Blog 19: Pre-draft essay 4 Draft

It was the sweet smell of October in the year 2008. The leaves had began to fall on the ground and get crushed by the people walking over them making that crisp crackling sound that reminded everyone that the summer was over and the chill was coming back. The wind blew from the parking lot and quickly whirled over the bridge, then slowed down a bit and glided over the small rivers and across the surface of the cool long path that led to the older residence halls. The people would carry the wind in with them as they rushed in to close the door to get into the warmth. However, there was still a little chill that would follow them to their rooms until they brought it into their sleeping place where their friends would be and say, “Woooh it’s cold outside huh?” There, in one of these old hall rooms, was a young lady that commuted and really wanted to see how it was living on campus for her sophomore year of college. Everyone was telling her how it was so much fun and she wanted to see what all the talk was about. There was nothing for her to lose because she couldn’t bare the thought of being at home any longer. She wanted to be free and have her own living space and responsibilities and friends and guy friends. She wanted to live comfortably, the way she wanted. She stayed on campus with someone before but that was on the couch and it was a little bitter because it was in her guy friend’s room and his girlfriend at the time thought that she wanted her man. She had fun but had to deal with the loud arguing that came from the next room. So this time she was going to stay in her girl friend’s room. They had just come in from going out to a club that they had never been. There were four girls total; two sets of two girls and one from each set that met in the middle. When they came back to the school, only three of them came back to the room. They talked about how fun the club was and they looked over the pictures they had taken. It was all so exciting because this was pretty much their first college clubbing experience.

Asia, the girl who owned the room, had a guy that she just started talking to on campus. She went through a bad break up and he became close friends with him and a boyfriend some ways down the line. Her friend that came to visit her had a fun time at the club, but then saw how they were all hugged up and she wanted someone to hang out with beside her girlfriends. She said to Asia’s guy friend, “Do you have someone that can come chill with us over here for me?” He replied quickly, “Oh yeah I do.” Not knowing that he was serious, within five minutes there was a knock on the door. In the doorway stood a light skinned young-man, nicely built with a cute face and whose eyes told all that was on his mind, and at the moment it must have been Haliyma. She had asked for him, and there he was. He came into the room with a soft step and she couldn’t help but laugh because she didn’t think he was serious about inviting this guy over. He came with another friend that was walking behind him when he came in, but all eyes were on him, and no one noticed his friend. He walked in like he knew everybody but was quite nervous because he didn’t. He was confident but small inside. He seemed like he had it all going. You couldn’t tell otherwise until you got past the strong stench of handsome he had on.

They all had a few drinks; Haliyma didn’t have so much because she really didn’t drink that often. They surrounded the table with chairs and their bodies and they opened up more comfortably to each other because of the wine. Haliyma opened up the floor for conversation about how men at the club go for girls that have nice bodies and show it off by wearing belly-shirts and show their breast, but they don’t go for females that go to the club wearing shirts that don’t show anything or pants that aren’t low or tight enough like herself. She goes on to say, “I’m a Christian young lady and I conduct myself accordingly. Guys don’t go for girls like me.” Confident Ryan says, “Well I’m a Christian too and from the time I walked in, I’ve been thinking you’re beautiful.” Haliyma was dark-skinned but everyone could tell that she was blushing. She could only chuckle without showing too many teeth of course and say, “Thank you.” The night went on and they put some music on. Ryan asked the weirdest thing to Haliyma, “Dp you trust me?” After asking him again, thinking he might have said something else she said hesitantly but willingly, “Yeah.” And he took her hands and flipped her body over and caught her on his two legs. She was amazed at how he did that.

Here was this guy she had never seen in her life and now she was thinking about him quite often. Her virgin mind was more full of imagination than those with minds of experience. Whenever she would see him her heart raced faster than she could handle and she could barely look at him. There were some questions she would have, and she would ask them because she had nothing to lose. He would answer truthfully because he had nothing to lose. But there was one question that Haliyma wished she would have paid more attention to the response he gave her. “Why don’t you ever want to chill? I’m a big girl, I can handle myself.” “I’m not good for you. You don’t want somebody like me. You’re a good Christian girl and I would be nothing but a bad influence on you.” Of course she didn’t listen. This is what it meant to be a girl.

Sooner than later she started living on campus after getting the exiting call from Residence Life saying they had room for her. She got acquainted with her roommates and was finally in the land of learning.

Ryan and Glen invited Asia and Haliyma over to hang out. But little did Haliyma know that meant to spend the night. They dressed up all cute and put on smell goods that would drag people’s noses with them until the sent faded away. The girls were nervous but tried to hide it. As soon as they got to the room both of the guys’ eyes caught onto their bodies. Glen didn’t care, but Ryan seemed to manage some type of control that would let someone with experience know that he’s done this before. Both pairs had their small talk and both of the guys, being somewhat on one accord, made comments suggesting that they were too dressed up to stay over and that the clothes they had on weren’t night clothes. Of course now the girls wanted to go back and change, because this was what the guys wanted them to do, and it wasn’t so hard of a task. Haliyma nervously changed and trembled back to their room with Asia. By this time Glen was in his room A and Ryan was in his room C. They talked for an hour about nothing and it was good. But then Ryan had to go to bed because he had to get up in the morning to handle some business. When they went to sleep the first time together it was uncomfortable for her and she stayed up the entire night staring at him until he felt her eyes burning him. She found out some things that made her even more uncomfortable and harder for her to put up her front as “cool”. While he laid next to her looking up at the ceiling as she did in the dark he said, “That’s another reason why I didn’t want you to come over here.” She said, “I mean… It’s alright. That’s a big difference for me, but it’s alright.” The next time he went to sleep next to her she was a little less uncomfortable until he started touching her in his sleep. He tried to hold her and she didn’t know what to do. She let him do that because she thought that wasn’t so bad. The next time she laid next to him he started doing other things. She was intrigued because he was a little older but a little scared at the same time. She didn’t know if she should let him touch her but she didn’t know what else to do since she was in his blow up bed and she did come over to his room.

A month passed by and she was dorm hopping with her friends. She couldn’t help but think of him for some time of the day; how he asked to her to come to his room at such specific times of the day, how it was a little annoying to not be able to say his name in public while they were on the phone, how he went around secretly finding out information about her without people knowing that they were dating, how he called when he wanted and responded to texts when he saw fit in his busy life, how he would disappear for seven to ten days at a time, but how she still wanted to see him. She was a little tipsy and happened to be in his building and on their floor. He opened the door because he heard us in the hallway. Of course she acted like she didn’t know she was on his floor, but when in his room anyway. Why not? A few girls and guys danced and laughed until she and he were in a bedroom. He laid her down but she wasn’t stupid. Someone came into the room that they both knew and said, “Oops my bad I’m sorry,” while standing there in awe. Haliyma laughed while he shouted we’re just talking. He revealed a piece of meaty skin that she was self-conscious about. She tried to stop him but he was quick with his slickness and smooth with his touch and graceful with his movements and smart with his words. He started to caress her pocketbook with his hands, and then like a little kid with no hands. She yelled, “Ryan no!” He replied, “Shhh, I wouldn’t do that to you, you told me that you don’t want to do that and I wouldn’t do that until you’re ready.” His words came out so quick to her and she relaxed. Her hands went up her stomach passed her belly button and to her breast. He teased them as he pleased her with no hands. By the end of the night she had gained some sort of trust for him and slept comfortably with him that night.

Another month passed by and he really wanted to see her. Despite his busy schedule and all, he managed to come to her room and spend the night with her until the next afternoon. She wishes this afternoon never happened. They woke up and all was well. She trusted him. He wanted to please her, so she thought. She trusted him. He massaged her middle and said, “Let me try something new. Turn over to your side.” She followed instructions. She felt his fingers more widely today. She was a little uncomfortable but not in pain so she let him continue trying something new. All she had on her mind was that she trusted him. He turned her back over to where he was on top of her. She trusted him. They had a talk about how she wanted things to happen when it did. She wanted to be in love, she wanted to be with the guy for more than a year, she wanted to be comfortable, she wanted it to be real. She felt his fingers again but a something was different. He put his hands on hers and looked at her in her eyes. She still felt his fingers. She felt his hands grabbing her hands. “Ryan, how are your… Are you…Don’t tell me!” She covered her face as he tried his hardest to beg and plee. She could barely feel her life. Everything was going way to fast. “Baby, baby, look at me please.” I looked at him with the rest of the life I had left and said, “I trusted you.” One tear came out of my right eye. I felt like shit.

Blog 18: pre-writing for essay 4

It was the sweet smell of October in the year 2008. The leaves had began to fall on the ground and get crushed by the people walking over them making that crisp crackling sound that reminded everyone that the summer was over and the chill was coming back. The wind blew from the parking lot and quickly whirled over the bridge, then slowed down a bit and glided over the small rivers and across the surface of the cool long path that led to the older residence halls. The people would carry the wind in with them as they rushed in to close the door to get into the warmth. However, there was still a little chill that would follow them to their rooms until they brought it into their sleeping place where their friends would be and say, “Woooh it’s cold outside huh?” There, in one of these old hall rooms, was a young lady that commuted and really wanted to see how it was living on campus for her sophomore year of college. Everyone was telling her how it was so much fun and she wanted to see what all the talk was about. There was nothing for her to lose because she couldn’t bare the thought of being at home any longer. She wanted to be free and have her own living space and responsibilities and friends and guy friends. She wanted to live comfortably, the way she wanted. She stayed on campus with someone before but that was on the couch and it was a little bitter because it was in her guy friend’s room and his girlfriend at the time thought that she wanted her man. She had fun but had to deal with the loud arguing that came from the next room. So this time she was going to stay in her girl friend’s room. They had just come in from going out to a club that they had never been. There were four girls total; two sets of two girls and one from each set that met in the middle. When they came back to the school, only three of them came back to the room. They talked about how fun the club was and they looked over the pictures they had taken. It was all so exciting because this was pretty much their first college clubbing experience.

Asia, the girl who owned the room, had a guy that she just started talking to on campus. She went through a bad break up and he became close friends with him and a boyfriend some ways down the line. Her friend that came to visit her had a fun time at the club, but then saw how they were all hugged up and she wanted someone to hang out with beside her girlfriends. She said to Asia’s guy friend, “Do you have someone that can come chill with us over here for me?” He replied quickly, “Oh yeah I do.” Not knowing that he was serious, within five minutes there was a knock on the door. In the doorway stood a light skinned young-man, nicely built with a cute face and whose eyes told all that was on his mind, and at the moment it must have been Haliyma. She had asked for him, and there he was. He came into the room with a soft step and she couldn’t help but laugh because she didn’t think he was serious about inviting this guy over. He came with another friend that was walking behind him when he came in, but all eyes were on him, and no one noticed his friend. He walked in like he knew everybody but was quite nervous because he didn’t. He was confident but small inside. He seemed like he had it all going. You couldn’t tell otherwise until you got past the strong stench of handsome he had on.

They all had a few drinks; Haliyma didn’t have so much because she really didn’t drink that often. They surrounded the table with chairs and their bodies and they opened up more comfortably to each other because of the wine. Haliyma opened up the floor for conversation about how men at the club go for girls that have nice bodies and show it off by wearing belly-shirts and show their breast, but they don’t go for females that go to the club wearing shirts that don’t show anything or pants that aren’t low or tight enough like herself. She goes on to say, “I’m a Christian young lady and I conduct myself accordingly. Guys don’t go for girls like me.” Confident Ryan says, “Well I’m a Christian too and from the time I walked in, I’ve been thinking you’re beautiful.” Haliyma was dark-skinned but everyone could tell that she was blushing. She could only chuckle without showing too many teeth of course and say, “Thank you.” The night went on and they put some music on. Ryan asked the weirdest thing to Haliyma, “Dp you trust me?” After asking him again, thinking he might have said something else she said hesitantly but willingly, “Yeah.” And he took her hands and flipped her body over and caught her on his two legs. She was amazed at how he did that.

Here was this guy she had never seen in her life and now she was thinking about him quite often. Her virgin mind was more full of imagination than those with minds of experience. Whenever she would see him her heart raced faster than she could handle and she could barely look at him. There were some questions she would have, and she would ask them because she had nothing to lose. He would answer truthfully because he had nothing to lose. But there was one question that Haliyma wished she would have paid more attention to the response he gave her. “Why don’t you ever want to chill? I’m a big girl, I can handle myself.” “I’m not good for you. You don’t want somebody like me. You’re a good Christian girl and I would be nothing but a bad influence on you.” Of course she didn’t listen. This is what it meant to be a girl.

Sooner than later she started living on campus after getting the exiting call from Residence Life saying they had room for her. She got acquainted with her roommates and was finally in the land of learning.

Ryan and Glen invited Asia and Haliyma over to hang out. But little did Haliyma know that meant to spend the night. They dressed up all cute and put on smell goods that would drag people’s noses with them until the sent faded away. The girls were nervous but tried to hide it. As soon as they got to the room both of the guys’ eyes caught onto their bodies. Glen didn’t care, but Ryan seemed to manage some type of control that would let someone with experience know that he’s done this before. 

Blog 16: Pre-Draft Essay

Little girls usually did what their mom’s told them to, and they almost all of the time listened to their grandmom’s whether they wanted to or not. But there was one thing that they didn’t like sitting still for; and that was getting their hair done. When her mom said, “It’s time to get your hair done,” they would go running in the other direction. When they finally sat down, it became serious when she saw the utensils sitting on the floor and the pillow she had to sit on the floor with; the comb, moisturizer, and the hair bows. First she had to go to the sink and get her hair washed. It was the worst when she got even a little bit of water in her eyes mixed; and don’t let any soap be in it. There was one little girl I knew that had coarse hair and was tender-headed at that. The grownups used to say, “You don’t have no business having all that hair and being tender-headed.” She used to think, “Well that’s just how I was made. What do you want me to do about it?” When it was time for her to get her hair washed and dries her grandmother did it for her. She would sit her in a hard brown wooden chair with the towel that she dried her hair with. She had a big yellow comb that she parted, combed, and popped her with if she moved. There was nothing about that comb that this little girl liked, and she could think of more reasons of why she didn’t like her grandmother. The smell of the dryer going through her greased hair was so distinctive. While her grandmom did her hair she would squirm around a lot, but less than she did with her mother. As soon as she got popped with the comb she would get a quick sharp pain that would remind her it’s probably best to sit still for as long as she could, while she was thinking about how much pain she was going through on her head, and mama didn’t care. That’s what she called her; mama. Getting her hair done felt like the worst thing she ever had to go through, but when it was done it looked so pretty. She would stand in front of the mirror and swing her long hair from left to right until she thought it was time to stop. She wasn’t vein, because she know what that meant; she just liked looking pretty.

Blog 15: More Brainstorming for Project 2

In the first journal entry these were the things that stuck out to me that I thought could contribute to my paper.

1. but in my head it was big so that she could hurt me. 2. The smell of the dryer and the grease mixed together was very distinctive 3. My grandmother would always say, "You shouldn't be the one complaining." Then I found my mom saying it and now I say it. 4.It felt like the worst feeling in the world, but I found out; it's not. 

1. This one could be about how i saw the comb as an object that could hurt me but it really was to help me. This can be about something or someone in my life. Possibly about my grandmother, because our relationship wasn't the best when I was younger but now it keeps getting better every time we are together.

2. This  could possibly be the beginning of my essay. Maybe I can start by smelling something and then it lead me to my grandmother's house and then into her back room

3. This, I saw as symbolism for the generations of the females in my family. it seems to be that the generations have patterns. We all pick up somethings that our mother or grandmother or great grandmother used to do or say, i.e. hair, cleaning, relationships to each other (my mother was closer to her grandmother than she was to her mother, and the same thing applies to me and my sister) etc.

4. Me getting my hair done was my biggest trouble when I was younger. As you get older you have bigger troubles, and when you look back, the things that used to be your biggest trouble don't look so bad.

In the second journal entry these were the things that stuck out to me that I thought could contribute to my paper.

 1. When I was younger she was meaner there and now she is a lot nicer. 2. The orange carpet was patted down with no more fluff from generations of wear and tear. 3. There was a big old television with no cable that now has cable.

1. This can contribute to my relationship with my grandmother and as I get older things are changing.

2. The orange carpet can do with the generations of my grandmother's grandchildren coming in and out of the room just like we used to do at my great grandmother's house.

3. Another way of saying that  things change as you get older, some for the better and some for the worse.

Blog 14: Brainstorming topics for Project 2

I was looking back at the first few journal entries we did in class and the very first 2 out of 3 essays we did in class were associated with my grandmother. The second journal entry was on things that we remember when we were really young that may be a little blurry in our memory. But the professor did an exercise that helped us to remember things and focus in a little more clear. Whatever we were trying to remember had to be something that had some type of impact on our lives, which is why we remembered it in the first place. The instance i wrote about the most was when my grandmother used to wash my hair and the process I had to go through afterward.

When my grandmother used to dry my hair after washing it, it would hurt really bad to the point that i would be crying because my hair was very coarse and I was , and still am, tender-headed. She would comb and section it into about 6 different parts so she could braid them and so that my hair wouldn't be all tangled up together. After that my mom would finish it. The item that I remembered that kind of traumatized me was the big yellow comb that she used to comb my hair. It was big and wide-toothed so that she could comb through my hair without me hurting as bad as it would have been with a small-toothed comb, 1. but in my head it was big so that she could hurt me. 2. The smell of the dryer and the grease mixed together was very distinctive. I would pull away from the comb or go with the comb so it wouldn't hurt as much. 3. My grandmother would always say, "You shouldn't be the one complaining." Then I found my mom saying it and now I say it. 4.It felt like the worst feeling in the world, but I found out; it's not. 


The next journal entry we did was the next class about a place/room that we remember from when we were younger. Then we had to focus on things that were in the room and maybe even some stuff that used to happen back there. The first place that came to my mind was my grandmother's house and then her and my grandfather's room. I started to focus more on my grandmother and how she used to sleep in the same bed with my grandpa but then started sleeping in the back room so it was like the back room was her room too.

Her bedroom has her personal things in it and the back room had personal things that she shared with others. She would spend more time in the back room than in her bedroom. It feels like home now, but when I was younger I wasn't happy to be there. The older I get the more time I spend in the front room. 1. When I was younger she was meaner there and now she is a lot nicer. 2. The orange carpet was patted down with no more fluff from generations of wear and tear. 3. There was a big old table with no cable that no has cable. There is a big couch with a colorful square pattern always with blankets on the bottom half.

Blog 12: Assessment of each Essay and Tentative Decision

I definitely think I am going to stick it out with the second essay. My first essay was very creative and descriptive and crafty with the words. I do believe that it was enjoyable to the ears of my audience. It brought getting a scrape on your leg to another level and could be revised a little more. But as far as having the reader being grabbed in a little more by the text and having more emotion and body, my second story is a winner. It has more emotion in it  and will keep the reader attentive during throughout the story. It tells the reader more about me and about my background. I like the other essay for more of an entertainment purpose, but I like my second essay as far as life lessons and story-telling goes. Indeed it is an "I" essay. I will be revising my Essay number 2 for Project 1.

Blog 10: Experience, Reflection, and Writing for Essay 2

I had an easy time writing my essay number two. I'm glad that we had the private sessions with the professor because it guided me in a totally new direction that helped me out in a major way, It all stemmed from a journal entry that took us to another journey and it helped me to reach some things that I haven't really taken the time to do on my own. What I did was take the first paragraph of my first essay and use it as the first paragraph in this one. For the second paragraph I incorporated some of the sentences and did the rest of my essay over. I truly do think that it came out to be a great essay. This is what I had so far at this point.

Nothing is worse than not realizing that there is something underneath this thing called skin that looks like fresh turkey meat but it’s called tissue, but you don’t wipe your nose with it, and then some liquid coming out of it that seeps out to slow, but way too fast for comprehension, and you have to sop it up like thanksgiving bread on gravy, all in 8.5 seconds.

            At the age of eight I was when I got my first scrape on my body. I was rushing to get home from an elongated day at school but the ground was too big and fast under my little feet; I missed a step and fell straight to the ground. When I was a little kid this seemed like the worst thing in the world, but it’s funny how I paid so much more attention to the process my knee was going through aside from the fact that I just scraped myself. I understood that there was something underneath my skin and there was something that kept all of this stuff inside. It was kind of scary; the fact that there was something underneath. I don’t know if it was more scary that something was underneath my skin or the fact that my skin was scraped off and the inside was coming out.

The Skin        

I’ve lived with my mom for most of my life, so it was at a very young age that I realized that my mom and dad were two separate people. Most kids that have parents that have been together throughout their entire lives almost think of their parents as one entity; but I knew different. They were separated since I can remember so it was just me and my mom at the hospital the day I was born.

            I wanted my parents to be together; what kid doesn’t. But as I got older I appreciated them not being together, but until then I was forced to understand why they weren’t. One day I was playing the video games and I reminded me of my dad, because whenever I would go over there that’s one thing we enjoyed doing with each other- well- one thing that we could do without him getting emotional on me. But anyway I asked my mom, “Mom, why don’t you like daddy? He likes playing video games and so do you.” She replied with a hesitant and a comfortable uncomfortable, “I know Nashira, but there’s other things.” I sadly fixed my face back to the television and kept playing the video game while I thought of other things I could ask her that had to do with her and my dad. After my mom not responding the way I wanted her to I kind of gave up and started to take out time to understand why they were not together instead of finding things that may spark up something, in my mom more so than my dad, that would make her want to be with daddy again.

            I lived with him for a small portion of my childhood, but mostly with my mom and for a little with my grandparents and my mother in the same house. For the time that I wasn’t with him, my sister and I would go to his house every other weekend. We dreaded it. That’s the front I would put on, because every time we would leave my sister would be ready to walk straight out the door and make a b line to the car. But me, I would cry like a baby coming out of a mother’s womb that was about to be disconnected from the umbilical cord. I couldn’t help it. Just the thought of leaving him and him giving me that last hug before we left made me cry so hard.

            Living with my mom was cool but her and I disagreed on what seemed to be quite a few things. I grew up as a grown child knowing more than the average child knew, but not in a bad way. I was very knowledgeable. Our relationship was more like a sister relationship. Some things she would tell me that I shouldn’t have known until I got older. There were some questions I would ask that the average thirteen year old wouldn’t ask. There were certain things she would ask for that a fifteen year old usually wouldn’t give or a mom wouldn’t feel comfortable asking. This is why we were more like sisters because stuff like this was normal for us.

The older I got the more I saw how I wasn’t like my mother. We were two different people. I shared her features but not her personality or traits. In my spare time I liked to write or read when it was time for my mind to want to read. I found it soothing to write because if I was angry or upset about something, the second after my pen and paper knew my secrets I would feel better. It was also during these times when the best stuff came out. I had a certain love for music. I didn’t listen to what everyone heard on the radio; I actually got annoyed by it after a while because nothing new would play. It would be the same songs that meant and said nothing valuable and had no value in the instrumentals either. While I would write my poems or expressions I would doodle on the sides of my paper and they too also represented a piece of me. Most of all I loved to sing. That was another way I got out my feelings. It may have been to myself and to close friends but I held it dear to me along with the songs I would write about things going on in my life. I was more in touch with my creative side and it helped me to see inside of myself. I never really saw this side of my mother. In her spare time she would be working on work, and when it wasn’t her spare time she was doing work. If she did have a journal of some sort, it was in private because she never mentioned it or had any pieces of paper or napkins with notes on it about herself until recently. In this respect she played the mom role; she would work so that we had a roof over our heads and go to sleep. Briefly my mind would reach out to see where I got this love of art from and it had to be my dad, but that’s as far as it would go; no farther than thinking about him or sending out a text, because I didn’t have the right things to say.

Layers of Tissue

            Living with my mom, of course I got her side of everything and I didn’t know anything else, but I did have a mind of my own. My dad would always call me or reach out to me in some way asking me if I got the money he sent me and my sister, and I would say no. then he would tell me about how “someone” must have been taking the money because he sent it to me and it was not in the mailbox. I didn’t know what to think. My mom would tell me that there was no money in the mail for me from my father.

            My mom was married to my stepfather since I was five, so he was the father figure in my life. I knew that he and my mom were serious when I was in my bed one night before they got married and they both thought I was sleep. They were in the kitchen, which wasn’t too far from my bed since we lived an apartment and I was on the lower half of the bunk bed. My mom wasn’t fully clothed and there he was with his baseball umpire uniform on kissing my mom. I quickly closed my eyes before they saw that I saw them.

My dad wasn’t around too much so he was the closest and fastest thing that came. I started to call him dad and everything, but my sister knew better. She may not have liked our dad but as soon as she heard me call him that she snatched me up and said, “ Don’t call him dad, he is not your dad so do not call him dad!” From them on I called him by his first name, Kelvin.

The Blood Coming Out

            I had a conversation with my dad, and he told me that he moved. It was news to me, because evidently he had been there for a while. When I got there it didn’t seem to matter too much because I made myself feel right at home as if it were his old house that I made memories in.

Blog 11: Draft for Essay 2

Nothing is worse than not realizing that there is something underneath this thing called skin that looks like fresh turkey meat but it’s called tissue, but you don’t wipe your nose with it, and then some liquid coming out of it that seeps out to slow, but way too fast for comprehension, and you have to sop it up like thanksgiving bread on gravy, all in 8.5 seconds.

            At the age of eight I was when I got my first scrape on my body. I was rushing to get home from an elongated day at school but the ground was too big and fast under my little feet; I missed a step and fell straight to the ground. When I was a little kid this seemed like the worst thing in the world, but it’s funny how I paid so much more attention to the process my knee was going through aside from the fact that I just scraped myself. I understood that there was something underneath my skin and there was something that kept all of this stuff inside. It was kind of scary; the fact that there was something underneath. I don’t know if it was more scary that something was underneath my skin or the fact that my skin was scraped off and the inside was coming out.

The Skin        

I’ve lived with my mom for most of my life, so it was at a very young age that I realized that my mom and dad were two separate people. Most kids that have parents that have been together throughout their entire lives almost think of their parents as one entity; but I knew different. They were separated since I can remember so it was just me and my mom at the hospital the day I was born.

            I wanted my parents to be together; what kid doesn’t. But as I got older I appreciated them not being together, but until then I was forced to understand why they weren’t. One day I was playing the video games and I reminded me of my dad, because whenever I would go over there that’s one thing we enjoyed doing with each other- well- one thing that we could do without him getting emotional on me. But anyway I asked my mom, “Mom, why don’t you like daddy? He likes playing video games and so do you.” She replied with a hesitant and a comfortable uncomfortable, “I know Nashira, but there’s other things.” I sadly fixed my face back to the television and kept playing the video game while I thought of other things I could ask her that had to do with her and my dad. After my mom not responding the way I wanted her to I kind of gave up and started to take out time to understand why they were not together instead of finding things that may spark up something, in my mom more so than my dad, that would make her want to be with daddy again.

            I lived with him for a small portion of my childhood, but mostly with my mom and for a little with my grandparents and my mother in the same house. For the time that I wasn’t with him, my sister and I would go to his house every other weekend. We dreaded it. That’s the front I would put on, because every time we would leave my sister would be ready to walk straight out the door and make a b line to the car. But me, I would cry like a baby coming out of a mother’s womb that was about to be disconnected from the umbilical cord. I couldn’t help it. Just the thought of leaving him and him giving me that last hug before we left made me cry so hard.

            Living with my mom was cool but her and I disagreed on what seemed to be quite a few things. I grew up as a grown child knowing more than the average child knew, but not in a bad way. I was very knowledgeable. Our relationship was more like a sister relationship. Some things she would tell me that I shouldn’t have known until I got older. There were some questions I would ask that the average thirteen year old wouldn’t ask. There were certain things she would ask for that a fifteen year old usually wouldn’t give or a mom wouldn’t feel comfortable asking. This is why we were more like sisters because stuff like this was normal for us.

The older I got the more I saw how I wasn’t like my mother. We were two different people. I shared her features but not her personality or traits. In my spare time I liked to write or read when it was time for my mind to want to read. I found it soothing to write because if I was angry or upset about something, the second after my pen and paper knew my secrets I would feel better. It was also during these times when the best stuff came out. I had a certain love for music. I didn’t listen to what everyone heard on the radio; I actually got annoyed by it after a while because nothing new would play. It would be the same songs that meant and said nothing valuable and had no value in the instrumentals either. While I would write my poems or expressions I would doodle on the sides of my paper and they too also represented a piece of me. Most of all I loved to sing. That was another way I got out my feelings. It may have been to myself and to close friends but I held it dear to me along with the songs I would write about things going on in my life. I was more in touch with my creative side and it helped me to see inside of myself. I never really saw this side of my mother. In her spare time she would be working on work, and when it wasn’t her spare time she was doing work. If she did have a journal of some sort, it was in private because she never mentioned it or had any pieces of paper or napkins with notes on it about herself until recently. In this respect she played the mom role; she would work so that we had a roof over our heads and go to sleep. Briefly my mind would reach out to see where I got this love of art from and it had to be my dad, but that’s as far as it would go; no farther than thinking about him or sending out a text, because I didn’t have the right things to say.

Layers of Tissue

            Living with my mom, of course I got her side of everything and I didn’t know anything else, but I did have a mind of my own. My dad would always call me or reach out to me in some way asking me if I got the money he sent me and my sister, and I would say no. then he would tell me about how “someone” must have been taking the money because he sent it to me and it was not in the mailbox. I didn’t know what to think. My mom would tell me that there was no money in the mail for me from my father.

            My mom was married to my stepfather since I was five, so he was the father figure in my life. I knew that he and my mom were serious when I was in my bed one night before they got married and they both thought I was sleep. They were in the kitchen, which wasn’t too far from my bed since we lived an apartment and I was on the lower half of the bunk bed. My mom wasn’t fully clothed and there he was with his baseball umpire uniform on kissing my mom. I quickly closed my eyes before they saw that I saw them.

My dad wasn’t around too much so he was the closest and fastest thing that came. I started to call him dad and everything, but my sister knew better. She may not have liked our dad but as soon as she heard me call him that she snatched me up and said, “ Don’t call him dad, he is not your dad so do not call him dad!” From them on I called him by his first name, Kelvin.

The Blood Coming Out

            I had a conversation with my dad, and he told me that he moved. It was news to me, because evidently he had been there for a while. When I got there it didn’t seem to matter too much because I made myself feel right at home as if it were his old house that I made memories in. I didn’t know that they had two new dogs and that my two dogs that I grew up with were sold. Neither did I know that the little that was “adopted” was my blood little brother born out of his marriage. But that’s beside the point.

            We sat at the table and he started to tell me about my family on his side. My grandfather was considered a genius too many. My grandmother used to correct him and his siblings whenever they spoke grammatically incorrectly and she would make them wake up in the morning reciting the eight parts of speech. My aunt Mickey is a lawyer and lives in New York, and he has another brother in Georgia that he wanted me to meet. He told me how I was a intelligent, and how there is a difference between people whom are smart and intelligent. He told me not to waste it. He started talking about how certain things run through me that are on his side of the family and how just because I have lived with my mother for the majority of my life, not to let that get in the way of me not finding out the other half of me. He said, “If you take the time out to really get in touch with my family, you’ll find out some things about yourself that you didn’t know it will make life easier on you because you’ll know where it comes from. It comes from your family.” He goes on to talk about how I show a lot in my eyebrows and how I do have a temper from him. At this point tears started to roll down my cheeks. I tried to cover them up by not looking at him as if he couldn’t see me if I didn’t. I guess I started to cry because I realized I am my father’s child. Things made sense.

It Healed and Scabbed

After the talk I had with my dad, I felt more whole than I had ever been. I felt like a child that went through the adoption process, looked for, and found her real parents.

By me talking to my dad that day, I had fallen and scraped my knee.

Like all soars, I am fine and have a mark on my heart that reminds me every now and then of the things I knew then and what I know now.

Blog 9: What went well, bad,or whatever you say about your first essay?

As me and the professor went over my paper for this first project, we discovered that it was great writing and very descriptive and fun. This by itself that I have written so far would be great just to read aloud describing my scar that I got when I was eight. But we had another idea.

I really wanted incorporate something from another journal entry we wrote in class. This one was about things that would be important to us if we had little time before we were going to die. I had ideas like:
-Travel outside of the country, juste relax and let time go
-write and publish something/ finish my book that I  am currently writing so that when I am gone my writing will still be here,legendary like Dickinson
-Speak spanish fluently and comfortably
-Spend time with my little sister, humble, loving
-Mom and boyfriend's mom
-Learn not to worry so much, anxious, anxiety
-Love/Romance if I've achieved not to be so anxious

The next question that was asked was how did I become this person, and it made me think hard, but not too hard. There weren't so much of events that made me this way, and that person is my father. It was kind of funny because he was with me in my childhood up until the age of 10, and then wasn't active in my life until the age of 20. I realized several things that are big about me that had to come from him.
-He'd be the one to say I love you
-He was a writer and a DJ and loved music
-He loves hard like a female would to people that are close to his heart

So I had a question of was this genetics or....?
Is it that the age 1-9 really impacted me?
What was it?

So now in my paper the beginning description will stay there as a metaphor to the inside and outside but the rest will be changed and be about me and my father's strange connection.

In the beginning I  will be talking about my cut and how there is something that separates the outside of the skin and what's underneath the skin; the membrane. It will be separated into three sections; what's on the surface, what's on the other side and how that all meshes together in the end and how I got my dad's traits. I can make metaphors about bones, the cut, and blood. Then I can make sense as to how it healed and now I know what's inside of my body/me --> my dad. What I knew then I what I know now.

Blog 7: More Brainstorming for Project 1

I've pretty much got everything I want to write together in my first essay. My approach is to write as if I am describing this to someone that cannot see. You have to write so that you are painting a picture. At first I thought that this was going to be one of my hardest classes, but now it's becoming easier now that I am grabbing the concept of what it means to write creative non-fiction.

I find that in this class i don;t write outlines for my essays. It seems easier to flow off of your memory and the exercises done in class and just let the thoughts come out onto my paper instead of making a format. This may not work for everyone else but it works pretty well for me.

I was going to try to incorporate my other cut that I got when I was in a car accident in the paper. But the paper seems to be doing well with just the one story. Although I could use a little more meat in the paper, it would just take a little more time to fill it all in.