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.

Personal Narrative 3

She is tall, skinny, and attractive. Her laugh lights up the room. Her radiating skin glows; captivating every eye in the room. Her kind heart causes everyone to melt at the sight of her selfless attitude. She gives up everything to make her friends happy. She is the best thing that has happened to this universe. This is her interpretation.

            She is average height and build, attractive too. She tends to put herself before others. When she steps into the room, all eyes had better make their way to her or the bitch in her is soon released. Her friends’ happiness is on her list of things to do, only a few spots under what she wants for herself. This is my interpretation.

“Does this bra make my boobs look bigger?”
“Not really, why?”
“Because I want to get laid tonight so I need them to look bigger. Go grab me a 36A.”

“But you wear a 36C.”

“If I get a smaller bra, my boobs are more noticeable.”

            Every day I see her I am asked if her boobs or butt look big. The correct answer is always yes, how could I ever think of saying anything different? She wears clothes too small for her so everything, excluding her stomach, looks bigger. According to her, that is what the guys want.

            We hang out at night and decide to sit around and talk and maybe have a glass of wine. “I’M SO WASTED!” she screams two sips into her white zinfandel. She did this because we were talking about my job, which did not include her. We let out a sigh and give into the game that she wants to play. “Wow...no more alcohol for you,” we would say to make it sound like we actually believe that she is wasted beyond belief. If we do not play along with her, her eyes fill up and we listen to a sob story about how awful her life is and she is completely alone and not one person in this world really cares about her. This carries on for an hour or so, until she is cut off from her “buddy” across the street that wanted to see if she was available for sex. She immediately sobers up and she is laughing and giggling as she changes into something slutty that she can wear across the street.

            That is Mary, my best friend. She is a very self-centered person who even admits that she gets everything she wants. When she asks if she looks fat in a dress, it takes all of my power to bite my tongue so I do not accidentally say, “YES! Mary you do look fat but that’s probably because you are a size nine, NOT ZERO!” Luckily I usually have more self-control than that.

            Now don’t get me wrong, I love this girl but sometimes I feel like someone just needs to slap some common sense and morals into her.

Personal Narrative 1

November 15^th, 2010, my life took a dramatic turn. I sat in a hospital room, holding my mom’s hand as I listened to my dad tell me that my mom had severe brain damage from the seizure she just had and she would never wake up again. I remember a wave of numbness wash over my body as I sat there, confused, helpless. I managed to gather myself to the point where I would be able to drive from Colorado Springs to Boulder, just hours after receiving this news. I leaned down, kissed her on the forehead and said my final goodbye.

The following day I received a phone call from my dad saying that she woke up. She couldn’t speak very much and her memory was gone for the most part, but she woke up. I was filled with hope and belief that she would continue to get better but I began to realize that that wouldn’t happen. She was diagnosed with stage 4 Lung Cancer, with several tumors on her brain, prior to her seizure. Her body was too weak to fight.

From that point on, I began living with fear. With every phone call or text message I received, I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, fearing that I would hear the undesired news of my mom passing away. This feeling still hasn’t changed. It is now early January and my life is still the same as it was back in November. Each day is a constant challenge, often filled with confusion and sadness. I struggle with staying in Boulder, attending classes and work every day. I wonder what will happen to me after my mom passes away. I wonder if I will be strong enough to lose my mom, best friend, and role model.

They say that things like this only make you stronger, yet I’ve felt nothing but weak since July, when my mom was diagnosed with cancer. Every few weeks I received more news about my mom’s condition and it only seemed to get worse. The beginning of this week was the worse news I’ve gotten in a while. January 11^th I received a message from my dad telling me that my mom is in her final stages. The nurse told him it may be a few hours or days but it will most likely be less than a week. Hearing this made caused my body to go numb once again. How is someone supposed to hear news like this and still continue to live their life just as they did before? It is difficult to continue my schooling and job in Boulder knowing that when I left my parents house a week ago, that was the last time I will ever see my mom.

So here I sit, and wait. I do my best to compose myself enough to sit through a class but it is much easier said than done. I put on a good face so no one can see my broken heart on the inside. I live to the best of my ability, hoping, praying, waiting

Sue Choi: Personal Narrative #2

Dad,

In high school, I remember being the only one among my friends who actually wanted to go to parent-teacher conferences. Most of my friends said they wouldn’t dare imagine the embarrassment of being with their mothers and fathers. They would avoid the awkward middle of merging family and school life. Ironically enough, those were the friends whose parents insisted on meeting their kids’ teachers. I was jealous of each and every one of them because those moms and dads wanted to be involved in their children’s life. It did not seem to matter if the teacher mentioned a trend of bad test scores, or noteworthy marks of improvement; they wanted to know.

“They’re a waste of time. Time is money. I’m busy, Sue.” You were too busy to hear what my teachers, who I saw more of than you during the week, had to say about me and my work? How could you tell me that I’m a waste of your time? Is money that much more important to you? Do you ever fully think about what you’re going say before you say it?

The only way I could get you to come to a meeting was to say that it was Mrs. Deal, who taught my Calculus class, who wished to meet you. She wasn’t going to be the only one you’d be acquainted with that evening. I was going to make the most of my efforts after finally succeeding in dragging you to school on a weeknight. Oh, and I had to say “Calculus” because you believe that math and science are the only respectable subjects learning, because “they’re the only subjects that will get people jobs. You’ll be living on the streets if you study something otherwise.”

For every single person I introduced to you that night, you showed the same, false interest in my work. After walking up to the teachers, you’d transform into a completely different person. It would begin with a handshake where you’d use your left hand supporting your right elbow, as you would in Korean customs. You would even bow just enough to slightly surprise and embarrassing them into lowering their own heads, too. Instead of doing it to showing respect, you lowered yours in a shameful manner, with your back hunched over, as if you were shameful of me. The tone and pitch of your voice sounded like those of a stranger’s, and your eyes squinted far more than usual as you stretched fake smiles on your face. “Thank you for teaching my daughter,” is what you always said. You didn’t say that in an appreciative tone; it was more like you felt sorry for all the people who helped my l me, as if I was some sort of difficult burden for them. You saw that I spent all of my time doing homework and studying. You know that I respect them and would never talk back. How could you think I could’ve ever been troublesome to these people that I greatly admire? Do you really not know me?

After my teacher showed you my grade report, you would look at it with unemotional expression. You’d then turn to teacher, and your teeth would show again. My teachers generally shared positive comments with you. The only questions you asked them concerned my flaws and my capability to improve. I didn’t notice their significance in the way you looked me until one of my closest teachers told you with assurance, “No. There isn’t anything she needs to improve on, Mr. Choi, nothing, nothing at all.” I know that it’s good to improve, but how much of a difference will one percent make if my grade is already at a 98%? If the grade wasn’t 100% in a class, it wasn’t good enough. It was never enough for you. You always found the most trivial flaws in my grade reports. Couldn’t you have just told me that you were proud of me for what I had already accomplished? If you were actually trying to be interested in my grades, could you have tried to give me a little praise and encouragement?

I brought you to the parent-teacher conferences to show that my grades were good, but more importantly, that I was good enough and that other people knew it. I needed someone to tell you that, but all the good things they had to say about me weren’t enough to move you that night.

-Suejeong

Angela Choe Personal Narrative Post #2

Grandma, do you remember when I was three? We shared a guest room together and at night, you would tuck me in and say goodnight. Sometimes, I would grind my teeth and you knew I was having a bad dream. You woke me up, gave me a hug, told me it was going to be okay. Then gently, you rubbed my back and I would doze off to sleep. I always fell asleep first and I always woke up last. But remember the one time I woke up before you? I was so excited; I leaped out of bed and startled you awake. That morning I helped you make breakfast. I was so proud.

Grandma, do you remember taking me to church? It was my first time and we had to take the bus. I thought we were going far away. I was afraid you were going to leave me. I cried the whole way there, but you made me feel better. You bought me the most perfectly glazed, warm, and soft doughnut I have ever had. I forgot all about being scared.

Do you remember taking me to school? Mom was away and Dad had to work. You would walk me to school and when I finished, you were always waiting outside. You carried my backpack and held my hand all the way home.

You couldn’t have forgotten about the red chili peppers, right? In the summers, you would lay out hundreds of them on the driveway. The spicy smell stung my eyes and hurt my nose. The neighborhood kids knew me as “the girl who lives in the chili pepper house.” I begged you to dry them in the backyard, but you just shook your head. I hated the summers.

Did you know there was one time when you embarrassed me? It was at my piano recital. The students participating sat in the first two rows. I sat in the first row right underneath a vent. I was wearing a light pink dress with spaghetti straps and I guess I looked cold, because during the middle of someone’s performance, you walked up and tired to drag me away. I refused. You pulled one arm as I held onto my chair with the other. I tried to explain to you that this was my assigned seat. You left in a huff. Everyone was staring, my cheeks turned red and my eyes swelled with tears.

Grandma, do you think you could catch me grasshoppers? You used to catch them for me in your garden. You taught me how to cup my hands and hold them gently. I squealed when they jumped. I really liked the tiny baby ones.

When do you want to eat persimmons again? I was forbidden to touch a knife, so you would always peel them for me. I had so much fun watching the peel get longer and longer, until it was barley dangling. I was so impressed that you were able to peel the skin all in one curly piece.

It’s been about a year since I’ve seen you now. I heard you’re not doing so well. Are you eating well? Sleeping well? I try calling you, but sometimes you don’t even know who I am. Last time I called, you barley recognized me. I was yelling through the phone, but you only heard me half the time. I asked, “How are you?” You replied, “I’ve eaten dinner.”

Everyday you get older, everyday you spend more time sleeping, everyday you remember less. Uncle Dixon has already bought your plot. Dad has recently bought a black suit and now, he’s shopping for shoes. Gomo (Aunt) is saving up money, making plans to move back to Korea. Everyone is preparing. It doesn’t seem real. I wish it were dream. Please wake me up. Please hug me and tell me it’s going to be okay. Please buy me a doughnut so I forget that I am afraid.

Sue Choi: Personal Narrative #1

Lie

Children’s hands either bobbed rapidly, pointing toward the ceiling, accompanied with screams of excitement or dropped limp along with their jaws in silence. Only two words could cause such opposing reactions- new seats. I belonged to the latter group of kids who dreaded changing spots. The thought of letting my clean and perfectly crisp folders enter a so-called “new” desk slot, soiled with both hardened and fresh, sticky gum frightened me. Standing in line with my peers, I waited to hear my name. As a fifth grader who was aware of the griminess of others her age, I made a mental list of the usual crevices that needed inspection for dark graphite build up and disintegrating crayon wrappers. My tense shoulders began to loosen once I could visualize a neat, effective organization of notebooks and writing utensils. Good spots- those that had perfect views of the blackboard, windows, and of course, the clock- slowly began to disappear. I noticed that my name had not yet been called, but I remained hopeful, distracting myself with new possible combinations.

I suddenly found myself standing next to only one other girl, Chelsea. Mrs. Kopp finally pulled my name from the hat and asked me which of the vacant chairs I preferred. Arrangements of pencils and notebooks no longer mattered- the only thing worse about new seats was the unpredictability of the students next to whom I would sit. Desk A was surrounded by friendly, talkative girls while Desk B hardly was in the most dreadful corner of the room. My teacher had already decided for the most mischievous and obnoxious boys to sit in that front cluster of desks. I feared sitting next to Chandler, the smart-aleck and Chase the pencil stealer. I especially did not want to be near Shane, the boy whose favorite phrase was “say something in Chinese.” No matter how many times I told him I was Korean, he did not or did not want to see Korea and China as separate countries that spoke very different languages.

Mrs. Kopp waited for my decision, looking at me with one eyebrow raised, lips slightly pursed. I had to make a choice, so I walked toward Desk A, pulled out the chair, and nearly sat down. I already knew the answer, but I asked quietly, “Would you like to sit here?” Chelsea jumped up with glee and asked if I was sure about my offer. I told her yes; then she took the chair. Mrs. Kopp pointed out my act of kindness to the class, giving me the smile of approval. In response, I said I was happy to give up my seat and that it felt good being kind. I lied. The true reason for giving up my seat was for Mrs. Kopp’s approval. Even though Chelsea hardly acknowledged me as a classmate, I could not bear to wreck my image. I did not want to be seen as a selfish, inconsiderate girl, especially since I had built up my reputation as being the little Korean who was always nice, and polite… quiet and obedient. Mrs. Kopp had high expectations for me, and I worried about what she would think. The fear of disappointing people drove me to please them.

I basked in my teacher’s praise for as long as her lips curved upwards- less than two seconds. I became quickly saddened to see her turn and announce our next assignment. I had just exchanged several weeks of bitter suffering for seconds of approval. I never imagined what little attention and credit she would give me. It was not fair; I did the right thing. Questions filled my head. Why doesn’t this feel better? How right was my good deed if it was for the wrong reason?

For most of my life now, I have repeated this mistake. Eight years later, I find myself in the same, new seat situation with every decision I make towards my future. I lie to my father, aunt, grandmother, brother and even my friends to fulfill their dream of me having a lucrative and so-called “respectable” career. I told them and myself that I want to be a doctor, just like they wanted me to be. Not once during my childhood do I recall having said my dream job was to be a physician. I cannot even remember when I chose that path of life. Consistently agreeing to things I did not want for the sake of momentary approval and satisfaction convinced my family and me of this illusion. I have denied my own wants for so long, I am not even sure what I want. I find myself as the biggest hypocrite when indulging in things I truly love like uplifting and provoking art, literature, and music.

I am tired of lying, but I am afraid to tell the truth. The betrayal would be too much for them to handle, though I am aware that I am contributing to my own heartache by keeping this secret. The longer I wait, the deeper the betrayal and suffering I will cause for everyone.

Angela Choe Personal Narrative Post #1

Heather. A Lebanese girl with short black curly hair whose favorite food is baklava. Her jeans come up to her ankles, revealing her tube socks, her outfits never match, her sweaters look like her grandmother knit them, and sometimes she wears a flower in her hair. She likes ponies, reads anime, and writes in her journal. She carries an enormous backpack filled with crinkled papers and tattered textbooks. She gets picked last in gym class; she never has a partner, she sits alone. She never gives anyone eye contact; she speaks slowly and stumbles on her words, she always has a runny nose. She is different; she is a loner.

Brianna. A chubby girl with broad shoulders and with hair that could almost be an Afro. A girl who likes wearing black and matches every outfit. Loud and obnoxious she walks with confidence. Her nose is big, her hips are wide, her shirts are tight, but even so, she is always picked first and she never sits alone. She always volunteers to present projects, she never raises her hand; instead she blurts out answers. She laughs infectiously, mouth wide open, bearing her teeth. She carries herself proudly; she is popular.

I’ve never talked to Heather or Brianna, they were simply in a few of my classes. Besides being classmates, they were strangers. Heather and Brianna weren’t friends either. They ignored each other, but when they did finally speak, they exposed the coward inside me.

Three minutes into passing period, students steam into the classroom. They find their seats and shuffle through their backpacks searching for their homework. As more students enter the room and as friends reunite, the room becomes chaotic. Since it’s the class right after lunch, energy radiates off everyone. Seated in the back corner, I watch as kids situate themselves. Soon, they begin to realize that the teacher is gone. Everyone ignores the warm-up problems on the overhead and continues with conversations. Unable to concentrate, I notice Heather wandering around the front of the classroom. I assume she’s searching for a box of tissues, since her nose is constantly running. Unsuccessful in finding one, she heads for the closet.

Suddenly, the back door opens. Silence spreads across the room, but realizing it’s not the teacher, the noise begins to crescendo. Patrick and his gang of friends file in. In his baggy shorts and oversized t-shirt, Patrick mischievously grins. He nods towards Heather, who is in the closet, and all his friends smirk. He casually strolls toward the closet and immediately; he slams the door and pushes a table in front of it, locking Heather in. His friends burst out laughing like hyenas and Patrick goes around, receiving high-fives.

Unable to comprehend the callous behavior, I freeze. Thoughts fly through my head. “Why did they do that? Are they going to let her out? Of course they’ll let her out! Why aren’t they letting her out? Did anyone else see what happened? Is someone going to help her? Why isn’t anyone helping her? Do I need to help her? But what if they laugh at me? What if they lock me in? What if they don’t let me out?” Struggling with my thoughts, imagining being captured in the closet, I just sit. Too scared, too worried, too selfish, I don’t do anything.

As I cower in the corner, battling against my morals, finally someone steps in. Brianna yanks the table away and opens the door. Heather stands in the closet weeping, her tears streaming down her face, and her nose runnier then ever. Too busy thinking about myself, I didn’t even consider how Heather was feeling. Brave Brianna gives Heather a hug and hands her a tissue. Courageously, she berates Patrick, firmly asking, “How could you do that to someone?”

Brianna continued to shame Patrick and the last thing she said, I will never forget, “Are you that cruel and heartless?” How cruel and heartless was I to sit there and do nothing? That day, I was a bystander and unlike Brianna, I didn’t have the audacity or the selflessness to help Heather. As I sat there debating with my conscience, not doing anything to help her, I basically agreed that nothing was wrong. Her tears were my fault because I hid in the corner, doing nothing.