Angela's Creative Nonfiction Blog

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