Response to "Winter Wheat"

Just to comment on, her grandfather’s stories remind me of Albert Finney in the movie, Big Fish; how he was always telling stories that never seemed completely true or were overly elaborated. But as far as her writing structure, McDuffie seems to write as if she’s reliving her memories that also correlate to what is most significant to her. For example, in the first scene the house on the wheat fields is symbolizing mobility: her grandfather was always moving around. Then she goes on to explain his extreme stories and how he was a hero in all of them. I can see where she doesn’t fully believe her grandfather stories, when “…and the older we got the more he expected us to believe”—McDuffie is subtlety telling readers that she was intrigued by her grandfather, but did not necessarily believed everything he said was realistic. I get the sense that she wanted to know her grandfather based on the facts, instead of fiction or fantasy because she fills in the holes of his stories by asking her father. I also think McDuffie longs for stability and with the descriptions she hears at his funeral, she doesn’t “recognize” her grandfather through these statements. Her writing has a sense of longing for the truth, where she leaves the readers to believe she will find reality and stability.  

The Power of Technology

I often find myself struggling in the acceptance of certain behaviors, typically those who are ignorant to the world around them besides their fulfillment of instantaneous wants from a click of a button. It’s this judgment and search to understand the mentality of my peers and the use of the all-powerful internet, which causes frustration that is reflected in my face and ears. I come from an Irish descent and anger is shown through rosy cheeks and ears, when emotions are bottled up. That’s why, for me, finding the balance between emotions and numbness has been like a constant tug-of-war.

A few days ago, I had an executive meeting with an organization. Usually, the president brings up the main points of the objectives, but the fundraising exec keep interrupting and only voiced his problems and concerns with opinionative, passionate comebacks. For some reason my cheeks and ears flared-up to the point of a violent, rapid heart rate. I had let the behavior of one person upset me to the point of distress. Why? Why had I let myself feel so strongly about this? His quick comments and cutting attitude gave the realization of awful communication skills.

There you have it, my generation the one that grew up with the internet, cell phones, and other high-advanced technologic gadgets. We are slowly losing the knowledge and ability for words spoken beyond an electronic, glowing screen that says ‘Comment’ ‘Post’ or ‘Like.’ I have often been prey to his form of technology, but I am in shock when my peers talk in one-sided conversations. This involves the competition of who had the craziest stories or experiences happen to them.

These high-powered systems are nearly dehumanizing us. Sometimes, I might running away with my emotions to the point of my own torment, but if we are always consuming each other for materialistic gain, are we then becoming numb?

I remember California

I remember California, summer before my college career, not necessarily a vacation, just visiting family. 

I remember feeling mixed emotions upon seeing my sister: excited, nervous, reluctant. 

I remember she would always say “I’m never getting’ married or havin’ kids,” but look what happened, she was already married and a week before our arrival she had given birth to a beautiful baby girl. 

I remember upon her graduation of high school my sister, Brittany, had joined the Navy because she felt she had no other option. I remember bootcamp was described as intrusive. 

I remember her move to San Diego with her husband.

I remember the call to my mom about her pregnancy. 

I remember planning for a week in the California sun. 

I remember the breezy weather was unlike any climate I had ever felt.

I remember feeling carefree within the smooth winds. 

I remember the warmth and hesitation upon holding my niece. 

I remember the frightening moment to understand what position is best. 

I remember sitting in my sister’s black, pleather loveseat soaking in the lavender scent of this newborn.

I remember it only took minutes before I was fast asleep. 

I remember my sister in the kitchen preparing her bottle. 

I remember the powdery, chemical milk taste and smell was questionable. 

I remember my sister handling her with such care that I had never seen her use before. 

I remember feeling glad that she had it figured out. 

I remember leaving the model family and the flawless summer weather with true serenity. 

Response to "In Wyoming" by Mark Spragg

When I read this essay, I was seeing a distinctive picture of the wild atmosphere. Spragg uses blunt sentence structures—the first sentence, “This place is violent and it is raw,” immediately pulls the reader in, to explain Wyoming with its rugged qualities. The use of “nakedness, or leniency,” shows readers that Wyoming is not a place for the weak or faint of heart.  This essay flows from paragraph to paragraph with the description of the wind, the landscape, the animals, nature, then he goes on to describe what it is like without the wind. The wind is pictured as, “…unchoreographed with the spontaneous inelegance of a brawl,” which is a brilliant way to show that the wind is uncontrollable and is chaotic. He effectively shows the adaption to a climate and culture, by showing how people act silly when there is no wind such as yelling or being inattentive to new surroundings. He explains his adaption with Wyoming by always being “alert,” with the opposition of saying that Wyoming is not a place for naïve people. 

Revision of Life Scene Inspired by "Night Song"

I remember this one day where my dad and I were driving home in his big rusty, grey van and on occasion, the van would need talking to when it started to act up. In this moment, I heard “Just get me there, baby. Just get me there.” After about ten minutes of my dad’s discussion with the van, I finally realized the van was low on gas. Suddenly, the van broke down and I found myself standing on the side of the highway feeling the cars rush by. My father has always seemed to have bad, Irish luck when it comes to vehicles, but as a carpenter, he has basically been self-named as the “Mr. Fix-It Guy.” So, in this moment, I knew he would think of a way to get the van running again; he has always had a way of making me feel secure no matter what the situation is. But as an awkward kid, I felt unsure as what to do or how to help. Particularly, when my dad hopped over a fence and told me to come on, I panicked. I didn’t know how to hoist my body over the grayish wires with diamond-sized holes that were meant for the smallest feet in the world. I had climbed trees multiple times before this, but for some reason this fence seemed to my worst enemy. For a moment, I thought "I’ll just stay behind", but my dad refused to leave me behind on the side of the highway. After an intense struggle, we walked down the road where a gas station was about five to ten minutes away from where we broke down. While my dad filled the red gas container, I remember feeling strange for standing at a gas station without a car. My dad ended up talking to another man about carpentry and I again stood there awkwardly without a purpose, while I waited to get back to the broken-down van and head home. At this moment, my dad and I both watched this elderly lady pull up in a typical Oldsmobile with only three rubber tires. This lady had driven all the way from her home, which had to have been at least 3 miles from the sight of the long, white, jagged line following her from the street, to the gas station to see if someone could help her. I remember the shock on my father’s face when he saw this woman and her car. As a hospitable and knowledgeable man, my dad took one look at the car and knew exactly what to do as always. This is the first memory I have where my father was in a difficult situation and knew exactly how to solve the problem. Seeing his selflessness and generosity with the old woman made me proud to have the father I do. So, for a long time afterward, I would always look at that gas station from the highway between the storage spaces and give a little chuckle. 

Reponse to "Signs and Wonders" by Rebecca McClanahan

McClanahan describes the harsh realities of living in New York City with using relatable diction. In the beginning of this essay, McClanahan starts with a description of the sounds outside of her apartment to signify the toll it takes to live in a city that supposedly never sleeps. In her eyes, New York can be seen as beautiful, strange, and exciting; the city is almost romanticized by the hustle and bustle of everyday life. In “Signs and Wonder,” I often found myself relating to her feelings about only “subletting” in life; the natural world never seems like our own. This essay gives readers the sense that life is a process in finding signs that are significant to the stage of life we are in. The most interesting part of this essay is that even though she is aware of the griminess of New York, she still stays in the city: “…it’s like first love again, first lust, and you wonder how you could possibly live anywhere else. Then a steam pipe bursts, the couple in the apartment above you straps their steel-toed boots back on, you step in a puddle of urine on the subway platform and some guy with three rings in his nose calls you Bitch and spits on you…”  This visualization of New York shows how she is observing or being lost in her surroundings, but she is also trying to find meaning in her life.  

Life Scene: Inspired by "Night Songs" by Stephen Kuusisto

During the summers of 3^rd or 4^th grade, I would attend the YMCA while both my parents worked. There was this one day where my dad and I were driving home in his big rusty, grey van down route 8. On occasion, the van would need talking to when it started to act up. In this moment, I heard “just get me there, baby. Just get me there.” About ten minutes after this, when I finally realized the van was low on gas. Suddenly, the van broke down and I found myself standing on the side of the highway feeling the cars rush by. As an awkward kid, I wanted to help out but did not know what to do. Particularly, when my dad hopped over a fence and told me to come on, I panicked. I didn’t know how to hoist my body over the grayish wires with diamond-sized holes that were meant for the smallest feet in the world. Luckily, there was a gas station five to ten minutes away from where we broke down. While my dad filled the red gas container, I remember feeling strange for standing at gas station without a car. My dad ended up talking to another man about carpentry and I again stood there awkwardly without a purpose, while I waited to get back to the broken-down van and head home. At this moment, my dad and I both watched this elderly lady pull up in a typical Oldsmobile with only three rubber tires. This lady had driven all the way from her home, which had to have been at least 3 miles from the sight of the long, white, jagged line following her from the street, to the gas station to see if someone could help her. I remember the shock on my father’s face when he saw this woman and her car. As a hospitable and knowledgeable man, my dad took one look at the car and knew exactly what to do. This is the first memory I have where my father was in a difficult situation and knew exactly how to solve the problem.  Seeing his selflessness and generosity with the old woman made me proud to have the father I do. So, for a long time afterward, I would always look at that gas station from the highway between the storage spaces and give a little chuckle. 

Response to "Brief History of My Thumb" by Lucia Perillo

In this essay, Perillo describes the experience of hitchhiking and how someone can feel adrenaline by getting into semis driven by questionable men. This essay also plays on the idea of repeating the same thing over again even though there is knowledge of a potential risk. The protagonist has this sensation of hitchhiking almost as an addictive drug—she likes the feeling of mystery and danger. Perillo portrays hitchhiking as women giving away their souls to get a ride, especially when she describes women hitchhikers as “…the sexy French women in their high-heeled boots suddenly disappeared back to whatever swanky place they’d come from,” (23). The interesting part of this essay is when she becomes a trucker and has to decide what hitchhikers to pick up and which not to pick up. Perillo explains the regret of leaving an Indian woman behind and how the hitchhikers she has or has not picked up still haunt her.