I couldn't even sit in the front seat anymore, let alone drive the car. It seemed impossible that I would ever conjure the nerve to operate any kind of motor vehicle after the accident. The accident that left me with a cracked open face, that brought me to the hospital on an ambulance, then the fire boat, then another ambulance. The accident that was a wake up call, that changed the course of my summer. My father became frustrated with my fear and guilt towards driving, and insisted that I at least try sitting in the front seat with the car turned off, just to feel what it was like to be in that position again. I couldn't even do that; all I could think of was that cliff, the stone wall, and my bloody legs and woozy thoughts. Finally, he couldn't take it anymore, and signed me up for drivers ed. But I skipped classes and told my driving instructor I was busy every day of the week, even when I wasn't. When I finally drove the practice car for the first time, I flat out refused to take the car out of park for fifteen minutes, until finally the teacher physically pushed me aside, and changed the gears himself. And even then, in a 45 mph zone, I would not put my foot on the gas pedal, instead letting the car crawl along at 2 mph on its own. I didn't want to be responsible for thousands of pounds of metal. I was not a responsible person. No one believed I was, anyway, so why did they force me to take control?
I liked this piece, perhaps because of the way you described (or didn't describe) the "accident". You capture the reader's interest with that ambiguity around the accident, by describing all the habits and fears and after-effects of the accident, without describing the accident itself. One critique I might have-- at some point in this piece, I think it would be good to actually describe the accident. Perhaps it is just my curiosity that leads me to this feeling, but really I think it would make this piece stronger. Maybe right before the "drivers ed" bit would be a nice place to introduce/ briefly summarize the accident. Even without describing the accident this is a good piece, but I think it would just be that much more interesting to the reader if you do include some kind of background. Nice piece.
As children, our teachers and our parents draw paths in our minds between the runes we see on the pages of books, on street signs and on computer screens and physicals things that we can see and feel. These pathways grow, and become a source of inspiration and expression. Words become life changing and thought-provoking, resources and challenges. There is a transition between the words on the page and the words spoken out loud, to form the words in your mouth and speak the sounds. As a kid, the words I read sometimes formed in my mind a little differently than they should have been pronounced out loud. My speech and my eyes were not directly connected. I would read words, for years, and see the sounds in my head one way. Houston. Dachshund. February. The worst is a time when my family visited Washington DC when I was in 8th grade. We walked down the mall, looking at the famous artifacts and museums, and I pointed to one building in particular. "Look everybody!" I said excitedly. "It's the National Our Chives."
I have a bad habit of staring. Often towards the end of the day, my eyes develop a glazed look and fix themselves, unblinking, on a single subject, not looking away for an awkwardly long time. Unfortunately, that subject is often other people. I imagine it's creepy to look over and see the pale eyes of the kid who never willingly talks transfixed on your face. I apologize for that. It is not the person I look at, it's the little details. The color of their eyes in the sun, a particularly untidy section of hair, a crooked shirt collar. I don't intend to stare. It just happens when I'm feeling unfocused. Human beings as a whole interest me, and the little details can tell you a lot about someone; if they do their hair in the morning, what type of jacket they have (or don't have) with them, how many bracelets (if any) they wear.
I never believed that one day I would actually leave Waynflete. I was born only a few blocks away lived and when my mother took me home from the hospital she carried my 6 pounds body up a flight of stairs in cook-hyde house and settled her baby into our on campus home. Eighteen months later we moved a few miles away but not to worry I would attend waynflete in only a few short years, when I turned three and started Early Chilhood. It has been 15 years since that September day in 1999 when I took my first steps on campus as a student. My backpack was pink, and my shoes lit up but I was frankly quite similar to how I am today; tenacious and expressive; or "lacking a filter" as Sue my EC teacher told my mom. Waynflete has been a constant for the majority of my life and now that it is a nearing the end I am ever appreciative of what ever person in the community. Yes, even you, kindergarten teacher to whom I expressed my hatred daily, and boy a punched in the face in 5th grade. It is where I grew, where people can say "That's just Ella being, Ella". It's terrifying to be leaving. Good thing I moved back onto campus, Waynflete can't get rid of me that easily.
I woke up today with a sorry, beaten taste in my mouth, as well as a crass and revolting stench in my nose. My next realization was that as I slept I accidentally let my lips wander too far apart, and for an unknown amount they have been ajar. My third sudden, and most jarring realization, was the despairing pit of sorrow gaping through my stomach. It was an awful and shameful feeling... The feeling that I had left someone behind. Manifested in my stomach, I knew nothing good could fill it, no matter how much food I could eat or how delicious it might be. It could be a salmon hand roll from the sushi bar at the Maine Mall food court, and it couldn't fill the whole that was left when someone left me. When we stopped talking. Everyday since the awkward period, I can't believe it happened and I've been trying to ignore it. But it creeps up on me some mornings; a foul taste, a wretched smell, a destitute feeling. Someone lost who should never have been forgotten.
I really like this piece, James, because you articulate the details that many people ignore or don't value about mornings. The fact that you pointed out that often-present-but-ignored feeling of guilt/longing many get in the morning is awesome. Also, I love the specificity about your favorite food in the Maine Mall...it adds a little bite to this. The thing I'd work on would be evincing your point about what happened in class a little more; you can still be elusive/mysterious to some degree, but just give readers a little insight into the context. Awesome job!
"You'll never dance again." It was my absolute worst nightmare at the time. I went in expecting to be told that I was fine, normal, or something better than being told that my passion was never a possibility. I first discovered my problem when I was ten, but never thought anything of it. My knees pointed straight while my feet pointed north of east and north of west. I figured it was because I had taken a year of ballet before switching to gymnastics, but I always wondered. It floated around my brain from time to time. I finally went to my doctor about it, and I was told that my hips were turned in, and I should be transferred to a specialist, who transferred my to a physical therapist. The first words out of her mouth were "You'll never dance again." I should have listened to her. I danced for three years after that, and now have everlasting back pain. At least its grounds for massages.
The first line of this piece does a really good job of drawing in the reader's attention. It's interesting to read from the point of someone who hasn't done gymnastics or dance. Overall it's very well put together, but maybe you could have added in some sort of medical terminology - such as why dancing caused you back pain? That bit is a little confusing.
The best superpower is the ability to fly. Other people have countered my claim by saying that invisibility, or time travel, would be better. But I don't see it. To me, only flight would give me the visceral feeling of freedom that I crave. What can you do when you're invisible? NOTHING. Nothing extraordinary anyways. All you can do is the same boring old shit--without anyone seeing you. For me, flying would transcend the mere convenience of being able to get to school in 30 seconds flat, taking off from my fire escape and sliding in through TC's open window. (Let's hope he doesn't put a screen in.) Flying would be a retreat, a pastime, a surreal relaxation. Whenever I fly on an airplane people question my sanity and my age, for I look and act like a maniacal 8 year old. My hands clench with excitement rather than fear and my mouth, just short of foaming, becomes contorted into a parabolic smile that won't let down. My feet tend to tap out a patternless rhythm and I glue my face against the window for the duration of the flight. Once airborne I try to identify baseball fields and highways and topographical features, eyes never straying from the window. I am in bliss. Now if only I could capture this feeling while not being contained by a metal tube...
"6 to 8 weeks." 6 to 8 weeks until I can walk and play sports and be healthy again. It didn't seem to make sense, my ankle didn't even hurt when my feet pressed against the hard concrete sidewalks. Curse the untrained professionals at the ER clinic who told me I'd be fine in 1 to 2 days...
In 2007, I was a girl of ten years old, not even 150 centimeters off the earth. But I was lifted that afternoon, in a strange but glorious new city. London was sunny, the Thames shimmering with life... I'll never forget the sky or the clouds I saw that day. They were picturesque, perfect, as if gods had staged them for me. Ten year old me was strolling around the Tower of London, among the Crown Jewels. I wandered to a display case, where I came across three swords. I had heard about these swords, the sword of Temporal Justice, a long steel blade, the sword of Imperial Justice, also a longsword, and finally.... The sword of Mercy. It was Edward the Confessor's sword in the eleventh century, and has been kept intact for roughly one thousand years. In person, it looks brand new, except for its broken tip. I thought it must have been damaged in one of the numerous fires or a pillaging, but it was intentionally broken off, legend has it, by an angel to prevent a wrathful or evil king ascending the throne of England. Its symbolically cut off tip spoke to me at age ten. A contradiction was presented: a sword..... of mercy. It seems like surrealist art to me now, a statement of two contrasting pieces. Maybe it could be considered the first surrealist art piece? I digress. What I found that day was this: Perhaps a leader should not prove themselves eternally victorious, but rather listen to their morals. I think in that moment under the clear London sky I really found out what leadership and morality meant to me.
I couldn't even sit in the front seat anymore, let alone drive the car. It seemed impossible that I would ever conjure the nerve to operate any kind of motor vehicle after the accident. The accident that left me with a cracked open face, that brought me to the hospital on an ambulance, then the fire boat, then another ambulance. The accident that was a wake up call, that changed the course of my summer. My father became frustrated with my fear and guilt towards driving, and insisted that I at least try sitting in the front seat with the car turned off, just to feel what it was like to be in that position again. I couldn't even do that; all I could think of was that cliff, the stone wall, and my bloody legs and woozy thoughts. Finally, he couldn't take it anymore, and signed me up for drivers ed. But I skipped classes and told my driving instructor I was busy every day of the week, even when I wasn't. When I finally drove the practice car for the first time, I flat out refused to take the car out of park for fifteen minutes, until finally the teacher physically pushed me aside, and changed the gears himself. And even then, in a 45 mph zone, I would not put my foot on the gas pedal, instead letting the car crawl along at 2 mph on its own. I didn't want to be responsible for thousands of pounds of metal. I was not a responsible person. No one believed I was, anyway, so why did they force me to take control?
ReplyDeleteI liked this piece, perhaps because of the way you described (or didn't describe) the "accident". You capture the reader's interest with that ambiguity around the accident, by describing all the habits and fears and after-effects of the accident, without describing the accident itself. One critique I might have-- at some point in this piece, I think it would be good to actually describe the accident. Perhaps it is just my curiosity that leads me to this feeling, but really I think it would make this piece stronger. Maybe right before the "drivers ed" bit would be a nice place to introduce/ briefly summarize the accident. Even without describing the accident this is a good piece, but I think it would just be that much more interesting to the reader if you do include some kind of background. Nice piece.
DeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteAs children, our teachers and our parents draw paths in our minds between the runes we see on the pages of books, on street signs and on computer screens and physicals things that we can see and feel. These pathways grow, and become a source of inspiration and expression. Words become life changing and thought-provoking, resources and challenges. There is a transition between the words on the page and the words spoken out loud, to form the words in your mouth and speak the sounds. As a kid, the words I read sometimes formed in my mind a little differently than they should have been pronounced out loud. My speech and my eyes were not directly connected. I would read words, for years, and see the sounds in my head one way. Houston. Dachshund. February. The worst is a time when my family visited Washington DC when I was in 8th grade. We walked down the mall, looking at the famous artifacts and museums, and I pointed to one building in particular. "Look everybody!" I said excitedly. "It's the National Our Chives."
ReplyDeleteI have a bad habit of staring. Often towards the end of the day, my eyes develop a glazed look and fix themselves, unblinking, on a single subject, not looking away for an awkwardly long time. Unfortunately, that subject is often other people. I imagine it's creepy to look over and see the pale eyes of the kid who never willingly talks transfixed on your face. I apologize for that. It is not the person I look at, it's the little details. The color of their eyes in the sun, a particularly untidy section of hair, a crooked shirt collar. I don't intend to stare. It just happens when I'm feeling unfocused. Human beings as a whole interest me, and the little details can tell you a lot about someone; if they do their hair in the morning, what type of jacket they have (or don't have) with them, how many bracelets (if any) they wear.
ReplyDeleteI never believed that one day I would actually leave Waynflete. I was born only a few blocks away lived and when my mother took me home from the hospital she carried my 6 pounds body up a flight of stairs in cook-hyde house and settled her baby into our on campus home. Eighteen months later we moved a few miles away but not to worry I would attend waynflete in only a few short years, when I turned three and started Early Chilhood. It has been 15 years since that September day in 1999 when I took my first steps on campus as a student. My backpack was pink, and my shoes lit up but I was frankly quite similar to how I am today; tenacious and expressive; or "lacking a filter" as Sue my EC teacher told my mom. Waynflete has been a constant for the majority of my life and now that it is a nearing the end I am ever appreciative of what ever person in the community. Yes, even you, kindergarten teacher to whom I expressed my hatred daily, and boy a punched in the face in 5th grade. It is where I grew, where people can say "That's just Ella being, Ella". It's terrifying to be leaving. Good thing I moved back onto campus, Waynflete can't get rid of me that easily.
ReplyDeleteI woke up today with a sorry, beaten taste in my mouth, as well as a crass and revolting stench in my nose. My next realization was that as I slept I accidentally let my lips wander too far apart, and for an unknown amount they have been ajar. My third sudden, and most jarring realization, was the despairing pit of sorrow gaping through my stomach. It was an awful and shameful feeling... The feeling that I had left someone behind. Manifested in my stomach, I knew nothing good could fill it, no matter how much food I could eat or how delicious it might be. It could be a salmon hand roll from the sushi bar at the Maine Mall food court, and it couldn't fill the whole that was left when someone left me. When we stopped talking. Everyday since the awkward period, I can't believe it happened and I've been trying to ignore it. But it creeps up on me some mornings; a foul taste, a wretched smell, a destitute feeling. Someone lost who should never have been forgotten.
ReplyDeleteI really like this piece, James, because you articulate the details that many people ignore or don't value about mornings. The fact that you pointed out that often-present-but-ignored feeling of guilt/longing many get in the morning is awesome. Also, I love the specificity about your favorite food in the Maine Mall...it adds a little bite to this. The thing I'd work on would be evincing your point about what happened in class a little more; you can still be elusive/mysterious to some degree, but just give readers a little insight into the context. Awesome job!
Delete"You'll never dance again." It was my absolute worst nightmare at the time. I went in expecting to be told that I was fine, normal, or something better than being told that my passion was never a possibility. I first discovered my problem when I was ten, but never thought anything of it. My knees pointed straight while my feet pointed north of east and north of west. I figured it was because I had taken a year of ballet before switching to gymnastics, but I always wondered. It floated around my brain from time to time. I finally went to my doctor about it, and I was told that my hips were turned in, and I should be transferred to a specialist, who transferred my to a physical therapist. The first words out of her mouth were "You'll never dance again." I should have listened to her. I danced for three years after that, and now have everlasting back pain. At least its grounds for massages.
ReplyDeleteThe first line of this piece does a really good job of drawing in the reader's attention. It's interesting to read from the point of someone who hasn't done gymnastics or dance. Overall it's very well put together, but maybe you could have added in some sort of medical terminology - such as why dancing caused you back pain? That bit is a little confusing.
DeleteThe best superpower is the ability to fly. Other people have countered my claim by saying that invisibility, or time travel, would be better. But I don't see it. To me, only flight would give me the visceral feeling of freedom that I crave. What can you do when you're invisible? NOTHING. Nothing extraordinary anyways. All you can do is the same boring old shit--without anyone seeing you. For me, flying would transcend the mere convenience of being able to get to school in 30 seconds flat, taking off from my fire escape and sliding in through TC's open window. (Let's hope he doesn't put a screen in.) Flying would be a retreat, a pastime, a surreal relaxation.
ReplyDeleteWhenever I fly on an airplane people question my sanity and my age, for I look and act like a maniacal 8 year old. My hands clench with excitement rather than fear and my mouth, just short of foaming, becomes contorted into a parabolic smile that won't let down. My feet tend to tap out a patternless rhythm and I glue my face against the window for the duration of the flight. Once airborne I try to identify baseball fields and highways and topographical features, eyes never straying from the window. I am in bliss. Now if only I could capture this feeling while not being contained by a metal tube...
"6 to 8 weeks."
ReplyDelete6 to 8 weeks until I can walk and play sports and be healthy again. It didn't seem to make sense, my ankle didn't even hurt when my feet pressed against the hard concrete sidewalks. Curse the untrained professionals at the ER clinic who told me I'd be fine in 1 to 2 days...
In 2007, I was a girl of ten years old, not even 150 centimeters off the earth. But I was lifted that afternoon, in a strange but glorious new city. London was sunny, the Thames shimmering with life... I'll never forget the sky or the clouds I saw that day. They were picturesque, perfect, as if gods had staged them for me. Ten year old me was strolling around the Tower of London, among the Crown Jewels. I wandered to a display case, where I came across three swords. I had heard about these swords, the sword of Temporal Justice, a long steel blade, the sword of Imperial Justice, also a longsword, and finally.... The sword of Mercy. It was Edward the Confessor's sword in the eleventh century, and has been kept intact for roughly one thousand years. In person, it looks brand new, except for its broken tip. I thought it must have been damaged in one of the numerous fires or a pillaging, but it was intentionally broken off, legend has it, by an angel to prevent a wrathful or evil king ascending the throne of England. Its symbolically cut off tip spoke to me at age ten. A contradiction was presented: a sword..... of mercy. It seems like surrealist art to me now, a statement of two contrasting pieces. Maybe it could be considered the first surrealist art piece? I digress. What I found that day was this: Perhaps a leader should not prove themselves eternally victorious, but rather listen to their morals. I think in that moment under the clear London sky I really found out what leadership and morality meant to me.
ReplyDelete