Reflection 8-11-2013
This class was amazing. Our teacher, Brandon Alva, did an excellent job appealing to the personalities of each member of the class. He was very knowledgeable about writing styles and the mechanics of writing.
The readings we did really helped me expand my vision of writing potential. I learned to write in differing styles. The readings also helped me see into so many different perspectives that others have explored and shared through writing.
When it comes to revisions I've made as a writer, the greatest change came from doing the workshop piece. I submitted my 'memoir' to be critiqued by the class. I revised my original draft so many times it was unbelievable. I moved sentences all around, and adjusted paragraph size and content.
I really enjoyed the feedback from the students—the varying opinions on how things should be written is immense. Some feedback was good strong critique helping me improve my punctuation, and use ellipses, dialogue, and etc. properly. I enjoyed seeing feedback on how things should be written, and comparing to my writing style. It was useful to have their opinion on how I should phrase or word something, and me being able to say, “Hey, I like the way I wrote it, that's my style.” As a reader, and a writer, I have come to feel that it is an important thing.
As I corrected each draft, the specifics changed, and it almost got to the point of monotony. It was like I couldn't come up with the 'perfect,' way of phrasing anything, because something is going to be wrong to somebody. It made me feel that if I wrote something 'perfectly,' it would be plain and boring. To be a good writer, I feel you have to include your personality in your writing, or else it isn't real, and it isn't genuine. It's very possible that this is simply my lack of experience showing.
Of all the different styles of writing that we did, I think the most useful for me was the lyrical essay, and the poetry. The lyrical essay helped me understand that writing is more than just sentences. Each and every word in the sentence will affect the 'voice' of the piece. It also taught me that a sentence doesn't necessarily have to be so mundane. You can play with it, move it around, and change it however you'd like. Break the rules.
Poetry helped me in a similar way, helping me expand my view of the possible. I was very grateful to learn what iambic pentameter is, and how haiku's work. I was able to more fully comprehend that rhythm and sequence for rhymes is important, but you can break the rules even there.
Having different styles of papers that you have to write is a mind expanding experience. I am convinced that anyone, anywhere could learn from this class, no matter their writing level. Thanks for a great semester, and for constructive criticism. Not many teachers have that skill, but Mr. Alva certainly does.
Memoir 8-11-2013
"The Importance of Lunch"
As an adult—anywhere past the age of fifteen I'd say—do you ever sit and think on how you came to be the person you are today? Why you so thoroughly enjoy the presence of kids, or not? Why you 'inherently' hate cats? This happens to me a lot. Mostly I wonder how I became so sensitive—to the feelings of others, and to their critiques of myself. This memoir is one of those moments that I think changed my mindset forever. One of those moments that has softened my heart in a way that no other experience has.
I remember trying to blow the specs of dirt from the bread of my sandwich that quiet spring morning in Canada. I even took a nibble to see if I could tolerate eating a sandy sandwich. Nope. Sand and sandwiches don't mix. Out of some impulse to not take responsibility, I dropped the sandwich back where it fell and headed in to kindergarten. I didn't give a second thought as to what I would eat for lunch that day. Having been strictly taught never to litter, it has me perplexed looking back, how I so casually left it behind forgetting my mistake, and ignoring the teachings of my parents. I guess that's just childhood for you.
In kindergarten, time seems to pass so slowly when you do the boring things like reading, writing, or math. Doing crafts wasn't so bad, but for me time would fly as I built with the wooden blocks. I would build castles and imagine myself a great knight saving the princess. You know, the regular heroic fantasies. This particular day I had built a castle with a door and a roof, and it was amazing. I still remember my teacher taking the picture as I set one of the planks for a ceiling. Thus enthralled in childhoods way of thinking, lunch time rolled around swiftly.
I went to my backpack to retrieve the lunch that my loving mother had made for me. You can always trust that your lunch is there as a child when you have a mom like mine. Her sense of getting everything done in the morning was, and still is, impeccable. Yes! Lunch time. I was so excited to fill my eager stomach. As I pulled open the zipper, I saw nothing. Panic slowly rising, I fished my hand to the bottom, finding again: nothing. My heart sank, my stomach twisted, and my mind raced. What happened to my lunch? Where's my PB&J?! I couldn't remember that three hours earlier my lunch dropped into the sand from my backpack, as I hung upside down on the monkey bars. Tears began to well in my eyes as comprehension dawned on my young mind: I won't have lunch today. Nothing to eat. I'll starve! However it was processed in my feeble thoughts, it hurt down to my weary little soul.
I stumbled back to my desk, trying in vain to keep my back straight, and hide the pain that was so visible in my eyes. When I sat down, everyone around the desk kept saying, “What's wrong, Will? Why are you crying?” This only made the pain worse to my attention-hating mind. It was only moments before the teacher came to my rescue, clearly confused about the fuss at our table. A savior to my pain, though at the time, I couldn't see it.
“What's wrong, Will?” he asked with a sincerity only held for the wounded heart.
“I..I..I don't have a lunch,” I choked between sobs and breaths.
“What happened to it?” he replied.
“I must have forgotten it,” I said, still weeping with my head down, trying to sink into the chair so as not to be seen. It didn't work. I wish he'd leave me alone. All these people staring at me. I didn't want this attention. It can be embarrassing having everyone watching you—especially when that child is as sensitive as me.
Why was this so traumatic for me? My sorrow here can be understood if you realize what I am losing in this moment. I am losing popularity and power. Is it hard to believe that for some people this kind of social status started so early? I was a strong, independent, and “leader” kind of kid. (I didn't actively think myself so, but in hindsight it was always a subliminal thought.) I didn't need anyone else. I was dominant. The fact that this mistake hurt me so bad made the pain even worse—because everyone could clearly see I am weak. My perceived social status was disappearing in a moment, snuffed out as quick as a match fire, and as soon forgotten as the small warmth it did once provide.
“Well, let's see what we can do about that,” my teacher continued. What? Nothing can be done to fix this, I thought. “Who is willing to share part of their lunch with Will?” he asked the table. Oh no! I thought dramatically, Don't take from them—I don't want them to do without. I don't want to be that needy kid. My thoughts weren't this well formed back then, but if I could put my feelings to words, this would be them. I didn't want to take from other people. I didn't want to disturb the harmony of the day, you could say.
Within moments, food was piling in front of me. I couldn't believe my eyes. Kids were giving me portions of their lunches—Oreos, Dunkaroos, apple slices and orange slices, cheese strings, etc. I got half of a sandwich from my best friend at the time (and sadly I've forgotten his name). All this charity from my classmates didn't make my crying any better—it made it even worse because of the love I felt. It was a strange feeling for a boy as young as I was, yet it was powerful. It was like the depths of my icy heart was being warmed by rays of sunlight for the first time. Intense, and painful, yet very refreshing. The teacher could see I wasn't getting control of my senses, so he picked up the donated goods, and brought me to a desk by myself.
All the pain I felt and negative attention I perceived made me forget my hunger. But as I sat there alone, wiping away my frustrations and gathering courage to pick up the food so generously given, my appetite returned. I bit into the sandwich from my friend. It wasn't like the PB&J my mom would regularly make. The bread was softer, the peanut butter was sweeter, and the jam was raspberry. Mom never buys raspberry! I thought in wonder. I still tentatively continued eating after regaining my sense of hunger. How do you wantonly eat other peoples' food? Thanks, I thought, as I timidly reached to eat more, as if my thoughts could potentially be heard by my classmates.
The smorgasbord before me was amazing! Everything in front of me was new and different. Oreos and Dunkaroo's were a big thing to me, as they weren't in my family's financial budget. As I sat there, feeling the heat from everyone's eyes finally dissipate, I realized that my lunch today was better than it had ever been, and would ever be. What if I forget my lunch another day? Would I get a lunch this fantastic again? I hurriedly smashed that thought, I wouldn't want that kind of attention again. The lunch was a plus, but not worth the perceived humiliation. I was raised to be independent. You didn't ask to take from other people. You shared what extra you had with others. I don't think anyone of good conscience can freely take what others have rightfully earned. For me it was hard, even when offered and freely given.
To this day I still look back in what you could call an out-of-body-experience. I see my little blonde figure hunched over, alone, eating parts of other kids' lunches prepared by their loving parents. I see the kids and teacher in a different perspective now, and know that the view with which I saw that moment then, is far different from the view I hold now. The compassion and care on their faces is something I could then only scarcely begin to understand. Though I hope if the role had been switched, and I was a kid giving to another, I would have gladly shared what I had. Who knows...I may have been an unwilling giver, and that could be why I needed the experience for myself.
I think it's interesting how perceived social pressure can easily and drastically change the perception of a moment. I'm sure my teacher thought I was looney that I was crying instead of smiling when being offered aid to my broken day. The growth and years it took for me to correct my thoughts on this moment is embarrassing. I have a nigh-to unyielding mindset—one that I have worked very hard to adjust.
I would say in ending, that people are worth helping, no matter the perceptions we may hold of them. We all deserve a chance to change. Some will take only a few moments to rise-up in meeting a moment with proper etiquette, others will have to work on the same situation for years. I only wish I could reach back to that moment and with all the love that I now possess whisper in each of their ears: “Thank you. Your compassion will change this little heart forever.”
