SOGO Personal Narrative: Epiphany

Caitlin O’Pry

SOGO

12 December 2011

A Southern Epiphany

I grew up in the South, Plano, Texas to be exact. It’s a small city about 20 miles from Dallas. While growing up in Plano, there were certain norms I had to adhere to. Football is not a sport, it’s a lifestyle, barbeque is God’s handcrafted gift to the entire southern population, Sunday morning church isn’t optional, and country music is the only form of music known to mankind. A woman is to act like a lady, and if a man isn’t a gentleman, his mother is to be incriminated by the housewife police. These are just a few of the things I grew up thinking because it was what I was told.

When President Barrack Obama was elected and my entire town went into mourning, I took his corny campaign to heart. It was time for a change. I didn’t want to grow up and go to college just to sell my degree to the devil and marry someone I didn’t love because his family is in oil. I didn’t particularly give a rat’s ass what my future bank statements said, I wanted to be a cop since the time I was seven and learned what my father’s gun was. So I traded in my cowboy hat for head gear and my sun dresses for pair of boxing gloves. I began taking classes and suddenly found my true love. Soon after I was on an all boys team, sparring Mexican and Black boys, and getting bloody noses and black eyes on a regular basis.

My mother hated it and made me pay for every cent of it with my own cash. She to this day refuses to admit that her baby girl fights for sport. When I was late for dinner, it was because I was at the gym doing cardio, not boxing boys.

However the southern states have the reputation for being gossipers for a reason, people do talk. There are certain conversational topics that are taboo, like who’s mother got plastic surgery, who’s family is having marital issues or any issues for that matter, who gained ten pounds last semester, but my name was not on the taboo list.

“She must have some real anger issues that we never knew about; she’s hanging out with Mexicans,” or my personal favorite, “she’s becoming masculine.” I wanted to say no you dimwitted idiots, I just like to hit things because my mother won’t let me hit you. I don’t see color, I see people. And I most definitely am not losing my sexuality just because I play what you deem a “man’s sport.”

I had dreams of going pro and then becoming a cop when I retired, but unfortunately my doctors disagreed. I had suffered one too many concussions and was sentenced to a lifetime without contact sports. But that didn’t stop me from giving our town something to talk about when college decisions were announced. Annabelle was going to Oklahoma, Amanda was going to Alabama, Lizzie and John were off to Ole Miss, Kelly was going to Texas, and Katie was going to, where? Colorado Boulder. That’s right Plano, the school where the girls don’t have to wear make-up, the boys climb mountains, and everybody smokes the devils plant.

Texas will always be my home and I will always carry my southern values in my pocket. I will never engage in casual sex, flirt with a married man, or forget the rules of football, but I will never vote for the conservative party again.

SOGO Personal Narrative: Question

Don’t They Know it’s a Choice?

Why do girls in Colorado have eating disorders? Why do they broadcast them? Why do they think that’s the worst thing in the world? Don’t they know it’s a choice? Why do parents tell their kids what to believe? Why do parents teach their children about politics? Don’t they want them to think for themselves? Why do women let their husbands beat them? Why do they stay with him? Don’t they know it’s a choice? Why do kids do hard drugs? Why do they melt away their brains? Don’t they know it’s a choice? Why do girls think that they have such hard lives because they had a bad boyfriend? Why do they think the world owes them something? Don’t they know boyfriends are a choice? What happened to the idea of world peace? If the basis of all religions is morality then why have trillions of people been slaughtered in the name of “their God”? Isn’t killing a choice? If God is all powerful, all knowing, and all loving, then why does he allow these things to happen? Are people inherently evil? Are people inherently good? Does God give us this choice? Why are there Christmas movies but none on Ramadan? Why does the nation believe that the islamaphobia epidemic began on 9/11 when the Oklahoma City bombing was initially blamed on Muslims? Why do people protest a Muslim mosque in New York City when the Taliban never claimed to attack us on a religious vendetta? Don’t they know Muslims have a constitutional right to practice their religion of choice? Was it really the Taliban? If we live in a country of transparency then why was there no plane fragments recovered from the pentagon? If the state doesn’t have the right to kill, why have 27 innocent men been executed? Don’t they know it’s a choice? Why is Texas passing the handguns on college campuses law? Why are guns everywhere in Texas? Why do my friends have guns? Why is my best friend an armed guard? Don’t they know it’s a choice? Why do the French have the best healthcare in world, when the French Canadians don’t? Why does Obama think that sending troops to Libya to take down Kaddafi will make him different than George W.? Why does he insist on being different than him? Why are there child soldiers in Africa? Why does no one focus on the brainwashed white supremacist children in America? Don’t they know it’s their choice? Why do people fear other races? Why do the media portray Muslims as terrorists? Why is 85 percent of American prisons black? Why do people care if I date a mixed Korean? Why does my mom think business school will make me happy? Why does she think it will make me rich? Doesn’t she know it’s my choice? If everyone has good in them, then why was my friend kidnapped in India? Why did the Embassy do nothing to bring her home? Why didn’t she have a choice?

Personal Narrative #2

Tiara De Boer
February 22, 2011

Chrissy

The day that I got Chrissy as a gift, I was ecstatic. It was quite unexpected because one day my mom’s good friend Nancy called and asked if we would like to own a little lovebird. She wasn’t able to take care of the bird anymore and wanted to find a good home for him. My mom turns around and asks me whether I would be willing to take care of a pet in need of a new place to live. I was in seventh grade at the time. I yelled “of course!” at the top of my lungs because my brother and I hadn’t been allowed to own a pet besides a fish at that point in time. You probably already know how boring and uninteresting a fish is, so I’ll spare you the exciting details of owning one. This small creature was going to mine to play and cuddle with. My mother is allergic to cat fur and dislikes the smell of dogs so I was never able to experience a family pet I could hold. All of my friends had cute puppies and cats to pet; so whenever I went over to their houses I would ignore them and play with the dogs instead. I was told that the lovebird was going to arrive at our house at approximately 8pm that night. At that moment I started scrambling and looking around for a place to set up the cage. Also I was told I could name the little birdie whatever I wanted, therefore different names were running through my mind. I heard a knock at the door. Nancy had arrived.
When I first laid eyes on Chrissy, I instantly fell in love. He was small with green feathers covering his body and red feathers around the eyes. His sweet chirping instantly brought a smile to my face and all I wanted to do was hold him in my hands while rubbing my cheek against him. Nancy expressed her gratitude for taking the lovebird off her hands since she was working so many more hours at work and couldn’t watch over him anymore. At that moment I decided that the lovebird’s name would be Chrissy; there was no explanation why or where the name came from. It just was. For the next few weeks all I could think about at school was how much longer I had to be in class because I wanted to go home and play with Chrissy. My mom allowed me to let him fly around our living room and bedrooms to spread his wings since I didn’t like seeing him cooped up all day long. He would land on the paintings hanging against the wall and chew at the corners of the frame. My mom got so mad. I said that I would make sure it would never happen again; please just let him keep flying around. It never did stop, but I always found a way to distract the mother so she wouldn’t notice. I loved Chrissy so much, especially when it would sing songs on my finger. I was incredibly happy with life.
One year later my mom, brother, and I decided to go to the movies on a Sunday night. The film was some sort of comedy; however I don’t recall what the title was. We all walked in the front door of our house laughing and joking, relaxed from a pleasant day. I run over to Chrissy’s cage to hold him and let him fly around, but stopped dead in my tracks the moment I had a full view of it. Before me was the image of my lovebird on the floor of the cage, unmoving. His wings were fully spread and his tiny black eyes were glossed over, looking at nothing. I immediately dropped to my knees and tears started to silently fall down my face. My mom and brother quickly came over to witness what had caused me so much distress. “I’m so sorry,” my mom finally says. “I know how much you cared about him.” I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t look at anyone in the eyes. All I could do was stare at the horrid scene before me. Eventually, I tore my gaze away from Chrissy and just said out loud to no one in particular, “why?” We decided to wrap up the tiny little body in a handkerchief and wait until the next day to give him a proper burial. I slowly walked to my bed and laid down, still in shock. At that moment, all the memories of Chrissy flooded my head and there was nothing else I could think about. I started bawling and shaking uncontrollably. My mom rushed into my bedroom and held me, telling me everything was going to be okay. I didn’t comprehend what she was trying to say since all I could think about was Chrissy’s dead body on the cage floor. Eventually, I cried myself to sleep with eyes so swollen it was hard to see clearly. The next day, many of the kids in the neighborhood attended the little funeral I held for Chrissy. I buried him in a shallow dirt grave by the rose bushes out front, wishing I could’ve buried a corner of the picture frame he loved to chew on so much. I said my goodbyes while trying to hold back tears. It was one of the hardest things that I’ve ever had to do.
It took a couple weeks to finally get out of the haze I was engulfed in. My mother told me she didn’t think she wanted me to own another pet because of the way I attached myself to Chrissy. She believed that every time a pet died, I would break down and cry for days. Unknowing to me, my mom bought me a cockatiel one day that was beautiful to try to cheer me up. Yet, it would never replace Chrissy and my whole heart couldn’t love this new pet. To this day I think about my lovebird and every one of the great memories that we shared together.

Personal Narrative #1

Tiara De Boer
1/13/11

My Obsession

My obsession with Asian food is one of things that people notice fairly quickly when they start hanging out with me. It is the one cuisine that I crave constantly and I can have it for every meal for a month straight if I was challenged. I’m talking about Japanese, Vietnamese, Thai, Korean, and Chinese cuisines. My mom is Mexican and my dad is Dutch so I grew up eating homemade Mexican food every day. I love my mom’s cooking and love Mexican food in general, but if I was given the choice between Mexican and Asian food it would have to be Asian hands down. Since I am half Mexican, I was pretty much spoon-fed salsa ever since I was an infant learning how to walk. That is the reason why my tolerance for spicy food is very high and a lot of foods in the Asian cuisine use spices that satisfy my taste buds.
Back in California there is a Vietnamese restaurant that my dad, brother, and I use to go to every Monday night for dinner. The waiters barely speak English, so you know that the food is good, but they learned our names soon enough since we went so often. My Asian taste buds have rubbed off on a lot of my friends because I introduce them to only the tastiest Thai and Vietnamese restaurants in Boulder and Southern California. A lot of people, especially my family members, have stopped asking me what I feel like eating for dinner as they already know the answer. I’ve been asked many times whether I was part Chinese because of my small eyes and because of my obsession for Chinese and Japanese dishes. I can’t really understand it myself, but all I know is that I want and need Asian food constantly. Currently I’m studying Accounting at the Leeds School of Business and wish to own my very own business one day. It may very well be a high-end Japanese restaurant. We will see.

Taylor Prentice
SOGO- Personal Narrative
2/21/11
Frances Charteris
Lost?
People lose things everyday: money, homework, backpacks, and everything in-between. These things seem to be very important at the time a person loses these items and can really piss the person off, but all these things can be replaced. Not until you lose something so precious and rare do you realize the insignificance of material things and how little most things in life matter. In my case I lost the person who showed me the light when everything was dark. I lost something that many people spend their entire life’s trying to find. I lost the person I loved and with losing love I also lost a big portion of myself but also gained maturity and a sense of what is real and what really matters in life.
Her name is Jourdan Link, or what we used to say, my other half. We met on Myspace randomly and began to talk. We talked and talked for days, which turned, into weeks and then to months. It got to the point where we texted each other everyday for the majority of the day. She even told me once that we were like yin and yang and that we seemed to complete each other. This is when we decided it was time to meet so we went to see “Drillbit Taylor” and when I saw her I knew she was something special. Two days later I worked up the courage to ask her out to another movie, “Jumper”. I don’t remember the movie very much because I was working up the nerve to deploy my plan. At the end of the movie I told her I had a present for her, a temporary tattoo of a yin-yang where under the directions how to put it on I wrote, in crude handwriting, “will you go out with me”. Of course with how cheesy of an attempt it was, she began blushing several shades of pink and red looked me in the eyes and said, “Of course I will”. We continued to talk everyday, if I woke up first I would text her “Good morning I hope you have a great day, love you” and vise versa. We got to know each other to the point where we knew everything about each other; we knew each other better than our parents knew us. It even reached the point where I could sing “our song” and make her cry tears of joy. It was a perfect relationship for two and a half years; then I lost her.
It came close to our two and a half year anniversary when I began to lose my grasp on her. Who knows what it was that made her lose hope, maybe my restless mind, her still in high school, me in college, my childish mistakes, or maybe she just found something better. There is no way to guess the right answer, only that I was losing the battle. She saved me several times when I was lost and tried to leave her for both selfish and unselfish reasons. She always looked me in the eyes and said that she needed me by her side, but the look in her eyes was all that I needed; I could see the pure love and desire in her steel-gray-greenish eyes. She saved us but then our relationship began to get choppy and our personal lives were hectic as well. Then the tables flipped and she was the one telling me she was lost and needed change. I tried to convince her to stay and showed how much she meant to me but when I looked in her eyes they were cold and empty, I could see her mind was made up. I gave her birthday present to her, got a kiss and then never saw her again after that.
She told me that she couldn’t even be my friend and couldn’t even talk to me and I took this with a heavy heart and accepted it and decided to give her time. Two weeks went by when I found she was in another relationship with a varsity football player at her school, this was the moment my heart was ripped out of my chest and felt alone and lost. Soon after she became a waitress at Hooters and is currently living the high school dream. I lost not only the person I loved, I lost a part of me that I considered the better side of me. More time went by, each day seeming to take longer than the first and everything reminding me that I lost something very precious. Pain, despair, hopelessness, and loneliness are some of the many negative emotions felt after this hard break up until one day I realized it is a part in life that everyone will have to face at some point. I used my broken heart and all the pent up emotion to improve myself, both physically and mentally, and to mature in ways that only love can show you how. It has been about five months to this day when I experienced one of the hardest things, losing someone you love and having no control of the situation which made me lose myself. I would be lying if I said I am no longer lost, but the difference is I’m not depressed that I’m lost; I’m excited not knowing what’s next and continuing to move forward into the great unknown and my path will form step by step.

Taylor Prentice

4/7/11

Personal Narrative

It is believed that soon the Apocalypse will happen and completely wipe out the human race. This is supposedly predicted by many ancient civilizations from different parts of the world but the Mayan civilization is most commonly cited. It is said that the Mayan’s calendar ends in 2012 and many other clues lead people to believe the end of times will come in this year. There are also many other theories saying the world will end sometime in the 2000’s like the Nostradamus theory or Mother Shipton theory. Both Nostradamus and Mother Shipton were people claiming to see into the future, seeing the demise of mankind. Of course all of these are just myths and hypothetical predictions for the fate of our world. The thought that is accepted by most is that humans have the fate of the world in our hands and it is up to us to save it ourselves or destroy everything. The human race has continued to evolve and discover unbelievable technologies; this is what has given us power. Inevitably this power corrupted humans and got to the point where humans were killing each other over territory, religion, pride, and anything else imaginable. As humans have continuously waged war on each other the technology of war has improved to devastating levels. This was clearly shown in 1945 when America unleashed the power of nuclear weapons on Japan. Weapons have gotten to the point where they can completely devastate a nation in a single blow, but the crazy part is, most nations in the world have the technology to build these tools of destruction. So if the Apocalypse does come about it will most likely be brought upon ourselves in some type of epic, pointless war destroying most everything and everyone.

The point of all this being that for an average person like me there is no way to avoid or stop the Apocalypse. If the human race decides it is time for some outrageous war at least I was there at the end of all things. How I look at the situation is at least it will be exciting while it lasts and the thought that I may have been one of the last people to walk the Earth is honestly pretty remarkable. This of course is not saying that I will just sit there and wait to meet my demise. No, I will fight like everyone else and maybe be one of the few people left after some crazy event wipes out most of the population. This all of course will just be a spur of the moment thing driven mostly by human nature and the will to survive. No planning will be taken for the possible end of the world; I will continue to live how I see fit and if the Apocalypse happens then hopefully I get lucky and struggle through it. The intent of all this being to live a good life and to realize how precious life is while not worry about death even if it is the Apocalypse that kills me.

All the talk about the possible end of the world makes me want to live up life even more just because of the off chance that something could happen to kill everything off. If I’m going to be one of the last people alive then I may as well live life to it’s fullest and see as much of the world as I can, find all that I can to do in the world, and to meet as many people as I can along the way on the adventure of life. On the probable chance that the world won’t end any time soon, at least I lived like it was and took as much as I possibly could from my one shot at life. If I grow old I will have a lot of fascinating stories to tell my kids and grandkids. The talk of the Apocalypse being in my generation doesn’t scare me in the least, it actually does the opposite by making me excited to do as much as I can while I have the opportunity. The thought of the world ending really puts into perspective how lucky the human race is and how valuable life is so don’t waste it cause the world could be destroyed tomorrow.

Personal Narrative #3

Jane Frye

I am constantly at the receiving end of my siblings’ jokes, so I make sure to think about what I am going to say before I say it, or at least look it up on Google. When I am not careful, however, there is, without fail, a quick jab in response to my comment. Anna, Lucy, and Max, my three siblings, occasionally slip a dense comment, but no matter how hard I try no one joins in when I try to tease them. They say they only gang up on me because I am easy to make fun of, so most of the time I just try to ignore them because, according to them, my behavior invites their jokes. Many of their taunts stem from a statement I repeated over and over in angst one summer, “someone stole it!”

During New Bedford’s three-day regatta the confusion of lifejackets, sails, lines, soggy and burnt sailors consumed my mind, leaving no room for the little things, my iPod being one of them. Temper Trap, Pearl Jam, and Nicki Minaj were far from my mind. When the regatta was all over I decided to go on a run to clear my mind of my poor performance. I could not wait to sweat out my frustration to my “work out” playlists but my iPod was nowhere to be found. After searching for what seemed like hours I gave up and went on a run anyway. Without my iPod, I could hear every step and every breath, which quickly turned into a pattern that drove me crazy due to my already present aggravation. Before going to New Bedford I was in training for the up coming cross-country season. After losing my iPod, however, I rarely went on runs. Runs were once a time to relax but without music, they just made me angry and reminded me of my loss.

With only a month left until we had to pack our things and head back to Hamilton, I knew that if I did not find my iPod it would be gone forever. With as much patience as I could muster up, I searched for several days with no success. Next, I tried to retrace my steps. The last place I remember having my iPod was before heading out onto the water the last day of the regatta. There was so much going on during the three day regatta that I had no idea what I had done with it. Maybe I had left it in a boat? Maybe I had left it on the trailer? In the car? In the yacht club? I could not find it anywhere and I was positive it was not in my car or my house so the only logical explanation for its disappearance was that it was stolen. I left my iPod somewhere during the regatta and someone must have taken it. Someone, somewhere was listening to my music and my playlists. Even though I was furious, I accepted my loss and tried to move on. My family’s jokes, however, didn’t help.

The two hour drive back to Hamilton was miserable without my iPod. Having to deal with commercials, repeated songs, and songs I do not like made the usually painless drive, excruciating. Bitter, hot, and tired from the drive I tried to unload the car as quickly as possible. In my frazzled state I dropped one of my bags, its contents going everywhere. There was a sound, though, that didn’t sound like clothes hitting the ground. I assumed it was a piece of jewelry and so without thinking twice I half-heartedly put the clothes back in the bag. Picking up the last couple of shirts I heard the same sound. When I turned to see what it was I almost screamed with joy. There on the driveway was my iPod. I had no idea how it had gotten in my duffel bag with all my summer clothes but I did not need an explanation. Immediately, I ran inside, updated it, put on my running clothes and went on a run. Although I was not in as good of shape as I should have been in with preseason only days away, I did not care, I was just happy to be listening to my iPod again.

The next thing I needed to do was call my mom and tell her the great news. As soon as I told her she yelled to my siblings, in a sarcastic tone, “Guys! Jane found her stolen iPod!” I was too happy to be bothered by her teasing. But soon I was easily irritated because within the next five minutes I received texts from all of my siblings, even good friends from Chatham, with some sort of sassy remark. From that moment on whenever my family sees me looking for something or hears me saying I have lost something they say, “ Are you sure it is not stolen?”

Personal Narrative #1

Jane Frye

Chatham, Massachusetts had always been a big part of my mother’s family. Her parents and brothers would spent their summers there, while learning and teaching to sail at Stage Harbor Yacht Club. So when my parents got married and had all four of us, the plan was to also spend our summers on the Cape while learning and teaching to sail at Stage Harbor Yacht Club. But the plan changed when my parents got divorced. My mother wasn’t ready to take all four of us, all under the age of 10, to Chatham for an entire summer. As a result our summers were spent in our small hometown, spending our days at the local country club taking tennis, swimming, and golf lessons. Everyday was a new adventure, and so we had no reason to question how we spent our summer. My mother, on the other hand, did.

The spring of 6^th grade my mother sat my brother, sisters, and myself down and told us that this summer was going to be different. We would be spending our summer in Chatham, taking sailing lessons rather than tennis, swimming, and golf lessons. None of us were happy. From what we knew our summers were perfect and going to the Cape would be an uncomfortable change. However, my mother knew that living in Chatham with her parents and siblings and our cousins would be the best thing for our family. By June we still weren’t convinced, though it didn’t matter, because our suburban was packed up and we were on our way to Chatham.

The first two summers were a lot more fun than what we had anticipated them to be. Activities such as going on the boat and tubing, that we used to engage in only a few times a week, we did everyday. In addition, we were now able to do the activities that we had always wanted to do, whenever we wanted. It wasn’t always easy, most families, such as our cousins, had been spending their summers in Chatham for years so we didn’t have many friends and weren’t as good as they were at sailing. By the end of the summer our love for Chatham and sailing won us over and, consequently, we told our mother we wanted to do it again next summer.

From that summer on we continued to fall in love with Chatham. Today, it is a huge part of my life. When school gets out I hug my friends good bye for three months and head down to the Cape. As sad as it is to miss out and not see them for such a long time, I would never stay home. Chatham is an escape from real life. I spend my days out in the sun teaching children how to sail or just laying on the beach. I spend my nights with my friends who are from all over the world. The immediate sense of happiness I feel when I cross over the Cape Cod Canal is a feeling no other place provides.

Spending my summers on the Cape has shaped who I am and I plan to make it shape my children as well. There is no doubt in my mind that I will raise my children in Chatham over the summer. I want them to be able to meet all the people I have met through sailing. I want them to experience all the wonderful opportunities I was given by going to Chatham. And I want them to fall in love with the feeling of being on the Cape because there is nothing else like it.

Personal Narrative #3

Matt Ribarich

I can see the wind. Not by the way the tress blow, but in the thousands of snowflakes caught in its stream. The flakes mark the path and outlines of the elusive, previously invisible wind. Unknown made known. An expedient traveler, sweeping over entire regions, feeling everything, touching all, form-fitting it, then vacating. Gone, never looking back, an impersonal, soulless force. Or perhaps it has incredible depth of soul.

Cottonwood trees in the backyard, testament to 20+ years of persistence, rising into the air in proud defiance, like streaks of thick, black paint slashing through the vacuum of blankness. Boughs, budding with spring, but still naked, scratchy winter tress. The slash trunks fork into sections, begetting branches, then twigs, all making a haze of a tree. It becomes so thin that the tree dissolves into the sky, meshing into one, sharing their being. Branches, reaching upwards, always clawing for sky and sun, are sagged, drooping in the middle. Shaking as if from cold.

The white-out sky allows me the vision of only close trees, a copper wind sculpture, a tree house, a young tree, green, its reanimation interrupted by snow. Evergreen trees, fringed with powder, dark forest green. Blowing in the wind, like a woman dressed in rags, hair everywhere, clutching her collar to keep the cold out. Everything swaying to the will of the wind, trying to retain equilibrium, a constant power struggle.

The white-out sky is a canvas, where only what I see is real. Anything beyond the white has passed away from my sight, away from memory. Away from existence. Anything beyond the white is of no concern to me. There is no life beyond the white, just sleepy, silent nothingness. Uninhabited. Dark mountains at twilight, in a deep snow, haunting moaning wind.

I laid awake far into the mourning hours,

transfixed at the scene outside and above my bedroom window.

A crunchy, uniform coating of nieve. Nevada.

Falling like atomic ash, falling eerily, silently, as if the entire world had been put on mute. The silence of deafness. Oppressive, snow globe silence. Powder, glittering like shards of hardened lightning.
And this entire scene was illuminated by an amber-marmalade light.

Sepia, like a photograph bleached with sunlight. This stale, dingy light is the light from this stagnant city reflected off the cloudy sky, back upon itself and through spaced by the snaggle-thoothed edges of the snowflakes.

Snow. Is. . . . . Inexpressible.

For hours into the nocturnal cycle I gazed into the acrid tangerine light of the falling snow. And it gazed into me.

The next night I eagerly clambered into the same bed but the light wasn't there. Only chalky, cold darkness.

I take out an old Bible and open it. Though I don't believe, I find it interesting to read. Bibliomancy:

Will I soon be gone?

You made my life short, so brief that the time means nothing to you.

Human life is but a breath,

and it disappears like a shadow.

Our struggles are senseless:

we store up more and more,

without ever knowing who will get it all.

Personal Narrative #2

Matt Ribarich, "Overton."

On the highway exit ramp, the sign to the left was small. Hardly noticeable. I actually hadn't ever noticed it until my friend recited it one day as we were driving, “To Overton Road,” she said simply and coolly. With an arrow underneath the text pointing to to the left. The square green sign stood meekly on the side of the highway exit, the exit I took to reach my neighborhood. If you kept driving down the main street, its name changed from Jerry Murphy—a local WWII hero—to Overton Road. Overton Road had farms and ranches along the first part of it, eventually losing its pavement to dirt road, rolled out endlessly into the prairie. Most of my peers went down Overton a few miles to scare themselves, drink or smoke weed.

My junior year I liked to be alone most of the time, so driving down Overton on school nights or uneventful weekends became my habit. I’d bring weed too, and stargaze, try my hand at poetry, scrawl long ramblings, just sit and think, or listen to music. I could drive endlessly on the road, far past the “Pavement Ends” sign, past the watermelon-shaped house (painted to look like one, red with green rind, in the summer they painted black seeds on it) that marked the end of settlement along the road. After this, the road became empty, a desolate dirt county road to the next city, about an hour away. I’d drive miles until the terrain became hilly, where no city lights were visible, where the only sounds were of rabbits in the dry grass and distant train horns.

The washboarding in the dirt road vibrated the car relaxingly, and most of the time I was stoned. I would play music, always had music, and sort of get lost in the drive, the sounds, the endless road. I was driving but stationary, the scenery always stayed the same. I'd drive, and, feeling satisfied with my distance, park on the shoulder. Depending on the season I’d stay in the warm car or get onto the still-warm hood, and be completely pacified and mystified by the night sky. It looked absolutely wet, ready to perspire cold drops, and sharp, so sharply clear and real. Reminiscent of a dome, a glass paperweight ceiling above my head. This is the same night sky the Egyptians saw. Or Roman citizens, prospectors, serfs, Lao-Tzu, hunter-gatherers, everyone that has ever existed. Except in more clarity; the light bulb has killed the night sky. They saw more stars, the Milky Way. Same basic thing though.

I love the stillness. I love the silence. I love the openness of the prairie, so barren and unexplored. From an outside perspective it seems simple, flat and boring. Once you hike around, get inside it, the impression is much different. Cactus everywhere, both pad-like prickly pear and contorted, upright walking-stick. Rabbits leap from dry bushes, arroyos cut giant gashes in the land, making mazes of small canyons that provide refuge for owls, hawks, foxes, and coyotes. Mazes for me to explore. In the spring the cactuses bloom brilliant magenta, pink and yellow, and the grass is all a rare green. Tiny purple and yellow flowers bloom close to the ground, creating wide splashes on the tope land.

The road was escape, was much-needed isolation. It was as far as I could get away from my life in a night before I had to head back and do homework. Or something equally menial. As far as I could get away from society before having to return to it, slave to regulations and expectations and judgment and its inescapable structure. Being alone was self-imposed. Being alone in the city just gave me a creeping sense of loneliness. On Overton, though, it didn't feel wrong to be alone. I didn't feel like I had to share my experiences with anyone save my blank paper. Or not even the paper; some things couldn't be written down.

As I was driving one December night, road still paved, houses around, I heard and saw a cat get hit by a car. Actually the only things I perceived were a great hiss and a thud; I wouldn't deduce what happened until later. I kept driving far into the prairie. Far down the dirt road there was a copse of trees which caught my attention. They looked like contorted hands, stretching for the sky, like zombie hands breaking through the soil and reaching above. Bare of leaves, their sharp angles and complicated growth fascinated me. The alien loneliness of these trees in the usually flat and grassy prairie gave rise to many feelings about life. Bunches of atoms arranged into a living thing, important to nothing, unobserved really, unremembered, mortal. Struggling for life without having a reason to. I felt related to them, they were my brothers.

I turned the car around and headed back. I reached the paved road and not long after saw the cat. I turned the car to focus the headlights on its corpse, and stopped in the middle of the road. Illuminated by my yellow headlamps, I saw it dead, on its side, with a tire indention right through the middle. Arms up, trying to block the car, a look of horror frozen on its face. Horror, fear, resentment, wanting to escape. It was disgusting, sad and awakening. Perhaps it was because that was the first really “dead” thing I had seen that I felt so strangely. Its face affected me the most. Pathetically dying. One second living and the next is pain, then you're road kill, there for everyone to gawk at. Jeer at, gawk at. Gone. The cat told me much about death, and I felt camaraderie with it. We were bound for the same fate, had shared living together for a time, and I was present for its demise. The trees and cat spoke no words to me, even now it's difficult to convey the sense they exuded, but I realized on the drive home that they had made more sense to me than anything else had before.

Personal Narrative #1

Matt Ribarich, "Bridge/River."

A lot of high school evenings were spent under the Love Bridge. It's capitalized because that was its proper name to us; my friends and me. Its namesake doesn't have any sappy connection to my romantic life, rather, the bridge was named after the massive LOVE painted in red on the support pier, which stands underneath the bridge in the middle of the river. We used it as several things: a meeting spot, smoking spot, chilling spot, music spot, and decision-making spot. Most other people knew it as the Union Avenue bridge, which crosses the Arkansas River in my hometown of Pueblo, Colorado.

After a 1921 flood, the Arkansas was re-channeled and confined to a large, V-shaped concrete levee. The levee walls are painted continuously with murals and I find them really pleasant to look at. The paintings are colorful memorials, portraits, political statements, graffiti, geometric designs and more, and go on for about three miles. There wasn't really too much to do in Pueblo except go to parties, so when not doing that we would mostly hang around downtown where the river was.

If we wanted to smoke, we'd have to scale down the levee wall, check for others under the bridge, then proceed down. There was a flat ledge to sit on and overlook the river, city lights, murals, and graffiti on the bridge walls. Around sunset the bats would be coming out from their bridge lairs and would swoop pretty low, but never actually hit anyone. Regardless, “guests” we brought to the bridge would get paranoid with the bats around.

Going from the road to river lever required descending 109 (I counted) stairs that zigzagged down the levee face that always killed us on the walk back up. Down at water level there were several artificial peninsulas created to make rapids for kayaking. One peninsula in particular had large rapids at the end that made a sound like white-noise and beautifully swelled, swirled and foamed. Once I saw a dog, a chocolate lab, ride down the rapids, swim to the levee wall, walk upriver, and do it again several times. People would fish or bring surfboards and surf the river. We used to sit on our peninsula, talk, read, or wade in the water. We'd take our shoes, socks and pants off, not caring who saw, and slowly get in, feeling the icy temperature and slimy stones underfoot. It was easy to also do nothing, lie back and enjoy the sounds, the sun, the paintings, the water. The site is rife with past conversations, angst, and problems that have all since resolved and seem rather insignificant. The amount of time spent and memories formed at the Love Bridge bond it and I.

Personal Narrative 2

Emily Kempf

Writing

Personal Essay

Scared

High School is said to be a journey on which teenagers experience many things that prepare them for the future. Reflecting back on who I was freshman year, my years in high school were the most significant years of my life as I matured and grew. I have not only grown as a person and learned about my self and others, but I also learned how to handle myself in situations of emotional strain.

Going into high school, at 14, I was the classic stubborn, irrational teenager who had always been vigorously independent, wishing to be older then I was. I did everything I could to make my parents treat me like I was older, including dating a 16 year old they absolutely despised. Being impulsive, irresponsible, and defiant, along with having a boyfriend two years older then me, made for constant war at home. This boy and our relationship made my high school experience nothing like I had pictured it. At 14 I did not believe my actions ever deserved to be met with consequence. I saw my boyfriend as “cool” because he was older and I wanted to be like him. He was impulsive as well, and we stumbled into all kinds of mischief together. Sophomore year we continued to grow extremely close as my parents accepted the fact that our relationship was much more then just a fling.

Although things were much better at home, fall of my junior year, this guy who I had so strongly cared about disappeared. Physically he was there, the same he had always looked; but inside he had lost himself, in a deep addiction to heroin. I was only 16 at the time; he was 18 so there was not much that I could do to make him stop. I ended up contacting his mom, and constantly monitoring where he was at all times, trying to prevent him from making the journey to Revere for drugs. What had once been the strongest most supportive relationship in my life quickly turned destructive. He sank further and further into the addiction dragging me down with him in my desperate attempt to save him. I couldn’t find support anywhere because I couldn’t tell my parents, they would never let me see him again and I needed to help him get better. While I was trying to save my boyfriend’s life, while keeping his addiction a secret from my parents, battle self-insecurities such as an eating disorder I developed, losing friends, and trying to keep my grades up; I ended up completely losing myself. Everyone kept telling me it wasn’t my fault or responsibility, but for some reason I just wouldn’t believe it. No one could understand how much I cared about this kid while I watched him destroying himself.

At this point I was receiving no support and realized I needed to seek it out, otherwise I would never let go. A combination of self reflection and being able to express my emotions nurtured my ability to move on. I became able to separate myself emotionally from the relationship and take in what was happening in reality. I knew that he wasn’t the same boy I had fallen in love with, but he looked like the same kid so I kept hoping maybe that boy would come back. The realization that he would never be that kid again, and would battle addiction for the rest of his life was a hard one to make but I reached it.

Finally, after two previous stints in detoxification and relapsing uncountable times, he decided to check into a rehab center for three weeks in New Hampshire. In our entire relationship we had never been apart for more then two weeks, so I presumed it would be difficult. The time away from each other helped me take a step out of what our bond had become and see what had been going on. The reason I was able to grasp it then and not before, was I knew he was finally being looked after by people whom were more suitable than I was to help him. I recognized I needed to take care of me, and that any relationship that compromised my well being was not worth it. The process of understanding that I could not do anything more for him, emotionally took a toll on me, but in the end I came to find that I was better off taking care of myself. I came to this conclusion after expressing my emotions in every productive way I could find. This included writing songs, spending hours reflecting on my self and situation with my close friends, as well as talking to my counselor when I felt overwhelmed.

My experience has shaped me by giving me an idea of what I want to do in the future. It’s made me realize my real passion for other people’s well being, even if I don’t know them well. I am currently majoring in psychology due to my immense curiosity about human development and behavior. I wasn’t the easiest kid when I was younger so I have a way of getting through to people that others can’t figure out. I’ve always loved giving advice to my friends when they get in arguments with a parent, friend, or boyfriend. I aspire to play a part in someone’s life that helps people when no one else can, much like my counselor did for me. This entire experience has uncovered a much more sensitive, aware, and empathetic side to me, which has made me a more content person over all.

Personal Naritive 1

Emily Kempf

Personal Narative

1/12/2011

Starting in sixth grade I developed a passion for writing all kinds of music. My best friend and I shared a dream of becoming famous and getting a record deal which was pretty unrealistic for our age and experience singing. None the less, we continued writing our own songs with the help of a voice teacher until freshman year. By then we had over 200 songs written and recorded on mp3 devices. We also had started in a studio recording our first CD. Unfortunately this is also where we became full blown bratty teenagers and were constantly fighting with our parents so the “duet” fell apart.

Being a freshman in high school also exposed me to many new experiences, heart breaks, and hazardous behavior. By pouring my feelings out in words on paper was like therapy to me. I felt like I could communicate how I was feeling perfectly to people who would read or hear my lyrics. As I learned how to expand my writing skills my songs continued to get better and better because I was experiencing new emotions such as breaking up with my first boyfriend, or fighting with my parents. I continued to write music through high school which helped me immensely when I dealt with an abusive relationship with a boyfriend. Writing music helped me sort out all the confusion I was experiencing. When ever I feel an intense passion or emotion towards something I usually grab a pen and start scribbling down lyrics. Even today going back and reading the songs that I wrote at that time bring back intense emotions because they really captured the pain or feeling that I was going through. The lyrics that I consider my best work are the ones with true feeling put into them, unlike what is typically on the radio now. Writing down my emotions makes it easier to express my self in a calmer and more logical sense. Writing means a lot to me and I have found that I am much more of a creative and personal writer then analytical. Lyrical writing helped me discover who I am today and the emotions that made me the way I am.

Personal Narative Essay's

Ben Goldfarb

WRTG 1150

Assignment 3#

Since I have been four years old my family and I have been involved in a program allowing us to train Labrador Retrievers. Throughout the years, we have owned and trained many dogs, most of which were later sent to help service families struggling with disabilities. Every dog has a different personality and needs a different influential figure. As I am the youngest of my brothers I have always sort of been in the shadow of Josh, Andrew and my devoted parents, when it came to raising the dogs. Gracie was different…

After graduating high school I decided to train a dog of my own. I started to drop into various breeders, however, I could not decide on the right dog. Finally I stumbled upon a great establishment in Ridgefield, Connecticut. When I first walked in with my brothers, I met the parents of the litter. The mother was 110 pounds and the father weighing in at 100; two dogs, magnificent in stature. Around the corner were six puppies, most of them on track to be as large as their parents. After spending more than an hour playing, two out of the six caught my eye. Giving both of them temporary names, one Silver Streak because it had streak down its stomach, and the other was Wishbone because it had birthmark that looked like a Wishbone. I went home that night talking to my family about the two dogs, trying to get their feedback. Both of my brothers were leaning towards Silver Streak but I felt a connection with Wishbone. They kept telling me that silver streak was a more defined dog, with larger paws, giving it the potential to be a bigger dog. Not to mention it did not help that my mother kept mentioning Wishbone is the runt of the litter.

After work I decided to go back and take another look at the two dogs. As I was looking at both of them I was thinking about what my family had said about Wishbone being the runt, small, and less likely to be accepted to a family. It was then that I started to feel connected to Wishbone, and finally decided to take her home. When I arrived home my family had been surprised by decision.

At the time I was working as a lifeguard and started to take her to work with me. She would just hangout with all the lifeguards of duty. After sometime Wishbone and this girl by the name of Gracie Hammerstein got really close. I love the name Gracie, and Gracie Hammerstein is one of the nicest girls I know. The combination of these factors made me decided to name the dog Gracie.

I have had Gracie for about two and a half years now and she has been an absolute angel. Around the house she captured my heart with her personality. As she grew older she demonstrated her intelligence through her curiosity, I knew she was on her way to being a great service dog. When we both moved to Colorado I was nervous how Gracie would react to the new setting, but she made the transition perfectly. All of my new friends and roommates had fallen in love with Gracie, she had eventually became a staple in our household She would behave wonderfully in class and around campus, always bringing a smile to a strangers face. Every morning she would help to wake me up, always eager to start the day. Throughout the year there were times in which I had deeply missed my home and family. But having Gracie living with me was like having a piece of home two thousand miles away in Colorado. She would often initiate conversation with new people, helping me to make friends. She truly helped me to establish my own niche at the University of Colorado’s community.

This passed week I received the ghastly news from my mother that the arrangements had been made for Gracie to move in and help service a new family. I froze when I heard the news, I couldn’t imagine going on without the constant support and love from Gracie. While I was devastated with the news, and overwhelmed with the arraignments of the trip; I knew it was the inevitable truth, I had always known one day I would have to give up Gracie. During the four-hour drive to Aspen I couldn’t help but to think these deep feelings of sadness and resentment about giving Gracie up were my own fault. I had grown emotionally attached to something I knew was only temporary. These erratic thoughts continued until I had arrived in Aspen and met the family she would be helping. It was a family struggling with an autistic young boy named Josh; Gracie will help to provide a physical and emotional anchor to Josh. She will accompany the child to school, where her calming presence will hopefully help him to participate better in school by minimizing the potential to emotional outbursts. Upon meeting the family Gracie instantly brought a smile to Josh. This helped me reach a sense of relief, I knew Gracie would love Josh just as she did I and help a new family overcome a disability.

I was proud of my training with Gracie; I had a connection with her as if she were my own daughter. I will always love Gracie, but I am confident to say she will be the last service dog I train.

Ben Goldfarb

Personal narrative

Throughout my life I have watch my two older brothers fail and succeed, helping me become the man I am today. Using a pass-fail attitude, I have tried to follow in the exact path in which they have taken before me. Andrew my eldest brother has graduated school and is now working harder than ever for my fathers company Goldfarb Properties. He is 25 years old living in Manhattan, having the time of his life. On the other hand, my brother Josh has graduated and now works as a lift operator on a mountain. When I compare and contrast the two I have find myself thinking that if they both went to the same university and have the same backgrounds, why such a different turn out. I ask myself is school really worth the time and money?

Looking at both of my brothers, I can confidently say that I have the best attributes of the two. Viewing Andrews’s success, I imagine myself in the city, making money, wearing a suit, and getting up for work at five every morning. Then looking at josh, which lives in a trailer, has no worries in the world, and skis everyday of the week. When I contrast both of these I find myself thriving to get a head start on my life. For the past 2 years now I believe I have been wasting my time and fathers money. I think of myself almost like a solider, give me an assignment and ill get it done better and faster than anyone else. This has always been the case for me, I am a hands on worker, and never have been able to use that mentality for school. I hope the attitude I have changes and I can find something I am interested within CU, in order to use my life techniques toward schooling.

Kelly Olnowich- Narrative Post #2

Kelly Olnowich

The Ascent of Mount Sanitas

Just down the street from my house, a serene cosmic world that has never experienced worry or hate, I can go there whenever I want, each time is a greater awakening than the last, my surroundings are so pure, so brilliant, everything is perfect during every second of existence, O how blessed I am to have the power of vision, to see all the world in such vivid color with my own two eyes, as I witness this life ever changing sunlight creates fields of shimmering gold, even the dull color of the dirt is amazing to me, the pines stand still, hanging out another day, such massive rock formations yet so quiet for their size, I can hear the critters waking up, rustling among the trees, off in the distance, some grazing in the grasses, I want to be friends with the beyond infinite, wide open sky that never ceases to exist as I make my ascent, how blessed again I am to have been granted the power to control my own body, up steep rugged mountains, step by step, I can feel each breath of crisp, wonderful air travel straight to my lungs after which I set free, swift off the main trail I hike my own path to my secret lookout spot, you can’t see me but I can see you from the rock I am perched on, it is happening now, a live performance for nobody in particular, the sun slowly rises from the horizon, pink, orange, yellow, purple colors swirl in the sky, so sudden an indescribable feeling rushes through me, time stands still, as I have come that much closer to the creator of this phenomenal world, everything and nothing will ever be enough, but thank you, for I am alive, I am here, on top of a mountain, here’s to you Petrarch.

Dreams and Reality-personal narrative 3

Pumping, beating, pulsating, thriving. Rhythmic sounds, predictable movements, steady flow in and out. The difference between life and death- a heartbeat. I’m staring at it; gloves partially bloody, hands slightly shaky, mind racing. The ten ounce organ moves regularly up and down as blood rushes from the Superior Vena Cava out to the lungs, back in through the Pulmonary veins and finally out of the Aorta to the body. In my eyes, the most vital organ is the heart; needed for oxygen, nutrients, and life.

Headband covering my hair, blue sterile cloak over my sky blue scrubs, scalpel in my right hand. I stand over the anonymous body contemplating how I will make the incision. As my hand descends towards the heart, I stop.

Adrenaline rush, stiff body, eyes wide open. Jolting upwards, breathing heavily, sigh of relief. I shake my head slowly, let out a deep breath, and realize I’m not a cardiac surgeon. Having sorted that out, my mind once again begins to rest.

Semi-bright lights, computer screens, and neurotransmitters surround me as I stand in the operating room. Scalp open, CSF visible, brain throbbing. The master operator of the whole body system lies in front of me-sending messages in the form of neuron synapses. The temporal, frontal, parietal, and occipital lobes work together with the cerebellum and spinal cord to transmit electrical signals to nerves throughout the body. The brain supplies function to the body. Scarily, its fate is in my hands. A tumor sets upon the frontal lobe and I am the ultimate decision maker on how to remove it. I examine the MRI images and suddenly I stop thinking.

Adrenaline rush, stiff body, eyes wide open. Constricted breathing, sweaty palms, head spinning. Abruptly I sit up and begin to digest what I just experienced. Last I can remember, I am not certified to be a neurosurgeon. Although the idea is intriguing, I am grateful the situation I was in was not real. This is not my dream.

As I fall back asleep I begin to dream about what I hope can one day be my reality.

Antibiotics, antivirals, various treatments. Researching, testing, analyzing. Creating a cure for allergies, HIV, and even cancer. Being involved in a pharmaceutical phenomenon. As my mind is enthralled at the endless possibilities, I do not awake in a panic. Instead, my heart and my brain work together, allowing me to dream, fueling my passion.

Long hours, tedious work, effective results. My mind wanders with the countless opportunities. Confident with the present, not intimidated by the future. This is my dream.

personal narrative 2

Sometimes I dream about my grandma's old house from when I was really little. If it weren't for that dream I probably wouldn't remember anything about her house. But I know that is what the dream is about because I've talked to my parents and brother and sister about it and from what I can describe from the dream it sounds like her house. The prevailing theme of the dream is that it's very dark. There was a lot of dark wood inside her house (what kind I don't know) and I think that the curtains may have been drawn frequently. The darkness pervades everything in my dream. As far as what it actually looks like I can only remember one place. I remember the stairwell and the surrounding area. The stairs and the bannister are made of that dark wood, and at the top of the stairs is the upstairs (which would make sense). I can see the upstairs immediately surrounding the stairs and there is a railing around all of it. I don't remember if the front door is in front of the stairs or not, but there are wooden floors and there is a small open space on the left of the staircase. One other thing that I can't place in the house anywhere is a rocking horse that we could ride. In my dream I can see the horse; not near the staircase, it's just there, and it's understood that it is in the house somewhere. This is another thing that I can verify was in the house because through talking with my family I learned that there was a horse that my brother loved to ride. I can understand why I have a hard time remembering this house because I was very young when my grandma lived there, I was around two, but I don't understand why I remember it at all because I don't remember anything from when I was that young. I don't even remember the house that I lived in at the time, and we lived there longer than my grandma lived at her house. But my family lived with my grandma before I was born so it was a pretty special place to all of them. So maybe I'm able to remember it because I realized that it was someplace special, and my grandma was a special person as well. But I realize that I was only two years old and most likely there was something about the house that I liked. One way or another, I think that for me to remember that house at all shows that there was something more to it than just another house. For that reason I welcome the dreams that I get occasionally of that house.

personal narrative 1

Where Did He Go?

Throughout most of high school I had two best friends. One of them (Jonathan) had been my best friend since kindergarten and remains my best friend to this day. The other one (Richard) I met in seventh grade and he joined our group of friends instantly. By the time we got to high school the three of us were together as much as possible, and to do anything without one of us was weird and wrong. We had a large group of friends, but that wasn’t really important as long as we could still see each other.

Fast forward to the second semester of our junior year; the three of us were in a class together for the first time ever. Early during the semester Richard stopped showing up to class and we wanted to find out what was going on, so we asked around to see if anyone had seen him and found out that he hadn’t been going to any classes. Not only that, but we couldn’t get ahold of him; he had always been bad with his cell phone anyway. Then one day at lunch we saw him, more than a month since the last time that we talked to him. We asked him how he had been and what he had been doing; he responded with something to the effect of, “You know, I’ve been around, just doing stuff.” He was always very private, and often what he told us was voluntary, not through our persuasion; nonetheless, we asked some more questions without gaining any ground before we decided to stop. He attended class with a little more frequency for the rest of the semester, and we slowly started to hear stories about what he was doing during his time off. He had gotten involved with marijuana and alcohol, which consumed his life for a short period of time, and became a way for him to escape his parents. He hasn’t since become as dependent on alcohol as he was, and he quit smoking marijuana, but our relationship never quite returned to normal. We still hung out occasionally through our senior year and once or twice over the summer, but we grew apart very quickly. I once could say that he was one of two best friends in every way, and now our relationship is more like an acquaintance. Other than my best friend now (and then) I have never been closer to anyone in my life; it is a loss in my life that I never would have wanted.