad would be centered on the French language and culture. I tried my hardest to speak to my host mother, but I was always laughed at or yelled at for my mistakes—I dreaded communication with her. My goal became to converse with her as if I were her friend, not a child in her nursery school program that she ran from home.
Venturing through Strasbourg, I picked up on more of the language—chit-chatting with market vendors, buying new phone credit, discussing colors at a clothing store—I knew it wasn’t my skill that was the problem, it was my host mother. After thriving through hours of flourishing flower shops, scent-filled patisseries, and trendy Fashion stores, I would return to my host mother’s classroom, surrounded by crying babies and lectures. She even made me fill out a schedule board; apples and pencils drawn around the border. She made me repeat aloud.
“Be back by 7 o’clock every night for dinner. If you are not going to be home, call me,” she spat as she pointed at the schedule.
“Okay, I understand. 7 o’clock,” I said.
“Non, non. Répèter!” she screamed.
I repeated word-for-word what she had just explained to me. She waited for me to make a mistake; then when I did, she snickered and belittled me, saying she knew I didn’t understand.
I tolerated her attacks. I would lock myself into my room, keeping back tears just in case she entered with another one-sided battle. For months, I let her treat me like one of her nursery children—allowing her to give me curfews, and adolescent rules—all things forbidden by the program.
One night, I sat in my room, minding my own business, when she stormed in with a trashcan in her hand.
“You use too much toilet paper and tissues!” she screamed at me.
“Okay, I understand. I will not use so much anymore.”
She continued screaming. She stuck her hand deep into the trashcan and pulled out used pieces of tissue and waved it in my face.
“Trop, trop!” I saw her white, curly-q covered dog whimpering in the corner. The dog and I related to each other.
I started to fall into my usual method—staring back at that white wall, watching the clock tick, waiting for class time to be over.
“Pourquoi ne tu comprends pas!?” she yelled, “Why don’t you understand!?”
I screamed back. I raised my voice to her level. I retaliated for all of the times she had lectured me—“You treat me like a child. When I say I understand, I understand. I do as I please. You have no right to treat me this way.”
She walked out of the room to put the trashcan away. I slammed the door behind her.
“Don’t close the door when I’m talking to you,” she stormed in.
“I will respect you when you respect me…I am waiting,” I sneered back, closing the door again.
After this screaming match, my host mother gave me more space and started to take my word; I think mostly because she was stunned that I defended myself. We did not like each other, but we did not dislike each other either. I finally got her respect. I felt that I could communicate.
The battle finally ended. My host mother thought she won—she made me walk my two 50-pound suitcases (luggage that started this whole mess) to the bus station by myself at five in the morning before my flight back to America. Guess what, Simone…I’m not a child and I made it by myself, with 15 minutes to spare.

Reading Response (Week 4)

I really enjoyed Susan Orlean's "The American Man at Age Ten." Not only does she use descriptive imagery to describe herself and Colin Duffy, but she succeeds in intertwining both characters, effectively shoeing herself into a ten year old's world. Right off the bat, she succeeded in this integration: "We would wear shorts, big sneakers, and long baggy T-shirts depicting famous athletes every single day, even in the winter. We would sleep in our clothes." She continues with the "we"s to really emphasize their connection and the world they are in together.

Another effective tactic that Orlean used well was dialogue. The back and forth conversations between her and Colin added to their closeness and how well it was portrayed. "Who's the coolest person in the world? Morgan Freeman...Who's the coolest woman?" etc. These daily chit-chats draw the reader in even more to their world.

Profile Pitch (Week 4)

For my profile piece, I am writing about Amy Rodgers, an English professor at Kalamazoo College. She is a new professor this year—teaching Shakespeare and film.
My story on Amy is going to focus on her switch between her ballet days to her teaching career. She was a ballerina at the Joffery Ballet, and then went back to school for English and teaching. I am going to focusing on why she made the switch. She is a lively Shakespeare teacher, and I would like to research what kind of dancer she was—just as lively and vibrant? Completely different? English and writing are an art form, as is ballet dancing—I will find out how they conflicted and complimented each other.
I have personal access to Amy Rodgers for she is a professor at Kalamazoo College. I would like to research her time at the Joffery Ballet through her perspective. I have already talked to her and she has agreed to let me write this piece. I will also interview students and professors to see what they think of her and her teaching. She is currently teaching a film class so I can get a media student’s perspective as well as a Shakespeare-concentrator’s perspective.
I am the right person to right this story because I have two of the same interests as Amy—writing and dance. I wrote my entire creative non-fiction SIP on dance and ballet so I relate to her with the art of both movement and writing. I have been dancing for most of my life—and writing about it is one of the things I do best. I’ve also been interested in writing and English for all of college. Because of these things, I can focus on both aspects of Amy’s life in a deeper way.

Reading Response To "Writing for Story" (Week 3)

For me, the most interesting idea was definitely the "Outline" chapter that Marin told us to read thoroughly. I read this chapter first, which made it even more interesting, because then I read from the beginning and really thought about the storyline and the process Franklin may have taken to write his chapters. Outlines begin the writing process--"the outline level is by far the most abstract of the three and yet, in a certain sense, the most straightforward" 101). In this section, the most important thing I noticed was the structure of outlining in general. Writing many papers before, my outlines have consisted of the usual: intro, paragraph 1, 2, 3, conclusion, etc. But after reading this chapter, I see the importance of relating the action with the resolution. With what Franklin was saying, we should be able to pick that "one word" (as we discussed in class) to sum up our writing. Devotion, or guilt, or personal growth--an outline should be clear enough to pick this one word and main focus. I had never thought of an outline like this before, and it will definitely help in future writings and editing.

Response to Claire's "The Weight of One Strand of Hair"

First, you described Victorians class very well. As I was reading, I was instantly thinking back to class time and what everyone’s reactions were to “what’s your way in?” I liked how you started with this to open toward your main idea/theme of your piece. It’s a great anecdote that transitions into your story in France very well. I really enjoyed your piece because I can definitely relate—indecision on beliefs, questioning religions, and of course European parties and creepers. But I also feel like someone who wasn’t also in France or Europe could easily read this and relate and/or understand where you’re coming from. It was very genuinely written. All of your personal anecdotes drew me in—the Victorian’s class to France to mass to family dinner. The question of religion is something that a lot of people struggle with, and by using your experiences, you made this broad idea very personal and unique, and I liked that.

Response to Joel's "Catching the 6:45"

I definitely related to your story. I don’t know how many times I ended up running onto a train, or freaking out because I was an hour away from the city, or having to pay 2039 euros for a cab to my hostel because I had no idea where I landed. I could definitely sense the chaos and sense of urgency when reading your piece. You could tell that this was a new experience for you and why it mattered.

I would have liked to read more imagery. Although your hours of getting ready, riding every single mode of transportation available, and panicking were centered on chaos, it would be nice to read something about the scene and such. As you were all over the place and stressed out, was everything else calm or a blur or just as chaos-like? If you added more imagery, it would step back from the “I did this, then this, then this, then this.” Besides that, I enjoyed reading your piece—it brought me back to the good ole days.

PS…remember that one time you were randomly in our hostel room in Rome? The chaos of European traveling definitely preceded that.

Response to Anna's "Eva"

I really liked the structure of your story—how everything flowed, especially going into the end, and the idea of the “light” connecting the entire piece. The paragraph where Eva is speaking to the audience was interesting to read. It really kept me into the story. But at the same time the repetition of incomplete sentences kind of threw me off. I realize it was probably for a stylistic reason, but perhaps it could flow a little bit better into it. Also, how did these things she was saying make you feel?

I would also have liked to read more imagery. I really enjoyed the part where you say “A5272” was etched on your arm and how you were standing in a flesh-colored bra, etc. That part really drew me in because it was something that I had never felt or gone through and you the description connects us to your event.

Overall, I really liked your piece and the topic you chose. With the dialogue, your mother’s presence, and the scene at the end, you can definitely tell that this is something that resonates with you and is something that was an important “turning point” for you.

Response to Munirah's Piece

I could definitely tell that your topic is something really important to you. Your perfectionism was related not just to schoolwork but other things in your everyday life too—like basketball, practice, etc. You could go even more in depth with that. By emphasizing this more in each activity, I could better see how you eventually evolve as well. You stated in your writing process response that you really struggled to find a good topic, but I can see how this one will turn into something meaningful. I look forward to hearing the different twist that you already have in mind.

I would like if you added more about basketball toward the end of the narrative. I know you and basketball are great friends, so it’d be nice to see you go back to that and explain how that has also developed. I also would enjoy reading more specific, personal anecdotes. You mention basketball at the beginning and do a great job of explaining the settings, but it would help if you added why these things are relevant to you. (ie a specific event at Kalamazoo that made you realize you were changing, or a time at your small school that made you think differently).

Writing Process for Assignment 1

One of the biggest challenges for me was staying within the 850-900 word limit. I kept writing and writing, and by the time I finished I was over 1,000 words and had to go through multiple times and cut out large sections of writing. As it was a challenge, it was also one of the most beneficial things. It made my piece much more concise and I realized that a lot of what I was writing was unnecessary.

Another challenge was writing effective dialogue. It was hard to decide whether to write in French or English or both, and which would be most effective. My host mom could only speak French, so it seemed logical to write her speaking in French. But at the same time, what she was saying to me was just as important because it was so demeaning. Because not everyone can understand French, I chose English translations for these specific lines.

Breakthrough-wise: I realized I am still bitter with my host mom. But also find it hilarious how much of an a-hole she was. It was fun to try and capture this through writing, and realize I still have a lot of work to do in order to really show how much she sucked.

Assignment #1: Personal Journalism

"Host Mom & 'Lourde' Luggage"

I sat uncomfortably on the sole wooden chair in the kitchen—my back straight, my legs pasted together, my hands in my lap. I nodded continuously while staring at the white wall in between my host mother and the digital clock that told me how long she had been talking at me. I mumbled “oui” every once in awhile to make sure that she thought I was paying attention. I was trapped in an elementary school classroom.

From September 1^st to January 18^th, I studied abroad in Strasbourg, France. The eleven of us in the group were placed with separate host families. Students were driven away to their new home. I was the last one standing. Instead of a welcoming pick-up, I boarded a taxi that navigated me to my apartment. My host mother stood in front of the apartment—a 50-year old, single mother with graying hair and cigarette-stained teeth.

“Je m’appelle Marina.”

“Simone,” she said with no hello, nice to meet you, or welcome.

She grabbed one of my overweight suitcases and started to drag it to the elevator. She muttered in French. Seeing her discontent with my overabundance of luggage, I tried to say something to lighten the mood.

“D’ésolée. J’ai beaucoup de choses. C’est trés...” I paused.

“I’m sorry. I have a lot of things. It is very…what is the word for heavy,” I thought to myself, “An easy word.”

I asked her what the word for “heavy” was. Her snappy response shaped the rest of my home-stay experience: I don’t speak a lick of English.

I knew that my time abroad would be centered on the French language and culture. I was not as prepared for this as I thought. I struggled speaking to my host mother, and I dreaded it each day. But if there was one thing that I wanted from study abroad, it was the ability to communicate in my own way.

Venturing through Strasbourg, I began to pick up on more of the language. At the markets, I would make small talk with vendors, ending with praise and for my French skills. But when I returned back to my host mother’s presence, my high from the day would disappear.

My host mother was not encouraging or helpful in the slightest. She patronizingly laughed at my mistakes. The worst was that she did not believe me if I told her that I comprehended something. She made me repeat back to her as if I were a child.

“Be back by 7 o’clock every night for dinner. If you are not going to be home, call me. On Saturdays, let me know by Friday night,” she spat.

“Okay, I understand. 7 o’clock,” I said.

“Non, non. Répèter!” she screamed.

I repeated word-for-word what she had just explained to me. She waited for me to make a mistake; then when I did, she snickered and belittled me, saying she knew I didn’t understand.

How could I get over the language barrier if all I heard was mocking laughter? I took her attacks. I would lock myself into my room, keeping back tears just in case she entered with another one-sided battle.

For months, I let her treat me like one of her nursery children—allowing her to give me curfews, and adolescent rules—all things forbidden by the program. I tolerated demeaning conversations.

I finally erupted. I sat in my freezing room, finishing up homework, when she stormed in with a trashcan in her hand.

“You use too much toilet paper and tissues!” she screamed at me.

“Okay, I understand. I will not use so much anymore.”

“NO! You use too much!” she continued screaming. But this time, she stuck her hand deep into the trashcan and pulled out used pieces of tissue and waved it in my face.

“Trop, trop!” I saw her white, curly-q covered dog whimpering in the corner. I was sure she knew how I felt because she also got scolded when she did not behave. The dog and I related to each other.

I started to fall into my usual method—staring back at that white wall, watching the clock tick.

“Pourquoi ne tu comprends pas!?” she yelled, “Why don’t you understand!?”

I lost it. I screamed back. I raised my voice to her level. I retaliated for all of the times she had lectured me—“You treat me like a child. When I say I understand, I understand. I do as I please. You have no right to treat me this way…I have no desire to talk to you.”

She walked out of the room to put the trashcan away. I slammed the door behind her.

“Don’t close the door when I’m talking to you,” she stormed in.

“Oh, I thought you were done telling me things I already know,” I sneered back.

After this screaming match, my host mother gave me more space and started to take my word. We did not like each other, but we did not dislike each other either. I finally got her respect. I felt that I could communicate.

The battle finally ended. My host mother thought she won—she made me walk my two 50-pound suitcases (luggage that started this whole mess) to the bus station by myself at five in the morning. But guess what, Simone…I’m not a child and I made it by myself, with 15 minutes to spare.