I lay motionless on the carpet, with my ear pressed up against my bedroom door. The smell of the carpet, that distinctly sterile yet somehow also dusty smell, infiltrates my nostrils and stops to sit heavily in my lungs. I struggle to comprehend the distant voices; at first hushed and hurried but quickly growing louder. My mother’s voice travels the dark hallways to my room like lightening, disrupting the calm of a late school night, “You make me sick, I can’t believe I married you!” And like thunder, my father’s reply follows, “Believe me, if I had the chance to do it all again, we wouldn’t have gotten married!”
There were many nights like this. So many, in fact, that when I look back to this period in my life it is as if someone maliciously sucked the days out of my memories, leaving me with one elastic night that lords over my past like a thick, morning bayou mist.
For the better part of a year, 1999 to be exact, this turmoil bred “irreconcilable differences” in my parents’ marriage. Spring, summer and fall were all marred by venomous words and bitter actions. Christmas came and went without bringing joy or the present of normalcy. January was bitterly cold and in February, this saga of marital attrition came to an end.
It happened while I was at school so I can’t say I actually saw my dad moving out of my house and out of my life. When I got home, he was just moved out. My mother was in the kitchen chopping an unnecessary amount of onions. A quick inventory check revealed the kitchen table, family room sofas and my father’s desk to be missing. My brother noticed this as well. Having Down syndrome, the only way he found to express himself was to cry over the missing furniture, “Where is my sofa?” Though he couldn’t say it, he knew much more was missing.
All I could do was watch my mom begin to chop another onion and envy the fact that my brother, apparently, was only upset over the missing furniture. It was the same envy I felt knowing he slept soundly through the many nights of yelling that continued to haunt me the next day and for the rest of my life.
I stood in the doorway of the kitchen for what seemed like an eternity, too afraid to ask the obvious: did my dad really move out for good?
My mother, sensing me standing petrified waiting for something and no longer able to stand the weight of the silence stopped her compulsive dissection of onions and turned around to face me.
Tears glistened in her eyes. I wanted her to tell me she was crying because of the onions, that we were getting new furniture and that my dad would be joining us for dinner tonight. Instead, tears now rolling down her face, she strived to keep her voice emotionless, “John, I think we all knew this was coming. Your dad and I have decided to separate. He rented an apartment near the city and you guys will spend the weekends with him.”
With those words, I knew things would never be the same and I was terrified by the uncertainty of the future.
Life before the fighting and the separation was defined. Defined in that my mother was a stay-at-home mom from Nicaragua; my father was a corporate lawyer from upstate New York; my mother was married to my father; my parents had two children; we vacationed together and I was to attend catholic/private school followed by a prestigious college and finally University of Chicago Law school, just like my dad.
Now, this defined life I had known up until this point suddenly lay shattered. I never imagined a life in which my parents were divorced and the implications of this reality are still being discovered and understood.
The security I once felt with the façade of a seemingly normal family was stripped away a long time ago. Notions of marriage, love and family were forever altered; my sense of life direction and certainty in my destiny obscured by the chaos of it all.
And the shake-up was merely beginning. One weekend, after having spent it at my dad’s apartment and now being dropped off, my parents erupted into a huge argument. It ended with my mom storming out of the house, something she had never done before. My father came out from the room they were fighting in and called my over to the living room couch, whose innocuous floral pattern I will always remember.
Searching for the words and struggling to hold back his emotions my father said, “John, I need to talk to you about something.” I had never seen my father anywhere close to crying and I worried over what it could be he needed to talk about. “John”, he said, barely audible, “your mom has been begging me to let you guys move to California.” I already knew the next words but I refused to believe them long after my mother, brother and I moved to California, three thousand miles away from my dad and everything else I had known.
As I sat in my window seat on the plane to California, I thought of how far away I was now traveling; how far away from everything I had ever known. In just one year, my life had gone from living with both of my parents to now moving cross-country away from one of my parents. And, as I sat there equating distance with change, I realized life is always going to take you somewhere unexpected so my best bet is to just sit back, enjoy the in-flight entertainment and embrace it.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Monday, April 19, 2010
Article Defense 1
http://nymag.com/realestate/neighborhoods/2010/65356/
Clash of the Bearded Ones
http://nymag.com/realestate/neighborhoods/2010/65356/
First, I believe this article falls under a profile because it chronicles a place; in this case the Williamsburg neighborhood in New York, and the author is able to capture the neighborhood in as much complexity as possible. I also believe the author does well in threading the urban-relations conflict throughout the whole piece.
This article appealed to me because I have always been fascinated by neighborhood identities and sub-cultures. I really like how the author at first focuses on a very superficial conflict – that of the bike-lane controversy – and then launches into a deeper observation of the larger issue at hand: the changing demographics of a neighborhood and the effect it has on the incumbent residents as well as the newcomers.
The article was accessible to the outsider who has had no previous knowledge of this religious enclave. The author effectively outlines the history of the neighborhood in brevity. Furthermore, I think the piece presents an interesting question for discussion: should newcomers be mindful of the Hasidic community’s norms and values or should the Hasidic community realize they live in a diverse urban environment and accept that their neighborhood will eventually have to change to accommodate the inevitable newcomers?
Clash of the Bearded Ones
http://nymag.com/realestate/neighborhoods/2010/65356/
First, I believe this article falls under a profile because it chronicles a place; in this case the Williamsburg neighborhood in New York, and the author is able to capture the neighborhood in as much complexity as possible. I also believe the author does well in threading the urban-relations conflict throughout the whole piece.
This article appealed to me because I have always been fascinated by neighborhood identities and sub-cultures. I really like how the author at first focuses on a very superficial conflict – that of the bike-lane controversy – and then launches into a deeper observation of the larger issue at hand: the changing demographics of a neighborhood and the effect it has on the incumbent residents as well as the newcomers.
The article was accessible to the outsider who has had no previous knowledge of this religious enclave. The author effectively outlines the history of the neighborhood in brevity. Furthermore, I think the piece presents an interesting question for discussion: should newcomers be mindful of the Hasidic community’s norms and values or should the Hasidic community realize they live in a diverse urban environment and accept that their neighborhood will eventually have to change to accommodate the inevitable newcomers?
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Reading Response 1
I, like many of my peers, approached Franklin's book with much skepticism, as having had read many similar types of guidebooks to only be left disappointed and, frankly, annoyed. With the exception of William Zinsser’s, On Writing Well, I find these guidebooks to be more contradictory of each other, and thus more confusing for me to establish a comprehensive approach to writing, than helpful and enlightening. Sadly, Franklin’s guidebook, at least for me, falls under the category of useless.
Outside of grammar, I believe that trying to teach someone how to write well, in one singular approach, is almost an impossible task – there are just too many legitimate approaches to creating a “good” piece of writing. My issue with Franklin – besides the issue that befalls many of these established writers who, in their infinite wisdom, decide to write self-ego-stroking guidebooks – is that he loses me too many times with his grandiose analogies and convoluted methods/definitions.
This is really apparent in Chapter 5: Structure, where the reader must wade through Franklin’s physics analogy and then try to decipher all of the “focuses”, “sub-focuses”, “sub-sub-focuses”, etc. I found myself skipping over this section as it was becoming too hard for me to follow without taking detailed notes – which I wasn’t going to do because of my already stated predisposition towards these types of books.
Franklin does have some, albeit very few, pieces of advice throughout his book – like when he talks about developing a story over always choosing the right words – but for the most part it is a book I could do without.
Outside of grammar, I believe that trying to teach someone how to write well, in one singular approach, is almost an impossible task – there are just too many legitimate approaches to creating a “good” piece of writing. My issue with Franklin – besides the issue that befalls many of these established writers who, in their infinite wisdom, decide to write self-ego-stroking guidebooks – is that he loses me too many times with his grandiose analogies and convoluted methods/definitions.
This is really apparent in Chapter 5: Structure, where the reader must wade through Franklin’s physics analogy and then try to decipher all of the “focuses”, “sub-focuses”, “sub-sub-focuses”, etc. I found myself skipping over this section as it was becoming too hard for me to follow without taking detailed notes – which I wasn’t going to do because of my already stated predisposition towards these types of books.
Franklin does have some, albeit very few, pieces of advice throughout his book – like when he talks about developing a story over always choosing the right words – but for the most part it is a book I could do without.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Workshop Group Comments 1
Jessica –
I liked your piece because it had a very personal tone to it. You were able to clearly express your feelings and your state of mind during the time that you discuss. The opening line was very powerful and a good hook for people who both have and haven’t had similar experiences.
However, I think overall your piece gives us more questions than answers. Did you find an alternative to therapy? If so, what was it? I feel like the pivotal moment should not have been focused on what didn’t work but rather what did.
Steven –
The writing was pretty good overall except for some areas in which the complexity became distracting and confusing at times. I liked a lot of your phrases, as I usually do, and I liked your conclusions.
But, I can’t help but read this as more of a social critique/anthropological piece than a personal essay. Your feelings are almost lost in this piece and it’s hard to find the “personal” quality of this essay other than it was a piece about your grandfather. I think it would be a stronger piece if it focused on how that relationship, albeit almost non-existent, between your grandfather and yourself made you feel.
Myles –
The race relations you touch on are fascinating and I’m sure almost everybody can relate to them. I think you do a good job outlining general attitudes as well as specific tendencies of prejudice.
At the same time though, I really was waiting to hear a more direct story of how race relations affected you. What made you see that racism was wrong in the first place? I want to see a scene in which you were directly involved that had both races present – not just a classmate spewing racial jokes behind other students’ backs.
Besides that, I like a lot of your wording and your clear, concise writing.
Simona –
I think your piece was superbly well written. The settings and your idealistic aspirations are very well fleshed out. I also really liked the way you incorporated translated dialogue – it really served to add interest to the piece.
The one thing I have to say about your piece is that the ending kind of took away from the rest of the article. To me, it comes off as your whole disappointment in the U.S. was because you saw one piece of trash in the airport. I can’t imagine that was the only and most profound reason. I would like to see something more concrete and perhaps more significant. What other negative experiences did you have? Do you still feel the same way?
Andrea –
I loved your scenes – they were very well depicted, so much so that I saw myself sitting with you in your hospital room. I really enjoyed the clarity of your sentence structures as well.
However, as much of a good story this is, I feel like there is not a very strong punch to it. I was wondering what else you took away from this besides your newfound awareness of your pain threshold.
I liked your piece because it had a very personal tone to it. You were able to clearly express your feelings and your state of mind during the time that you discuss. The opening line was very powerful and a good hook for people who both have and haven’t had similar experiences.
However, I think overall your piece gives us more questions than answers. Did you find an alternative to therapy? If so, what was it? I feel like the pivotal moment should not have been focused on what didn’t work but rather what did.
Steven –
The writing was pretty good overall except for some areas in which the complexity became distracting and confusing at times. I liked a lot of your phrases, as I usually do, and I liked your conclusions.
But, I can’t help but read this as more of a social critique/anthropological piece than a personal essay. Your feelings are almost lost in this piece and it’s hard to find the “personal” quality of this essay other than it was a piece about your grandfather. I think it would be a stronger piece if it focused on how that relationship, albeit almost non-existent, between your grandfather and yourself made you feel.
Myles –
The race relations you touch on are fascinating and I’m sure almost everybody can relate to them. I think you do a good job outlining general attitudes as well as specific tendencies of prejudice.
At the same time though, I really was waiting to hear a more direct story of how race relations affected you. What made you see that racism was wrong in the first place? I want to see a scene in which you were directly involved that had both races present – not just a classmate spewing racial jokes behind other students’ backs.
Besides that, I like a lot of your wording and your clear, concise writing.
Simona –
I think your piece was superbly well written. The settings and your idealistic aspirations are very well fleshed out. I also really liked the way you incorporated translated dialogue – it really served to add interest to the piece.
The one thing I have to say about your piece is that the ending kind of took away from the rest of the article. To me, it comes off as your whole disappointment in the U.S. was because you saw one piece of trash in the airport. I can’t imagine that was the only and most profound reason. I would like to see something more concrete and perhaps more significant. What other negative experiences did you have? Do you still feel the same way?
Andrea –
I loved your scenes – they were very well depicted, so much so that I saw myself sitting with you in your hospital room. I really enjoyed the clarity of your sentence structures as well.
However, as much of a good story this is, I feel like there is not a very strong punch to it. I was wondering what else you took away from this besides your newfound awareness of your pain threshold.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Assignment 1
There had been many nights of marathon yelling contests, so many in fact, that when I look back to this period in my life it is as if someone maliciously sucked the days out of my memories, leaving me with one elastic night that lords over my past like a thick, morning bayou mist.
I think the bulk of this happened in 1999, though I can’t be sure; I was young and now I’m not really inclined to fact check. I didn’t know it then, or at least I never wanted to admit it, but my parents’ marriage was grasping for its last breaths.
Life before the fighting, as I remember it, was defined. Defined in that my mother was a stay-at-home mom from Nicaragua, my father was a corporate lawyer from upstate New York, my mother was married to my father, my parents had two children, we vacationed together and I was to attend catholic/private school followed by a prestigious college and finally University of Chicago Law school, just like my dad.
However, as I would soon come to learn swiftly and rather crudely, things change. Things change constantly and infinitely and most importantly, indefinably.
As the hostile vocal exchanges continued with growing frequency, my household also became a hotbed for unidentified flying utensils activity with an assortment of spoons, spatulas, and tongs whizzing about at blurring speeds - don’t worry, no one ever got hit, I’m guessing it was just for dramatic effect.
I can remember only once, when things were getting pretty bad, that I seriously considered the possibility of my parents splitting up. It was only after a close friend at my school revealed that his parents were getting divorced – a revelation that quickly became the shocking topic du jour amongst the school community – and described to me what it was like over in his house that I accumulated enough doubt in my head to worry.
Realizing the frighteningly similar situations of my friend and mine, I decided to confront my mom.
The day was overcast, the ground was wet and the air was a crispness known only to a Westchester, New York fall. Winter coats were still in the closets, so I’ll put the day sometime in early October. I had orchestrated for my mom to pick me up at school this day, thinking it would be the best time that allotted for the needed privacy of a matter of this severity. My mom pulled up in her cinnamon colored Ford Windstar minivan. (Don’t ask me why I remember the things I do, memories work in mysterious ways.) She opened the rear-automated sliding door to let me in. She was all-smiles, hiding another night of agonizing frustration and naïve to the growing hurt I felt for all of us. I took my seat behind the driver side.
We would talk through the rearview mirror; I dared not to be in a position where the weight of direct eye contact could crush me.
“Mom.”
Our eyes met in the mirror.
“Yes?”
“You know Ryan? His parents are getting divorced…”
She showed no shift in comfort. She had still not caught on to the direction of my inquiry.
“Yes. I know his parents are getting divorced. I feel really bad for all of them. What about him?”
“Well, I’ve been talking to him a lot. And…are you and dad getting a divorce?”
I remember her suddenly braking in the school parking lot. I thought to myself, “I shouldn’t have asked.” Her eyes darted for a second in the mirror, breaking our indirect eye contact. Her eyes met mine again, this time they were filled with guilt and sadness.
“Why would you think we are getting divorced?”
“You guys fight all the time. Just like Ryan says his parents do.”
“Yes, we do fight. But there are always fights in marriages. We just have been fighting a little more than usual lately but it happens. Divorce is a long way from this. You don’t need to worry.”
“Really? You sure? Would you tell me?”
“Yes I’m sure. I’m sorry all of our fighting has made you worry.”
I was relieved. I had nothing to worry about. This was just normal in all marriages. I continued to tell myself this long after my mother, brother and I moved to California without my dad. Denial is a timely seductress.
The thing about a “long time” is that it is relative. For my mother and father, it meant a few months after I asked my mom about a possible divorce. For me, I hoped it meant never.
Christmas came and went without bringing joy or the present of normalcy. January was bitterly cold and in February my dad moved out.
It happened while I was at school so I can’t say I saw my dad moving out, moving out of my house and moving out of my life. When I got home, he was just moved out. My mother was in the kitchen, my kitchen table was not and soon thereafter, my brother came home as well. Having Down syndrome, the only way my brother found to express himself was to cry over the missing furniture and though he couldn’t say it, he knew much more was missing.
I look back at this period and wonder what else besides furniture and my dad moved out.
I think the bulk of this happened in 1999, though I can’t be sure; I was young and now I’m not really inclined to fact check. I didn’t know it then, or at least I never wanted to admit it, but my parents’ marriage was grasping for its last breaths.
Life before the fighting, as I remember it, was defined. Defined in that my mother was a stay-at-home mom from Nicaragua, my father was a corporate lawyer from upstate New York, my mother was married to my father, my parents had two children, we vacationed together and I was to attend catholic/private school followed by a prestigious college and finally University of Chicago Law school, just like my dad.
However, as I would soon come to learn swiftly and rather crudely, things change. Things change constantly and infinitely and most importantly, indefinably.
As the hostile vocal exchanges continued with growing frequency, my household also became a hotbed for unidentified flying utensils activity with an assortment of spoons, spatulas, and tongs whizzing about at blurring speeds - don’t worry, no one ever got hit, I’m guessing it was just for dramatic effect.
I can remember only once, when things were getting pretty bad, that I seriously considered the possibility of my parents splitting up. It was only after a close friend at my school revealed that his parents were getting divorced – a revelation that quickly became the shocking topic du jour amongst the school community – and described to me what it was like over in his house that I accumulated enough doubt in my head to worry.
Realizing the frighteningly similar situations of my friend and mine, I decided to confront my mom.
The day was overcast, the ground was wet and the air was a crispness known only to a Westchester, New York fall. Winter coats were still in the closets, so I’ll put the day sometime in early October. I had orchestrated for my mom to pick me up at school this day, thinking it would be the best time that allotted for the needed privacy of a matter of this severity. My mom pulled up in her cinnamon colored Ford Windstar minivan. (Don’t ask me why I remember the things I do, memories work in mysterious ways.) She opened the rear-automated sliding door to let me in. She was all-smiles, hiding another night of agonizing frustration and naïve to the growing hurt I felt for all of us. I took my seat behind the driver side.
We would talk through the rearview mirror; I dared not to be in a position where the weight of direct eye contact could crush me.
“Mom.”
Our eyes met in the mirror.
“Yes?”
“You know Ryan? His parents are getting divorced…”
She showed no shift in comfort. She had still not caught on to the direction of my inquiry.
“Yes. I know his parents are getting divorced. I feel really bad for all of them. What about him?”
“Well, I’ve been talking to him a lot. And…are you and dad getting a divorce?”
I remember her suddenly braking in the school parking lot. I thought to myself, “I shouldn’t have asked.” Her eyes darted for a second in the mirror, breaking our indirect eye contact. Her eyes met mine again, this time they were filled with guilt and sadness.
“Why would you think we are getting divorced?”
“You guys fight all the time. Just like Ryan says his parents do.”
“Yes, we do fight. But there are always fights in marriages. We just have been fighting a little more than usual lately but it happens. Divorce is a long way from this. You don’t need to worry.”
“Really? You sure? Would you tell me?”
“Yes I’m sure. I’m sorry all of our fighting has made you worry.”
I was relieved. I had nothing to worry about. This was just normal in all marriages. I continued to tell myself this long after my mother, brother and I moved to California without my dad. Denial is a timely seductress.
The thing about a “long time” is that it is relative. For my mother and father, it meant a few months after I asked my mom about a possible divorce. For me, I hoped it meant never.
Christmas came and went without bringing joy or the present of normalcy. January was bitterly cold and in February my dad moved out.
It happened while I was at school so I can’t say I saw my dad moving out, moving out of my house and moving out of my life. When I got home, he was just moved out. My mother was in the kitchen, my kitchen table was not and soon thereafter, my brother came home as well. Having Down syndrome, the only way my brother found to express himself was to cry over the missing furniture and though he couldn’t say it, he knew much more was missing.
I look back at this period and wonder what else besides furniture and my dad moved out.
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