In “The professionalism of the field is turning students off” Bruce Fleming argues that the way some students are being taught is turning them off and not teaching them anything and it needs to stop. Students who are turned on by a subject are more apt to learn and I tend to agree with what he is arguing. Fleming is saying in his essay that the way literature is being taught today is not only hindering the students learning, but turning them off from reading on their own, just for the love of it; which Fleming argues is the reason we first started teaching literature in the first place. Professors teach a book much like dissecting a frog, or in Fleming’s example: giving a tour of a grocery store to Martians. Students not only don’t understand what the literature really is, but now are viewing it as a dead frog and couldn’t be more turned off.
Fleming starts his argument by saying how literature is being taught helps no one. Many students are not going to be teachers or professors so the way literature is being presented cannot help them in their own lives or futures. He feels teachers owe their students something that they can use in their lives outside the classroom. It shouldn’t be here is the literature and this is what I want you to get out of it. It’s better to let students read a book and get their own reaction instead of leading them to their conclusion; however there is a difference in how Fleming chose to lead his herd. He had his students, mostly male, read Gustave Flaubert’s Madame Bovery. The student’s immediate reaction was that Emma was a slut. Fleming stepped in and instead of telling the students what to think he asked them to view the story from Emma’s side. Fleming lead his students a certain way but let them come up with their own interpretation instead of telling them what to think, and in turn the students were more open to the story and better for it. I feel as teachers you should guide not force, and you should be open not condensed. If students can relate to a story by relating to something that they are familiar with to better understand a piece of literature I say let me. That could help them more in the long run then telling them what exactly the book is trying to convey and let the students get their own ideas out of it.
Fleming goes on to argue that now instead of reading literature we study the “texts” and indeed I feel as though we do. We rip apart and section off a piece of great literature that is from the “canon” into something that is a far greater mess and harder to understand than simply reading and enjoying the work for what it is. Dissecting a piece of literature can help you understand certain aspects but the consequence of that action is that the book may lose its appeal and perhaps the simple message that was intended. I feel we sometimes go way too far diving into a work that we come up with crazy symbolism that is far fetched and confusing and it turns the book off. Our internal light for literature is turned off. It suddenly becomes a chore to grasp only one interpretation of a book that was once a fun and exciting read. It seems those two cannot go together in a “learning environment”. Learning can no longer be fun, for if it was fun then we got nothing out of it.
Fleming said
“We're not teaching literature, we're teaching the professional study of literature: What we do is its own subject. Nowadays the academic study of literature has almost nothing to do with the living, breathing world outside. The further along you go in the degree ladder, and the more rarified a college you attend, the less literary studies relates to the world of the reader. The academic study of literature nowadays isn't, by and large, about how literature can help students come to terms with love, and life, and death, and mistakes, and victories, and pettiness, and nobility of spirit, and the million other things that make us human and fill our lives. It's, well, academic, about syllabi and hiring decisions, how works relate to each other, and how the author is oppressing whomever through the work”
and I feel in so many words that this is true. This sums up Fleming’s argument and it infuriates me. With the way literature is being taught no wonder many people nowadays have a negative attitude towards it.
When I was in high school Shakespeare was shoved down our throats. We knew nothing of him; how cleaver he was, sassy he was, or what his works really were. We were too busy being told what to think about this play or that that we never really understood them and in turn wound up disliking them. Now that I’m in college and have taken classes about Shakespeare I have a better appreciation for him. I remember the first day of class being told the majority of the course was going to be about Shakespeare, I cringed. I hated Shakespeare! He was boring and long and hard to understand. By the end of that course I had a whole new understanding of him; who he was, what he did, how he was. Now I get excited when I know we’ll be talking about Shakespeare in a class, he rocks!
There are those who disagree with Fleming’s approach. They feel by letting the students come up with their own conclusion may be leading them astray. One of these “theys” would be a critic of Fleming named David Bartholomae, who is a teacher himself also. Bartholomae has a more hands on approach and feels if you let students not be lead by a teacher they will be misguided. Bartholomae says “there is a great importance of academic reading and writing in the classroom”. He wants to focus his and his student’s energy into that, and not so much into reading and letting them come up with their own interpretations and writing whatever they feel. I agree with Bartholomae that reading and writing are important; the academic route isn’t always the best road to take. Sometimes it’s best to let your students roam free then softly lead them back. That way they will be more open and willing to be taught and to learn.
Fleming would be the kind of professor I’d like to take. His approach is dead on to me. He gets it: teachers are there to teach. To show doorways but let you choose what door. I didn’t have to like Shakespeare but because I understood him and his work better I did. I wasn’t told to I came to that decision on my own. In high school I was told to read it and like it, so my reaction was the total opposite. If I didn’t agree with the teacher my grade would reflect that decision and it should never be that way. I like how Fleming understands students are not Martians; they are human and just want to learn. They want to make their own decisions and teachers/professors need to respect that and want to help students get excited about reading again! “We professors just have to remember that the books are the point, not us. We need, in short, to get beyond literary studies. We're not scientists, we're coaches. We're not transmitting information, at least not in the sense of teaching a discipline. But we do get to see our students react, question, develop, and grow. If you like life, that's satisfaction enough.”
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Thursday, April 16, 2009
What is English?
The argument between the two basically boils down to this: the definition of English; what is it? Both Bartholomae and Elbow are trying to figure this out and teach courses accordingly so that students can have a better sense and knowledge; and this is where the conflict begins. Bartholomae comes down on the side of skepticism, whereas Elbow comes down more on the side of credulity as the governing idea in the undergraduate writing course. Bartholomae wants to teach his students in a way that they form a certain criticism or mistrust to language and writing. Elbow takes a different approach where he wants his students to trust language and writing.
Elbow and Bartholomae aren't so far apart in their views. Elbow feels that academic writing as a major part of an undergraduate training isn't feasible or desirable in a one semester introductory course, but that it needs to take longer so it can in turn benefit those who take it in the long run more than just taking it in lower level courses. Bartholomae disagrees. They are not so far apart on their stances, it's all about defining English and how best to teach it. It's an ongoing battle/argument which is old and seems never ending.....why? Because what really is English?
Elbow and Bartholomae aren't so far apart in their views. Elbow feels that academic writing as a major part of an undergraduate training isn't feasible or desirable in a one semester introductory course, but that it needs to take longer so it can in turn benefit those who take it in the long run more than just taking it in lower level courses. Bartholomae disagrees. They are not so far apart on their stances, it's all about defining English and how best to teach it. It's an ongoing battle/argument which is old and seems never ending.....why? Because what really is English?
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Scissortail Festival
I attended the Friday, April 3rd 9:30-10:45 reading. The authors were suppose to be Melissa Morphew—Sam Houston State U. Wedding Borges’ Garden. Gordon Greene—Midwest City, Oklahoma Why Don’t Elephants Play Tennis?, And Alvin Turner—East Central University Hanging Men. However, Melissa Morphew couldn’t attend, so Dr. Mark Walling, from ECU English Dept., filled in for her. Dr. Walling read first and this was interesting for I’ve had Dr. Walling in three classes before and am very familiar with him. So hearing him read his own work was different from hearing the other authors because I know him, and that was cool. If Dr. Walling’s book was turned into a movie it would get an ‘R’ rating. In movies if you use the ‘F’ word more than 3x’s it automatically gets an ‘R’ rating. He likes the ‘F’ word I noticed. But his story was very raw, very good. I was tempted to ask him if it was for sale, I really enjoyed it. He concluded his story right at a scenes climax, leaving the audience hanging. I wanted more. The next author was Gordon Greene. He read a short story, two poems, and a short essay. During his reading of his shot story Why Don’t Elephants Play Tennis? He really got into it. The story was really griping and had a few tearjerker moments. Some people in the audience even drew tears. Gordon actually started crying while reading. It became really real. He is a great public speaker. The last and final speaker was Alvin Turner. Now poor Alan, this guy put me to sleep. He was a cute little old man, and made a few of the audience chuckle, but he as mono tone and I yawned too many times. I tried to keep from it but this story was more like a bedtime lullaby then an interesting award winning tale.
On a side note I’m very glad that you assigned this extra credit assignment. Normally I wouldn’t have even tried to go. All the times listed were either during one of my classes or interfered with my work schedule. With this assignment being worth extra credit it motivated me to rearrange my schedule to go to this. Now that I have I’m really glad I did. I enjoyed this experience and had a pretty good time. There is nothing like watch an author reading their own works, seeing the pride in their faces as they speak, and hearing a story come to life. If I had to pick a favorite, even though Gordon Greene had the best speaking voice for this kind of thing, Dr. Mark Walling’s story was the most enjoyable. Now I don’t know if this is because I’m biased because I know him that I feel this way, but his story was really enjoyable and I wanted to hear more. If a story can make you yearn for more than you know it must be good. I found myself feeling like I was in the story and apart of the scenes. It came alive to me and that was well worth going to this festival. If one book can come alive for you and let you enter an alternative world, than its well worth it to have this festival and now I’m a fan and a supporter of the Scissortail Creative Writing Festival and will continue to go to these reading as much as I can now. Thanks for assigning this to us, it was cool.
On a side note I’m very glad that you assigned this extra credit assignment. Normally I wouldn’t have even tried to go. All the times listed were either during one of my classes or interfered with my work schedule. With this assignment being worth extra credit it motivated me to rearrange my schedule to go to this. Now that I have I’m really glad I did. I enjoyed this experience and had a pretty good time. There is nothing like watch an author reading their own works, seeing the pride in their faces as they speak, and hearing a story come to life. If I had to pick a favorite, even though Gordon Greene had the best speaking voice for this kind of thing, Dr. Mark Walling’s story was the most enjoyable. Now I don’t know if this is because I’m biased because I know him that I feel this way, but his story was really enjoyable and I wanted to hear more. If a story can make you yearn for more than you know it must be good. I found myself feeling like I was in the story and apart of the scenes. It came alive to me and that was well worth going to this festival. If one book can come alive for you and let you enter an alternative world, than its well worth it to have this festival and now I’m a fan and a supporter of the Scissortail Creative Writing Festival and will continue to go to these reading as much as I can now. Thanks for assigning this to us, it was cool.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Not Out of Reach
"Unless English departments begin a discussion of these questions, nothing is likely to change, but I doubt that change will happen unless upper administrators--deans and provosts--provide the encouragement and the incentives to change." Gerald Graff
I believe that one person can change an outlook of a body of students; so with that I say that I disagree with Graff's statement. I think that it would help if the administrators provided encouragement things would change, but that doesn't have to be the only incentives for change. A single professor could make all the difference in the world just be encouraging and opening students eyes. If a professor made the incentive to change then that may affect a class of students to change and therefore may influence other professors to do the same and then before we know it a whole department did all this changing without the administration even knowing. It just takes one great professor to help open and broaden a students views and change their lives forever....or maybe just for that semester, but you get my drift.
I believe that one person can change an outlook of a body of students; so with that I say that I disagree with Graff's statement. I think that it would help if the administrators provided encouragement things would change, but that doesn't have to be the only incentives for change. A single professor could make all the difference in the world just be encouraging and opening students eyes. If a professor made the incentive to change then that may affect a class of students to change and therefore may influence other professors to do the same and then before we know it a whole department did all this changing without the administration even knowing. It just takes one great professor to help open and broaden a students views and change their lives forever....or maybe just for that semester, but you get my drift.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
On Reading Montaigne
When reading "Of Books" I was thinking the whole time "Now I know this is the "Father of the Essay" but I've read better"(sorry to all his big time fans). Now I suppose they give him this title not for being the best, but being the first. The story had a LOT of words I couldn't pronounce and many more I was lost in meaning.Context clues did help and I was able to figure them out, but I feel as though it was too late, I had been turned off. When reading "Of a Monstrous Child" I was thinking that this man has a thing for staring off his titles in "Of". I didn't get this essay at all, if you can call it that. If was barely two pages of a description. But to get on a positive note, the language was much better and I was starting to feel hope. But all was lost again on "On Some Verses of Virgil". Yay, he didn't use "Of" is what I first thought. To be honest, I didn't even make it through the story. I did like the first paragraph and the first sentence was one of thew best I thought it the book, "To the extent that useful thoughts are fuller and more solid, they are also more absorbing and more troublesome." Thia statement is so true. I apologize for being so negative, it just must be the mood I am in. I will try to read these again on a better night and see if my opinion changes. I'll let you know....
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
B-B-Q Spaghetti
Trisha Vogan
R.W.Adv.Essays
Dr. Benton
Personal Essay
B-B-Q Spaghetti
It is an often occurrence. Every time he comes home it’s to be expected. My father has always worked for jobs where he would be gone for days, weeks, months at a time. He loves to cook and never gets to while he’s on the road, or drink for that matter; so the first day he arrives home expect a meal, but never ordinary, something he creates in his intoxicated mind. Inebriated as he often is at home, these creations sound and smell good to him, however, are most always farthest from the truth to the rest of us. It would not be out of the ordinary for myself to have friends over, for we never quite knew when he would arrive, and he preferred it this way. All my friends can attest to the many nights of meals never quite heard of and taste buds not quite ready for. The story I’m about to tell, however, luckily, it was just the family at home that night. I arrived home with my little brother and my stomach dropped as soon as I saw his truck, I still get the same feeling to this day when I see a truck like his. First let me tell you a little about this man they call my father and the reason he makes my stomach drop.
My father is the oldest of three. His mother, my grandmother, was always sick so my dad had to learn to cook to feed his father and brothers, or they would starve. As he learned to cook he found that he also enjoyed it and it soon became a hobby. He joined the army as soon as he could and took off to Germany. Now my father is not a gentle man, he’s not someone you can get close to, share thoughts or feelings, or weakness. He has been diagnosed with Bi-Polar disease and he has the greatest love for alcohol, which we come from a LONG line of alcoholics, so it makes sense. But these two together make for a lethal, if not deadly, combination. My father was also a victim of abuse and has extreme anger issues that he just doesn’t know how to deal with. He has put one of his brothers in a coma, luckily he did come out of it, but they still haven’t spoken since. My father has been in jail several times, for reasons that would make you squirm in your seat. He has had many DUI’s and has had to pay many fines for unspeakable crimes. I tell you all this to give you some insight. This is not the normal loving father making his doting family a nice dinner; this is a drunken man fooling around, making messes in the kitchen.
Now usually his meals are not too shabby, in fact he tends to be a pretty good cook. The dinner that sticks most out in my mind would be the B-B-Q Spaghetti fiasco. I can remember that night as clearly as if it were last night. I pulled into our driveway coming home from school. It was me and my brother, Brent, who is six years younger than myself. I saw his truck, the big black bull, and my stomach dropped…he was home. A sick feeling waved over me and I just knew all my plans for the afternoon would have to vanish. My brother on the other hand, his face lit up with excitement. He has different feelings than I do toward my father. He has seen a different person and was too young to realize what our father really was. We got out of the car, and as I was taking my sweet time, Brent ran to the door. I said a prayer as I walked to the door, hoping my mom wouldn’t be in tears by the time I got to her. When I got to the door I opened it and my nostrils were met by an unfamiliar and not a practically enticing fragrance.
I stepped into the house and saw the big screen was on the music channel, playing some 80’s song, and the volume was up full blast….”yep, he’s drunk”, I thought to myself. I walked in further into the kitchen to see the refrigerator door wide open and almost completely empty inside. On the counter were an empty bottle of KC Masterpiece Original Barbecue Sauce, and other empty bottles of Tabasco and Louisiana Hot Sauce, along with half empty bottles of ketchup, relish, and soy sauce. I saw many other condiments but didn’t take a good look at the rest, though there were a lot. The table was just as cluttered with other items taken from the refrigerator. You could smell the tension on the room, along with the pot of boiling water and beer. My father stood there, dancing to his music and splashing this mystery sauce everywhere. There stood a 20 pack of Coors Light at his feet, his Silver Bullet.
My little brother ran up to him, so thrilled upon his arrival, and wrapped his arms around my father’s waist. My dad was quick to turn around with a sour look upon his face. “Brent, what are you doing, can’t you see I’m cooking, it’s hot!” he screamed at my brother. The temperature was hot in the room and my dads temper was too. Brent scurried away like a wounded puppy and that’s when he spotted me. I swallowed the lump that had been caught in my throat and forced a smile. “Hi”, I said, meek and shy, trying my best not to make him mad. I was relieved when he smiled. My dad’s smile could brighten a room, for they were rare and hard to come by. He asked me to come take a taste of his special “B-B-Q Spaghetti”. I walked slowly, hoping he would change his mind. If this stuff tasted anywhere close to how it smelt I had to do I could to keep from throwing up. I closed my eyes and opened my mouth as he lowered the spatula to my mouth. The taste was something I’d never tasted before, something that didn’t belong. Nothing went together and it was as if I was swallowing oil and water, it did not taste good. As the warm goo slide down my throat I opened my eyes and forced a smile. “Mmmmmmm that was good”, I lied. Then came the entourage of questions, as the meals always did. See my father is a perfectionist, at least when it comes to his food, and he wanted us to bow down to it, to appreciate every morsel and to never quit complementing him and his cuisine. In reply to his many questions, “What does it need? What is it missing? What could make it better? What would be a good side dish with it? Does it need more salt, more pepper?” My answer to everything was yes, it was amazing, no one could make it better, and I love it! I had to say it in a way that he bought it. If it came off sarcastic bad things would happen. I was not the only one he expected this from, it had to come from all of us: My mom, my sister, me, and my brother.
He bought it, so it was time to clean his mess and set the table. I remember when he announced its completion; we all looked at each other in fear. We all had our designated spots and sat there, while my mother poured everyone’s drink. Thank God we would have something to wash this awful stuff down. He set the boiling pot of brown liquid in front of me and the pot of noodles beside it. The sauce looked like boiling milk chocolate, but tasted nothing close to that. The sauce mixed with the mushy noodles, they were overcooked, was a sight and smell to behold. The family was reluctant to dig in, everyone except my brother, who had no reservations about the meal, my dad had made it so it must be good, was good enough to him. My dad was on to us, so he slammed his fists onto the table and jumped up. He said if we didn’t want to eat it then don’t. Don’t appreciate him and all he’s done, don’t be thankful we have food on the table when many a night he and his family didn’t. It was the same ole’ spill that we don’t care for or appreciate anything from him or that he does. We apologized and he cooled off. We all got small portions and ate quickly, saying how full we were and thanked him for such a delectable meal. That triggered something in him that we like to call the “Hulk Within”. He grabbed our couch and threw it on its back, then turned toward us and punched the wall, leaving a fist size hole in it. His knuckles were bleeding and he came back to the table, face red. My mom started to cry, which happens at least twice every time my dad comes home; my brother than got second, in fear that it was him that set my father off. I looked my dad straight in the eyes and pushed my seat back. I told him I was going to my room, so I got up and did just that, not looking back.
I locked my door behind me and turned on the light. I turned on my CD player and put in my Zoë Girl CD, a girl Christian music group, and reached for my bible on the floor beside my bed. Tears welled up in my eyes and I soon heard a knock on the door. It was my sister and mom at the door, telling me my father had passed out on the other couch, the on that hadn’t been flipped over, and that they wanted to be with me in my room. My mom apologized, as she always does, and my sister and I just rolled our eyes, as we always do. We prayed together and soon parted ways to get ready for bed. My dad left that next morning before I even got up for school and it would be another month before we’d see him again. I was relieved.
I recall this story not for the violent details or harsh actions, but for the spaghetti. As odd as that sounds that is what I remember most from that night. His outbursts and violent behavior were a norm, and still are. I remember planning my wedding and debating whether or not I wanted him to walk me down the isle or even be present. My father is who he is and I only pray he changes before he dies. I love him very much and thank him, for if he wasn’t who he is I wouldn’t be who I am today. I have many memories and stories to tell about him, but they’ll have to wait until another day, but until then we’ll always have B-B-Q Spaghetti.
R.W.Adv.Essays
Dr. Benton
Personal Essay
B-B-Q Spaghetti
It is an often occurrence. Every time he comes home it’s to be expected. My father has always worked for jobs where he would be gone for days, weeks, months at a time. He loves to cook and never gets to while he’s on the road, or drink for that matter; so the first day he arrives home expect a meal, but never ordinary, something he creates in his intoxicated mind. Inebriated as he often is at home, these creations sound and smell good to him, however, are most always farthest from the truth to the rest of us. It would not be out of the ordinary for myself to have friends over, for we never quite knew when he would arrive, and he preferred it this way. All my friends can attest to the many nights of meals never quite heard of and taste buds not quite ready for. The story I’m about to tell, however, luckily, it was just the family at home that night. I arrived home with my little brother and my stomach dropped as soon as I saw his truck, I still get the same feeling to this day when I see a truck like his. First let me tell you a little about this man they call my father and the reason he makes my stomach drop.
My father is the oldest of three. His mother, my grandmother, was always sick so my dad had to learn to cook to feed his father and brothers, or they would starve. As he learned to cook he found that he also enjoyed it and it soon became a hobby. He joined the army as soon as he could and took off to Germany. Now my father is not a gentle man, he’s not someone you can get close to, share thoughts or feelings, or weakness. He has been diagnosed with Bi-Polar disease and he has the greatest love for alcohol, which we come from a LONG line of alcoholics, so it makes sense. But these two together make for a lethal, if not deadly, combination. My father was also a victim of abuse and has extreme anger issues that he just doesn’t know how to deal with. He has put one of his brothers in a coma, luckily he did come out of it, but they still haven’t spoken since. My father has been in jail several times, for reasons that would make you squirm in your seat. He has had many DUI’s and has had to pay many fines for unspeakable crimes. I tell you all this to give you some insight. This is not the normal loving father making his doting family a nice dinner; this is a drunken man fooling around, making messes in the kitchen.
Now usually his meals are not too shabby, in fact he tends to be a pretty good cook. The dinner that sticks most out in my mind would be the B-B-Q Spaghetti fiasco. I can remember that night as clearly as if it were last night. I pulled into our driveway coming home from school. It was me and my brother, Brent, who is six years younger than myself. I saw his truck, the big black bull, and my stomach dropped…he was home. A sick feeling waved over me and I just knew all my plans for the afternoon would have to vanish. My brother on the other hand, his face lit up with excitement. He has different feelings than I do toward my father. He has seen a different person and was too young to realize what our father really was. We got out of the car, and as I was taking my sweet time, Brent ran to the door. I said a prayer as I walked to the door, hoping my mom wouldn’t be in tears by the time I got to her. When I got to the door I opened it and my nostrils were met by an unfamiliar and not a practically enticing fragrance.
I stepped into the house and saw the big screen was on the music channel, playing some 80’s song, and the volume was up full blast….”yep, he’s drunk”, I thought to myself. I walked in further into the kitchen to see the refrigerator door wide open and almost completely empty inside. On the counter were an empty bottle of KC Masterpiece Original Barbecue Sauce, and other empty bottles of Tabasco and Louisiana Hot Sauce, along with half empty bottles of ketchup, relish, and soy sauce. I saw many other condiments but didn’t take a good look at the rest, though there were a lot. The table was just as cluttered with other items taken from the refrigerator. You could smell the tension on the room, along with the pot of boiling water and beer. My father stood there, dancing to his music and splashing this mystery sauce everywhere. There stood a 20 pack of Coors Light at his feet, his Silver Bullet.
My little brother ran up to him, so thrilled upon his arrival, and wrapped his arms around my father’s waist. My dad was quick to turn around with a sour look upon his face. “Brent, what are you doing, can’t you see I’m cooking, it’s hot!” he screamed at my brother. The temperature was hot in the room and my dads temper was too. Brent scurried away like a wounded puppy and that’s when he spotted me. I swallowed the lump that had been caught in my throat and forced a smile. “Hi”, I said, meek and shy, trying my best not to make him mad. I was relieved when he smiled. My dad’s smile could brighten a room, for they were rare and hard to come by. He asked me to come take a taste of his special “B-B-Q Spaghetti”. I walked slowly, hoping he would change his mind. If this stuff tasted anywhere close to how it smelt I had to do I could to keep from throwing up. I closed my eyes and opened my mouth as he lowered the spatula to my mouth. The taste was something I’d never tasted before, something that didn’t belong. Nothing went together and it was as if I was swallowing oil and water, it did not taste good. As the warm goo slide down my throat I opened my eyes and forced a smile. “Mmmmmmm that was good”, I lied. Then came the entourage of questions, as the meals always did. See my father is a perfectionist, at least when it comes to his food, and he wanted us to bow down to it, to appreciate every morsel and to never quit complementing him and his cuisine. In reply to his many questions, “What does it need? What is it missing? What could make it better? What would be a good side dish with it? Does it need more salt, more pepper?” My answer to everything was yes, it was amazing, no one could make it better, and I love it! I had to say it in a way that he bought it. If it came off sarcastic bad things would happen. I was not the only one he expected this from, it had to come from all of us: My mom, my sister, me, and my brother.
He bought it, so it was time to clean his mess and set the table. I remember when he announced its completion; we all looked at each other in fear. We all had our designated spots and sat there, while my mother poured everyone’s drink. Thank God we would have something to wash this awful stuff down. He set the boiling pot of brown liquid in front of me and the pot of noodles beside it. The sauce looked like boiling milk chocolate, but tasted nothing close to that. The sauce mixed with the mushy noodles, they were overcooked, was a sight and smell to behold. The family was reluctant to dig in, everyone except my brother, who had no reservations about the meal, my dad had made it so it must be good, was good enough to him. My dad was on to us, so he slammed his fists onto the table and jumped up. He said if we didn’t want to eat it then don’t. Don’t appreciate him and all he’s done, don’t be thankful we have food on the table when many a night he and his family didn’t. It was the same ole’ spill that we don’t care for or appreciate anything from him or that he does. We apologized and he cooled off. We all got small portions and ate quickly, saying how full we were and thanked him for such a delectable meal. That triggered something in him that we like to call the “Hulk Within”. He grabbed our couch and threw it on its back, then turned toward us and punched the wall, leaving a fist size hole in it. His knuckles were bleeding and he came back to the table, face red. My mom started to cry, which happens at least twice every time my dad comes home; my brother than got second, in fear that it was him that set my father off. I looked my dad straight in the eyes and pushed my seat back. I told him I was going to my room, so I got up and did just that, not looking back.
I locked my door behind me and turned on the light. I turned on my CD player and put in my Zoë Girl CD, a girl Christian music group, and reached for my bible on the floor beside my bed. Tears welled up in my eyes and I soon heard a knock on the door. It was my sister and mom at the door, telling me my father had passed out on the other couch, the on that hadn’t been flipped over, and that they wanted to be with me in my room. My mom apologized, as she always does, and my sister and I just rolled our eyes, as we always do. We prayed together and soon parted ways to get ready for bed. My dad left that next morning before I even got up for school and it would be another month before we’d see him again. I was relieved.
I recall this story not for the violent details or harsh actions, but for the spaghetti. As odd as that sounds that is what I remember most from that night. His outbursts and violent behavior were a norm, and still are. I remember planning my wedding and debating whether or not I wanted him to walk me down the isle or even be present. My father is who he is and I only pray he changes before he dies. I love him very much and thank him, for if he wasn’t who he is I wouldn’t be who I am today. I have many memories and stories to tell about him, but they’ll have to wait until another day, but until then we’ll always have B-B-Q Spaghetti.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
5 PaRaGrApHs
It was a stormy Friday night, nothing extremely out of the ordinary. Neither one of us knew what that night would hold, or how much we would have changed. I can still smell the buttery scent of popcorn popping in the microwave and hear the fizz releasing from the freshly opened bottle of coke. Looking through the stack of movies on the side table and hearing the faint voice of my sister on the phone I finally decided on one and called on her to join me in the living room. This would be the beginning of a night we would not soon forget. (This would be considered a Cheek and Irony essay)
Everyone has a secret. Everyone has a dark place, a place they like to keep hidden from the world. It wasn’t until I realized how much this dark place would affect my future when I finally started to acknowledge its presence and deal with it. I always thought I would just leave, go to college and forget that part of me, that it would just disappear, and leave me be. But in college is when I realized that everyone had secrets, everyone had darkness within. My first year there would leave an everlasting impression and I would go on a different person. It all started with the secrets….the darkness. (This would be considered The Past, the Local, and the Melancholy and Honesty, Confession, and Privacy kind of essays)
Going through hard times is part of life, it’s inevitable, but when it involves family the stakes seem to be higher. Family is supposed to be there when hard times fall upon us, not the reason for it. Where do we go, what do we do? It all started before I was born, but somehow the past affected my future and how I would go on to view things in life and the person I was to become. The experiences I have had have had indeed helped me to become strong and independent, but sometimes I wonder if it was worth it. His name is Will, and here is my story. (This would be considered the same as above)
I opened the door to the odor of beer, water boiling, and a combination I just wasn’t familiar with. You could smell the tension. I heard pans clinging and my mother and father speaking loudly in the kitchen. I made my way to the kitchen where all the racket and odor was coming from and saw the refrigerator door was open, but inside it was empty. All the condiments and everything else were laying out on the table and counter tops. A twenty pack stood by my father’s feet and it appeared I had just walked in on an argument. Dinner was cooking, but I knew so much more than that was brewing up in that kitchen and I really didn’t want to be there to see it boil over. (This is Cheek and Irony)
We heard a knock on the door. We all four looked at each other in excitement. Who could it be, we hadn’t meant that many people just yet. It was our first day on campus and we were all moving in and getting settled. None of us knew each other and we were having fun just getting to do just that. When we heard the knocking we all looked around to see who was going to get up to answer the door. One of the roommates, Lora, did and we were not disappointed. Two rather handsome boys walked in and introduced themselves. “Hello, I’m Josiah and this is my roommate Dustin. We were just walking by and heard someone knocking at us through the window so we thought we would come up and say hi”. We all talked for a while and got to know each other but who would have thought I was going to marry one of these boys someday. (This is a little of all of them, except Quotation and the Uses of Learning)
It was a stormy Friday night, nothing extremely out of the ordinary. Neither one of us knew what that night would hold, or how much we would have changed. I can still smell the buttery scent of popcorn popping in the microwave and hear the fizz releasing from the freshly opened bottle of coke. Looking through the stack of movies on the side table and hearing the faint voice of my sister on the phone I finally decided on one and called on her to join me in the living room. This would be the beginning of a night we would not soon forget. (This would be considered a Cheek and Irony essay)
Everyone has a secret. Everyone has a dark place, a place they like to keep hidden from the world. It wasn’t until I realized how much this dark place would affect my future when I finally started to acknowledge its presence and deal with it. I always thought I would just leave, go to college and forget that part of me, that it would just disappear, and leave me be. But in college is when I realized that everyone had secrets, everyone had darkness within. My first year there would leave an everlasting impression and I would go on a different person. It all started with the secrets….the darkness. (This would be considered The Past, the Local, and the Melancholy and Honesty, Confession, and Privacy kind of essays)
Going through hard times is part of life, it’s inevitable, but when it involves family the stakes seem to be higher. Family is supposed to be there when hard times fall upon us, not the reason for it. Where do we go, what do we do? It all started before I was born, but somehow the past affected my future and how I would go on to view things in life and the person I was to become. The experiences I have had have had indeed helped me to become strong and independent, but sometimes I wonder if it was worth it. His name is Will, and here is my story. (This would be considered the same as above)
I opened the door to the odor of beer, water boiling, and a combination I just wasn’t familiar with. You could smell the tension. I heard pans clinging and my mother and father speaking loudly in the kitchen. I made my way to the kitchen where all the racket and odor was coming from and saw the refrigerator door was open, but inside it was empty. All the condiments and everything else were laying out on the table and counter tops. A twenty pack stood by my father’s feet and it appeared I had just walked in on an argument. Dinner was cooking, but I knew so much more than that was brewing up in that kitchen and I really didn’t want to be there to see it boil over. (This is Cheek and Irony)
We heard a knock on the door. We all four looked at each other in excitement. Who could it be, we hadn’t meant that many people just yet. It was our first day on campus and we were all moving in and getting settled. None of us knew each other and we were having fun just getting to do just that. When we heard the knocking we all looked around to see who was going to get up to answer the door. One of the roommates, Lora, did and we were not disappointed. Two rather handsome boys walked in and introduced themselves. “Hello, I’m Josiah and this is my roommate Dustin. We were just walking by and heard someone knocking at us through the window so we thought we would come up and say hi”. We all talked for a while and got to know each other but who would have thought I was going to marry one of these boys someday. (This is a little of all of them, except Quotation and the Uses of Learning)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
