Writing 121
- Cora
Agatucci
English Composition [Expository Essay
Writing]
Example Student Writing - Fall 2001
~webpublished with student permission~
"The Birth
of a Computer Junkie" (Essay #1 - Literacy
Narrative)
Ellen
Clough, "Ripple Effect" (Essay #1 - Literacy
Narrative)
Nathan
Creese, "Combining Imagination with the Truth" (Essay
#1 - Literacy Narrative)
Andrea
Garner, "New Worlds: Enticing the Children" (Essay
#1 - Literacy Narrative)
Sarah
Garvin, "A Different Life Between the Pages" (Essay
#1 - Literacy Narrative)
Sarah
Garvin (2), "Gender in the E-Mail Era" (In-Class
Essay #4)
Sheila Ann
Miller, "Here I Am in College? Let Me Tell You,
I Have Come a Long Way" (Essay #1 -
Literacy Narrative)
Rosalyn A. Smarr,
"Dancing with a Dark Horse" (Essay #1 -
Literacy Narrative)
[Student's Name Withheld by Request]
WR 121, Prof. C. Agatucci
Essay #1 Final Draft
30 September 2001
The Birth
of a Computer Junkie
On my sixth birthday I was reborn as a junkie. My father purchased a
computer
for me, not to use, but to dismantle. In three hours we completely destroyed
that box, and
to this day the only thing that remains is the motherboard, which is nailed to
my wall. I
can distinctly remember taking the cover off for the first time and peering
into the dusty
mass of wires and circuitry. We removed all of the boards and the wiring. The
computer
was strewn across the living room floor in as many pieces as we could break it
into. Each
had a label, and each was properly cataloged, and identified. After this first
time
experience, I knew that this would be a life long need: to work on computers,
to delve
into their innermost workings and discover what makes them work as a cohesive
unit.
Through the years I have worked to become proficient in the language of
the
computer. Such languages include askie2 codes, binary, and cobal languages,
these are
the languages in which the computer speaks to its many parts. I can remember
pouring
over book after book about the inner workings of computers, how they operate,
and how
to repair them. Reading these 1000-page books was tedious but necessary for me
to
become more advanced in the knowledge of computers. Sitting on the floor with
my
father, trying to understand what I was looking at took hours, and days at
times, and it
thoroughly upset my mother, because we made a mess of her floor. Looking back
I can
imagine the cameras watching us, moving around us and revealing to me the way
I
remember those days, screwdrivers and computer parts strewn across the floor.
I can still see myself sitting there and laughing with my father at my own
mistakes, and
proceeding to resurrect many different computers. In his essay Stephen Jay
Gould
recounts a very similar experience of sitting with his grandfather on some
rusty steps and
talking with this older and wiser version of himself (Gould 157). I can
remember things
like this in my past and I look back on them with fond remembrance.
After the preliminary days of just dismantling and rebuilding these
boxes, I
moved on to actually using one, and by this time I was well versed in the
inner working
of the computer and the languages in which one must speak to obtain a response
from the
computer. I learned how to use DOS without having to think with my first
computer. A
386 with a monochrome green screen, it only had one program on it, and that
was
mahjong. After about three years of using this slow and outdated box, I became
fluent in
the commands for DOS and the way to make the tiles move in the mahjong
program. My
next computer was a 486 DX66; I had a whole 8 Megs of ram and Windows 3.11 to
work
with. I used that machine until I knew the in and out’s of Windows 3.11 like
the back of
my hand. I moved on to more powerful machines in the next few years I began
using
Windows 95 and 98 to explore the Internet and to find an entirely different
class of
people that were just like me, the certified computer junkie.
While I was learning these things, the children of my age bracket were
still
playing with sticks in their front yard, but I was alone in my room learning
all I could
from this wonderful box that when I flipped the power switch it would rev up
and allow
me to explore its inner workings for hours on end.
I can recall shutting my door and putting on loud and abusive music in order
to work out
my aggressions on games like Duke Nukem and Doom; losing myself in the world
of
the game for a few hours, and then feeling much better about the way school
was going
because I
could see a solution. Granted this solution was coming from a ten year old
that
really
didn’t understand why my teachers were treating me like they were, but I at
least
thought about how they were teaching me, and why they were teaching me.
After many years of simply trying to learn how
computers worked, and building
my own
machines, I finally bought one that could meet my standards of use. And now
I’m attending college with the sole purpose to gain more knowledge about
these
remarkable machines that have the ability to take people from their mundane
lives to
surreal and hellish nightmares, or to the peaks of the tallest mountains on
any world.
Through gallons of blood, sweat, and tears, I have learned almost all there is
to know
about these machines, but I have not yet begun to explore the use they may
have in the
near or distant future.
I will never forget that day when my dad brought home
that first computer for me
to explore,
and I will never forget how to explore them to find out all the things that I
crave to know now.
Works Cited
Gould,
Stephen Jay, “ Muller Bros. Moving and Storage.” In Dreams and Inward
Journeys. 4th ed. Ed. Marjorie Ford and Jon Ford.
New York: Longman, 2001.
155-161.
© Retained by Student Author, 2001
Ellen Clough
WR 121, Prof. Agatucci
Essay #1 Final Draft
2 October 2001
Ripple Effect
I have always been afraid of speaking in front of large groups of
people. The closer it gets to
being my turn to speak I get extremely nervous.
My heart starts pounding and my hands get sweaty.
When I do start talking, I take a large breath of air and can only talk
until I run out of air. If I stop
take another breath and try to continue talking I feel as though I am going to
hyperventilate. Once I’m done
speaking my hands shake involuntarily. For
my business, I speak in front of a hundred or so people on a semi-regular
basis. It frustrates me that I
can’t control this fear. Time
does not lessen my fear. I
finally made a decision to get help. A
friend of mine had told me about Toastmasters, which is an organization that
helps people with public speaking. I had attended one Toastmasters meeting. I thought this organization might be able to help me. I
also checked out what speech classes were available at Central Oregon
Community College. While I was reading about the speech classes offered at the
college, I also started checking out other classes that peaked my interest.
This made me think that beyond developing my speaking skills, I would
work on being a more
well-rounded, educated person. This
inspired me to go back to college. One
thing just seemed to lead to another.
When I was younger, just out of high school, I went to Lane Community
College and received a one-year Secretarial Certificate.
I was not satisfied with being a secretary, so two years later I went
back to school at Lane Community College and received a one-year Early
Childhood Education Certificate. By
the end of the school year, I determined that this also wasn’t an area I
wanted to have a career in. In
1990, I decided once again to go to school.
This time I went to real estate school.
In the past my educational experiences have solely focused on one
particular field of interest. After
making the decision to go back to school, I had the credits for the classes I
had previously taken assessed. Only
22 of the 88 credit hours I had taken are transferable to Central Oregon
Community College. I
was disappointed and a little discouraged, but not daunted in my determination
to go back to school. At this
point, I’m planning on working toward an Associate of Arts Degree.
I’m still undecided if I will transfer to a four-year college and
pursue a Bachelors Degree.
Being a very impatient person, I wanted to reach my goal as soon as
possible. I figured if I took 12
credit hours a term, excluding summer, I’d have my Associate of Arts Degree
in two years. Fall term 2001, I
signed up for 12 credit hours. After
the first week of classes, working full-time, fitting in homework, being a
mom, and having some personal “down” time, I was extremely stressed out.
I made the decision to drop one of my classes, and resigned myself that
receiving an Associate of Arts Degree in three years was a more realistic goal
for me. After making this very
tough decision I felt immediate relief.
I’m taking an algebra class, humanities class, and a writing class.
The writing class is probably the class that relates most to my initial
search to develop my speaking skills. I
have always had trouble expressing myself in detail.
“Although the most difficult part of the writing process for me is
unleashing this undeveloped thought from the tornado with the courage to put
it on paper, a major villain is my laziness and time constraints” (Chanani
62). I could totally relate to
Sheila Chanani’s essay, “Whirling Through:
My Writing Process as a Tornado Within.”
She brought out some of my inner most thoughts.
By writing this essay, I’m learning to express myself through words,
which has also been one of my weaknesses.
This skill will ultimately help me build confidence in speaking in
front of groups as well.
Making the decision to go back to school has already been beneficial
for me. I’m definitely using my
organizational skills. I was
initially hesitant in returning to college at my age.
I wasn’t sure what reaction I would get from my family and friends,
which is important to me. For the
most part, they have all been very supportive of my decision.
I tell people, “I’m going back to school to help me decide on what
I want to do when I grow up.” I
usually get a chuckle for a response, since I am 46 years old and am
considered a “grown-up.” Another
hesitation I had was being afraid I will fail since I have not been in school
for so long. I hope I can live up
to the high expectations I have set for myself.
I am truly amazed how making one simple decision can totally alter so
many different aspects of my life. There
are so many choices. For example,
when I decide to have children, my life was forever changed. This decision affected me financially, physically, and
emotionally. Children are totally
dependent and are at least an 18-year responsibility. It is interesting to look back and wonder if I hadn’t had
children, my life would most certainly be dramatically different.
Each time I came to a crossroad in life I chose which path to take.
Change in my everyday routine has enriched my life.
I believe it is important to constantly challenge myself.
That way I won’t get stagnant and just exist.
I want to live life to the fullest.
Work
Cited
Chanani, Sheila.
“Whirling Through: My Writing Process as a Tornado Within.”
In Dreams and
Inward Journeys.
4th ed. Ed. Marjorie
Ford and Jon Ford. New York:
Longman, 2001. 61-63.
© Ellen Clough, 2001
Nathan Creese
WR 121, Prof. C. Agatucci
Essay #1
Literacy Narrative Final Draft
October 23, 2001
Combining Imagination with the Truth
I
had always done well in my writing classes. I figured out very early that I
could write to release my emotion. Fiction or nonfiction, I was able to
visualize with my imagination and translate it into my writing. One of the tools
I used was to combine my imagination with the truth.
In
my eighth grade year I remember doing very badly in a speech class. It was not
that I was shy, and couldn’t speak in front of a class. Like I said I did well
in writing, but when it came to writing a speech I was always worried about my
body language. Was I looking at the class enough or standing in front of the
podium correctly? It was getting toward the end of the semester and I was barely
holding on to a D. The instructor assigned one last speech for a final project.
We were to take an article from Readers Digest and refer it to something
in our life. Then we could do a report on that article, or tell a story from our
life that the article had inspired. The
first article I read was about a fighter pilot that had been shot in World War
II. A twenty-something caliber bullet from an enemy aircraft had pierced his
leg. The plane went down in a jungle type landscape, and he had mutilated
himself to get away from the plane. Then he showed an unbelievable strength to
survive and get to safety. It kicked my imagination in, visualizing every
detail. I could remember a story in my life where my family was flying to
Hawaii. I remember it was a safe trip with maybe one or two turbulences. I also
remembered how much it freaked my dad out because of his fear of flying.
So
I began to write my speech. I went outside the lines, not doing the
five-paragraph speech, but writing a story. I also went outside the lines by
writing a half fiction, half nonfiction story. I stuck with the trip to Hawaii,
but threw in some roller coaster rides. For example: I wrote we were flying in
rainy weather that seemed to dribble the plane up and down like a bouncing
basketball. I wrote and learned to believe my speech. I never practiced, and I
mean never. Throughout the whole year maybe I practiced one speech. What was
cool was that I did not think about the podium or body language throughout the
preparation. I just relaxed and wrote my blended story. The day my speech was
due I hardly looked at my paper telling the story as though it really happened.
The audience was focused on my easy flowing body language. They were laughing at
parts where I detailed out my dad’s fears and reactions. In the end I received
an A, and got out of that class with a C-.
Later
in my high school career there was an exam though AAA high schools to pick one
of four beginning topics and finish the story. Then the exams were to be graded
by college professors at the University of Oregon. Again I twisted things a
little. The exam topic I was using was about a time warp. I think it was more
aimed at finding some time box, but I let my imagination go off. It was within
the week that Magic Johnson was diagnosed with HIV. I started the story of the
mighty Hercules in battle with a fierce dragon. Hercules battles the dragon with
all his might. Then he stumbles, and falls eternally through a crevasse that
splashes him into the Pacific Ocean. Washing ashore with his Greek clothes torn
and bloodied, a female goddess comes to his rescue. I explicitly hinted that
Hercules and the woman exchanged cloths behind a beach rock. Then he stumbled
upon a football game, admiring the mighty gladiators, and figuring out the game.
He became a fan and was asked to play. To cut it short, he ends up being drafted
by the LA Raiders. Breaking all the records of professional football history. In
the end, I killed him with the AIDS virus from having sex with the woman that
came to his rescue upon his arrival.
It
was sweet: I had combined a major true story with a Greek myth and brought it
into present time. I still remember the details set in my imagination and the
story still inspires me. When the exams came back I wasn’t hot on punctuation,
but the other comments were really high. The ace from all of the five professors
was the voice in my writing, each with the comment that they were enthralled by
the emotion in my story. Those comments were what rated me second in my high
school, and in the top twenty of AAA schools in Oregon. My teacher even kept it
as an example for future students, and I bet to this day still uses it. My pride
in that story is one of my best high school memories. Do I exaggerate the
success of my tale? I don’t think so. Maybe I was exaggerating the importance
of the exam. I was still inspired and could extend that story into a
thirty-chapter book.
Maya
Angelou writes a story of applying imagination to a situation that had just
damaged her for life (Angelou 128-133). The result was her imagination stirring
up a great story of vengeance and hatred. When the truth comes out, it dulled
her sharpened blade and in the end she writes, “I preferred, much preferred,
my version.”(Angelou 133). Angelou was choosing her imagination over
the true story. A real thing had happened and she let her imagination plunge
into dark thoughts and a powerful story that entertained me as a reader. She was
telling herself that same imaginative story. Keeping her from the truth. When
her grandma relayed the dull and unsatisfying truth of what really happened; she
preferred, much preferred, her version.
I
found that if I start worrying about paragraphs, punctuation, and body language
my writing becomes blocky and uncomfortable. Imagination is best let out of the
gates to combine the truth with fictional examples to inspire your story. The
gray area you create is the best entertainment for your readers. I was excited
when I wrote outside the lines. I let my imagination flow through my hand, to
the ink, and onto paper. Readers have always translated my emotion when I was
writing with emotion. Imagination and truth will inspire a picture for you while
you're writing, and for your readers while they're reading.
Work Cited
Angelou,
Maya. “The Angel of the Candy Counter” In Dreams and Inward Journeys.
4th
ed. Ed. Marjorie Ford and Jon Ford. New York:
Longman, 2001. 128-133.
© Nathan Creese, 2001
Andrea
Garner
WR 121 (#40588), Prof. Agatucci
Essay
# 1 Revised Final
2 October 2001
New Worlds: Enticing
the Children
The year was 1964. I was but seven years old and the middle child in a
family of seven. We were all sitting around the large oak dining room table
just finishing up a delicious fried chicken dinner. Every evening we all took
turns talking about what each of us had done that day. This particular night,
we talked about my older sister Cynthia's math class, my brother Jerry's slot
car racing and which play Daddy was going to direct next. With dinner and
conversation over, I chimed in with my younger sisters, Jayna and Chris, and
asked, "Are you gonna read tonight, Mommy?" Those two always wanted
to know if she was going to read. Even though she never missed a night! Ever
since I could remember, my mother had read to us from the many children's
novels that she had collected and cherished. These books enticed our minds to
explore fantasy and adventure. Mother was partial to exciting stories like,
Davy Crockett, Toby Tyler and The Jungle Book. As we started to pick up our
plates and head for the kitchen, my mother said, " Better get those teeth
clean and ready for bed if you want me to read tonight!" All of a sudden
there was a flurry of kids giving kisses to my mother and then hugging my
father.Then came the sound of plates clanking and all five voices at once
thanking them for dinner. Clamoring for the stair well away went five bodies
and ten galloping feet thundering up the stairs. "Two minutes," said
my mother from downstairs. I think back on it now, and can only imagine what
the five of us must have sounded like. Mother and Daddy were downstairs
waiting on us, while we were scrambling around upstairs getting ready to hear
more of our story. With the sounds of stomping feet, slamming drawers,
flushing of the toilet, and "Would you hurry up!" "Hey I was
first!" We must have made quite a racket.
Tonight, another chapter of Rikki Tikki Tavi, which is the story of a
little mongoose who saves "his family" from a king cobra by doing
battle with him and winning. My parents came into the bedroom where all five
of us were waiting. With pajamas on and shining teeth, we piled onto the beds
with a lot of shifting around and getting comfortable as my mother opened the
book and started to read. As she read, it was as if the bedroom melted away as
our imaginations took over. This was just one of many nights from my childhood
when all of us, including my father, were entranced again and again by yet
another great story.
As we grew up, so did the content of the books. We graduated up to such
books like the trilogy of The Lord of the Ring and Moby Dick. With each book,
we were enticed again into a new world and each adventure bigger and more
exciting than the last. Through reading, my mother had instilled in each one
of us that to be able to explore new worlds and to meet exciting people
through books is one of the greatest freedoms that we all have. The excitement
that I felt when my mother read to us stayed with me. I started reading
anything that I could find in the house to keep that excitement from ending. I
started reading some of my father's play scripts, then scoured my mother's
bookshelves and read quite a few of the works of O. Henry and Edgar Allen Poe.
In Richard Wright's selection from his autobiography, "The Library
Card," his increased need to read comes through when he says, "...I
hungered for books, new way of looking and seeing. It was not a matter of
believing or disbelieving what I read, but of feeling something new, of being
affected by something that made the look of the world different" (Wright
77). I felt the exact same way about reading and I knew that this way of
feeling and seeing the world was important enough to pass onto others.
When I finally was old enough to move out on my own, my mother gave me
quite a few of those old books. Of course, I had collected quite a few of my
own by this time, many of which I still have to this day. By the time my
daughter Shawna came along, I owned almost as big a collection of books as my
mother had when I was a younger. Over the years, I hadn't let my excitement
for reading die. When I encountered a new place or learned something different
about someone in history, the excitement would return. I read all sorts of
stories to Shawna at bedtime and sometimes before her nap in the afternoon
because she loved the stories so much. The excitement from reading that my
mother had shared with us as children, I now shared with my daughter. The
freedom, the excitement, and the adventure in books were now hers. I was
passing on what I had known to be so important, so long ago.
I can't imagine living in a country where reading books isn't allowed.
I would be forced to steal to get books to read if that were the case. I think
that that might be how any child feels when the parents won't share books with
their children. The breathtaking, the uncommon and the remarkable are all out
there in bound, written form. Books truly are New Worlds that entice our
children to read.
Works
Cited
Wright,
Richard. “Library Card.” In Dreams and Inward Journeys. 4th ed. Ed. Marjorie Ford and
Jon Ford. New York: Longman, 2001. 74-78.
© Andrea Garner, 2001
Sarah Garvin
WR121, Prof. C.
Agatucci
Essay #1 Final
3 October 2001
A
Different Life Between the Pages
As a child, I had a fondness for books. I loved to curl-up on my bed after
dinner,
go to faraway times and places, and for a few hours every night
become
someone else. Although people know me as Sarah Garvan, I have been Meg
Murray
traveling in time, I have sat at the round table with King Arthur, and
traveled
all over the land of Narnia with a lion. One of the most prevalent
memories
I have from my childhood is the night my Dad left our family. It was
November
18, in 1992. Dinner was finished, I was bathed, and had curled up in
bed
reading by the glow of my flashlight. That evening I was Anne, an adopted
orphan
living on Prince Edward's Island in the early twentieth century.
However,
about a half-an-hour after I had begun reading, there was a light
knock
on my door.
"Can you hear them?" Emily, my sister, asked.
"Who?" I responded.
"Come 'ere." She whispered. So I crawled out of bed my time machine
and
followed
her lead. We crept down the hall, and sat on the top of the
staircase
that turned and led to the kitchen. I heard tears and a male voice
hissing
at my mother.
"Don't cry Pat, you'll wake up Emily and Sarah," my Dad threatened.
"Look, we
have
been trying for fifteen years to work out our problems, and it's just
getting
worse. The kids are old enough now, and it is time that I did what I
have
to do for myself. I need to be happy."
I felt my heart jump in my chest, and a sick sense of foreboding. I turned my
head
to look at my sister. Her face was contorted with a heavy line running
across
her forehead. She is three years older than I am, so by looking at her
face,
I could tell that whatever was going on down there was not good. I was
distracted
from my thoughts to hear a door slam, a car start, and see the
taillights
of my Dad's car heading down the road. My heart sprung out of my
chest,
and fell down the stairs shattering on the landing. I sat in silence
at
the head of the stairs for hours hoping that the car would return. In
reality,
it must have been only about twenty minutes, because I soon heard my
mother's
slippers shuffling on the kitchen floor, heading for the stairs.
My sister and I scurried back to our rooms, pretending we were unaware of
what
happened. Maybe it was all a nightmare. I crawled into my bed, listening
to
my mother's movements. I heard her open my sister's door. After a few
minutes,
I heard Emily's door close, and mine open. I was curled up next to
my
stuffed Care Bears feigning sleep. I could sense the light creeping in
from
the hallway, and through the slit in my eyes I saw my Mother's slight
shadow.
The left side of her chest was hollowed out, leaving a void where her
heart
had been. I could hear her light breath slip through her taut jaw,
carrying
the stress from that evening's fight. Satisfied, she quietly shut
the
door, and retreated to my parent's bedroom.
Once I was convinced that my mom was not coming to check on me again, I
flipped
on my flashlight, and returned to the warm glow of its light. I
pulled
the sheets over my head, opened my book, and returned to Prince
Edward's
Island. I was transported back to a place and time where there was
not
divorce, and not everyone had a car to drive away in. I entered a world
where
a thirteen-year-old girl was excited because she was going to have ice
cream
for the first time.
In my cocoon of blankets, pillows, and stuffed animals, I went on a journey,
leaving
my surroundings. Birkets discusses in his essay, "States of
Reading,"
this
altered state that I too experience. "Several things happen when we move
via
the first string of words from our quotidian world into the realm of the
written.
We experience almost immediately a transposition of our customary
perception
of reality. We shift our sense of time from ordinary, sequential,
clock-face
awareness to a quasi-timeless sense of suspension" (Birkets 85).
That
night, I learned that if my life ever gets too complicated or sad for
me,
there is always a safe place to escape. In novels people aren't
depressed,
no one breaks your heart, nobody has an alcoholic mother, and in
the
end everyone is safe. This makes me safe. The night my Dad left will
always
be a prominent memory for me. My heart broke that night, but by
becoming
an excited girl just about to get her first taste of ice cream, I
sewed
it back together. For a short time, what I found between the pages was
the
truth, not the world outside of my bedroom. From then on, I knew of a
safe
haven, and reading was my way of going there. To this day, nine years
later,
the principles behind that night still live within me. Reading is
still
that safe place to go, when my roommates fight, or my Mom sounds drunk
on
the telephone. Sometimes, I wish my life wrapped up as well as a book,
where
every event is related to the plot, and there is actually an ending.
However,
if this were so, I would not have the connection and love of the
written
word that I do today.
Works
Cited
Birkets,
Sven. “States of Reading.” In Dreams and Inward Journeys. 4th ed. Ed. Marjorie Ford and
Jon Ford. New York: Longman, 2001. 85.
© Sarah Garvin, 2001
Sarah Garvin (2)
WR121, Prof. C.
Agatucci
In-Class Essay #4
Gender
in the E-Mail Era
When our forefathers drafted the US Constitution it was based on the
principles
of liberty, justice, and equality for all Americans. Since the
mid-eighteenth
century these rights have extended to apply to all humans, not
just
white males. However, what is written on paper is not always a reality,
and
in the case of gender, men and women are not the same. Real differences
between
the sexes are biochemical, emotional and physical. But, there are
also
perceived differences pertaining to behavior and thinking patterns. Over
time
society has expected certain things of males and different things of
females.
Although these expectations have evolved to become more and more
similar,
there are still major discrepancies in expectations, due to gender.
Gender
should not matter, but unfortunately, based on one's sex, society does
have
certain expectations of feelings and behaviors.
These discrepancies
are apparent when examining a romantic relationship.
Expectations
differ between males and females when it comes to courtship,
types
of relationships, and marriage roles. These unspoken rules are not
just,
but they must be recognized. When men and women are dating, they are
expected
to act very differently, in society's eyes. For instance, the man
is
expected to ask girls out, plan dates, and pay for them. Seemingly, being
male
is the sole determinant in who pays for dinner. At the same time, the
woman
is expected to maintain an established relationship by keeping her
partner
happy. This means catering to his needs, and putting one's own aside.
Sex
should not determine who takes who out, or who does the emotional work,
but
it is preset to be the determining quality. Men and women are supposed to
be
happy to fulfill these roles, and not just do it because of custom.
Another aspect of relationships that involves differing expectations,
based
on gender, is the type of relationships a person is involved in. Men
are
typecast as wanting to date as many people as possible, and remain
bachelors
for life. On the other side, the female must date as few men as
possible,
get involved in long-term relationships, and pursue marriage.
Society
simply expects that women want this. However, not all women want to
marry,
and not all men want to go out on a lot of dates. However, everyday
statements
are made about both sexes, as if one's personality depends on
gender.
As long as these statements are made, the idea that gender matters
will
perpetuate.
Finally, there are well-defined expectations for the roles people play
in
marriages.
Almost all the time the man will be the primary bread winner, the
person
who the family depends upon to bring the paycheck home. Very rarely is
a
male given the opportunity to do anything else, like raise the children and
maintain
the home. That is because these jobs are set aside for the female.
Women
are expected to take care of the house, whether they work too, or not.
I
am not saying that all marriages are that way, but that is how the
relationship
is expected to be in a marriage.
Society and culture are full of predetermined roles for men and women,
based
on traditional customs. Men are supposed to be good at sports and women
are
supposed to have good manners, etc. Unfortunately, we all see the world
through
our own filter, which determines what reality is, so changing
people's
views and values is difficult. I also believe that it is part of
human
nature to classify, and people are more comfortable when they know what
is
expected of them, and how to fulfill those expectations. Therefore, I do
not
think that the perceived differences in gender will change in the near
future,
and we will continue to be evaluated based upon sex.
© Sarah Garvin, 2001
Sheila Ann Miller
WR121, Prof. C.
Agatucci
Essay #1 Final
3 October 2001
Here
I Am in College?
Let Me Tell You, I Have Come a Long Way
The walk I took to get to college has been a long and slow one. I have
explored many side roads: most of these side roads were of my own doing taken
by a rebellious, hardheaded child. Several of the roads were made bumpier by
unfair teachers. Every road has a lesson to it, even the ones that I could not
see until I was looking back. The responsibility for learning from my mistakes
has always been up to me.
I was a child with a mind of my own. I was rebellious and a know it
all. Am I proud of who I was or how I behaved? NO! I am not sure how I got
that way. All I know is that yes, I was a difficult child to raise. I remember
in first grade on a hot day when all the boys took off their shirts and so did
I. This did not go over well with the schoolteacher. I informed them all that
if the boys could do it, so could I. At that age, the girls looked the same as
the boys did without their shirts. I did not know what the big deal was all
about. That was me: I would change the world to fit me, not me to fit the
world.
The education road was a narrow cow trail winding through various pits.
The one I remember the most was my fifth grade teacher Tilla The Hun. She was
a big, grumpy woman that would lose her head if it were not fastened on to her
neck. She lost more of my homework than I did. I know that I did not have the
greatest track record for having my things organized and that I lost more
homework before the fifth grade than all of my classmates put together. But,
not even I could hold a candle to whatever The Hun had done with all of the
work I did manage to turn in. One assignment stands out in my mind the most.
This one assignment she lost three times and three times I did it over. After
the last time she lost my assignment, I made a big scene in her class. This
approach did not help my position much, for the next thing I knew I was in the
principal’s office with a very warm bottom side. Tilla The Hun was just one
in a crowd that taught me to beware of those who would be unfair in life. The
other lesson I learned was that even if I feel that I am wronged, my approach
to the subject does have a factor in the outcome. I have to be responsible for
me no matter the out come.
At the age of
fourteen my cow trail took a leap into the great abyss. My family moved to
Heppner, a little nothing town out in the middle of nowhere. It was not the
end of the world but we could all see it from there. My high school years,
well, let me put it this way: I do not want to go back and do them again.
Heppner was so far behind Toledo in academics that I was bored out of my mind.
No matter how much I complained, no one ever listened. Just as every cow path
has a few smooth stretches so did my education. The smooth stretch at Heppner
High was an English teacher named Mrs. Dutcher. She opened a whole new world
for me to express myself. We wrote about the make believe worlds and our
feelings in poems and stories. This was all at a time in my life when every
thought was a tornado within. My whole life kept on whirling about me as
though I was only there for the ride. I guess that is why I connected so
strongly with Sheila Chanani in her “Whirling Through: My Writing Process as
a Tornado Within” printed in the book Dreams and Inward Journeys.
Just as Sheila wrote in her passage about how her mind is always turning, so
is mine. It turns and spins like a washing machine gone wild, tearing across
the room at a high rate of speed, chasing me down until I have to acknowledge
it in some way. I did not get the best grades for a class that I enjoyed so
much and remembered so well. I must have written something in her class that
was at least readable, because several years later she gave me back a stack of
my writings. She explained that she had been using my writings as samples in
her classes. How can I describe the feeling that she gave me? Someone
thought I had something to offer others, something worth offering to others. I
wish I had known that back then when it might have made a difference, for the
next turn on my trail was worse yet.
My junior year I made a bad turn on the trail when I decided to quit
school. This would be a turn that I would later regret. That one decision
would haunt me for years to come. Things are not easier on your own. I see
those signs and posters that read, ”Kids Move Out While You Still Know
Everything.” Can I relate to that? Oh, yes! I knew it all and you could not
have changed my mind for anything. I was my own woman. I worked two jobs, paid
bills, cleaned toilets, scrubbed up after others, worried about the peeping
tom landlord, walked to work when the car broke down and ate Top Ramen until I
felt like a rubber noodle. I was having fun now. Not! What an idiot I had
become. I jumped straight from the pan into the fire and I did it all on my
own. The worst part was that no one pushed me into making these bad decisions.
I made the decisions all on my own. I should be responsible for me, right? I
took my GED and passed with a nice score. Then I started taking night classes
here and there for computers and business. I guess I looked back and saw all
the things that I was not very proud of and wanted to do a little better.
I married my high
school sweetheart at the age of 20. It was a lot easier than being on my own.
Besides, I was not doing too well on my own. Two special children arrived so
fast that it made my world spin and spin. Children grow up too fast. One day I
woke up and my new baby girl was in the fourth grade with spelling words to
study. From my first word I have spelled everything wrong. I would still be
spelling my own name wrong, but even I can memorize something written on my
belt, locker, checks, and about everything else over the past 30 years. I was
embarrassed of my lack of an education and my poor choices. I knew better. I
was supposed to be setting an example for my children to follow. The example I
had set for them was of all the things you should not do to succeed.
To add to all of the
things going on inside of me, my mom went to college at 37 years old and
received her nursing degree. Then one of my younger sisters went to school and
earned her certificate in dentistry and my youngest sister is still in
college. What about me? Could I really go back and fix the biggest mistake in
my life? You bet, for here I am in college and on the right road. The one
thing I have learned in my life is that I am somebody. I have control over
taking the right side road or the wrong cow trail and I can do better with my
next 30 years.
WORKS CITED
Chanani, Sheila. “Whirling Through: My Writing
Process as a Tornado Within.” In Dreams and Inward Journeys.
4th ed. Ed. Marjorie Ford and Jon Ford. New York: Longman, 2001.
61-63.
© Sheila Ann Miller, 2001
Rosalyn A. Smarr
WR 121 , Prof. Agatucci
Essay #1 Revised/Final Draft
3 October 2001
Dancing with a
Dark Horse
I remember the night she was born. My mother roused me out of a deep
sleep whispering the sweetest words I could have heard at that moment:
“FaDean is in labor, get dressed.”
After I dressed, mom and I walked through the dark to the birthing pen.
As my eyes became accustomed to the dark, I could see my mare standing in the
corner furthest from us. FaDean shifted her feet and as we watched, her black
form seemed to split into two forms.
“I don’t believe it,” My mother’s words were spoken softly so she
would not startle the smaller shadow, “She can’t be more then five minutes
old and she’s walking!”
As we watched, the smaller object wobbled, turning toward our voices.
When we verbalized our delight to FaDean she stepped close to us while nodding
her head in pride, her satin locks bouncing as she discussed with us the marvel
of the little shadow’s strength. But when we reached for the small horse it
moved away with mature speed that it shouldn’t have had for several more
hours. We decided to leave the two alone and went back to the house, realizing
this foal was different. She was unusually strong in body and spirit.
Six months later the little shadow was weaned. It had taken us some time
to name her. Most foals born on our ranch are named within the first 48 hours;
she wasn’t named for several weeks. We settled on Sar RayDean since her
father’s name was RayJay and her mother’s FaDean. The
“Sar” is a prefix that is added to the beginning of all our horse’s names.
“Sar” is the closest Arabic root word to our last name, and it is common
practice among people who raise Arabians to use an Arabic root word of special
meaning in all of their horses registered names.
The first month after she had been weaned we let her lead a carefree
life, but in the seventh month, it was time to teach her how to communicate with
the two-legged creatures who cared for her.
We train horses with methods derived from Monty Roberts and John Lyons.
These methods are much different from the “traditional ways” that break a
horse’s spirit. Instead of proving to the horses that we are their masters and
they must obey our commands, we teach horses that we speak their language: that
we are willing to go through the trouble of spending time with them as peers and
then show them we are alpha horses. We do this by using the same body language
that alpha horses use in their herds. It generally takes a few hours a day for
three days in a row to prove to a horse that we are speaking its language
instead of forcing our own language on it.
The first day is spent in a round pen with the horse running or walking
around the outside fence, while you stand in the middle. As a horse moves, you
read its specific body language to determine which approach would be most
effective. If the horse holds its head high in the air, refuses to look at you,
and jumps away from every move you make, it does not trust you and is most
likely frightened. In this case you would use less forceful body language, your
movements would be small, you would give the horse lots of room and you would
use a soothing voice. If, on the other hand, a horse cuts corners and crowds in on you, looks
directly at you, and doesn’t move away from you, then this horse does not
respect you and is trying to tell you he is boss. In this case you would use
quicker movements, crowd the horse back against the rail, and use a more stern
voice. The next day is a repeat in the setting, but you begin to use some of the
dialect chosen the previous day with your body language. By the third day the
horse knows you are speaking its language and is now paying attention to you and
acknowledging that you are worthy to be the alpha horse. A horse will
demonstrate this by following you without the aid of a halter and lead rope.
Eventually a horse will be willing to submit to saddles, bridles, and a rider.
I grew up around horses and have been going through the routine that I
just explained with them since I was twelve, but that didn’t make the first
day with RayDean any less confusing for me. She no more wanted to spend time
with me than a child wants a shot. On the second day I attempted to make a
connection, but she refused any communication. By the third day it became
apparent that she was here to challenge my abilities. She was one of those
horses that people sell because they don’t want a horse that can outwit them.
As the days went by and turned into the first full week I spent struggling with
this horse, I was forced to use Peter Elbow’s method of “second-order
thinking.”
“Second-order thinking is conscious, directed, controlled thinking. We
steer; we scrutinize each link in the chain” (Elbow 31). As Elbow said, I had
to step back away from the problem—in this case RayDean—and examine each
move I was making, each link in this chain. I would sit and watch her out in the
pasture trying to understand why she wouldn’t let me speak to
her. When I worked with her, RayDean’s black form would move around the pen
unresponsively. It seemed to me she became more distant each day. The only thing
I could figure was she didn’t speak any language of “equine” that I had
come across. My mother didn’t have any better luck with her and so it
developed that we still hadn’t gotten a halter on her when she was a year old.
One day I was trying to talk her into letting me put the halter over her
nose when I realized an amazing truth: “Love possesses not nor would it be
possessed” (Gibran 13). It had taken months to get RayDean to the point where
she would let me run my hands all over her; where she would come up to me and
stand beside me, rubbing her head on my shoulder; or where she would let me hold
a halter in my hand while petting her, but she still wouldn’t let me put the
halter on her. She had grown to trust me as far as she could. She was even
showing signs of loyalty and love, but her conception was that the halter would
possess her. If she let that evil thing be placed on her head, I would no longer
be a friend, but instantly be transformed into a tyrant who no longer loved her.
This would be terrifying from her point of view. We kept her by herself most of
the time to try and get her to bond with us, rather then another horse. RayDean
had bonded with us and if she lost my love, she felt she would lose all the love
she knew.
Some would say I was reading too much into the situation, since many
people do not believe in communication between humans and animals, but I was
sure I had found the key. I told mom that if we could get a halter on her, and
show her that we would not use it to control her, then she would let us do
anything else we wanted with her.
So we resorted to
cornering her with another horse and affixing the halter onto her delicate,
black head. The horror in her eyes was awful to see, but it was short lived. She
flung her little, black body backward and to her shock found that she could
still move away. We had no rope attached to the halter and made no attempt to
hold on to it. She bolted around the corral and then stopped on the other side,
shaking her head. The fear melted from her eyes, replaced by the realization
that she was still free.
She trotted back up to us and we turned her and the other horse loose
together. The next day my mother and I walked out in their pen. Before this
time, RayDean would never let us pick up her feet, but I wanted to test my
theory. She walked up to me and I stroked her neck for a while. I stepped to her
side, reached down and picked up her right, front hoof. She didn’t
fight; in fact, she stood quietly while I picked up each one of her feet without
holding on to her halter.
Since then RayDean has had the halter removed and allows us to put it
back on whenever we want. She also has been saddled and is moving on in her
training, as responsive as though we had never had our many month struggle to
connect. I have learned to look harder before assuming that every horse speaks
the same dialect of equine, or uses the same grammar in their body movements.
This experience was a painful lesson in patience, but I am a better horse
trainer from working with this one filly, than working with all the horses prior
to her in my career.
Works
Cited
Elbow, Peter. “Teaching Two
Kinds of Thinking by Teaching Writing.” In Dreams and Inward Journeys. 4th ed. Ed. Marjorie Ford and
Jon Ford. New York: Longman, 2001. 30-37.
Gibran, Kahlil. “The Prophet.”
153rd reprint. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2000. 13.
© Rosalyn A. Smarr, 2001
Fall
2001 WR 121 Syllabus
| Course
Plan | Links:
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Last Updated: 26 July 2003
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