Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Multigenre Responses
To state it bluntly, this essay was really good. I think all of the excerpts were chosen wisely and the whole thing was well put together. It was a very emotional reading, and it made me feel so bad for Melinda, her brother, and her mom. I am not a religious person, but I really enjoyed the pieces from the Bible that Melinda put into her essay; the story of Moses’s sister, Miriam, fit well with the story of Melinda’s mother. There is a short description from Melinda’s English teacher at the beginning of the essay which discusses the struggle that she faced in writing it, and I can now see why she had such a hard time. Her topic was extremely personal, and it was very brave of her to share it in such an artistic way.
Cosmetic Clips:
This essay was also very good. It was extremely depressing, but not in a sad way that “Miriam’s Song” was—it was just plain, old depressing. It made me feel bad for the writer who obviously hated her job. She was a busy, over-worked, tired, unsatisfied mother who wanted more out of life than selling hundreds of dollars worth of makeup and perfume to customers. Although it doesn’t express it in the actual essay, I am glad that the writer finally got out of that job and found something more worthwhile.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Smoky Mountain Memories
I decided to publish my memoir to my blog for several different reasons. First of all, I was very proud of the outcome. I think that this story is well-written and I'm surprised with how it turned out. Also, it wasn't too personal of a story. I'm sure some people wrote their memoirs about very personal happenings that they probably don't want other people to read, but this wasn't too intimate. Also, even if it were, I doubt many people would read it.
Smoky Mountain Memories
Mine was never the type of family that “vacationed.” When I was younger, kids at school would always relay tales of annual trips to Disney World or week-long stays at the family cabin by the lake, and I would remain silent with averted eyes. When I got a little bit older, I would veil my jealousy as I listened to stories of tropical cruises to the Bahamas or flights west to California, and again I would hold my tongue, keeping to myself nothing more than another uneventful summer at home in Indiana.
Consequently, you can imagine my surprise when my parents informed their children that we would be taking an actual—legitimate—vacation the upcoming summer. The topic was brought up casually one day over breakfast.
My older sister Sara, my younger brother Andrew, and I devoured bowls of sugary cereal one early Saturday morning as our parents studied several, uninteresting-looking pamphlets. They sat in silence—the only alternative to their constant bickering.
“How would you like to go to Dollywood?” my father asked out of the blue.
I immediately dropped my spoon and some milk splashed out of the bowl. Suddenly, the pamphlets seemed interesting. “Hollywood?” we sputtered dissonantly.
My father laughed, amused at our impending disappointment. “No,” he said. “Dollywood. It’s an amusement park in Tennessee.”
First I thought, Why would someone name a theme park Dollywood? Weren’t they aware of the confusion it would cause? Then I thought, And why would they put it in Tennessee? Weren’t they aware that Tennessee sucks?
My father slid one of the pamphlets across the table and my siblings and I poured over it eagerly. Across the top in bright red letters was the word Dollywood, and under this heading was the picture of a woman—one of the most frightening women I had ever seen: a messy mop of golden-white curls vaguely framed a sunken face. Her sallow skin counterbalanced the mass of makeup applied to her squinty eyes and globular lips. A narrow waist concluded a stretch of leopard-print spandex pants, and a blindingly pink, tight jacket arduously confined two watermelon-sized breasts. She had her hands tactically placed just so on her hips, and she gave the impression of someone who would lure unsuspecting children into her candy cottage where she would then suck out their fat with a syringe and inject it into the creases around her mouth. I could easily picture her bewitching rats and snakes and casting them down upon her defenseless prey.
“Who is that?” I asked. I looked away before the disturbing image could be permanently burned onto my retinas.
“That’s Dolly Parton,” my dad said.
Yet another thought entered my mind. Who the hell is Dolly Parton, and why hasn’t she sued her plastic surgeon?
Our father was well aware of our ignorance regarding this Parton character. “Dolly Parton is a popular country singer,” he began. That’s why I’d never heard of her. “She was born in a small town in Tennessee called Pigeon Forge. After she grew up and became famous, the people of her hometown named a park in her honor.”
“So, we’re going there?” Andrew asked, ignoring the bowl of cereal before him.
“That’s what we’re planning,” my mother said absently, still scanning various glossy brochures.
I peered once again at the hideous, Aryan she-wolf on the pamphlet. Whichever way I moved, her piercing eyes followed. “Will she be there?” I asked hesitantly.
“Probably not,” my dad said. “She’s a busy woman, and I don’t think she can make too many visits.”
I exhaled a sigh of relief.
A few months later, the aforementioned persons loaded into my mom’s Dodge Caravan and began the eight-hour trek to Pigeon Forge. We were accompanied by my mom’s folks—a legally deaf and nearly blind man whose only means of communication were indistinct gestures and grunts, and his competent wife, a woman who despite her comfortable stipend insisted on giving out five-dollar bills with generic birthday cards.
Our journey could be described as anything but exciting. The highlights of the voyage were the periodic ventures into filthy truck stops where we would stretch our legs, take a leak, and get a soda from a vending machine. During the hours on the road, we entertained ourselves with games such as Count-the-Road-Kill or Try-to-Get Grandma-to-Speak-Ebonics.
We finally arrived in Pigeon Forge on the Great Smoky Mountains Parkway—the equivalent to Las Vegas’s Strip. Both streets are unremittingly packed with honking traffic and countless attractions on either side, but they each have a unique sense of decadence and utter trashiness. While The Strip is knee-deep in garbage and cluttered by casinos, the GSM Parkway is surrounded by such atrocities as “As Seen on TV” shops and comedy clubs in the form of unsightly, red barns, adorned to the last inch with false silos and white-washed fences outlining the parking lot.
We were staying at an inexpensive cabin resort away from the main road. It was a single, winding avenue dotted with log houses upon rolling lawns. A large pool—which we later discovered was the final resting place of an army of pillbugs—was strategically placed in the center of the complex, only a short walk’s distance from our own lodge.
I try to refrain from referring to these domiciles as “cabins” because they were far from that. Sure, they were made of sturdy wood and had bulky, stone fireplaces, but it was all for show. The contractors basically took a very nice hotel suite and disguised it as a pastoral cottage to increase its desired charm and salability.
Standard with each ersatz cabin was lavish décor, a Jacuzzi bath, and a four-seat hot tub on the back deck that overlooked a small patch of forest. When we first stepped foot inside the place, my brother and sister and I immediately began claiming rooms—but we were then directed by our fastidious mother to a king-size bed that we would share.
The week continued.
Although we were staying in Pigeon Forge, we found much interest in the bordering city, Gatlinburg. Gatlinburg is one of those places you know you should detest due to its blatant commercialization and pseudo-quaintness, but you just can’t help loving it. Prior to its unearthing by conglomerate business, it was probably one of the most affable towns in the United States—with poorly-paved roads coursing throughout a pine forest, drifting travelers among authentic log cabins and corner groceries—but it is no longer.
Today, Gatlinburg is a network of busy streets winding chaotically amid a repetitive clutch of shops, all selling the same overpriced novelty collectibles and airbrushed T-shirts. Several restaurants can be found boasting twelve-dollar hamburgers and nervous, German waitresses. Simple pleasures such as miniature golf, haunted houses, and attractive museums are scattered throughout, and all of this is nestled comfortably within one of the southern-most basins of the Appalachian Mountains. Its lofty, emerald peaks jut upward from every horizon, giving visitors the ambivalent experience of being both at the heart of a metropolis and in the middle of nowhere simultaneously. Its Southern allure and hospitable charm is what goads vacationers so willingly there, but the vital modernity and familiar advertising make them feel at home. It’s so very American.
We spent our days traveling from Pigeon Forge to Gatlinburg, back and forth like the life cycle of a salmon. By the fifth day, I was prepared to get into Dollywood and sadistically heave up a partially-digested corndog on some twisting vortex of terror.
“What do you mean there’s only one rollercoaster?” I asked my brother as he examined a park map. I snatched the paper from his hands and scrutinized every corner. In the north-east section of the park—“Craftsman’s Valley”—there was an illustration of a colossal wooden track, the Tennessee Tornado. Every other area seemed to be occupied with inferior carnival rides—child’s play.
“I’m not riding that,” Sara brusquely informed me as we approached the lone rollercoaster later in the afternoon.
“Me neither,” said Andrew.
I looked at my parents. Due to the exhausting day, neither of them was in a state to attempt such a feat, and my grandparents were completely out of the question.
“I don’t want to ride it alone,” I huffed in aggravation.
The line for the ride trailed through a structure that had been made to look like a giant shed straight from a horror movie, with missing boards, mysterious claw marks, and the words, Enter Here if You Dare written in fake blood—something to instill fear into prospective victims. We had been lingering around the entrance for a few minutes when my grandmother suddenly appeared with a tall, bearded man, clad in a tartan shirt and worn-out boots.
“Ryan,” she said very business-like. “This man has no one to ride with, either.”
Oh my God, I thought as I quickly re-clamped my jaw shut. My delirious grandmother has gone and found some lonely vagrant to accompany me.
The man looked down at me and smiled awkwardly. “Yeah,” he said with a southern drawl I didn’t trust for a second. “Ever’body in my group is too chicken to ride this with me. But if you’re up for it . . .”
“Umm, I guess,” I said hesitantly, wondering how effective Amber Alerts actually are.
Unfortunately, my parents didn’t protest and I halfheartedly followed the stranger through the zigzagging line inside the barn-like edifice. We conversed in short about where we were from and I learned that he had been born and raised in Indiana. Apparently, no one had told him that Tennessee was actually a step down.
As the line grew shorter and shorter, he would repeat, “Are you ready? Are you excited?” to which I would noncommittally reply, “I guess.”
The ride itself went in a windy flash. I remember not screaming, but I also remember not seeing much. It was the first roller coaster I had ever been on that involved a loop—this one had three—and I decided it best to keep my eyes closed and my mouth shut. The entire twenty-second duration of the ride was instead filled with the animated yelps and hollers from the hill-jack sitting beside me.
After the cart came to a stop and we stumbled dizzily down the exit ramp, the man yelled, “Take care of Indiana for me,” whatever the hell that meant, and then left to find his party.
“How was it?” they asked as I rejoined my family.
My internal organs had all switched places and my blood-flow had yet to regain normality. “Fast,” I said; it was all I could say.
The following summer, my parents decided that because we had enjoyed our last vacation so much, we would try it again. This time, however, we would be residing in Gatlinburg in a more genuine cabin and without the company of my grandparents.
We arrived at our cabin late at night. A thick wall of trees set the backdrop of the scene, casting foggy shadows upon the tiny structure. All the curtains in the place were drawn, and because we were so far away from the main portion of Gatlinburg, it was ominously quiet. I got goose bumps and shuddered.
“Come on,” my mom said, always in a hurry. “Get your things.”
We grabbed what we could in one trip and our father led the way down the cement steps to a small stoop. He unlocked the front door, stepped inside, and flicked on an overhead light.
In comparison to the “cabin” we had stayed in the previous year, this one was much more bona fide. From where we stood in the entryway, we could see an open living area equipped with a grand, stone fireplace. In the far corner was a kitchenette with a small table, and a staircase to the right of us extended up to a loft which included a mammoth-sized bed and a bathroom. Everything was very austere and dusty. The air was stagnant and the lights were dim.
“Home, sweet home,” my mom said as she walked past us to begin putting things away.
Because we had seen so much of downtown Gatlinburg the year before, we decided to spend more time exploring the surrounding Smoky Mountain National Park. A few hours into our first journey, we came across a place called Cades Cove. Cades Cove is one of the largest valleys in the Smoky Mountains. A single tour road circles around the perimeter and visitors can witness the natural splendor from the comfort of their air-conditioned vehicles. In this gorge, tourists often have their cameras at the ready for any sign of a bear—a very rare sight even in this part of the mountains. Also, a section of the Cove is dedicated to an historic settlement that once existed many years ago. Ancient log homes and old churches have been restored and protected, allowing people to get a feel of what it had been like a hundred years before.
When we arrived at Cades Cove, we followed the line of slow-moving cars while my parents argued over a map. A short time later, we parked in an opening beside a stream and a wooden shelter. We got out of the van and walked over to a large sign near the edge of the woods. The sign read, Abram’s Falls.
“Are we hiking?” Sara whined. She was three years older than me—just entering high school—and her teenage angst gave her the need to complain about anything and everything.
“It’ll be fun,” my dad said. He was not the slimmest of people, so this statement from him was a bit off-putting. “At the end of the trail is a waterfall. I think it would be something interesting to see.” He had purchased a camcorder before we left for vacation, and he had been doing nothing all week apart from videotaping trees and rocks and birds. It appeared he felt the need to add moving water to his collection.
“How far is it?” she asked.
I glanced back at the sign. Engraved in the wood and painted yellow was a jagged line that stretched upward. Beside this line was carved 1.5 mi.
“It’s one and a half miles,” I said. I had no objection to hiking a round-trip of three miles; I loved nature, and my youthful metabolism aided in fighting off fatigue and strain.
“Do you have a problem with that?” my mom asked. “Because if you do, you can stay here and bake in the car.” My mother was not one to tolerate bitching or complaining—especially from my sister—and she was always able to divert it by bitching and complaining. It was some motherly reverse-psychology practice that had an astoundingly high success rate.
After we all felt nice and moody, we began our hike.
To state it bluntly, it was hot. We had been hiking for nearly an hour, and my bony feet were oozing sweat inside my heavy, dirt-caked tennis shoes. Each step was like treading through a shoreline of mushy socks. My denim shorts and cotton T-shirt trapped in the heat like the grimy, glass walls of a greenhouse, and the few bare parts of my body radiated the heat struggling to escape. The one aspect keeping me from going completely insane was the beautiful, scenic surroundings of the forest.
The trees towered far higher than the ones back home, and it was all you could see in every direction: trees, followed by trees, surrounded by trees. I liked trees, thank God. The sun poured through a canopy of green and yellow, giving the dusty trail an almost sepia-tone, which only makes this memory more nostalgic.
I learned many things about myself that day. For starters, I learned about the wonders of my metabolism. I was like Seabiscuit on a strict regimen of crack and diet pills, only better. Also, I learned about my attention span, or lack thereof.
“Are we there yet?”
“No,” my sister replied in a tone I frankly could’ve done without.
Ten more minutes passed. “Are we there yet?”
“No.”
Five more minutes passed. “Are we there yet?”
“No.”
I stopped to tie my shoe. “Are we there yet?”
“RYAN, SHUT THE HELL UP.” This last statement came from every member of my family at least once sometime throughout the duration of the hike.
Every time we passed a returning group, we would ask them how far we had left to go, to which they would vaguely reply, “Eh, I’d say another twenty, thirty minutes.”
We knew we were growing nearer and nearer to the falls, and we all began impatiently waiting to hear the sought-after, distant sound of rushing water cascading onto a bed of rocks in a shallow pool.
“Listen,” one of us would say, raising our hands to stop the others. “Do you hear that?”
We would stop for a moment and listen intently.
Nothing.
“I swear I heard it.”
A while later down the trail, we had all adopted our own paces: my mom, brother, and sister were several yards ahead of me, and my dad was a few yards behind me, stopping occasionally to snap a few pictures of dirt clods or tree branches because the animals sure weren’t coming out to pose for him. I was so bored that, if given the opportunity, I would have probably read the dictionary, or even something by Charles Dickens. I tried to behave, I really did, but eventually myself got the best of me.
“Shhhh…” I began softly. “Listen, it’s the waterfall.”
“No, it’s not,” Sara said from up ahead.
“Shhhhhhhhhhh…” I continued. “Yeah, that’s it.”
“Shut up,” my miserable brother griped.
This simply provoked me to continue. I took a deep intake of breath. “SHHHHHHHHHHHH—”
“Will you just stop?” Sara screamed over me.
“—HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH—”
“No, really, I hear something,” Andrew yelled.
“—HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH—”
“RYAN!” my mother finally bellowed.
I immediately stopped, but the sound did not. A soft hissing noise continued nearby. “What is that?” I asked.
Just then, my mother let out a terrified squeal and jumped back, as did my brother and sister. They edged away from the side of the trail and Andrew pointed at something on the ground. My father and I quickly ran ahead.
“What’s the matter?” asked my dad, panting and wheezing like an asthmatic pug.
“It’s a rattlesnake,” Andrew said, still pointing toward the coiled-up creature on a pile of leaves, its maraca-like tail quivering wildly.
My dad bent down and examined the legless reptile from a precautious distance. “Oh, yeah,” he said knowingly. “Stay back. These guys are extremely poisonous.”
“Yeah?” my mother said angrily. “I almost stepped on it.”
I felt foolish. I had just played a prominent role in what could’ve been my mother’s death. “So, maybe you should just shut up for a while?” she suggested.
We continued with our hike in complete and utter silence. The entire time, I could not stop thinking about how unsettlingly coincidental the experience had been. How could a rattlesnake—the first form of wildlife we’d seen since the start of the trail—suddenly materialize, making the exact same sound I had been? Some omniscient being of unadulterated evil must’ve been at work.
Dolly Parton is behind this, I thought. I just know it.
Monday, August 31, 2009
"I Was a Baby Bulimic" Review
There were several differences between “I Was a Baby Bulimic” by Frank Bruni and the two memoir excerpts we read last week.
First of all, this memoir seemed much more personal. “An American Childhood” was a somewhat comical story about the author getting into trouble with some neighborhood boys. “Salvation” was about a young boy who chooses to lie about having a religious revelation. Although both stories have deep, personal aspects, I think Bruni’s tale is much more private. He talked about his weight problems throughout adolescents, and his struggles with bulimia both as a child and as a college student.
Another main difference was the detail. “I Was a Baby Bulimic” was much more lengthy than the other two excerpts, which gave Bruni more room to add details. After reading his narrative, the reader really got a sense of what he went through throughout his entire childhood.
Also, I think Bruni’s story has an important lesson that can be learned. The other two stories were more self-directed—reflections of events in their childhoods—but Bruni’s story is also a warning about the hazards and health risks of eating disorders.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Memoir Response
In my English class, we read some excerpts from two memoirs: “An American Childhood” by Annie Dillard, and “Salvation” by Langston Hughes.
PART 1
In “An American Childhood,” I most appreciated Dillard’s writing style. She took an event that honestly seemed uninteresting and gave it significance. I really got a sense of who she was just by reading a page and a half. Her writing was very vivid, and it was very easy for me to imagine the story happening as I read it.
Although I thought the writing of “Salvation” was a bit dry, I still enjoyed the story itself. At the end of the excerpt, I truly felt sorry for Hughes when he became saddened about lying in church and about losing his faith. I am not a religious person at all, but I could understand that this event in his life was a very big deal.
PART 2
These two excerpts were different on many levels. The most obvious difference was the writing style. I don’t want to judge these two writers without having read any of their other work, but solely based on these two passages, I would conclude that Dillard is the more talented writer. She was able to take a rather unimpressive story and liven it up, making it seem much more momentous than it probably was. Hughes’s narrative seemed to be a more crucial event in his childhood, yet I didn’t feel as connected to his story as I felt with Dillard’s.
Dillard and Hughes do have something in common, however, and that is the ability to take an occurrence and retell it in a very condensed form without removing any extremely vital details. Both of these reading were very short, and although I got an over-all different feeling from each, I still understood what I was meant to from both tales.
