Looking back on this semester, I’ve noticed that I have changed greatly. I went from a disorganized and scrambling writer, who could only get around a four on her essays, to a clear and concise writer who happily claims a high six for a paper. It is really amazing how much I have grown over the year and how much this class has helped me in other classes as well as everyday life. Because of Ms. Robinson’s AP Language class I have received laudable merits on papers in other classes, and I believe that I will now be more prepared for the SAT as well as resumes. There are many interesting writers whose works I was obligingly introduced to. I absolutely love Virginia Wolfe, and I loved reading the passage by Horace Mann because it helped me in U.S. History with Blackstock. Now, thanks to Ms. Robinson’s class I am happy to say that I am no longer nervous about college classes and I look forward to taking Mr. Robinson’s AP English class next year.
Memoirists: Telling the Tale of Truth?
Everyday we hear stories: “I totally bombed that Pre-Calc test,” “I caught a grouper so big it could barely fit in the boat,” “She was so mad, that she nearly bit my heat off.” Logically, we do not hold these accounts to the highest levels of factuality, but we do get the gist of what these embellishments mean. Since we endure fallacious and overly-exaggerated stories so often, should we be surprised when memoirists make “use of invented details” (Source B)? One is left to ponder what shapes memoirists’ dedication to the truth – or lack there of, as it seems most often. Are they swayed by how much money a few over done stories will attract, or whether or not the truth can be construed as subjective?
Most will agree that authors’ commitments to honesty fall flat and that memoirists generally like to “invert the truth” so that they can achieve some monetary value from their story. Therefore, the most important objective to consider would probably be the influences on the memoirist; Does “the root of all evil” have a claim on these author? It is obvious that Bill Amend, the author/illustrator of the “Foxtrot” comic strip, would agree that money plays a large role in the standard of truth that a memoirist will use. Amend’s character claims, “If I make [my memoir] really sad and inspirational, Oprah will select it for her book club, and I’ll rank in gajillions” (Source D). The book that the character is alluding to is A Million Little Pieces, a book written by James Frey and endorsed by Oprah, which was sold as a best seller for over a year. James Frey notably embellished many “facts” in his memoir. Frey, like most memoirists, was probably influenced by monetary means—the fact that the book could earn millions would be a seemingly good enough reason to fake a few details. By falsifying accounts Frey helps to demolish the credibility of “truth”; This furthers the chain of author-to-reader deceit and showcases the memoirists’ lack of commitment to truth, even though truth should be one of the most important aspects of a memoir.
Like money, the subjectivity of truth may influence a writer. An embellishment here, a falsity there, and leaving out a boring part every so often… Writers can choose what “truth” they choose to tell, even if it means compressing the facts a bit. That is not too big of a deal since people do it all the time. It does become problematic, however, when a memoirist forgets a fact of high importance (as Patricia Hampl, the Regents’ Professor of English at the University of Minnesota, contests in her book I Could Tell You Stories) (Source F). Memoirists leaving out that they had Mini-Wheats and orange juice for breakfast is not as important as leaving out the substantial event of their parents’ death. Every so often a miniscule fact is bound to be misrepresented r even completely absent due to the pertinence of the event in respect to the story’s overall meaning and fluidity.
However, Reverend Doctor Mark D. Roberts does not agree “[he] do[es] not think that truth is merely a matter of personal perception” (Source C). Roberts believes that truth stands with in factual evidence. That may be right, Reverent, but it is not completely true. Memoirists would not base their writing completely upon fact because fact alone cannot hold significant import. “The Holocaust was a killing of Jews” is not as reverent as a tale packed full of emotion, thoughts, and yes even embellishments all about how a Jewish child survived the tortures of a concentration camp; little details about how the guards looked like devils and how death would be a savior are not completely factual, but they do help to make a memoir more emotionally challenging for a reader.
While many agree that facts are needed in a memoir, they tend to disagree about whether or not facts are the only necessary medium. After carefully examining both sides it can be concluded that personal significance of an event is needed to further where the facts fall short. Even though the subject of truth may seem inane, it is highly influential with today’s concern about future generations and their learning from the past; without personal feelings poured into every historical account (for future generations to imbibe) we would be doomed to repeat the ideals of the Nazis, the Klansmen, the Fascists and to live the rest of eternity as a cold-hearted populous.
Even though I forgot to do many things in my original synthesis paper, I do believe that those problems were fixed this time. I had, absentmindedly, not bothered to relate my topic sentences back to the prompt, and the argumentum opinion was absent. However, this time around I did attempt to tie my topic back to the prompt and to use more of the language of the prompt. By adding in little phrases every so often the opinion should be more obvious. Additionally, I added more to a description that was seriously lacking in details.
“Corn Pone Opinions”
Questions for discussion:
Twain links conformity and self-approval in his text “Corn Pone Opinions” by establishing the idea that our opinions are completely shaped by the opinions of others around us. Like a ball of clay, our minds process the information that surrounds us in a way parallelling the way others in our environment would. So, if Sally acts a certain way to a stimulus, then it is likely that her neighbors Jody and Jill will too. “The outside influences are always pouring in upon us, and we are always obeying their orders and accepting their verdicts” (Twain). It matters not that one thinks that one has formed an original opinion, it is only plausible that said opinion was formed upon a basis of others influence; therefore, even our self-approval is based upon the approval of others. (134)
2.Twain believes that the difference between standards and fashions is that fashions are something that will last a short while and then dissappear while standards will continue on forever. For instance hoop-skirts, the number of used wine glasses at the dinner table, as well as other “perishable” things that we believe are standards when they are actually just fashions. Actual standards, in Twain’s opinions, would be ideas or people who we idealize for a certain task (Shakespeare, and our prose would for instance). The hoop-skirt fashion may seem like a set standard for a time but it does not stay that way forever; on the other hand, Shakespeare is likely to be a reference point for writers and scholars for a much longer duration of time, thus making him a standard. Currently, we still have set standards and attributed fashions, our standards would be linked closely to our morals and or predating idols such as George Washington, Martin Luther King Jr. , as well as many other great and noble people that we will forever look upon with a kind eye because of their prowess. Fashions of the time would likely be our political out crys, our fixation on technology, as well as any other ideal that is likely to expand or become extinct in the next few years. (218)
Unheard Pleas
This journal entry was inspired by the fact that four of my dear friends are going to be deployed to Iraq for long terms. They’re all leaving with an air of ignorance surrounding them. They don’t believe that anything could possibly happen to them. After writing this I fell in love with it. I love how the story is third-person-omniscient perspective, and how you know everything that the protagonist is thinking. I love how suspense is built by interrupting the supporting character’s speech with the protagonist’s thoughts. I love the parallelism between the first scene and the second, to invoke the same impatience in the reader that the protagonist is feeling. I also love how the protagonist doesn’t seem like a made up person, even though she is; I honestly feel that she seems like a real person that is dealing with a situation much as another would. But the thing I love the most about this story is the completely un-expecting, but finalizing conclusion. This has got to be my favorite, by far! I hope you love it as much as I do!
Jamie smiles, This weekend should be amazing, just like every other weekend’s been sense I got back from France. She fiddled impatiently as she waited for her fiancé, Wilson, to arrive. I wonder if he missed me. Oh! GOD! He’s leaving in four months.
OH GOD!
There will be no happy Christmas with the family.
There will be no more “worry-less bliss”.
Ripped away, he will be, from my outstretched, flailing, arms.
Soon he will be discarded, to a land of death.
Where murderers hate him.
Bombers aim for him.
What about Riley, she’s only 3, how is she supposed to understand that her daddy’s leaving and may not “come home soon”?
He’s going to have “shell fire” as birthday present and a shrapnel scar for Easter.
~Knock! Knock! ~
Wilson entered with a bundle of daisies, “Jamie! What’s wrong? Why are you crying? Did I do something wrong?” Jamie sobbed louder, “EIGH LOBE YOU-WHO-WHO!”
“Please don’t cry! I hoped I’d see you happy when I left!”
Jamie’s eyes widened, “What?”
“My plans have changed; I’m going to Iraq tomorrow, urgent orders.”
[...]
Jamie smiles when the caller I.D. read, “Incoming Call: WILSON”. She had been fiddling impatiently all day as she waited for her husband to call.
~Click~
“Hello?”
“Is this Mrs. Wilson?” said a deep voice.
Jamie giggled, she loved being called that ever since the 2 a.m. rushed wedding in Vegas. “This is she!”
The voice suddenly became verboding. “Ma’am we bad news.”
“Jericho is that y-you?” she nervously stammered.
“I wish it wasn’t.” he murmured gravely.
“Oh God, Jericho are you alright?”
“Jamie I’m fine, but you need to listen to me!”
I have bad news; it’s about Wilson.”
Silence enveloped her, leaving nothing but the sound of her exploding heartbeat. Oh God no! Oh God no! OHGODNO!
“Please stay calm Jamie.”
No.
“Breathe Jamie.”
NO!
“There was an accident Jamie.”
NO! NO! NO! NO!
“There was a land mine.”
I can’t feel anything. Where am I? This can’t be happening. It’s just a nightmare. Tigger’s just joking. He can’t be serious. Wilson’s fine. This is happening. My heart is on fire. Make it stop, just make everything stop.
“The tank he was in ran over the land mine.”
Oh please no! God no! Where’s Riley? Oh God, how am I going to tell her, the sweet little girl that draws pictures of her daddy coming home? Why is this happening? What did I do? I can’t breathe!
“Jamie, breathe, Jamie, please breathe Jamie.”
Wilson was a hero Jamie.”
Wilson was my brother Jamie.”
“Was”? Why “was”? Oh god he’s a “Was” now, not an “Is”! No, GOD NO!
“Jamie, talk to me. Please Jamie talk to me. God Jamie just talk to me.”
She finally noticed that he too was sobbing.
“Jamie, I’m sorry, God I’m so sorry!”
“It’s not your fault,” she croaked.
“Oh, Jamie, I wish it wasn’t. I was supposed to be in that tank. HE switched duties with ME. I saw it happen. God I tried to save him, I lost an arm to the fire while I tried. I didn’t care Jamie. I loved him Jamie.”
No.
“All he ever did was talk about you Jamie. He loves you Jamie. I’m sorry Jamie, God I’m sorry Jamie.”
I can’t take this anymore.
~Click~
Jamie is still completely shattered as 5-year-old Riley clamors through the door, “Happy Birthday Mommy! Isn’t Daddy coming home soon?”
Sad But True
I love this one because it’s depressingly beautiful. Tell me what you think!
Isn't it neat how this cookie cutter completely describes a person!?
I Love You!
Write a literal love song. I like this one because I think it’s cute and catchy(but slightly Corny) if it’s sang to the tune of Landon Pigg’s “Falling in Love at a Coffee Shop”.
I love you.
Oh I do!
You make me smile,
Laugh and sing
And on my cellphone,
You’ve got your very own ring.
I hold your picture,
To my heart when I sleep.
Because darling,
Without you I would weep.
MUCH hatred
This is a copychange of Emily Dickinson’s poem “Much Madness”. In this poem it talks about human society as a whole that is being looked at from the eye of God. I like it because it shows my idea of what humanity is completely.
MUCH hatred in the world’s since,
To the Overlooking Eye.
Many see the darkest hatred.
‘Tis the majority.
In people, of all, it prevails.
Rise up, and you are blameless;
Succumb, —-you’ve been lost,
And gather with the rest.
The cowards who shall follow,
are to die,
and die many times before their deaths.
Serpent Song
The assignment was to write a paragraph or poem using personification to help a reader visualize something.
I think this one is more personal if it's handwritten.
”Serpent Song” is one of my favorite journal entries due to the complexity of the meaning. The song twists and turns around the crowd, mezmerizing them like a cobra would. But then after the song reaches it peak, it begins to die. The snake-voice falls slowly, as its life is prolonged. At last it falls to the earth, dead. But, the snake-voice concept is only a surface level examination. The poem also symbolizes human life, and how we meander pointlessly throughout our days untill we begin to decline. We will die and also stay upon the earth. I LOVE IT!
Not a Feminist, But an Activist.
This is a copychange of passage by William Jennings Bryan. At the time of it’s composition, I was irritated because the night before at work. Two arrogent marines came in and they were quite rude. When I was filling their glasses, one said, “Hey there, now why don’t you cut my steak for me?” “Why should I?” “Because you’re a woman, that’s what you do. Cook and clean. Hell, the marrage vows even say that you have to obey.” His creamy texan accent, was sour curdled milk to my ears. My face got red, and I told him that women have rights now and I would never obey a man. “Well then darlin’ why don’t you just fill up my drink, and sit right here by me. I’ll even give you the privledge of having my arm around me if you’re good.” My mouth tightened and I stomped away, in the background I heard him call a server, “Hey there skunk those are some extreme f****** highlights. Why don’t you go back and fetch me some rolls? Shew, shew, now.”
I don’t remember everything that happened after that all I know is that they had thrown tomatos and penutshells all across the floor I had just swept. This caused me to storm, fuming, into the kitchen, scream at the top of my lungs, “BRUCE! I’M ABOUT TO QUIT!” He ran to the front, because Linda, the head manager, would kill him if I quit. “What’s wrong?” “There are womanizing jarheads at C2. If I don’t clock out now you’ll have to fire me: I’m about to bash their heads in with a frying pan. I want to say a witty reply to their degrdations, but I can’t if I’m working. Let me off or I quit, I swear to God I’ll quit if you make me go back to ‘serve’ them.” “Ok ok ok ok! Just don’t quit, you can go!” I furiously trode to the front door, only to hear a whistle and a “Mhm shake that thing baby girl.” from the jerks at C2, and a, “Quit harrassing the help, she’s only 16, pedo.!” from a familiar voice.
Okay! So after that introduction here’s the copychange:
Sorry Chizzy I have to disagree!
Silence is Awkard?
This entry is one about the best parts of silence. So, I thought it would be fun to give it a main character. Who tells about what she sees. I also love alliteration (if you haven’t noticed from my other entries) so this stories jam-packed with it! Don’t forget to pay attention to details and picture them!
I sat brooding, and looking out the window whilst my partner drove. Delicate tree tops danced daintily about the distant horizon; specks of wildflowers flashed by with their vast array of intricately painted blooms. Signs forged of steel stood brittle against the vibrant backdrop and the metal posts looked unsuited for their ill-fitted habitat. The banks of ditches glisten with crystalline waters that bobbed over bulbous rocks. Butterflies floated upon silent wings in a soon-passed field. Corn sprouted from scourged earth and stretched towards the sky for its essentials of life. Silence surrounded me and enveloped me in serenity. A graceful deer lept on agile feet across a barren field. But, without warning my soul-filling silence was stripped away when a young buck whirled into the road. Our car quickly veered and squealed out of control; I could only stare with bitterly thankful eyes at my quick-reflexed partner.
