It is Eight A.M: Little feet are everywhere, clenching to hands attached to five feet giants. The feet are heading to the same destination, a large brick red building labeled P.S. 98. One can agree every little face was painted with fear. They were entering a new world, one they had never been to before. The feet entered inside, and walked to a big multi-colored door that was decorated by a WELCOME K-203! sign. This sign was familiar to me, because I had seen it a couple weeks before. When it is then time for the giants to leave, I watched in awe. Snot flew from noses, “Mommy NOs!” rang in unison and tears streamed down cheeks. They were terrified while I on the other hand, was anxious. I squeezed my giants hand, I knew she had to leave but I was not ready to let her out of my sight. We hugged and then watched her brown shoes walk to her very own classroom, class 4-505.My mother, Ms. Enrique was not only a teacher at P.S. 98, but she was my very first teacher. She embodied me with the passion to read and write, which then later became a gateway to creativity. Her dedication to my early learning granted a head start in my development, this head start put me above my peers and filled a sense of pride and confidence within. My mother helped build the mold of the person I am today.
One of my very first memorabilia’s I could remember receiving from my mother, was a black and white composition book. This book contained alphabet written in her neat almost godly-like hand writing to me. I wrote each letter under her own, and even though my A slanted, my F was timid. She smiled as if it were perfect. I adored this smile and it became one I wanted to put on her face every as much as I could. My composition book became a part of my family; it went everywhere that I did. Vowels now traveled with me to the zoo, on the bus and even when walking home with my mother from her summer job in the school cafeteria. She would sound out the vowel “AHHH” and then tell me words in the “A” family. “BAADDD , SAAAD” she would sound out. I would then continue where she left off and would take it into my own hands. “Is HAAAAD a word mommy?” I asked. “Yes” she replied. “Good Kayla.” This praise was something I wanted constantly and I would try to read everything in my sight for her praise. She then brought home flash cards and small picture books that she told me I would finish instantly. I loved to read, it was something that came naturally and easily to me, a gift I realized not to many of my peers had shared once I started school.
Being the only African-American in K-203 was quite difficult, not many talked to me and being an only child at home it was a hard thing dealing with, but I knew every day after lunch I would achieve the stage that I longed for. Mrs. Perkins would put up a word on the board, while her assistant Ms.Mercardo passed out large sheets of double lined paper. “Try and copy each letter in this word she would say”. I would do as told, “DONE!” I would say. I looked around watching the two teachers run around the room assisting kids who had trouble holding their pencil and writing the word. “Good Job Kayla” she would tell me, as I would smile from ear to ear as the star sticker laid on top of my proud piece. I was a star and at young, although I faced discrimination from my peers who would tell me differently, I had my mother and various teachers reminding me of this. It was then confirmed when I was awarded with having the top ELA reading and writing scores in school District Six.
My mother introducing me to reading and writing at an early age formed my passion for the two. Being so dedicated to being the best reader and writer allowed me to establish a sense of pride and confidence in the skill. If it was not for this confident I may have not be able to brush off the discrimination I received from my peers at such a young age. I am and will be forever grateful for my mother’s teachings.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
ENGLISH GENRES : WOLF Professor Francis
WOLF
The sun shines through the blinds
Yet the heat does not warm me
My soul is wandering with an unconnected mind
Left in one big surreal, left cut open
Longing to feel
Moments are now temporary
Your smile is deranged
The face prominent in the pebbles in my head
Now turned to grain
I wait for you to walk in, to return the glow to my cheeks
Give the beat to my heart , the movement to my feet
I have hung you in my closet, then back on the shelf
I have thought of your demise, and claimed you for self.
Saying "we will come back", my tung speaks these lies , our future unfamiliar in your doe like brown eyes
I have killed you off and thus brought you to life
Worn the apron as your mother
And the veil as your wife
Gave the water as your coach
Instead you ripped my heart , drew a pin now wear it as a broach
Forcing myself to tell not a soul
My true feelings I put on hold
I regret to accept that our young love grew old
Until then , I will wait for my heart to mend
This dark shadow to move
This rainstorm to end
Not bitter from the absence of love
But more abandonment from a friend
My hands now are cold
My words lack feelings
I'm back to square one
While I wait for true healing once again solo
My lone wolf now revealing
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Explanation of Wolf.
I chose the style of confessional because I admired the way Sylvia Plath could so easily get her ideas on to the
paper without being judged. When people read the confessional I realized that she was able to speak to
the whole world. No one shunned her or said they couldn’t read this , everyone listened. She was then
able to find peace within herself. I wanted to create an art , similar to her. Which is why I created wolf.
Writing this poem was difficult because I had to bear my soul to the page. I also had to return to a place
I have not went to in a long time.
The sun shines through the blinds
Yet the heat does not warm me
My soul is wandering with an unconnected mind
Left in one big surreal, left cut open
Longing to feel
Moments are now temporary
Your smile is deranged
The face prominent in the pebbles in my head
Now turned to grain
I wait for you to walk in, to return the glow to my cheeks
Give the beat to my heart , the movement to my feet
I have hung you in my closet, then back on the shelf
I have thought of your demise, and claimed you for self.
Saying "we will come back", my tung speaks these lies , our future unfamiliar in your doe like brown eyes
I have killed you off and thus brought you to life
Worn the apron as your mother
And the veil as your wife
Gave the water as your coach
Instead you ripped my heart , drew a pin now wear it as a broach
Forcing myself to tell not a soul
My true feelings I put on hold
I regret to accept that our young love grew old
Until then , I will wait for my heart to mend
This dark shadow to move
This rainstorm to end
Not bitter from the absence of love
But more abandonment from a friend
My hands now are cold
My words lack feelings
I'm back to square one
While I wait for true healing once again solo
My lone wolf now revealing
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Explanation of Wolf.
I chose the style of confessional because I admired the way Sylvia Plath could so easily get her ideas on to the
paper without being judged. When people read the confessional I realized that she was able to speak to
the whole world. No one shunned her or said they couldn’t read this , everyone listened. She was then
able to find peace within herself. I wanted to create an art , similar to her. Which is why I created wolf.
Writing this poem was difficult because I had to bear my soul to the page. I also had to return to a place
I have not went to in a long time.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Final Draft
Kayla Ross
Ms.Defeo
Fiction Writing
“Sole Survivor”
Stiff air engulfed the 42nd Subway station, feet hustled by quickly, shoulders were aligned and a dim light flickered in sync with the morning rush. An older weary man, carried a large patterned cloth over his shoulder, his battered clothes swept the subway floor while long gray strands of hair surrounded his face. He made his way over to wooden benches and laid down the bag that had been such a burden on his back.
“Get your shoes right here folks , Come rest your poor tired soles, New York takes a toil on poor souls and we have a special on soles today ! Get em here! Get em here! Together, we may have soles that look different but my soles are all the same! No sole is better than the other, I swear! Don't you dare let prices and advertisements fool you ! My soles are all one prices. How you dress up your sole depends completely on you but in the end , remember sole does not make the man, it's the man that makes the sole.”
Every morning the silky linen sheets greet Brent’s face, while the sun beams down onto his eyelids. Loud honks, clock alarms and the humming of birds, all enters his ears. The beautiful yellow taxis, resembling butterfly fish, swim in the street. Multiples of green trees bud pollen and acorns. Brent slips into his majestic velvet robe, wipes the corner of his eyes and heads into his Victorian-styled kitchen, the scent of Kopi Luwak coffee penetrates his nose and the smell of bacon and egg steams his nose hairs. Brent’s house - keeper, Melanie irons his Armani Exchange suit, while he reads the Wall Street Journal, the small-printed “Recession deepens: More Jobs Lost, “Homeless number now at peak” fails to catch his eye. What should I care about the homeless? Always begging for change , someone has to be on the bottom so others can be on top. I deserve everything I have, money runs through my veins, Brent thought to himself. He then checks NASDAQ and is relieved to see that his stocks are at peak. He opens the door to his emory closet and is greeted by a multitude of colors: dark blues, a range of beige, magentas and grays. He quickly skims over his collection of shoes where my newest addition awaits : Ferragamos. Fresh out the box, custom made and delivered straight to my door, soles clean. It feels good to be at top, who cares about the bottom? He murmured . He slips into his Burberry Suede trench coat and rushes into the train station. “Get your shoes right here folks” the sound of an old hag’s voice fills his ear drums, interrupting Brent’s relaxed mood. The shining light of train captures his pupils as he heads to the front, suddenly Brent feels a splash of hot substance dripping down his arms, it’s coffee. In front of me was a wide-eyed woman, dressed in a blue uniform, with the embroidery of the name Marisela sewed onto the pocket.
“I’m sorry sir , Please forgive me ” ,she yelled while running into the open train door. Brent was frozen in his steps speechless, watching the idiot who ruined his seven-hundred dollar coat leave without any sort of reimbursement.
The train doors close behind Marisela, giving her freedom from her embarrassing encounter. A seat catches her eye and suddenly the curtains of her eye-lids clamp together. The half empty cup of coffee in her hands begins to sink, and suddenly she is awakened by a sharp pain through her foot, when someone accidentally steps on it. She is then quickly pulled back into her reality. The air is heavy, lights are bright and “excuse me’s,” following nose blowing and sniffling, are all in heavy rotation. The iron doors open, finally allowing Marisela an escape, and suddenly she is engulfed into a new world. Shoulders barge by her, gray pigeons bob by the sides of her legs. Men sing “Extra!” “Extra!“ tourists’ look like helpless flounders in a sea of sharks. They remain, mouths open, shocked and wide-eyed at the busy environment that goes by the name of New York City. “I wish I could be a tourist” Marisela thought. Commuting and working become habitual, holidays or a relaxed weekend has never even been in my vocabulary. She then enter Levi Jean Company and begins her work. Robotic movements, hands steady, Uniform blue, name tag positioned, loose strands of hair gelled back neat, small earrings in her ear. Sweat drips down her neck leaving her pupils to be subdued by the multiple dark blues, and blacks that pass by me one-by-one. Sew, Sew, Stitch, Stitch, Stitch, minutes turn to hours, seconds turn into minutes until release time. Her legs are weak, her head throbbing but she knows her pain will pay off in the green dollar. Her sole may be worn out and thin but she will stay optimistic. She heads to exit , and is greeted by a short man , whose face is covered by a cap.
“Ms. Are you hiring?” Joel asked.
“I’m not the boss , I just work here” Marisela responded.
Joel’s face was flushed of dissapointment.
“Thank you” he said.
Marisela felt the strangers pain as she watched him trail over to an burgundy bench near by.
Joel felt defeated, he reached into his book bag and retrieved a note book out of it. “Letters to Abuela” It read on the front. He took out a pen that lay in his pocket and began to write.
Abuela, times are hard , a terrible incident happened to me this morning. This is how it went:
So the cold air slaps the side of my face, and the sky is painted a dark shade of blue, men sit on steps, others lean against the wall. New York fills my lungs yet and leaves a bittersweet aftertaste in my mouth. I miss my Puebla and you Abuelita , I miss the beautiful skyline the soft my toes and fingertips. Puebla accepts my people and myself, Women carry gallons of water on their shoulders, while men come home covered in dirt and sweat leaving the setting sun behind them. Children head to farms instead of reaching for books. Not many were better off than others, unlike in New York where we immigrants were looked down upon as scum. Anyways Abuela let me finish my story, A large gray rat then jolts across my feet and runs back into the heap of garbage where it came from. Car lights shines on our faces, none stopping, hopefully one would. Eager eyes try to anticipate the car that would answer prayers, for work is not a guarantee and neither was food, but being in America surely guarantees more full bellies than being at home. It allows my children to go to school and follow a dreams, a gateway out of the multiple construction jobs I always perform. I glance at an advertisement it seems to be for NIKE, the only words I seem to make out is “run to your potential” . The rest of the words twist and dance on the poster, pure gibberish. The hairs on the back of my neck raise, as a red truck honks loudly and men scream out, “Come on! Move, Move!.” I pick up my red backpack and run towards the car, my palms sweaty, my feet beginning to ache even before my day has even started. Blue jeans, dirty corduroys all passes me, the exhausts blows off in my face, causing my eyes to squint. I was miserable Abuela it seemed like a bad dream. What was even more terrible was that it was my fault, I should have been paying attention. What will little Consuela eat? That fifty six dollars would have went a long way. Now what? The truck seemed to depart in slow motion, all the men on it had smirks on their faces. Some stood and some sat at the edge of it , revealing soles. Soles that are dirty, soles worn out, soles in need of change but my soul is filled with hope and optimism for what is to come. I will write to you soon Abuela I will not let this get me down. -Joel
Joel put the notebook back into his book bag and walked to the train station. He walked onto the platform and noticing an old man , with plenty of shoes in his hand. He had battered shoes, shoes that looked brand new, stilleto’s, baby shoes and even NIKEs.
“Get your shoes right here folks , Come rest your poor tired soles, New York takes a toil on poor souls and we have a special on soles today ! Get em here! Get em here! Together, we may have soles that look different but my soles are all the same! No sole is better than the other, I swear! Don't you dare let prices and advertisements fool you ! My soles are all one prices. How you dress up your sole depends completely on you but
in the end remember sole does not make the man, it's the man that makes the sole.
Ms.Defeo
Fiction Writing
“Sole Survivor”
Stiff air engulfed the 42nd Subway station, feet hustled by quickly, shoulders were aligned and a dim light flickered in sync with the morning rush. An older weary man, carried a large patterned cloth over his shoulder, his battered clothes swept the subway floor while long gray strands of hair surrounded his face. He made his way over to wooden benches and laid down the bag that had been such a burden on his back.
“Get your shoes right here folks , Come rest your poor tired soles, New York takes a toil on poor souls and we have a special on soles today ! Get em here! Get em here! Together, we may have soles that look different but my soles are all the same! No sole is better than the other, I swear! Don't you dare let prices and advertisements fool you ! My soles are all one prices. How you dress up your sole depends completely on you but in the end , remember sole does not make the man, it's the man that makes the sole.”
Every morning the silky linen sheets greet Brent’s face, while the sun beams down onto his eyelids. Loud honks, clock alarms and the humming of birds, all enters his ears. The beautiful yellow taxis, resembling butterfly fish, swim in the street. Multiples of green trees bud pollen and acorns. Brent slips into his majestic velvet robe, wipes the corner of his eyes and heads into his Victorian-styled kitchen, the scent of Kopi Luwak coffee penetrates his nose and the smell of bacon and egg steams his nose hairs. Brent’s house - keeper, Melanie irons his Armani Exchange suit, while he reads the Wall Street Journal, the small-printed “Recession deepens: More Jobs Lost, “Homeless number now at peak” fails to catch his eye. What should I care about the homeless? Always begging for change , someone has to be on the bottom so others can be on top. I deserve everything I have, money runs through my veins, Brent thought to himself. He then checks NASDAQ and is relieved to see that his stocks are at peak. He opens the door to his emory closet and is greeted by a multitude of colors: dark blues, a range of beige, magentas and grays. He quickly skims over his collection of shoes where my newest addition awaits : Ferragamos. Fresh out the box, custom made and delivered straight to my door, soles clean. It feels good to be at top, who cares about the bottom? He murmured . He slips into his Burberry Suede trench coat and rushes into the train station. “Get your shoes right here folks” the sound of an old hag’s voice fills his ear drums, interrupting Brent’s relaxed mood. The shining light of train captures his pupils as he heads to the front, suddenly Brent feels a splash of hot substance dripping down his arms, it’s coffee. In front of me was a wide-eyed woman, dressed in a blue uniform, with the embroidery of the name Marisela sewed onto the pocket.
“I’m sorry sir , Please forgive me ” ,she yelled while running into the open train door. Brent was frozen in his steps speechless, watching the idiot who ruined his seven-hundred dollar coat leave without any sort of reimbursement.
The train doors close behind Marisela, giving her freedom from her embarrassing encounter. A seat catches her eye and suddenly the curtains of her eye-lids clamp together. The half empty cup of coffee in her hands begins to sink, and suddenly she is awakened by a sharp pain through her foot, when someone accidentally steps on it. She is then quickly pulled back into her reality. The air is heavy, lights are bright and “excuse me’s,” following nose blowing and sniffling, are all in heavy rotation. The iron doors open, finally allowing Marisela an escape, and suddenly she is engulfed into a new world. Shoulders barge by her, gray pigeons bob by the sides of her legs. Men sing “Extra!” “Extra!“ tourists’ look like helpless flounders in a sea of sharks. They remain, mouths open, shocked and wide-eyed at the busy environment that goes by the name of New York City. “I wish I could be a tourist” Marisela thought. Commuting and working become habitual, holidays or a relaxed weekend has never even been in my vocabulary. She then enter Levi Jean Company and begins her work. Robotic movements, hands steady, Uniform blue, name tag positioned, loose strands of hair gelled back neat, small earrings in her ear. Sweat drips down her neck leaving her pupils to be subdued by the multiple dark blues, and blacks that pass by me one-by-one. Sew, Sew, Stitch, Stitch, Stitch, minutes turn to hours, seconds turn into minutes until release time. Her legs are weak, her head throbbing but she knows her pain will pay off in the green dollar. Her sole may be worn out and thin but she will stay optimistic. She heads to exit , and is greeted by a short man , whose face is covered by a cap.
“Ms. Are you hiring?” Joel asked.
“I’m not the boss , I just work here” Marisela responded.
Joel’s face was flushed of dissapointment.
“Thank you” he said.
Marisela felt the strangers pain as she watched him trail over to an burgundy bench near by.
Joel felt defeated, he reached into his book bag and retrieved a note book out of it. “Letters to Abuela” It read on the front. He took out a pen that lay in his pocket and began to write.
Abuela, times are hard , a terrible incident happened to me this morning. This is how it went:
So the cold air slaps the side of my face, and the sky is painted a dark shade of blue, men sit on steps, others lean against the wall. New York fills my lungs yet and leaves a bittersweet aftertaste in my mouth. I miss my Puebla and you Abuelita , I miss the beautiful skyline the soft my toes and fingertips. Puebla accepts my people and myself, Women carry gallons of water on their shoulders, while men come home covered in dirt and sweat leaving the setting sun behind them. Children head to farms instead of reaching for books. Not many were better off than others, unlike in New York where we immigrants were looked down upon as scum. Anyways Abuela let me finish my story, A large gray rat then jolts across my feet and runs back into the heap of garbage where it came from. Car lights shines on our faces, none stopping, hopefully one would. Eager eyes try to anticipate the car that would answer prayers, for work is not a guarantee and neither was food, but being in America surely guarantees more full bellies than being at home. It allows my children to go to school and follow a dreams, a gateway out of the multiple construction jobs I always perform. I glance at an advertisement it seems to be for NIKE, the only words I seem to make out is “run to your potential” . The rest of the words twist and dance on the poster, pure gibberish. The hairs on the back of my neck raise, as a red truck honks loudly and men scream out, “Come on! Move, Move!.” I pick up my red backpack and run towards the car, my palms sweaty, my feet beginning to ache even before my day has even started. Blue jeans, dirty corduroys all passes me, the exhausts blows off in my face, causing my eyes to squint. I was miserable Abuela it seemed like a bad dream. What was even more terrible was that it was my fault, I should have been paying attention. What will little Consuela eat? That fifty six dollars would have went a long way. Now what? The truck seemed to depart in slow motion, all the men on it had smirks on their faces. Some stood and some sat at the edge of it , revealing soles. Soles that are dirty, soles worn out, soles in need of change but my soul is filled with hope and optimism for what is to come. I will write to you soon Abuela I will not let this get me down. -Joel
Joel put the notebook back into his book bag and walked to the train station. He walked onto the platform and noticing an old man , with plenty of shoes in his hand. He had battered shoes, shoes that looked brand new, stilleto’s, baby shoes and even NIKEs.
“Get your shoes right here folks , Come rest your poor tired soles, New York takes a toil on poor souls and we have a special on soles today ! Get em here! Get em here! Together, we may have soles that look different but my soles are all the same! No sole is better than the other, I swear! Don't you dare let prices and advertisements fool you ! My soles are all one prices. How you dress up your sole depends completely on you but
in the end remember sole does not make the man, it's the man that makes the sole.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Revised Draft - old man
Kayla Ross
Ms.Defeo
Fiction Writing
“Sole Survivor”
Stiff air engulfed the 42nd Subway station, feet hustled by quickly, shoulders were aligned and a dim light flickered in sync with the morning rush. An older weary man, carried a large patterned cloth over his shoulder, his battered clothes swept the subway floor while long gray strands of hair surrounded his face. He made his way over to wooden benches and laid down the bag that had been such a burden on his back.
“Get your shoes right here folks , Come rest your poor tired soles, New York takes a toil on poor souls and we have a special on soles today ! Get em here! Get em here! Together, we may have soles that look different but my soles are all the same! No sole is better than the other, I swear! Don't you dare let prices and advertisements fool you ! My soles are all one prices. How you dress up your sole depends completely on you but in the end , remember sole does not make the man, it's the man that makes the sole.”
Every morning the silky linen sheets greet my face, while the sun beams down onto my eyelids. Loud honks, clock alarms and the humming of birds, all entered my ears. The beautiful yellow taxis, resembling butterfly fish, swim in the street. Multiples of green trees bud pollen and acorns. I slip into my majestic velvet robe, wipe the corner of my eyes and head into my Victorian-styled kitchen, the scent of Kopi Luwak coffee penetrates my nose and the smell of bacon and egg steams my nose hairs. My house - keeper, Melanie irons my Armani Exchange suit, while I read the Wall Street Journal, the small-printed “Recession deepens: More Jobs Lost, “Homeless number now at peak” fails to catch my eye. What should I care about the homeless? Always begging for change , someone has to be on the bottom so others can be on top. I deserve everything I have, money runs through my veins. I check NASDAQ and am relieved that my stocks are at peak. I then walk to my closet and am greeted by a multitude of colors: dark blues, a range of beige, magentas and grays. I skim over my collection of shoes where my newest addition awaits me: Ferragamos. Fresh out the box, custom made and delivered straight to my door, soles clean. It feels good to be at top, who cares about the bottom? I grabbed my Burberry Suede trench coat and rushed into the train station. “Get your shoes right here folks” the sound of an old hag’s voice filled my ear drums, interrupting the relaxed mood I had worked so hard to maintain this morning. The shining light of train captured my pupil and I headed to the front, suddenly I felt a splash of substance fall on to my arms, it was coffee. In front of me was a wide-eyed woman.
“I’m sorry sir , Please forgive me ” ,she yelled while running into the open train door. I was frozen in my steps, speechless and watched the idiot who ruined my seven-hundred dollar coat leave without any sort of reimbursement.
The train doors close behind me which, gave me freedom from my embarrassing encounter. A seat catches my eye and suddenly the curtains of my eye-lid begin to shut.
The half empty cup of coffee in my hand begins to sink, and I’m suddenly awakened by the pain of my foot when someone accidentally steps on it. I’m then pulled back into my reality. The air is heavy, lights are bright and “excuse me’s,” following nose blowing and sniffling, are all in heavy rotation. The iron doors open, finally allowing me my freedom, and I’m engulfed into a new world. Shoulders barge by me, gray pigeons bob by the side of my legs. While men sing “Extra!” “Extra!“ tourists’ look like helpless flounders in a sea of sharks. They remain, mouths open, shocked and wide-eyed at the busy environment that goes by the name of New York City. Commuting and working become habitual, holidays or a relaxed weekend has never been in my vocabulary. It is the work that many loathe but for me it makes ends meet. Robotic movements, hands steady, Uniform blue, name tag positioned, loose strands of hair gelled back neat, small earrings in my ear. Sweat drips down my neck, my pupils subdued by the multiple dark blues, and blacks that pass by me one-by-one. Sew, Sew, Stitch, Stitch, Stitch, minutes turn to hours, seconds turn into minutes until release time. My legs weak, head throbbing but I know all my pain will pay off in the green dollar. My poor shoes, laces brown, tongues battered, soles worn out and thin. I’m ready to quit, but I will stay optimistic.
The cold air slaps the side of my face, the sky painted a dark shade of blue, men sit on steps, others lean against the wall. New York fills my lungs yet and leaves a bittersweet aftertaste in my mouth. I miss my Puebla, I miss my beautiful skyline the soft my toes and fingertips. Puebla accepts my people and myself, There is an overall struggle in Puebla, women carry gallons of water on their shoulders, while men come home covered in dirt and sweat leaving the setting sun behind them. Children head to farms instead of reaching for books. Not many were better off than others, unlike New York where we immigrants were looked down upon as scum. A large gray rat jolts across my feet and back into the heap of garbage where it came from. Car lights shines on our faces, none stopping, hopefully one would. Eager eyes try to anticipate the car that would answer prayers, for work is not a guarantee and neither was food, but being in America surely guarantees more full bellies than being at home. It allows my children to go to school and follow a dreams, a gateway out of the multiple construction jobs I always perform. I glance at an advertisement it seems to be for NIKE, the only words I seem to make out is “run to your potential” . The rest of the words twist and dance on the poster, pure gibberish. The hairs on the back of my neck raise, as a red truck honks loudly and men scream out, “Come on! Move, Move!.” I pick up my red backpack and run towards the car, my palms sweaty, my feet beginning to ache even before my day has even started. Blue jeans, dirty corduroys all passes me, the exhausts blows off in my face, causing my eyes to squint. My god I’ve missed the truck! This seems like a bad dream. This can’t be happening. It’s my fault, I should have been paying attention. What will my children eat? that fifty six dollars would have went a long way. Now what? The truck seemed to depart in slow motion, the men on it had smirks on their faces. Some stand and some sit at the edge of it , revealing soles. Soles that are dirty, soles worn out, soles in need of change but my soul is filled with hope and optimism for what is to come.
Millions of soles pass, all going to different destinations, these soles tend to divide and give status to the ones who wear them, almost highlighting the economic power one group has over another. The human ladder defines us, slowly moving while soles step on one another to reach the top. We must never forget the position of a sole does not matter , the New York City concrete devours all soles, in the end we are all bare , with one differentiation : our souls.
Ms.Defeo
Fiction Writing
“Sole Survivor”
Stiff air engulfed the 42nd Subway station, feet hustled by quickly, shoulders were aligned and a dim light flickered in sync with the morning rush. An older weary man, carried a large patterned cloth over his shoulder, his battered clothes swept the subway floor while long gray strands of hair surrounded his face. He made his way over to wooden benches and laid down the bag that had been such a burden on his back.
“Get your shoes right here folks , Come rest your poor tired soles, New York takes a toil on poor souls and we have a special on soles today ! Get em here! Get em here! Together, we may have soles that look different but my soles are all the same! No sole is better than the other, I swear! Don't you dare let prices and advertisements fool you ! My soles are all one prices. How you dress up your sole depends completely on you but in the end , remember sole does not make the man, it's the man that makes the sole.”
Every morning the silky linen sheets greet my face, while the sun beams down onto my eyelids. Loud honks, clock alarms and the humming of birds, all entered my ears. The beautiful yellow taxis, resembling butterfly fish, swim in the street. Multiples of green trees bud pollen and acorns. I slip into my majestic velvet robe, wipe the corner of my eyes and head into my Victorian-styled kitchen, the scent of Kopi Luwak coffee penetrates my nose and the smell of bacon and egg steams my nose hairs. My house - keeper, Melanie irons my Armani Exchange suit, while I read the Wall Street Journal, the small-printed “Recession deepens: More Jobs Lost, “Homeless number now at peak” fails to catch my eye. What should I care about the homeless? Always begging for change , someone has to be on the bottom so others can be on top. I deserve everything I have, money runs through my veins. I check NASDAQ and am relieved that my stocks are at peak. I then walk to my closet and am greeted by a multitude of colors: dark blues, a range of beige, magentas and grays. I skim over my collection of shoes where my newest addition awaits me: Ferragamos. Fresh out the box, custom made and delivered straight to my door, soles clean. It feels good to be at top, who cares about the bottom? I grabbed my Burberry Suede trench coat and rushed into the train station. “Get your shoes right here folks” the sound of an old hag’s voice filled my ear drums, interrupting the relaxed mood I had worked so hard to maintain this morning. The shining light of train captured my pupil and I headed to the front, suddenly I felt a splash of substance fall on to my arms, it was coffee. In front of me was a wide-eyed woman.
“I’m sorry sir , Please forgive me ” ,she yelled while running into the open train door. I was frozen in my steps, speechless and watched the idiot who ruined my seven-hundred dollar coat leave without any sort of reimbursement.
The train doors close behind me which, gave me freedom from my embarrassing encounter. A seat catches my eye and suddenly the curtains of my eye-lid begin to shut.
The half empty cup of coffee in my hand begins to sink, and I’m suddenly awakened by the pain of my foot when someone accidentally steps on it. I’m then pulled back into my reality. The air is heavy, lights are bright and “excuse me’s,” following nose blowing and sniffling, are all in heavy rotation. The iron doors open, finally allowing me my freedom, and I’m engulfed into a new world. Shoulders barge by me, gray pigeons bob by the side of my legs. While men sing “Extra!” “Extra!“ tourists’ look like helpless flounders in a sea of sharks. They remain, mouths open, shocked and wide-eyed at the busy environment that goes by the name of New York City. Commuting and working become habitual, holidays or a relaxed weekend has never been in my vocabulary. It is the work that many loathe but for me it makes ends meet. Robotic movements, hands steady, Uniform blue, name tag positioned, loose strands of hair gelled back neat, small earrings in my ear. Sweat drips down my neck, my pupils subdued by the multiple dark blues, and blacks that pass by me one-by-one. Sew, Sew, Stitch, Stitch, Stitch, minutes turn to hours, seconds turn into minutes until release time. My legs weak, head throbbing but I know all my pain will pay off in the green dollar. My poor shoes, laces brown, tongues battered, soles worn out and thin. I’m ready to quit, but I will stay optimistic.
The cold air slaps the side of my face, the sky painted a dark shade of blue, men sit on steps, others lean against the wall. New York fills my lungs yet and leaves a bittersweet aftertaste in my mouth. I miss my Puebla, I miss my beautiful skyline the soft my toes and fingertips. Puebla accepts my people and myself, There is an overall struggle in Puebla, women carry gallons of water on their shoulders, while men come home covered in dirt and sweat leaving the setting sun behind them. Children head to farms instead of reaching for books. Not many were better off than others, unlike New York where we immigrants were looked down upon as scum. A large gray rat jolts across my feet and back into the heap of garbage where it came from. Car lights shines on our faces, none stopping, hopefully one would. Eager eyes try to anticipate the car that would answer prayers, for work is not a guarantee and neither was food, but being in America surely guarantees more full bellies than being at home. It allows my children to go to school and follow a dreams, a gateway out of the multiple construction jobs I always perform. I glance at an advertisement it seems to be for NIKE, the only words I seem to make out is “run to your potential” . The rest of the words twist and dance on the poster, pure gibberish. The hairs on the back of my neck raise, as a red truck honks loudly and men scream out, “Come on! Move, Move!.” I pick up my red backpack and run towards the car, my palms sweaty, my feet beginning to ache even before my day has even started. Blue jeans, dirty corduroys all passes me, the exhausts blows off in my face, causing my eyes to squint. My god I’ve missed the truck! This seems like a bad dream. This can’t be happening. It’s my fault, I should have been paying attention. What will my children eat? that fifty six dollars would have went a long way. Now what? The truck seemed to depart in slow motion, the men on it had smirks on their faces. Some stand and some sit at the edge of it , revealing soles. Soles that are dirty, soles worn out, soles in need of change but my soul is filled with hope and optimism for what is to come.
Millions of soles pass, all going to different destinations, these soles tend to divide and give status to the ones who wear them, almost highlighting the economic power one group has over another. The human ladder defines us, slowly moving while soles step on one another to reach the top. We must never forget the position of a sole does not matter , the New York City concrete devours all soles, in the end we are all bare , with one differentiation : our souls.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Sole Survivor
“Sole Survivor”
“Get your shoes right here folks, Come rest your poor tired soles, New York takes a toil on poor souls and we have a special on soles today! Get em here! Get em here! Together, we may have soles that look different but my soles are all the same! No sole is better than the other, I swear! Don’t you dare let prices and advertisements fool you! Keep moving on this human ladder! Don’t fall behind, make your money! However, my soles are all one prices. How you dress up your sole depends completely on you but in the end, remember sole does not make the man, it's the man that makes the sole.”
Every morning the silky linen sheets greet my face, while the sun beams down onto my eyelids. Loud honks, clock alarms and the humming of birds, all entered my ears. The beautiful yellow taxis, resembling butterfly fish, swim in the street. Multiples of green trees bud pollen and acorns. I slip into my majestic velvet robe, wipe the corner of my eyes and head into my Victorian-styled kitchen, the scent of Kopi Luwak coffee penetrates my nose and the smell of bacon and egg steams my nose hairs. My house - keeper, Melanie irons my Armani Exchange suit, while I read the Wall Street Journal, the small-printed “Recession deepens: More Jobs Lost, “Homeless number now at peak” fails to catch my eye. What should I care about the homeless? Always begging for change, someone has to be on the bottom so others can be on top. I deserve everything I have, money runs through my veins. I check NASDAQ and am relieved that my stocks are at peak. I then walk to my closet and am greeted by a multitude of colors: dark blues, a range of beige, magentas and grays. I skim over my collection of shoes where my newest addition awaits me: Ferragamos. Fresh out the box, custom made and delivered straight to my door, soles clean. It feels good to be at top, who cares about the bottom?
Next stop: 86th Street, My eyes droop and my head meets my lap, the cup of coffee in my hand begins to sink, and I’m awakened by the pain of my foot when someone accidentally steps on it. The air is heavy, lights are bright and “excuse me’s,” following nose blowing and sniffling, are all in heavy rotation. The iron doors open, allowing me my freedom, and I’m engulfed into a new world. Shoulders barge by me, gray pigeons bob by the side of my legs. Men sing “Extra!” “Extra!” and tourists’ look like helpless flounders in a sea of sharks. They remain mouths open, shocked and wide-eyed at the busy environment that goes by the name of New York City. Commuting and working become habitual, holidays or a relaxed weekend has never been in my vocabulary. It is the work that many loathe but for me it makes ends meet. Robotic movements, hands steady, uniform blue, name tag positioned, loose strands of hair gelled back neat, small earrings in my ear. Sweat drips down my neck, my pupils subdued by the multiple dark blues, and blacks that pass by me one-by-one. Minutes turn to hours, seconds turn into minutes until release time. My legs weak, head throbbing but I know all my pain will pay off in the green dollar. My poor shoes, laces brown, tongues battered, soles worn out and thin, while something inside pushes to get through these days. I will stay optimistic.
The cold air slaps the side of my face, the sky painted a dark shade of blue, men sit on steps, and others lean against the wall. New York fills my lungs yet and leaves a bittersweet aftertaste in my mouth. I miss my Puebla, I miss my beautiful skyline the soft my toes and fingertips. Puebla accepts my people and myself, There is an overall struggle in Puebla, women carry gallons of water on their shoulders, while men come home covered in dirt and sweat leaving the setting sun behind them. Children head to farms instead of reaching for books. Not many were better off than others, unlike New York where we immigrants were looked down upon as scum. A large gray rat jolts across my feet and back into the heap of garbage where it came from. Car lights shines on our faces, none stopping, hopefully one would. Eager eyes try to anticipate the car that would answer prayers, for work is not a guarantee and neither was food, but being in America surely guarantees more full bellies than being at home. It allows my children to go to school and follow their dreams, a gateway out of the multiple construction jobs I always perform. I glance at an advertisement it seems to be for NIKE, the only words I seem to make out is “run to your potential”, the rest of the words twist and dance on the poster, pure gibberish. The hairs on the back of my neck raise, as a red truck honks loudly and men scream out, “Come on! Move, Move!” I pick up my red backpack and run towards the car, my palms sweaty, and my feet beginning to ache even before my day has even started. Blue jean, dirty corduroys all passes me, the exhausts blows off in my face, causing my eyes to squint. My god I’ve missed the truck! This seems like a bad dream. This can’t be happening. It’s my fault; I should have been paying attention. What will my children eat? That fifty six dollars would have went a long way. Now what? The truck seemed to depart in slow motion; the men on it had smirks on their faces. Some stand some sit at the edge of it, all revealing soles. Soles that are dirty, soles worn out, soles in need of change but my soul is filled with hope and optimism for what is to come.
Millions of soles pass, all going to different destinations, these soles tend to divide and give status to the ones who wear them, almost highlighting the economic power one group has over another. The human ladder defines us, slowly moving while soles step on one another to reach the top. We must never forget the position of a sole does not matter , the New York City concrete devours all soles, in the end we are all bare , with one differentiation : our souls.
“Get your shoes right here folks, Come rest your poor tired soles, New York takes a toil on poor souls and we have a special on soles today! Get em here! Get em here! Together, we may have soles that look different but my soles are all the same! No sole is better than the other, I swear! Don’t you dare let prices and advertisements fool you! Keep moving on this human ladder! Don’t fall behind, make your money! However, my soles are all one prices. How you dress up your sole depends completely on you but in the end, remember sole does not make the man, it's the man that makes the sole.”
Every morning the silky linen sheets greet my face, while the sun beams down onto my eyelids. Loud honks, clock alarms and the humming of birds, all entered my ears. The beautiful yellow taxis, resembling butterfly fish, swim in the street. Multiples of green trees bud pollen and acorns. I slip into my majestic velvet robe, wipe the corner of my eyes and head into my Victorian-styled kitchen, the scent of Kopi Luwak coffee penetrates my nose and the smell of bacon and egg steams my nose hairs. My house - keeper, Melanie irons my Armani Exchange suit, while I read the Wall Street Journal, the small-printed “Recession deepens: More Jobs Lost, “Homeless number now at peak” fails to catch my eye. What should I care about the homeless? Always begging for change, someone has to be on the bottom so others can be on top. I deserve everything I have, money runs through my veins. I check NASDAQ and am relieved that my stocks are at peak. I then walk to my closet and am greeted by a multitude of colors: dark blues, a range of beige, magentas and grays. I skim over my collection of shoes where my newest addition awaits me: Ferragamos. Fresh out the box, custom made and delivered straight to my door, soles clean. It feels good to be at top, who cares about the bottom?
Next stop: 86th Street, My eyes droop and my head meets my lap, the cup of coffee in my hand begins to sink, and I’m awakened by the pain of my foot when someone accidentally steps on it. The air is heavy, lights are bright and “excuse me’s,” following nose blowing and sniffling, are all in heavy rotation. The iron doors open, allowing me my freedom, and I’m engulfed into a new world. Shoulders barge by me, gray pigeons bob by the side of my legs. Men sing “Extra!” “Extra!” and tourists’ look like helpless flounders in a sea of sharks. They remain mouths open, shocked and wide-eyed at the busy environment that goes by the name of New York City. Commuting and working become habitual, holidays or a relaxed weekend has never been in my vocabulary. It is the work that many loathe but for me it makes ends meet. Robotic movements, hands steady, uniform blue, name tag positioned, loose strands of hair gelled back neat, small earrings in my ear. Sweat drips down my neck, my pupils subdued by the multiple dark blues, and blacks that pass by me one-by-one. Minutes turn to hours, seconds turn into minutes until release time. My legs weak, head throbbing but I know all my pain will pay off in the green dollar. My poor shoes, laces brown, tongues battered, soles worn out and thin, while something inside pushes to get through these days. I will stay optimistic.
The cold air slaps the side of my face, the sky painted a dark shade of blue, men sit on steps, and others lean against the wall. New York fills my lungs yet and leaves a bittersweet aftertaste in my mouth. I miss my Puebla, I miss my beautiful skyline the soft my toes and fingertips. Puebla accepts my people and myself, There is an overall struggle in Puebla, women carry gallons of water on their shoulders, while men come home covered in dirt and sweat leaving the setting sun behind them. Children head to farms instead of reaching for books. Not many were better off than others, unlike New York where we immigrants were looked down upon as scum. A large gray rat jolts across my feet and back into the heap of garbage where it came from. Car lights shines on our faces, none stopping, hopefully one would. Eager eyes try to anticipate the car that would answer prayers, for work is not a guarantee and neither was food, but being in America surely guarantees more full bellies than being at home. It allows my children to go to school and follow their dreams, a gateway out of the multiple construction jobs I always perform. I glance at an advertisement it seems to be for NIKE, the only words I seem to make out is “run to your potential”, the rest of the words twist and dance on the poster, pure gibberish. The hairs on the back of my neck raise, as a red truck honks loudly and men scream out, “Come on! Move, Move!” I pick up my red backpack and run towards the car, my palms sweaty, and my feet beginning to ache even before my day has even started. Blue jean, dirty corduroys all passes me, the exhausts blows off in my face, causing my eyes to squint. My god I’ve missed the truck! This seems like a bad dream. This can’t be happening. It’s my fault; I should have been paying attention. What will my children eat? That fifty six dollars would have went a long way. Now what? The truck seemed to depart in slow motion; the men on it had smirks on their faces. Some stand some sit at the edge of it, all revealing soles. Soles that are dirty, soles worn out, soles in need of change but my soul is filled with hope and optimism for what is to come.
Millions of soles pass, all going to different destinations, these soles tend to divide and give status to the ones who wear them, almost highlighting the economic power one group has over another. The human ladder defines us, slowly moving while soles step on one another to reach the top. We must never forget the position of a sole does not matter , the New York City concrete devours all soles, in the end we are all bare , with one differentiation : our souls.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Journal 6
Ashley pushed open her door and kicked of her heels. She bent down to grab her mail getting back up she put her hand on her back and got up ever so gingerly. Walking into the kitchen she put down her bag on the counter top and began to look through the mail
"Lets see what we have here. Bill, bill, bill its always bills with these people."
Finally she came upon her AARP medical supplies which she need for her carpoltonel. As she put down her bills she began to walk to her bathroom. She opens the door and the smell of Bengay and Elizabeth Arden perfume, she took off her clothes and got in the shower. After her shower she grabbed her towel wrapped it around her body. She stepped into the middle in the floor and looked into the mirror and began to talk to herself in the middle of her critic she pulled out her make-up caboodle. After a hour of make up, she was finally ready to get dressed. She walked into her bedroom grabbed her black dress, that began to gather dusk because it was out for so long. She slid right into it and then she threw on her shoes. After 2 hours of preparation she was ready to go. Getting into her Buick, she took off down the street. She finally reached the front of the club. she got out of the car and walked to the bouncer and asked.
Can I get in Mr.
Whoa miss how you just come the front and demand stuff like that what I look like.
Sir bouncer guy do you know who I am I'm the best lawyer in the state of new York.
I don't care if your tyra banks I'm not letting you in. Really did you look at you self in the mirror. How old are you 55, 60 and god DAMN! what is that smell is that Bengay. What you doing coming to club smelling like Bengay all these girls in here smell like a beautiful rose and you coming here smelling like Bengay no man going to come talk to you smelling like that. You should just go home take 3 showers then come back and then I might let you in.
Feeling like her walls were shattered, she walked away with embarrassment written on her face. The drive back home was very depressing and she just couldn’t understand how this could be. She thought of herself as being fairly young but couldn’t figure out what everyone else saw. Times were changing but she seemed to be stuck in the past. After rolling into her driveway, she climbed out of the car and headed to the front door. Creeping up the stairs, she finally made it to her room. The paint chipped walls were colored in red while he bed was covered in silk satin sheets. Bright colors always caught her eye because the darker ones always brought her back to reality. Standing in front of her bureau, looking in her mirror she wiped every bit of makeup that was ever laid upon her face. She saw the true her. She wanted to fit where she belonged.
"Lets see what we have here. Bill, bill, bill its always bills with these people."
Finally she came upon her AARP medical supplies which she need for her carpoltonel. As she put down her bills she began to walk to her bathroom. She opens the door and the smell of Bengay and Elizabeth Arden perfume, she took off her clothes and got in the shower. After her shower she grabbed her towel wrapped it around her body. She stepped into the middle in the floor and looked into the mirror and began to talk to herself in the middle of her critic she pulled out her make-up caboodle. After a hour of make up, she was finally ready to get dressed. She walked into her bedroom grabbed her black dress, that began to gather dusk because it was out for so long. She slid right into it and then she threw on her shoes. After 2 hours of preparation she was ready to go. Getting into her Buick, she took off down the street. She finally reached the front of the club. she got out of the car and walked to the bouncer and asked.
Can I get in Mr.
Whoa miss how you just come the front and demand stuff like that what I look like.
Sir bouncer guy do you know who I am I'm the best lawyer in the state of new York.
I don't care if your tyra banks I'm not letting you in. Really did you look at you self in the mirror. How old are you 55, 60 and god DAMN! what is that smell is that Bengay. What you doing coming to club smelling like Bengay all these girls in here smell like a beautiful rose and you coming here smelling like Bengay no man going to come talk to you smelling like that. You should just go home take 3 showers then come back and then I might let you in.
Feeling like her walls were shattered, she walked away with embarrassment written on her face. The drive back home was very depressing and she just couldn’t understand how this could be. She thought of herself as being fairly young but couldn’t figure out what everyone else saw. Times were changing but she seemed to be stuck in the past. After rolling into her driveway, she climbed out of the car and headed to the front door. Creeping up the stairs, she finally made it to her room. The paint chipped walls were colored in red while he bed was covered in silk satin sheets. Bright colors always caught her eye because the darker ones always brought her back to reality. Standing in front of her bureau, looking in her mirror she wiped every bit of makeup that was ever laid upon her face. She saw the true her. She wanted to fit where she belonged.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Symbolism story
Melissa and her friend Sammie drive up to the Palisades mall. After an hour drive their relived to get out of Melissa cramped smart car.
Sammie - Wow that was a drive
Melissa- You said it
They begin to walk towards the mall. They walk to the 3rd floor and make a bee line for H&M. Their going to shop because it is Saturdays is Sammie sexy and single 25th birthday party.
M- Wow I like this, this and this
(Picking up random items)
S- Umm, Don’t you have a little bit too much things? And Didn’t I say I want that!
(Snatching the scarf from Melinda hand)
M-No I have everything I need! And Oh well YOU put it down.
S- You took it out of my cart!
M- Who cares, it was cute and now it’s mine
Melinda said, skipping happily into the dressing room
S- Like always
Sammie mumbled, rolling her eyes.
M- What do you mean like always?
Melinda said stopping in her steps
S- I’m just saying you always have to get more than you can have, and EVEN what I want .
M- Everything always looks better on me than it does on you, its not my fault. Plus you wouldn't treat it right anyway
S- What do you mean everything always fits you?
M- I’m just saying if it catches my eye than Im just going to take it
S- This what I’m talking about
M- It’s not my fault you’re jealous
S- I saw it first Melinda and I told you I wanted it. You need to learn how to respect that and respect my feeling
M- Oh well, I don’t care I always get what I want and who I want.
S- Alright, I’m done here
Sammie - Wow that was a drive
Melissa- You said it
They begin to walk towards the mall. They walk to the 3rd floor and make a bee line for H&M. Their going to shop because it is Saturdays is Sammie sexy and single 25th birthday party.
M- Wow I like this, this and this
(Picking up random items)
S- Umm, Don’t you have a little bit too much things? And Didn’t I say I want that!
(Snatching the scarf from Melinda hand)
M-No I have everything I need! And Oh well YOU put it down.
S- You took it out of my cart!
M- Who cares, it was cute and now it’s mine
Melinda said, skipping happily into the dressing room
S- Like always
Sammie mumbled, rolling her eyes.
M- What do you mean like always?
Melinda said stopping in her steps
S- I’m just saying you always have to get more than you can have, and EVEN what I want .
M- Everything always looks better on me than it does on you, its not my fault. Plus you wouldn't treat it right anyway
S- What do you mean everything always fits you?
M- I’m just saying if it catches my eye than Im just going to take it
S- This what I’m talking about
M- It’s not my fault you’re jealous
S- I saw it first Melinda and I told you I wanted it. You need to learn how to respect that and respect my feeling
M- Oh well, I don’t care I always get what I want and who I want.
S- Alright, I’m done here
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