Angela's Creative Nonfiction Blog

Reflective prompts

1. What are your plans as a writer (how do you expect to use writing in your future)?I want to continue writing and will try to publish some works on Kartika Review online. I also plan on compiling more of my writings in hopes of publish a book in the future.

As I writer, I plan on taking some courses overseas. I have an uncle who is a an author and professor in Ateneo University. I plan on taking some more creative writing courses there in hopes of publishing in the Philippines as an Filipno American writer.

2. Describe any changes in your writing style
I have tried a variety of techniques in this class. I am starting to write about experiences and in my writings I’m trying to reflect on what I know now as an adult. I’m not quite where I would like to be as a writer and do not have much experience writing creative nonfiction, so I guess my writing style has changed a little bit. In this class, I learned how to write based on my relationships with certain objects such as photographs and my walls. I never thorugh I’d write about these things in the past.

3. Describe any changes in your writing process
Writing thoughts in a journal is something I have never done before. Looking back at my journal I realized that most of my entries reflected on life and death. I think it is helpful to keep a journal in order to help me find a topic to write about in the future.

4. Describe any changes in your attitude toward/interest in/understanding of writing in general, and CNF in particular.

I’m still interested and I want to read some more creative nonfiction. I really enjoyed Kincaid and am interest in reading more of her works. I guess this course has opened up doors of curiosity. When the semester ends and I have time to read for pleasure, I will definitely look into more CNF pieces.

5. What have you learned about yourself as a writer?
As a writer, I learned that I have a strong relationship with my ideas about death, life and family. I also learned that I have a harder time writing when I’m under pressure. I feel if that I need much more time in order to revise some of my pieces because they are quite personal.

6. What features of your writing do you feel are most important for you to work on?
I would like to focus on my rhythm and my vocabulary and tone. I do like to write in prose but I also feel that I have too many “unnecessary details” in my writings. I guess I need more advice in cutting out the “crap” that will not interest anyone.

Posted in: on Wednesday, December 10, 2008 at at 11:24 AM 0 comments  

Angela Castillo
Creative Non Fiction
ENG 3017
Dr. Chandler
Fall 2008
Furnishing a Heart
Late at night, when I can’t sleep, I stare at my walls for hours. They remind me of who I was, who I am, and who I’d like to be. Staring at my walls have allowed me to realize, that every day is an opportunity to learn, to change and to move on.
Like a volcanic eruption, my eyes exploded with hot fiery tears. The boiling magma of my insecurities began to rise across the surface of my smile. How do you prevent inevitable disasters? You can't. It's fight or flight. In order to ride these turbulent flights of slumber, I needed my seat belt. I held on to my bottle of sleeping pills each night and believed that they could rescue me from my pain. Drained with grief, I feared my own sleep because I couldn't even escape them in my dreams. Would I ever smile again? Could I ever move on? This type of change was terrifying.
The Walls Were Gray
It was at sixteen that I learned a person can cry it could hurt to breathe. It was then that I learned giving someone the best of you could be the worst thing you could ever do. These walls use to be gray. When I was seventeen years old, I experienced my first heartbreak. It took me about two years to get over “Jim”. Jim tainted my love struck heart. He knew how I would do anything for him. I could not identify myself without him. I did not know if I could get passed our break up. I spent many days and nights crying in my room. I cried myself to sleep for months until I tasted watermelons.



Watermelons Taste Better
So this was college? I didn’t have to go to class if I didn’t want to. I chose my schedule, I could come in late during the lecture of about 100 people and nobody would say anything. It was the type of freedom I longed for as a teen. This tasted better than my tears.
After graduating high school, I told myself that I needed a fresh new start. I was in a new school and started to experience more and more independence. I thought it would be a great idea to get rid of my old self by changing my wardrobe, dying my hair different colors each month, working out at the gym and meeting new friends. I was starting to recover from my heartache.
Bright and bold, there was no doubt about it. I changed so much that first year of college. I went to parties, cut class and stayed out until 3 in the morning. I worried my parents sick, but at least I wasn’t depressed in my room crying each night. Thank God I was finally able to breathe freely.
My grandmother and grandfather helped me paint my walls pink and green that year. I chose the colors in hopes of brightening up the darkness of my room. I kept it that way for about two years until I met my next boyfriend “Craig”. He was calm and kept me grounded.


Mellow Yellow
He was so different from my ex. Craig was about 6’3 and over 200lbs. He was a huge guy compared to Jim. Jim was 5’7 and 130lbs .Craig lived on his own in Pennsylvania and was a mechanic going to school for automotive technology. Craig was very quiet, soft spoken and slow to anger. He was what many people would call a “gentle giant”. He respected me and cared about me so much that he drove 400 miles every other weekend to see me. One time he surprised me by driving to my house during a snow storm. Jim on the other hand was this loud, outspoken Biology major who made me feel stupid every time I looked at him. I basically threw myself at Jim all those years in high school, I realize now it wasn’t love that I had with Jim instead it was an obsession. Craig loved me.

After I dated Craig for a year, he helped me paint my walls yellow. It illuminated my room with a bright warm glow. It was with Craig that I began to turn away from the partying scene. With Craig we stayed home, spent time with the family, had long day trips and ate at restaurants. Craig was an introvert. I did most of the talking. He often smiled at me and did the most talking when it came to conversations about cars. After all he was a great mechanic who was able to transform his automatic car into stick shift. He took care of me and I loved him. The only thing missing was a deep connection.

He was too quiet, I felt like I was missing something, conversation and laughter. For the last six months of our relationship, I can’t recall a time where he smiled with me. He always felt as if he wasn’t good enough for me, and in a sense I felt he wasn’t, because I kept trying to change the person he was. I wanted him to be more outgoing, I wanted him to reach for my hand first, I wanted him to be more affectionate, I wanted him to quit drinking and smoking. I wanted him to talk more. I wanted him to smile, but he was troubled and kept himself emotionally distant, because his father was dying and so was our relationship. He told me he wasn’t good enough, I kept trying to prove him wrong. Yet after dating for over two years, we realized that there was a difference between a relationship and a routine, therefore we simply broke up. He was right, I wanted something different.

Rainbows and Graffiti

A few months later I met “James”. He was a guest drummer at my church. He should be outgoing, drummers are loud and energetic. Yet, I didn’t notice him on stage. I was awestruck by the lead singer. After the concert, I was able to meet the band members. James had this handsome smile. He laughed easily and had a great sense of humor. He was outgoing and was playing with the children of the congregation. Kids – I love kids too. He was a breath of fresh air, mysterious and so different from Craig because James knew how to start a conversation and James laughed easily. I knew I shouldn’t compare the two but it was only natural .James was shorter, 5”11 and about 175 lbs, he was a Christian man who played with a band at his church. He was a God fearing man, that’s always a plus .
He brought variety into my life. He was spontaneous, and a hopeless romantic. When we first started dating, he took me to pier in Queens that over looked New York City and the Hudson River. We watched the city lights and ate desert under the stars. Then on Valentine’s day, when I was sick with a fever and he brought me sushi and drew me a poster of characters and images of a dream that I once mentioned to him. I can’t believe he transformed my thoughts into artwork. When I finally recovered he took me to the candle light dinner that we previously cancelled. He made me smile; he gave me those stupid “butterflies in my tummy”. Indeed, with him there was that connection I always longed for. So as time passed, I started to hang more and more of his drawings on my mellow yellow bedroom walls.

The Walls of My Heart I never realized just how important my bedroom walls are to me. I still kept them yellow because Craig worked so hard on painting them. He holds a special place in my heart. Though we stopped talking to each other, I still think about him once in a while and wonder how he’s doing. He helped such important role in my life for two and a half years. He helped me realize that I didn’t need to live a crazy lifestyle in order to be happy. He was also the first man I dated that treated me with respect. But although he did that much for me, like my plain yellow walls, I felt that there was something missing. Craig left me feeling empty and my walls were bare. So we broke up and I started dating James. He helped me decorate the walls with pictures and drawings . I’ve moved on . James and I enjoy each other’s company. He gives me a reason to stare at my walls; now they’re colorful and filled with different images of characters, hugging, kissing, and laughing. So as I stared at my walls, I realized that , the pink, the green, the yellows all serve as memories of my life and past relationships from which I can honestly say I’ve learned from. Life was starting to change and I was fine.

Posted in: on Monday, December 8, 2008 at at 8:24 PM 1 comments  

Essay: “”Beyond the Flames"

Publication:decomP Magazine formerly known as Decomposition Magazine in 2004

Web Address: http://www.decompmagazine.com/

Subject Matter: It is a literary Magazine that is updated every month. prose, poetry, art, and solicited book reviews. They have some creative nonfiction. They do not want Genre fiction, interviews, letters and reviews.

Voice: Different voices, writers are from all over the world. Some are personal, some are narrative. Some are informative such as solicited book reviews.

Form and Artistry: Prose, Poetry, Art and Solicited Book Reviews

Audience: Large Fan Base of people all different ages. Fan Base are all over the country including Scotland and England. They also are featured on Café Press, Myspace and Face book.

Purpose: To publish literary pieces as well as art from people across the world via internet as well as in print in 2010.

To Submit: They accept submissions via email. They do not want previously submitted work. They don’t mind simultaneous submissions as long as they are notified if the works are accepted somewhere else. They also want the author's short biography.

Reading Dates: The site is updated monthly. They take about 30 days.

Length: 3,000 Words maximum

Fee: None

*********************************************************

Essay: Cooking with Lola
Publication:Kartika Review

Web Address: http://www.kartikareview.com/

Subject Matter: Fiction, Essays, Poetry and Art that are influenced by their Asian Culture.

Voice: Different voices, writers are of Asian descent. Some are narrative, many of them sound intimate and personal and reflective.


Audience: The website serves the Asian American Community and those who’s literature have been inspired by the Asian Culture.

Purpose: They publish fiction, poetry, essays for the purpose of contrubuting to society's ideas of Asian American Creative Writing. THey also publish art work, interviews, book reviews, literary ciritcism that are associated with teh Asian Culture or Desecent. It comes out in print as well as pdf files online.

To Submit: "The editorial board reviews submissions on a rolling basis. The accept all year round. Fiction and Essays must be less than under 7,500 words."

If you want to send via snail mail, it has to be double spaced and one inch margins all around. They do not want your work if it has been published elsewhere.


Reading Dates: The site is updated monthly. They take about 30 days.

Length: 7500 Words

Fee: None

Posted in: on Wednesday, December 3, 2008 at at 5:41 AM 0 comments  

http://www.decompmagazine.com/

http://www.monkeybicycle.net

Posted in: on Monday, December 1, 2008 at at 11:54 AM 0 comments  

Furnishing a Heart

I do my best writing at three in the morning when nobody is around me, nothing interests me on television, nobody is awake in my house to bother me and all I hear are the sounds of the wind blowing against the trees outside my window. I am usually alone, sitting at my desk, staring blankly at my walls.

The Walls Were Gray

Like a volcanic eruption, my eyes exploded with hot fiery tears. The boiling magma of my insecurities began to rise across the surface of my smile. How do you prevent inevitable disasters?

You can't. It's fight of flight. In order ride these turbulent flights of slumber, I needed my seat belt. I held on to my bottle of sleeping pills each night and believed that they could rescue me from my pain. Drained with grief, I feared my own sleep because I couldn't even escape him in my dreams.

It was at sixteen that I learned a person can cry so much that they can feel physical pain in their chest. It was then I learned that giving someone the best of you could be the worst thing you could ever do.

These walls use to be gray. When I was seventeen years old, I experienced my first heartbreak. It took me about two years to get over this guy; we’ll call him “Jim”. I spent many days and nights crying in my room. I think I cried myself to sleep for a few months.




Watermelons Taste Better

So this was college? I didn’t have to go to class if I didn’t want to. I chose my schedule, I could come in late during the lecture of about 100 people and nobody would say anything. It was the type of freedom I longed for as a teen.

After graduating high school, I told myself that I needed a fresh new start. I was in a new school and started to experience more and more independence. I thought it would be a great idea to get rid of my old self by changing my wardrobe, dying my hair different colors each month, working out at the gym and meeting new friends.

Bright and bold. There was no doubt about it. I changed so much that first year of college. I went to parties, cut class and stayed out until 3 in the morning. I worried my parents’ sick, but at least I wasn’t depressed in my room crying each night.

My grandmother and grandfather helped me paint my walls pink and green that year. I kept it that way for about two years until I met my next boyfriend “Craig”.

Mellow Yellow

He was so different from my ex. Craig was about 6’3 and over 200lbs. He was a huge guy compared to Jim. Jim was 5’7, maybe 130lbs .Craig lived on his own in Pennsylvania and was a mechanic going to school for automotive technology. Craig was very quiet, soft spoken and slow to anger. He was what many people would call a “gentle giant”. He respected me and cared about me so much that he drove 400 miles every other weekend to see me. I remember one time, he surprised me a few times and told me he was on his way home from work, and instead he was outside my house waiting for me with a life sized teddy bear. Jim on the other hand was this loud, outspoken Biology major who made me feel stupid every time I looked at him. I basically threw myself at Jim all those years in high school, I realize now it wasn’t love that I had with Jim instead it was an obsession.

After I dated Craig for a year, he helped me paint my walls. It took him a while to paint over the pink and green but after a while, they were yellow- illuminating my room with a bright warm glow.

It was with Craig that I began to turn away from the partying scene. With Craig we stayed home, spent time with the family, had long day trips and ate at restaurants. Craig was an introvert. I did most of the talking. He often smiled at me and did the most talking when it came to conversations about cars. After all he was a great mechanic who was able to transform his automatic car into stick shift. He took care of me and I loved him. The only thing missing was a deep connection. He was too quiet, I felt like I was missing something, conversation and laughter. For the last six months of our relationship, I can’t recall a time where he smiled with me. He always felt as if he wasn’t good enough for me, and in a sense I felt he wasn’t because I kept trying to change the person he was. I wanted him to be more outgoing, I wanted him to reach for my hand first, I wanted him to be more affectionate, I wanted him to quit drinking and smoking, I wanted him to talk more. I wanted him to smile, but his dad was dying and our relationship deteriorated, everything remained a routine and after two and a half years, as much as we wanted things to work out, we simply broke up.

A few months later I met “James”, he was a guest member at my church. He performed at a concert and was the drummer. I honestly didn’t notice him on stage , I was awestruck by the lead singer. After the concert, I was able to meet the band members and we didn’t actually talk until meeting each other a month later at another concert. James had this handsome smile. He laughed easily and had a great sense of humor. He was outgoing and playing with the children when I met him for the second time. He was a breath of fresh air, mysterious and so different from Craig because James knew how to start a conversation and James laughed easily. James was shorter, 5”11 and about 175 lbs, he was a Christian man who played with a Christian Band at his church. He brought variety into my life. He was spontaneous, and a hopeless romantic. He took me to a Pier in Queens one night to watch the city lights and eat dessert near the Hudson River as we watched the ducks swim in the water. Then on Valentine’s day, when I was sick with a fever and he brought me sushi and drew me a poster of characters and images of a dream that I once mentioned to him. I couldn’t make it to the reservations he made at a restaurant, and when I finally recovered, he took me to a candle light dinner at the restaurant we were supposed to go to. He made me smile; he gave me those stupid “butterflies in my tummy”. He was the type of man I could see myself with and so I hung up his poster on my yellow walls.

The Walls of My Heart

I never realized just how important my bedroom walls are to me. I still kept them yellow because I was remember the hard work and the great times I had with Craig as we painted the walls together. He holds a special place in my life. Though we stopped talking to each other, I still think about him once in a while and wonder how he’s doing. He played such an important role in my life for two and a half years and although the walls were yellow, I felt that they were missing something. Like my relationship with Craig, something was missing. The mellow yellow walls left me feeling empty. So I decorated the walls with pictures and drawings. I’ve moved on to James and James and I enjoy each other’s company. I actually feel like we complement each other in so many ways. He gives me a reason to stare at my walls; they’re colorful and filled with different images of characters in different places. All I have left are memories of my past relationships and I can honestly say I’ve learned. Life was starting to change and I was fine.

Posted in: on Wednesday, November 19, 2008 at at 2:12 PM 0 comments  

Here is a link I found that may help you guys find Creative Nonfiction Journals

http://www.pw.org/literary_magazines/nonfiction?apage=*

Posted in: on at at 11:29 AM 0 comments  

For my next essay I plan on writing about my walls. When I look at my walls I see that they are painted yellow and they also have drawings on them. My exboyfriend of two and a half years once helped me paint my walls yellow. Actually, he did all the painting of my walls.

Now I have huge drawings on my wall, there’s a life size drawing shaded with black marker, and it’s of a man and woman dancing. There’s also another drawing near my window of a man leaning towards a sleeping woman. He has a rose in his hand and he is masked like zorro.


I also have pictures all over my wall and drawings on paper.
All of the drawings were created by my current boyfriend. All the photos on my wall are mostly of my family, friends and boyfriend.


I guess my walls symbolizes how I’ve moved on yet can’t escape some of my memories of my ex. Everytime I look at my walls, I see my boyfriend’s beautiful drawings, yet they are drawn on top of the plain yellow wooden walls t that my ex boyfriend painted. I could have repainted my walls, but part of me did not want to let go of my ex boyfriend’s hard work.

We don’t talk anymore. Part of me still wants to be friends with him. But all I have left of him now are my yellow walls.

Posted in: on Monday, November 17, 2008 at at 11:15 AM 4 comments  

Angela Castillo Creative Non Fiction Eng 3017 Dr. Chandler Essay #
Cooking with Lola
A lock of hair, in an album, inside box, underneath a pile of clutter is where she left many tears.
I was about sixteen years old when I discovered the album. It was late in the evening and I remember the attic light flickered on and off for a few seconds. I was rummaging through boxes as my eyes struggled to focus with the dim lighting. In one box, underneath stacks of papers, I uncovered an old album. It was dusty and discolored. The edges of the album were slightly bent upwards as if it was shoved into the bottom of the box. I knew I shouldn’t be digging through my grandmother’s belongings, but I felt she needed to clear out some of the clutter in the room. She was a pack rat. My beloved grandmother, who I call “Lola”, had a habit of holding on to everything. My mother once told me that my Lola began holding on to things after her son died.
A Lock of Hair
I slowly opened the album in fear of what old photos I may find. After seeing locks of hair, next to a picture of a young man in a casket, I felt my goose bumps on my arms raise. For the first time, I saw pictures of my mother as a teenager and my grandmother as a young woman. It felt like I was in an episode of the twilight zone. Who was this young man in a casket? Why was he wearing all white? Why did he have a necklace made of White Jasmine (Sampagita) Flowers? Why did my grandmother have his hair placed inside the album? I gathered my senses and came to the realization that I was staring at the pictures from my uncle’s funeral. He died at the age of fourteen in June 26, 1976. My grandmother cut his hair and kept it for all these years. Maybe it was her way of coping with her loss. Maybe it was her way of still holding on to him.
Hidden in the Album
I put the album away and ran down the attic stairs into the kitchen where I saw my grandmother.
“Lola, how did he die?” I asked her.
“Angel, he forgot to breathe,” she replied.
She always gave me that answer. But how could someone just forget how to breathe? It was not until I turned eighteen that my grandmother told me the real answer.
It was after prom weekend, when my grandmother and I were cooking in the kitchen. I started to ask her questions about her past. I cut up the vegetables in order to prepare the mix for the empanada.
“Lola, can you tell me more about Tito Mon?” I asked her.
Her eyes watered with tears but never dripped. She put down the rolling pin and sat next to me. She told me that her only son, out of four children, was only fourteen years old and attended school far from my Lola’s original hometown. Lola told me that her family lived in San Pablo, Philippines. From San Pablo to my Lola’s house, a person would have to travel by airplane for over an hour.
“Angel, he was beautiful. He was charming and popular” she said.
“Tell me more, Lola. What was he wearing the last time you saw him?” I asked.
“Bright purple pants”, she said with a smile.
She explained to me that he was wearing these bright purple pants the morning he left for school. In his school the kids were supposed to be dressed in uniform. The day he died, he was dressed casually and inappropriately for school.
“His teacher asked him why he didn’t wear a uniform” explained Lola.
In a Box
I looked at her with a confused smile and allowed her to continue with her story. She believed that my uncle knew he was going to die. He always wore his uniform. It was just part of his routine. But the very day he wore his casual clothes, he had a brain aneurysm .Before he passed away he told his teacher that the next time she sees him; he’ll be dressed in all white. The teacher looked at him and just nodded her head. She didn’t realize that the next time she’d seem him would be at his funeral, where he was dressed in all white.
I asked Lola to tell me where she was when she found out about his death. With her rolling pin in her hand, she began to knead dough and as she told me her experience.
“ My youngest daughter, ran up to me and told me something happened to Mon. She told me that he was in the hospital and the teachers at school rushed him there immediately,” she explained.
A Pile of Clutter
Lola said that that her trip to the hospital was torturous. She sat there in traffic, waiting in the hot bus for an hour. Sweat mixed with tears, dripped down her face as she clenched on to her dress. She wiped her sweaty palms all over her dress. She did not know what happened to her son. She didn’t know why he was there. He was healthy, active and outspoken. He only complained of occasional headaches and toothaches. She prayed that maybe he fell and hurt himself slightly.
Upon arriving at the hospital, she saw Mon’s friends standing in front of the hospital morgue. She knew in her heart that something was wrong. The hospital was bright, well lit and clean. It was an unwelcoming and uncomfortable environment. She felt a sharp pain in her chest and her heart started to beat faster than it already was. She couldn’t breathe as she recognized her son’s friends. The young boys were standing in front of the morgue with tears in their eyes. She saw her son, with a handkerchief tied around his head and his eyes were closed. The handkerchief wrapped underneath his chin and tied on the top of his crown. This was in order to keep his jaws from dropping and his mouth from opening. At the sight of her dead son, my grandmother collapsed.
It was only at the wake that my grandmother realized her son knew he was going to die. Friends , teachers and classmates said that my uncle was saying his goodbyes. He passed away on a Wednesday. Weeks before his death, his friends were planning a party for Friday, June 28, 1976. He kept telling his friends that he would not be able to attend the party. He went from room to room, telling his friends that he would return to San Pablo. They wondered why he said he would return to San Pablo, when he only goes there for the holidays. They shrugged it off and thought he just wanted to visit family. Little did they know he would return to San Pablo on June 28, 1976 for his own funeral.
One classmate told Lola that a month before Tito Mon passed away; he tied a handkerchief around his head in order to show his classmate how he would look if ever he died. His friend told him not to tie a handkerchief in that manner for it was inappropriate and doctors do that when a person dies. My Lola was in shock and explained to the boy, that her son did have a handkerchief tied around his head in the same manner, when she saw him at the morgue.
Lola was also surprised to find out about a conversation that Tito Mon had with his grandmother. About a month before he passed away, he was sitting near a beach with his grandmother. He turned to her and asked her a question about his fate.
“Grandma, do you think I’ll die young?” he asked.
“Mon, you are healthy and will live to be old. Look at me, I’m old and blind and still alive. I have every reason to want to die. I am losing my senses and feeling weak. Why would you even question such a thing?” she replied.
“Grandma, I’m just saying. When I die, I would like to wear a necklace made out of Jasmine flowers.” He told her.
She nodded her head and changed the topic. That was the last time his grandma spoke to him. She never told Lola about the incident until his funeral. It was as if Tito Mon knew in his heart that he would pass away soon.
For three days, hundreds of people that my Lola didn’t know arrived at wake to say goodbye to Tito Mon. They were from all different backgrounds. Some were rich and dressed in fine clothing. Some were poor and had holes in their shoes. Poor street children came up to my grandmother and said Tito Mon used to share his food with them because they were hungry. Vendors from the local fish market even came up to my uncle’s casket and hugged his body as they wept and cried out loud. My grandmother did not know these people but she realized that she was blessed to have a son who touched so many lives.
She Left Many Tears
I watched my grandmother as she finished kneading her dough and continued with her story. Her eyes were watery as she recalled painful memories of losing her only son. She told me that he knew he was going to die. She said she believed that God was talking to him. Maybe God was allowing him to say his farewells to friends and family in order to prepare them for his death.
Coming from a Christian background, Lola believes that God blessed her with a beautiful son. She also believes that she will see him again in heaven. She knows in her heart that he is waiting there for her. I too believe that God somehow told my uncle he was going to pass away. I think God was preparing Tito Mon’s loved ones, by giving those signs through Tito Mon’s strange behavior.
I turned to my Lola, who had tears in her eyes. I helped her put the ground beef and vegetables into the dough. We then wrapped up the empanadas and fried it into the boiling oil.

Posted in: on Sunday, November 16, 2008 at at 6:52 PM 0 comments  

When I think of places that are important to me, I think of Newark Airport. I’ve been there so many times. The atmosphere leaves me with feelings of excitement and sadness. The suitcases lined up at the doors, the taxis and limos waiting for passengers. Families waiting for loved ones, people crying saying goodbye to each other, tears, joy, fear, hope, anxiety, are all found at the airport.

It’s the place where I’ve shed many tears. I remember holding on to my aunt and hugging her tightly as I said farewell to her. I didn’t know when the next time would be that I would see her. I was about twelve years old. She was and still is my only aunt in America. She is my father’s only sibling in this country. She lived in Chicago at the time. I guess Newark Airport

I have many memories there….I don’t know where to start.
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Union Highschool- highschool says it all. So many memories...growing up...depression, coming of age
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Mc Laughlin Funeral Home- I went there last summer because of my exboyfriend's father passed away.
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Bethany Assemblies of God Church, St. Paul's Lutheran church & Calvary Church of the Deaf = these three buildings are where my former congregation used to hold their church services..I spent every weekend there for many years...

Posted in: on Saturday, November 8, 2008 at at 10:01 AM 1 comments  

It was like I was time traveling. I felt as if I entered the twilight zone. I was not prepared for this. It was only supposed to be Spring cleaning.

I was cleaning my room one night, rummaging through my closet and I stumbled upon this old red suitcase. Slowly I drag it out of my closet and blow off all the dust. I unzip the suitcase and am shocked to see a cardboard box filled with black and white photos.

“How long as this been in my closet?” I whisper to myself.
I sat their breathless, with a handful of photos, peering through them as if I too was traveling back in time. My mind was a cocktail of confusion fused with excitement and spiked with fear. My mind was filled with nervousness and caution as I viewed these photos for the first time in my life. (Careful not to rip the fragile tearing tips.)

These were pictures of my family over fifty years ago. These were pictures of my grandmother and grandfather when they were only twenty years old. I couldn’t believe how gorgeous my grandmother was. She had a slender figure with curves in the right places. She had the beehive hairdo, the and those black framed cat eye glasses. She wore a tight mini dress, and had bell bottoms and a hippie looking yellow shirt on in another picture. In another black and white photo, I saw my grandfather? Was it my grandfather? It must have been my grandfather. He was lying on his belly at the beach, facing the camera as if he was a model. (My goodness my grandparents were a gorgeous couple.)I was taken back for a moment. I wondered what kind of life they lived. I know it’s crazy now, my grandmother lives with me and my grandfather lives in his farm in the Philippines. Technically they are married, but I for years they’ve lived in different countries.

As I flipped through the pages of the old album, I stop and smile at a picture of my grandmother’s sister and her husband. My auntie Ellen, God knows I miss her. She must have been twenty years old in the photo. Her and her husband, may have just been dating in the picture. There are no children in the picture. No signs of children at all. As I stare at their picture, I think about how I miss the family so much.

My Auntie Ellen,-he was my grandmother’s sister. She died from cancer when I was still in middle school. I didn’t see her very often, she lived in Michigan with her husband and family. She had this contagious laughter and amazing sense of humor. The last time I saw her, I was at my Uncle Roland’s funeral. He was died in a car accident. I remember standing in the cemetery during my uncle’s funeral crying, crying in the snow.

Posted in: on Wednesday, November 5, 2008 at at 11:08 AM 4 comments  

Three Poles of a Thistle by Naoimi Shihab What are the three sections about and how do they fit together? Are the contrasting? Cumulative?
The teacher said that she had the devil inside her. In the very beginning of the essay, we realize that she is much smarter than the other kids in her class because she prefers Charlotte’s web instead of Dick and Jane. She also seems to have a lower income than everyone else. She’s eating dried apricots instead of bacon. She definitely feels different. She seems to be a private person.
Around the fourth paragraph , she describes the situation instead of just telling flat out how she felt.
What is this writing about? It means coming into oneself through pain. What does a poke of a thistle do?
• A life changing point, slightly painful
• It’s small yet sharp and sticks to you- made an impression. Momentous event
MEANINGS OF THE THREE SECTIONS
1. Guilt, she felt like it was her fault. If she didn’t get a stomach ache, the crash wouldn’t have happened. It connects the guilt to the pain. “BE GOOD AND YOU WILL BE LONESOME” basically sums it up. Here we have the narrator with knowledge that the over people do not have. When she read this, she finally felt as if she had some knowledge that other people didn’t have. It’s also more about shame.
2. Cultural difference. She doesn’t have the experience to connect to the language. It was also because of her innocence. In the three stories she told us it’s all about the same thing written in different ways. She doesn’t make the connection.
3.

Posted in: on Monday, November 3, 2008 at at 12:22 PM 0 comments  

She has short brown hair. She has a shaggy bob hair cut. Her hair is full of volume is brown. The tips of her hair are curled in.She has hazel contacts and tanned skin. She stands at about 5’2. She has a thin frame. She has long legs and sort of wide hips. Her body reminds me of the singer Beyonce. She has black eyeliner and mascara on . She also has clear lipgloss on her lips.

The last time I saw her, she was wearing tight black stretchy jeans. She had on pointed leather boots that were about two inches high. Her black leather boots had three gold buckles on the side. She had a black leather jacket on.

It was a short hacket that had a length which didn't pass her hips. The jacket was a "bomber style" jacket, the kind that has stretchy material that hugs the waist. The kind of jacket which has a collar that can be zipped all the way up, or folded down so that the flaps rest on the shoulders. The cuffs of her jacket were of the same material as the fabric that stretched to hug her waist.

She also had a black and red checkered scarf that she folded and tied around her neck. The scarf rested on her chest and was tucked in her jacket so that the only part of the scarf that could be seen formed a V shaped triangle.

She had dangling silver earings and wore rings on her pointer finger. Her jewelry was silver toned and had writings engraved in them. On her ring was an enscription about Faith. Her earrings were flat dangling metal pendants that had scriptures engraved on it.

She wore a big golden bag on her shoulder. It was a large hobo styled bag. It was big enough to almost fit a laptop in it. The bag had short straps so that the bag was directly underneath her armpit and dangled a few inches above her waist.

Posted in: on Thursday, October 30, 2008 at at 5:18 PM 1 comments  

Four people stand on a narrow wooden bridge. One boy sits between two of the young women. Beneath them is a body of water which extends to the background of the scene. Passed the body of water is a type of mountain. The mountain looks as if there are many trees. It's green. The sky looks kind of cloudy.

On the bridge stand four young women. The person on the very left is a young girl. She looks skinny and has on a dark violet short sleeve shirt. She has maroon/reddish wide leg pants on. She looks like she is wearing open toe sandals. She has her hands rested on the railing of the bridge. She is not leaning forward. She just has her hands placed on the railing. She has black hair and bangs that reach up to her eyes. She's not smiling. She looks like the wind may be blowing in her hair slightly.

Next to her is a girl who is tanner than the rest of the people. She has short hair and is wearing a dark green shirt with white pants. She's taller than the younger girl. She has opened to shoes as well. She looks like she's leaning back a little. Next to her is a woman with a black shirt and white pants. She has short sleeves on and is leaning forward with her hands placed on the railing. She has long hair and the wind is blowing in her face. Right next to her sits a young boy with no shirt on. He has short hair and is wearing red shorts. He is holding something in his hand. Next to him is a girl standing in pink. She is just a little shorter than t he lady that she is standing next to.

The girl has long hair which seems like it is five inches passed her shoulders. She has a sleeveless pink thick strapped tank top. It looks like it's striped with a v cut. She has a black tank top underneath. The girl has one foot crossed in front of the other and is wearing pink pants. She looks like she has bracelets on one of her hands. She is leaned forward, holding on to the railing.

Posted in: on at at 3:49 PM 0 comments  

I was cleaning my room one night, rummaging through my closet and I stumbled upon this old red suitcase. Slowly I drag it out of my closet and blow off all the dust. I unzip the suitcase and am shocked to see a cardboard box filled with black and white photos.



These were pictures of my family over fifty years ago. These were pictures of my grandmother and grandfather when they were only twenty years old. I couldn’t believe how gorgeous my grandmother was. She had a slender figure with curves in the right places.

She had the beehive hairdo, the and those black framed cat eye glasses. She wore a tight mini dress, and had bell bottoms and a hippie looking yellow shirt on in another picture. In another black and white photo, I saw my grandfather? Was it my grandfather? It must have been my grandfather. He was lying on his belly at the beach, facing the camera as if he was a model.

I was taken back for a moment. I wondered what kind of life they lived. I know it’s crazy now, my grandmother lives with me and my grandfather lives in his farm in the Philippines. Technically they are married, but I for years they’ve lived in different countries.

As I flipped through the pages of the old album, I stop and smile at a picture of my grandmother’s sister and her husband. My auntie Ellen, God knows I miss her. She must have been twenty years old in the photo. Her and her husband, may have just been dating in the picture. There are no children in the picture. No signs of children at all. As I stare at their picture, I think about how I miss the family so much.

My Auntie Ellen,-he was my grandmother’s sister. She died from cancer when I was still in middle school. I didn’t see her very often, she lived in Michigan with her husband and family.


The last time I saw her, I was at my Uncle Roland’s funeral. He was died in a car accident.

Most of the people in the photo are gone now.

Posted in: on Wednesday, October 29, 2008 at at 7:57 AM 0 comments  

I've decided to revise my essay about fire. I'm thinking about changing the title as well as adding some details to my conclusion. I also want to modify some paragraphs. I've decided to revise the essay about fire because I've established a distance between me and my subject.

I've figured that more people can relate to fire than an eating disorder. Sure people can relate to issues about low self esteem, but there's just something about fire that has fascinated humans throughout history.

I've also gotten more feedback on my topic about fire. The feedback that my classmates have given has allowed me to look at the topic of fire from various perspectives.

Furthermore, I've decided to write about fire because I have a clearer focus with this essay. I know for certain that there are three prevalent events that have occurred in my life which have allowed me to look at fire differently. With my essay on bulimia, I feel that it's harder to pick and choose certain parts of my life to focus on. I suffered from the eating disorder for years, it's just too much, too overwhelming and too complicated for me to dissect and analyze while still trying to allow my audience to relate to my topic.

Finally, I know who my audience is with the essay about fire. With my essay about bulimia, I felt as if I was just writing for myself. I felt as if I was complaining and ranting about my self esteem issues. That is the last thing I want to do, i don't want people to feel sorry for me, nor become annoyed with what I have to say about my body issues.

Posted in: on Tuesday, October 21, 2008 at at 2:38 PM 0 comments  

When you think of the word “fire”, what comes to mind? So many thoughts rush through my mind. I think of prehistoric men sitting in caves, rubbing sticks together, smiling and cheering in disbelief that they have created a spark which would change the course history forever. Maybe I have this idea embedded in my mind from all the images and cartoons I’ve seen since I was a child. I’ve never met a caveman myself, so this misconception or preconceived notion that I have is based on images that Hollywood has fed my mind since I was a child, and textbooks that have brainwashed my ideas since I was in elementary school. I put these ideas together and BAM!—I’m stuck thinking that fire was created by cavemen who were freezing their Neanderthal butts off after a hard day’s work of hunting and gathering. Who really knows? Maybe it was a cave woman who created fire, but of course, the men are given the credit. Maybe it was the women who created the fire in the cave while the men were out hunting and gathering, and so my stream of consciousness continues. Fire- the beginning of life?


When I think of fire, I also think about candles. I’ll never forget a song that I learned in Sunday School when I was about four years old. I remember sitting in a circle with the other children as we looked at a candle and sang “This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine. This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine. Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine. Don’t let Satan blow it out, I’m gonna let it shine. At four years old, I did not understand how Satan would blow out my candle. I didn’t really know what the candle or light represented. I just knew that it was a song that I liked and my Sunday School teacher had fun teaching us the hand motions and gestures that accompanied the song. Later on in life, I realized that the song wasn’t referring to the physical aspect of fire. Instead the light of the candle was a symbol of the goodness and faith that Christian was supposed to hold on to. Fire- the symbol of faith?


So now, I’m realizing that fire can be a symbol of faith. With that in mind, wasn’t fire also used in the passage about the miracle of the burning bush in biblical book of Exodus? Why was it that in the bible, God spoke to Moses through a bush that was burning in flames? Can this possibly mean that Fire is also a symbol for miracles?


Given that I associate fire with candles and faith and miracles, how is it that the term “fire” can evoke so many thoughts and ideas from literature, belief systems and different faiths throughout the course of history? The answer is simple. It is because fire represents so much to so many people. Fire, like blood has become a necessary part of human’s lives. Fire, like water, is needed for people to survive. You hear me right, I said “PEOPLE”. If you think about it, animals do not need fire to survive; in the wild they do not sit under their trees, nor hide in caves hitting sticks together in order to create sparks in which they can keep themselves warm. So this leads me to believe that Fire is an element that humans have taken upon themselves, to play with.


Given that humans have taken it upon themselves to incorporate fire into their daily lives, I have come to the realization that fire is a tool, and tools can be used as deadly weapons. In the Christian belief, doesn’t the bible mention that fire will be used as a form of punishment in hell? According to Biblegateway.com, “14Then (A)death and Hades were thrown into (B)the lake of fire This is the (C)second death, the lake of fire. 15And if anyone's name was not found written in (D)the book of life, he was thrown into the lake of fire.” These biblical references, along with my past experiences with fire have influenced my belief that Fire is a symbol of fear of death.


My first encounter with the power of fire occurred when I was still in elementary school. My family and I decided to meet in the Poconos with the families of my mother’s cultural organization. I remember the night that there was a bonfire. The adults were laughing, telling jokes and taking pictures. The older kids were playing with firecrackers and I stood there in amazement. I was probably six or seven as I watched an older child hold a stick that burned and crackled letting out a stream of sparkling bright flames. I had no ideas that it could not be blown out like a candle. I thought, to the best of my knowledge that the fire cracker was a special candle. As I waited for my mom to turn her back, I asked one of the older children if I could have a fire cracker. They handed me one and I walked away quickly. I watched in amazement as the sparkling flames engulfed the stick. It crackled and gave off a vibrant light that slightly illuminated the darkness of the campground. As I watched the crackling, I saw that the flames were reaching my finger tips. I tried to blow out the fire cracker. I was afraid that if I let go of the fire cracker, I would set the ground on fire. I blew and blew but the spark did not die down. As I watched the fire burn the stick, I felt the hot burning sensation on my fingertips. I screamed and cried as I quickly dropped the stick which to my surprise did not set the ground on fire. My mother came rushing to my cry. Being that she and all her friends were nurses, my fingers were saved.


I didn’t really develop a fear of fire until ten years later. It was the night of my friend’s sweet sixteen. I finally came home after dancing all through the evening with my closest high school friends. We were dressed up in our finest gowns and had our hair done and nails done for the occasion. We celebrated at a manor near my home. It was one of the most beautiful nights of my life until hours after the party ended. It was really late at night or early morning; when I was rudely awaken by the sound of banging and screaming at my front door. I was still dressed in my gown, I passed out on the living room sofa as soon as I got home from the party. As my eyes began to focus, I ran to the door and saw my twelve year old neighbor crying with dark ash on his face. “My house is on Fire!”, he exclaimed in tears. He took refuge in my house for a few hours, along with his older cousin who was also in tears. Together we looked outside the window and saw that their house, which was about one house away from mine, burned in huge orange flames. You may be wondering if my neighbor's family survived. The answer is "yes", all except a few cats.


For months, as I washed the dishes and stared out my kitchen window, I was forced to see the ruined remains of my neighbor’s house. I was constantly reminded of the power that fire had. Weeks after the fire, I learned that it was caused by a candle that was lit near a bottle of nail polish remover. For many years after, my father and mother banned the use of candles in our home. I think it was only after I graduated high school that my father started lighting candles again.
This had a negative effect on my life. I began to develop a paranoia with flames. Even in my first year of college, in my Organic Chemistry course, I refused to use the bunsent burner. I did not want anything to do with fire, I allowed my classmate to do the work as I stood from a clear distance. I guess I was afraid of losing control. The idea of an uncontrolled flame potentially causing a destructive fire, scared me.


As years passed, I thought I put the fear of fire behind me. Yet last year, I went through one of the most nerve racking experiences of my life. During the morning before my 21st birthday in the month of December, I recieved a phone call from a friend to turn on the news. My friend informed me that a Filipino family from my town has perished in a fire. My friend told me to watch the news and see if the name will be revealed. I sat in front of the television, crying wondering who's house it was that they were showing me. I learned that it was a family of five and only had one survivor who was around my age. My heart skipped beats as I frantically called all my Filipino friends in my phone book. Some answered the phone, other’s did not. I was trying to figure it out through process of elimination. Every time I received a voicemail box, I hung up and whispered a quick prayer.


After hours of worrying, I found out that it was my classmate from my graduating class who's family perished in a fire. I could not believe my ears. I then started to feel so bad, so upset and even guilty. I felt guilty because the victim and I were not necessarily in great terms of friendship upon graduation. Yet all the bitterness and resentment towards each other passed because I realized that he had no more room in his life for high school drama. He had to deal with the loss of not only his home, but his parents, grandmother and only sister, who was about the age of my little sister.


Needless to say, I spent that birthday crying and went to a funeral the day after. It was the most difficult funeral I’ve ever had to sit through. I stood there looking at my classmate, as he hugged all the guests and stood in front of his father’s open casket and three tiny urns. I could not believe my eyes; I could not believe that his family was gone. Every day my heart goes out to him. Fire ruined his life.

Posted in: on Sunday, October 19, 2008 at at 8:49 PM 0 comments  

My second essay will be about fire. It will talk about my fear of fire and how-although fire may be the symbol of life, in my mind it symbolizes death.

There are three incidents I will talk about in my essay. The first incident will be about the time I was six years old and burned my fingers from a camping trip in which I didn't let go of fire crackers.

The next incident will be about how I witnessed my neighbor's house burn down at the age of 16.

The next incident will be about last year and how my friend's family died in a fire.

I will also talk about how fire was symbolized as an icon of life in greek mythology and in science and everyday life. Yet fire also symbolizes hell in the Christian belief and marks the end of the world.

Posted in: on Tuesday, October 14, 2008 at at 11:16 PM 8 comments  

Well choosing a topic was relatively easy. I made a list up of some areas that I had difficulties in. It goes as follows:

1. Narrowing down which ideas to focus on when it comes to my topic.2. How much is too much? I wasn't sure if some of the things I would reveal were appropriate in a creative nonfiction essay for class. I had some nasty details, but of course I'm too ashamed to let it out in the open. These are crucial details of my life just spread out in the open for you to read and forget.
3. Protecting the identity of the people it involved. I had to change their names.
4. Avoiding the temptation exaggerate or make things seem more dramatic. In fiction, I make my characters more interesting, I can make the story more dramatic. In creative nonfiction, you write what happened.
5.Where to start and end my story. I obviously know what happened in my life, yet this happened over a long period of time. Picking just a few moments to portray in 5 pages is very difficult. I have so much to say, but I don't want to say too much that it seems as if I'm just whining and complaining on paper.

So far those are the problems that I've encountered.

For my next essay, I may want to talk about my neighbor's house that burned down. Because I was able to unfortunately witness my neighbors house burning, I've developed a fear of fire.

My essay may be formatted according to this outline.

I. The night of the fire.
A. I came home from a Sweet 16. I fell asleep in my dress.
B. Hearing banging on my door from my neighbor.
C. Hearing my neighbors screaming.
D. Looking out my window seeing a gigantic home in flames.

II. The very next morning
A. The smell of smoke in the air
B. My neighbors went to the hospital but returned
C. Nobody Perished except the cats.

III. A few weeks later
A. Learning the cause of the fire
B. Having to see the ruins of my neighbor's house for days
C. The effect it had on the entire neighborhood

IV. The effect the fire had on me
A. I hate fire
B. I would not used the Bunsen burner in chemistry that year. I was terrified of just a tiny flame
C. I would scream at my brothers who jokingly played with matches
D. I've developed a paranoia with candles, I must blow them out before leaving a room.

V. Fire Again
A. The day before my 21st birthday and I woke up to the news that a Filipino Family in my town has perished in a fire.
B. The fear of calling each of my friends to see if they were okay. (Some didn't answer the phone)
C. Finally finding out who's family perished. It was the family of my friend from high school.
D.I attended a funeral of an entire family.
E. Seeing my friend at the wake of his mother,father, sister and grandmother.

Posted in: on Tuesday, October 7, 2008 at at 2:48 PM 0 comments  

The house was packed; the entrees were set buffet style on our dining room table. It was a family gathering, the type of gathering that my mother waited years for. It was the type of gathering that required my uncles and aunts to fly across the world just to attend. It was the type of gathering that we had to spend three days cleaning our house for. It was the type of gathering that my grandmother cooked thirteen straight hours for. It was these types of family gatherings that I dreaded.


I stood in line with a plate in my hand. I was standing right next to my cousin Mar. She and I were about the same age. At the time, we were about twelve years old. Anyways, I was scooping up my second serving of chicken and my uncle turned to me with a disgusted look on his face. He joked loudly, “You’re going to eat again? You should save some food for your cousin”. I looked at him with shame and stared at my thin cousin and then stared again at my plate. I put the plate down and ran to my room. I was used to this feeling, the feeling of self hatred. I was never good enough, compared to my cousins. They were honor students, they were pianist, they were amazing, and they were thin. My weight was somehow always a topic of conversation at one point of each family gathering.


My parents didn’t hear my uncle. My father would have yelled at him. Never in my life did my parents make me feel as if I was never good enough. I’m blessed to have parents that encouraged me to pursue my goals in life. They always told me I was beautiful and when I cried, they listened, they reached out for me and they prayed. Yet they didn’t know how bad it was. They didn’t know how self conscious, how self loathing, how self destructive I was -until my mother accidentally walked in on it first hand.


One evening during my freshman year of high school, I made the mistake of leaving the bathroom door unlocked while I was hunched over with my head facing the toilet. I left the hot water running so that the sounds of my gagging would be muffled. My mother opened the door and saw me throwing up.
I can’t remember much of that night. I just know how embarrassed and furious I was. She must have known that I was doing it for a while. I was throwing up every meal, running to the bathroom after I ate. It didn’t take my much for them to realize that something was wrong. It was and is and shall always be a constant struggle.


Nobody, unless they have been through it can really understand how difficult it is. As strange as it may seem, I’m constantly thinking of food. I weigh myself every single day, if not three times a day. I could tell you exactly how much weight I gain throughout the day, and what my average weight is every single morning.
It was my junior year of high school, where things were at it’s worst. I was still mourning the death of one of my aunts and at the same time crying over the boy who I thought was my true love. I cared for him for about about for three years (how naive of me). He left me for a younger Filipino girl that was of course smart, talented, undeniably thin. I felt like I had no control over anything in my life (how stupid of me).


I willingly chose to give into my feelings of heart ache and depression. I took my anger out on food. I refused to eat anything but boiled chicken and lettuce. If at all, I only ate once a day. It got to a point where I would wake up in the middle each night to eat in secret. I would tip toe across the hallway and make my way to the refrigerator. Again, I must stress that eating was an act of shame. People knew I starved myself all day, if they knew I woke up in the middle of the night just to eat, it would upset me beyond words.


One night, my father did walk in on me eating. I must have been half awake because I don’t remember yelling at him. The next morning he told me that there was vomit in the toilet and that I screamed at him when he was trying to talk to me.
I guess it must have been a mixture of depression, anxiety, hunger and tiredness that made me act that way. I may have been sleep eating when I think about it now. I was truly not in the right state of mind.
My last two years of high school were a blur. I remained withdrawn from all my friends. I remained withdrawn from my family. I spent my days crying in class, and my nights crying in my room.

Tylenol P.M. helped me sleep at nights.It helped me soothe the heaviness in my chest, literally. When I slept, I felt nothing. Until the thoughts invaded my dreams. The only escape I had was when I puked.

The disgust I felt when I looked at my body (after years of hatred), the disgust I felt when I thought of him being with another girl (fueled my addiction), was all flushed down the toilet. It was more than food that I saw going swirling down the toilet. It was my hurt, my hatred,shame, guilt and anger.I flushed it all away.

Throwing up helped me maintain a healthy weight. A healthy weight…in my sick mind was 110 pounds instead of my former 140 pound frame. Sure it doesn’t seem like 110 pounds was ridiculously thin, but take into account fact that I lost all that weight within a month.

I was sick. Physically and mentally. It hurt to think about my aunt's death. It hurt to think that the boy who I loved only used me because I reminded him of a girl he couldn't get over.Three years of my life I've devoted to him. Three years of my life I wasted on him. I look at it now and it seems to be more like an obsession than love.I'm glad I made it out alive. It could have been worse...so much worse.

I don’t know how to go into details about it. I could tell you how the enamel on my teeth started to wear away after years of vomiting. I could tell you how my throat burned after every time I threw up. I could tell you how guilty I felt after eating a meal that consisted of food other than lettuce and boiled chicken. I could tell you how I cried after every time I looked into the mirror after vomiting. I could tell you how much praise I received from my family who thought I lost weight the healthy way. I could tell you how loose my jeans and bra fit. I could tell you how food was constantly on my mind. I could tell you how I broke my parent’s hearts. I could tell you how I may have chased away past boyfriends because they could not handle my pessimistic attitude towards my body. I could tell you all these things but why?

It’s just a part of who I am, all you have to know is that I’m no longer bulimic and have come a long way since my days of crying over little boys.

Posted in: on Sunday, October 5, 2008 at at 6:52 PM 1 comments  

The truth when it comes to war can be twisted and contorted. War, who knows what exactly happens in these wars except people who witness it first hand. Who even knows if those telling the war stories were in their right state of mind, they must have been in chaotic situations. Couldn't the environment affect how one perceive a story? Couldn't a person's point of view and purpose affect the story that they tell?

O'Brien plays with his audience. He does this on purpose. O’brien made the reader feel bad about the water buffalo. He evoked in his reader an intense emotional response for the water buffalo. This is more intense then the feelings of the readers towards Rat's death. He says people don’t get it. He says people sees all the violence but doesn’t feel sorry for the right people.

In reality, when people hear about wars and stories of wars, they may easily believe the parts that they want to believe. They may believe the parts that appeal to them, the parts that they are familiar and comfortable with. This is just human nature, people tend to focus on what they are accustomed to. When it comes to thoughts that are too graphic, to dramatized and too extreme, a person is more likely to distance his or herself from the story. He or she may become sort of desensitized to the situation, sort of the way people watch violent movies and are used to seeing blood and death and are not phased by the extreme content, because they know that it is far from their reality. People take from a story, what they want to take from a story. They believe only what they are comfortable in believing.

I guess this peice is considered nonfiction because it does tie in real events. It talks about the writer's relationship to the subject. It explores the topic as well as allows a reader to analyze his or her personal beliefs about the topic itself.This peiece allows a reader to question his or her past experiences and personal ideas about story telling.

Posted in: on Tuesday, September 30, 2008 at at 11:38 PM 0 comments  

Instead of writing separate paragraphs, I’ll just make it simple and number these essays/stories in chronological order as I rank them based on my criteria for creative nonfiction. So far my definition of creative nonfiction is based on these requirements:

• Subject at hand in relation to self
• Literary devices and metaphor
• Plot/character/scene/dialogue (showing not telling)
• Reflecting Circling deeper and deeper
• Organization and sequence of events-
• Presentation of experience


1.“Out There” in my opinion was the hard to understand. Yet based on the criteria for creative nonfiction, she makes a reflective analysis indirectly. She was really writing about freedom with being out there. She's coming to terms with being out there. This piece was conveyed through a storyline. It allowed a reader to feel some of the emotions of the writer, but personally I was not quite drawn to it.

2. “On Keeping a Notebook” was an interesting essay as well. Didion's main focus was expressed through reflections on her old journal entries. Here Diddion's point is about how keeping a notebook does something for her. Through her essay she is able to tell the reader how writing allows her to connect with herself, not necessarily the events that are going on- instead she makes sense of what she sees. I believe this somehow fits my definition of creative nonfiction. The only problem I have is that I’m not really able to get “into” the story. It seems to random for me to be able to connect and feel any type of emotion towards this piece.

3. “Superman &Me” on the other hand fits my definition more that Diddion’ piece. Here, Alexie started reading superman comics. He overcame his past adversities and stereotypes as an Indian. This essay shows that the writer has made a distinct connection between himself and his relationship to his subject. He also portrays his story in a way that a reader may allow his or herself to feel sympathy-empathy and understanding towards the writer’s past struggle and accomplishments. It effectively exhibits the connection between the writer and the subject. It used literary devices and metaphors. It contained Plots, characters, scenes and dialogs. It also had an excellent presentation of experience.


4. Bret Lott’s “Toward a Definition of Creative Nonfiction” seems to be more informative than the other stories I’ve read so far. I don’t think it’s very creative at all. This in my opinion is definitely an essay. Based on my analysis, it refrains over and over again to make a point, the writer uses Accessible language, Short paragraphs, Lots of quotes from other CNF writers and, makes a point and then illustrates it with an examples. I believe these elements are not really features of fiction. I do however notice that like most fiction stories and creative nonfiction stories, it is written in first person and with confidentiality the writer talks to the reader.

5. Montaigne’s “That Men Should Not Judge” was not my particular favorite. I don’t think it necessary meets my requirements for creative nonfiction.I can see why it can be considered a parent of creative nonfiction. It does embody some of the elements of creative nonfiction writings. Montaigne’s relied on examples of other writers and indirectly explores his relationship with his subject. Unlike creative nonfiction writings. Unlike many creative nonfiction writings, he does really portray much emotions through his writing. Instead he writes with a more analytical approach. I can not really feel anything but confused when I read this essay. I don’t think that is the type of feeling he intentionally wants the reader to have upon reading his works. I also did not see a plot in this writing. I believe a plot is necessary when writing creative nonfiction.

6. Orwell’s “On Shooting an Elephant” was more like a creative nonfiction piece. It successfully displayed the relationship between the writer and the subject at hand. It used Literary devices and metaphors. It mentioned Plots, characters, scenes and dialogs. It also had an excellent presentation of experience. The only mediocre component of this writings was the topic of reflecting and circling and deeper.

7. Kincaid’s piece was enjoyable. I think it fits my definition of creative nonfiction. It displayed the writer’s relationship to the subject at hand. It allowed a reader to feel the emotions of the writer. Kincaid evoked memories…she allowed me to reflect on my past experiences and analyze myself then from what I know now.

8. Drummond’s piece was my absolute favorite. I felt the tension and nervousness of the writer. She was able to reflect on her past experience and her emotions that she was experiencing. She was able to portray her feelings in her writings and allow a reader to examine his or her beliefs about the situation. She sucks the reader right into her story and brings the reader along her rollercoaster of nervous emotions. There’s a plot, set of characters, relationship to topic, presentation of experience, scenes and dialogs.

9. Danticat, and Schwartz both have portrayed the writer’s relationship to the subject at hand. Both have plots, characters, settings, reflections,and excellent organization of sequence of events . These two writings fit my definition of creative nonfiction.

Posted in: on Monday, September 29, 2008 at at 12:01 AM 0 comments  

I now understand why were were told to write about experiences that have changed our lives. The lesson perfectly coincided with the assigned readings. Drummond's "Alive" was about a woman who revealed more and more details about her life with every new paragraph. In the first paragraph she simply informs the reader about a serial killer on the lose. In the second paragraph she revels that she worked as a cop during the 1980's. In the third paragraph she tells the reader that she left the police work and has tried her best to see the goodness in people. She tells the reader that she is sees a man who is staring at her and she does not have a good idea about him. She tries to block her suspicious nature, but she can not shake it off. In the fourth paragraph she thinks that the man is staring at her, in fact she claims that she knows the man is staring at her. She begins to show the reader that she is scared because she tells herself that she is no longer a cop, she is just a civilian. The next few paragraphs display the inner tension that the writer feels when she thinks about the "Stalker". She feels vulnerable and scared. She tries to block these thoughts, but fear begins to set it. As the tension rises, the story comes to a pause. The man leaves and she is on her own. She concludes by saying the nothing matters, at the end, everyone who is alive is at some point vulnerable.

I think that her experience from the police force has changed her life forever. As a cop, she was exposed to so much negativity, whether it's murder, robbery, assualt etc. She was exposed to the evil that humans were capable of. Being a police officer caused her to always have her emotional and physical guard up all the time. She did not know how to relax for long periods of time and no longer was able to see any genuine good in people. Becoming a police officer has forced her to lose trust in the kindness that people could have.

Like many, I feel that Westbury Court was not as easy to read. Unlike "Alive", Westbury Court did not really capture my attention. This essay is written in a fast paced manner. I think it is trying to tell a reader that in life, things are almost instantaous. People lose sight of what matters because they are so caught up with instant gratification. They overlook the important things in life, they are not able to prioritize.This was displayed when the writer said she was caught up watching "General Hospital", that she did not notice the smell of smoke from across the hall.The writer saw Westbury court differently after the fire. After the fire, her life changes.

Both stories have similarites and diffrences. They are similiar because the writers both realized something, through telling a story. They engaged us through allowing us to feel the feelings that they’ve felt.They make readers feel as if they are in the stories.These stories evoked a feeling within the reader. Though they have similarities, they are diffrent in a few ways.

In "Alive" the writer started talking about her surroundings and then her feelings. In Westbury Court, the writer described her feelings and then her surroundings. In "Westbury Court", the writer realized that things happen in life and that it is not like television. In "Alive", the reader realizes that nothing matters, feelings don't matter, people are vulnerable in life because they are alive.

Posted in: on Tuesday, September 23, 2008 at at 8:24 PM 1 comments  

In this essay “My father Always Said”, there’s a double thing going on.
Shwartz has a realization of one kind and her father is having a realization of another kind.
Her father begins with her being in this American teenage life and not knowing anything about her father’s country.
Her father was in complete opposition of the American way and he was stuck in Rindheim. As the story progress, they both switch their ideas. The father begins to accept the American ways.

Mimi lives in her father’s world. The father is sort of resting in sort of a new life and letting ogo of the past. He is kind of accepting and letting go . She is reclaiming her past and heritage. She discovers her heritage. The father lets go of his romanticized understanding of what the place was.
What is the experience that changes them? The trip to Rindhiem.
The action of this takes place on the trip to Rindhiem.
The first section is in her home in Queens. In the last section she is back in Queens.
Section 2 they are in the father’s house but they don’t go in. The old man recognizes the father but they are friendly but cool. Mimi doesn’t really understand this. She doesn’t understand the language and she doesn’t know why her parents are not friendly with the man. She also introduces that she makes a later trip to Germany in her adult years. Something is changing in the fire but we are not exactly sure or how. This is explained in section three. Because there the father reveals the story about the fire. So the man at the house didn’t help put out the fire.

Section 3 Here they are at the synagogue. She learns the story about how there is no reason to go in the synagogue. He learns about the cousin Fritz. They learn about the fire and how the people didn’t help them put out the fire. There was a separation between the two cultures. They can’t really blame e the nonjews for not helping them but they are angry because the synagogue was burned down.

Section 4 School
What does this section add? This school section adds the history, memories, and his adolescence. History of separation.



Section 5
In the graveyard.
There are no stones on the graves. This means that nobody remembers or honors the graves and family members that have passed away. He whispers to the grave that if he was there, there would have been more stones. She realized that her whole history was there. She never realized that her entire past and history that came before her was in the graveyard. She sees traditions here that she was never aware of in the past.
She’s realizing that the holocaust was once abstract is now personal for her in this section.
Section 6
Back in Queens, she realized that eighty seven Jews from her father’s village were deported and sent to the concentration camps. Here she realizes the loss and connects to the past.

Posted in: on Monday, September 22, 2008 at at 11:29 AM 0 comments  

This essay, "My Father Always Said" describes the relationship that the author had with her family, history, culture and beliefs. This essay was about discovery and how the writer learned more and more about her father’s homeland, her father’s childhood, her parent’s memories, her family’s hardships, persecutions from the Nazis and how life in Queens was different from life in Germany. She also discovered how time has changed so many things in the town of Rindheim.

Mimi Schartz also breaks up the essay into sections by using the white space between certain paragraphs. She breaks up the sections according to time and place. She does this in order to guide her reader into another part of her journey of storytelling. She guides them through recollections of memories and breaks up the section depending on time and place.

In the first paragraph, Mimi Shwartz begins by talking about how her father always mentioned the cultural differences between Americans and people of Rindheim. She tells the reader that her father has a common phrase for displaying his disapproving expressions towards his daughters. She also mentions that she was from Queens and that she never really paid much attention to what her father was talking about until she went to Rindheim Germany with her family. Within the first section, she tells the reader that her father fled from Germany. She also describes the cultural differences between her and her father and explains that she and her sister were rebellious during her teenage years.

The second section takes place in Rindheim. In this section the author tells the reader about her trip to her father’s homeland. She describes the differences between Queens and Rindheim. She describes the curiosity she had in seeing her father’s former house and her wanting to go into the home even though her father said no. In this section, she tells the reader that her father refused to teach her German because he didn’t want his children to speak the language of the Nazis. It is in this section that the author begins to display the father’s painful memories and resentment towards the Nazis and Hitler.

The third section takes place in Germany as her family draws closer to synagogue. Here the father tells his daughter about what his religious routines were as a child. He then revealed memories about the pain of leaving his country. He described how hard it was for his family of forty to leave Germany. He tells his daughter that he that to smuggle money in toilets in order to bring funds to America. He describes the brutality of the Nazis and how they burned churches and sent helpers of the Jewish people, to become cannon fodder.

The fourth section takes place in Rindheim as the author describes her hunger during the car ride to her father’s former schoo. It is then that her father tells her that the school used to be segregated between Jews and NonJews. The author attempts to draw a connection between her father’s childhood experiences to her own.

The fifth section takes place in the caras the father goes down a crooked road. She tells about how she headed to the cemetery to see graves of former family members. It is at the cemetery that she draws a connection between her relationships with her grandparens in New York, to her nonexistent memories with her grandparents whose graves she added stones to. She tells the reader about how her father was putting stones on a grave in order to show respect. By writing this, the author was able to portray her connection with her so called cultural background to her actual family history. This allowed her to feel more connected with her culture and family legacy. She also learned that she had an older aunt who never made it to America and was instead sent to a concentration camp. She believed only a small amount of people went.

In the six section of the essay, she describes how years later she has learned that it was almost a hundred people from her father’s small hometown that was sent to the concentration camps. In this section she describes how the phrase that her father always used in reference to Rindheim, meant so much more to her after her visit. Here the author connects her past experience with her current views about her father’s Rinheim. She also connects the differences between her past views about Rindheim, to what she learned from returning to her father’s homeland.

Posted in: on Sunday, September 21, 2008 at at 10:49 PM 0 comments  

I’ve read this particular piece before. I think I read it in my British Literature class last year. Orwell’s ideas are also conveyed through a story line, but I’m not sure if this was a true story. Because of the way it was written, it is understandable to believe that this type of writing may have influenced certain elements of creative nonfiction.

Similar to most creative nonfiction writings, this story is written in first person narrative and describes a definite place as a setting. It’s written as if the writer is retelling the details of an event that happened in his life. He also described the feelings that the town’s people had for him, his position in society and the cultural differences between people. The author walks the reader through the different emotions and thoughts that ran through his mind during the events that led up to him killing an elephant.

What creative nonfiction might have adopted from this piece is the structure and setup of the story itself. Again, the author’s ideas are conveyed through a story line that recollects his past memories, fears and encounters with the event. He describes his feelings for the elephant and his feelings about the townspeople. He indirectly describes the guilt that he felt. He also describes his outlook on death. He claimed that death did not look peaceful. What creative nonfiction may have adopted from his style of writings was his ability to describe his relationship to all components of the event that took place. Orwell describes exactly how he felt and what he saw when he shot the elephant. He almost seemed sympathetic at one point in the story. With his elaborate choice of vocabulary, and ability to piece elements of his story together, he allowed the reader to join him in the journey of discovery. A reader is able to ask his or herself, questions about their own personal views of peer pressure, responsibility, cultural differences, personal morals, death, cruelty and even guilt.

Michel de Montaigne’s “That Men Should not Judge of Our Happiness Till After Our Death” may have been considered a parent of creative nonfiction for a variety of reasons. Like some creative nonfiction writings, Montaigne’s relied on examples of other writers. Unlike creative nonfiction writings. (I’m not sure if these stories were true or not.)Montaigne indirectly explores his relationship to his subject. He also writes with a more analytical approach. He writes about death and his belief on death (if I’m not mistaken).

Posted in: on Tuesday, September 16, 2008 at at 8:03 PM 0 comments  

Upon reading Kincaid's "Biography of a Dress", I was able to gather some thoughts about creative nonfiction. In this specific writing, Kincaid looks at an old photo of her wearing a yellow dress. She then reflects on her memories of the events and people she met upon having her dress made for her. Kincaid manages to make sense out of the experiences and thoughts she had as a child. She reflects on her past thoughts and compares it to her current point of view. She writes in a manner that allows her readers to know she has grown up, learned and was able to evaluate her childhood beliefs.This is exemplified throughout the entire piece, as Kincaid uses parenthesis to enclose her current beliefs in relationship to her past memories. For example she said "I was powerless then (though not so now to like or dislike this story; it was beyond me then (though not so now) to understand the span of my lifetime then, two years old and it was beyond me then(though not so now)...."(210).

Not only does Kincaid write in a way to show the reader that she has matured since her childhood days, but Kincaid writes so vividly and descriptively that she is able to describe what it felt like to be a child witnessing all the events that led up to the making of her dress. She describes the scent and warmth of her mother’s skin. She describes the confusion she felt as child who was getting her ears pierced, she described the weather-local townspeople, foods and emotions she felt as a child. All these she described from a child’s point of view. Therefore, a reader can feel as if he or she is there with the Kincaid, witnessing the events unravel first hand. She attempts to make sense out of her childhood thoughts. For example, she describes the importance of certain things such as the color yellow. As a two year old she associated the color yellow with her dress and cornmeal (which was valued her mother as nutritious and necessary for a healthy body).

I believe that Kincaid is different from the other writers we have encountered in our assigned readings, because Kincaid was the only writer who constantly reflected on her childhood experiences and compared it to the knowledge and ideas that she currently has. She is able to distinguish the differences in her ideas and allows a reader to know that she has matured not only physically but mentally as well. She’s also different from the other writers, because she writes very long sentences that are usually broken up with commas and semicolons. This type of writing allows me to believe that she is just taking her thoughts and running with it; like how an excited child tells a story about his or her favorite toy in “Show and tell”, only pausing to breathe after they are almost out of breath. Kincaid is also diffrent because her story is more literary.
The other authors were more clear about what they were writing about. She is not quite clear. This essay was based on scenes and memories that don't really fit together. It’s more on how images are put next to each other. Her writing was based on a snapshop image.


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Lott was able to help me define the term creative nonfiction. In "Toward a Definition of Creative Nonfiction", he broke down each component of his overall definition. In the beginning of the essay he described that creative fiction is more than just writing about an event that happened. It is "writing about oneself in relation to the subject at hand"(271). He then adds on to his ideas by supporting each component with a reasonable explanation.

He tries to tells a reader that he or she needs to understand and highlight the reasons why they write creative nonfiction. He believes that a definition must be "proactive" and "reactive". He ends his essay by telling a reader that he or she must write in order to "understand" his or her lives. He claims that it is his or her "responsibility" in life. I guess what struck me the most was when Lott compared writers to explorers who were discovering the continents of themselves. (277). I thought that this was a great way of describing the duties of a creative non fiction writer.
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With reading all these essays and stories, I believe that creative nonfiction is writing about a subject, such as a person or specific event that took place and writing about in a way that demonstrates the relationship of the writer to the subject. I believe that creative nonfiction needs to demonstrate how the writer feels connected to what they are writing about. Creative nonfiction should also demonstrate how the writer is understanding the subject they are talking about, and how he or she is making sense of the subject.

Posted in: on Sunday, September 14, 2008 at at 9:57 PM 0 comments  

In my opinion, creative nonfiction is a type of writing that requires the most delicate care. I believe it's the art of extracting the most simple emotion of an ordinary scenario and rewording it so precisely and cautiously, that it's details would automatically ignite a blazing fire of memories in the mind of the writer.

Like all forms of art, it requires skill, practice, dedication and inspiration. It's the act of weaving together bits and pieces of meaningful moments with the beauty of words.This may explain why certain journal entries only make sense to the writers themselves. A writer may not necessarily be writing for entertainment purposes.Instead, one may be writing as a way of helping oneself make sense of the world around them.

This is what creative nonfiction means to me.

Posted in: on Tuesday, September 9, 2008 at at 4:15 PM 1 comments