Craft Essay

Craft essay

 

            I was unsure what to expect during the semester. I needed to take some electives and I figured that a writing class was good practice for life. Being a good writer is a great skill to have in this society. Bosses have to write. I didn’t expect to enjoy this class as much as I did. My classmates are hard not to like. I couldn’t dislike them even if I tried. They can easily make me laugh. My professor was overly encouraging and I did not mind at all. I never before had someone criticize my work in such a motivating matter. Dr. Chandler was considerate of all of our emotions and it didn’t go unnoticed. We are humans and were treated as such.

At first I was cautious when writing. I didn’t want to write things that were too personal yet I wanted to put down on paper thoughts that were lingering in my mind. I didn’t want the wrong person to find this. What if my Ex read this and deemed me crazy? What if the doctor somehow found this and thought I was crazy too? I tried to find other things to write about but it’s hard to work hours on something you feel no emotions towards. All the exercises we did during class showed me how negative my subconscious was. I didn’t like that. I wanted a clean subconscious because I know it can alter your personality. People often don’t know how often their action, reactions, and decisions are based on what’s stored away in their subconscious. I didn’t want those specific event to have major effects on my life. Writing helped me bring those things forward, accept them, and take the positive. I decided to write some of my most taunting demons down on paper. I discovered that I can say what’s on my mind without having to say it. Wall and Moving pictures did just that. This was the semester of therapy. Between Emily Dickinson and this class I have put some of my history in the past.  

            Saying what I wanted to say without actually having to say it was actually a trickier task then what I had expected. If anything I often felt that I needed more time. I really just wanted to focus on one story and stick with it, only because it took me so long to come up with ideas. The meetings were extremely helpful. Dr. Chandler was often able to describe my emotions in ways that I could not. This helped me further explore my inner self and write pieces based on my experience. I have learned something important in this class. I’ve learned that writing is an outlet for me. A creative one. I dance and I thought that was the only way to give my mind a break from my racing mind. Writing does something different. It helps me confront my issues so that I can evaluate and learn from them. I will to continue to write non-fiction pieces. I don’t want to be a writer or anything along those lines but I don’t want to write for me. Great way to end my last semester.

Blog 13: Vela

Vela gives women the opportunity to write without the pressure to conforming to a male style of writing. It was founded by Sarah Menkedich. Contributions of work were made by she respected.  Eva Holland, Lauren Quinn, Amanda Giracca, Simone Gorrindo and Molly Beer contribute greatly. Most of the stories published were from one of these contributors. The organization does not publish work about the struggles of women rather it’s a place to be free of restrictions. The essays chosen to be posted are about journey. Vela rather not post essay about vacation trip but about the personal experience which occurs when someone does beyond their comfort level to dive into another culture. The journey could also be an intrinsic journey to self-growth. The following were found while searching through the tables

• Currently there are 8 master heads and 10 contributors. Feasures are used to organize the magnitude of essays posted. The feature tabs topics are environmental, motherhood, essay, ethics, family, home, identity, immigration, home, journal, lyric essay, and the outdoors.
• The “On Writing” tab organizes writing about academia, feminism, education, motherhood, money, books, bookmark, MFA, the gender gap, the writing life, women in publishing and women we read this week.
• Has been “been highlighted in The New Yorker, Forbes, The Wall Street Journal, Vogue, Longform.org, and elsewhere. Vela stories have been selected as “notable” by The Best American Essays, The Best American Travel Writing, and The Best American Sports Writing.”
• Donations are carried out each year through kickstarted. It’s a great organization which help raise money. In October they raise over twenty eight thousand dollars. The money is used to pay their writers.
• The guideline for submitting work it standard. They ask that if work is sumited simultaneously, than the writer is responsible for sending the founder an e-mail message, if their work was accepted elsewhere. Segmented essays must be between 2,000-6,000 words.  A short letter and bio must also be included.

I found it interesting that there was a story well written in English and Spanish by the founder. The story was about being a “gringa” and using that to sort of show off. I also read a story about a personal journey that taught a girl that it was better to be herself even though she admired and loved her older sister.

Short essay: Dirt roads

 

 

Hibiscus flowers next to dirt roads

 

My grandmother placed a warm bottle of milk on my hands. I laid on a chair in a way that my feet were on the back rest and my head towards the legs of the chair. There was a reason why I was seated in that position. I was trying to figure out how the milk traveled to my stomach when I was practically upside down but my aunt wouldn’t let me think with her lecturing. She didn’t like that mama milked the cow so late.

It was late. As the sun went down the lamps would be brought out. The electricity had been out in the neighborhood for a week this time. All eleven of my aunt and uncles would bring a seat to the pavement front deck. Stories would be told and jokes exchanged on the front row view of the moon and stars. I tried to stay awake to listen to all of them but I always fell asleep only to wake on a bed.

My home was on the other side of the neighborhood. I would walk home bare foot on the dirt road. I would pick tropical hibiscus flower on my way. My neighbors would spot me from their open doors and give me messages for my mother. Many times I would even run into my dog lasier and she would stop her route to walk me home.

My home was painted with a bluish green color, it had a wooden door that didn’t quit make it all the way to the ground and a tin roof. I heard bachata and smelled food, so I knew my mother was home. I washed my feet so that I wouldn’t get reprimanded for dirtying my mother’s freshly moped floor. My mother carried me and greeted me with homemade juice. She brought me to the kitchen to show me the refrigerator she bought with the money my father had sent for my bike. I wasn’t impressed but I knew we were going to the beach that day and I didn’t want to say anything to cancel the trip. The best beaches on the island happened to be within walking distance from my home.

 

Approches

My first semester at Kean University, I thought that the writing center would fix my paper. I am not proud of it, but that is what I thought. I thought that if I wrote my paper ad wet to the writing center than would result in a guaranteed A.  I learned quickly that it did not work that way. Not because I got a bad grade, but because they asked me questions rather than telling me what was grammatically wrong and then showing me how to fix it. I had to talk. I imagined it the other way around. The tutor talking and me listening.

Later I understood that it was better that way. It thought me how to look for my own mistakes and how I wanted to fix them. I could be proud of m paper because I knew that I wrote it. Of course I would have been easier to hand over my paper and have someone "fix" it.

Blog 12: Short essay final

Wall

 

I remember the time I sat at the edge of my bed. My vanity was located in front of me. It had a mirror. I would usually look at myself in it while sitting at the edge of my bed but I was engrossed by the wall. I stared at it blankly while sitting at the edge: the black light bulb burned it my mind. I felt the heat so intense, it must have made its way towards my face. My breath seemed to get stuck while rising from my stiff throat. It might have been my nose that made my throat squeeze itself tight. It had the job to catch the liquid before it ran downwards.

 

 If the occasion was right, emotional tears ran from my eyes and I have to ask why. Humans are the only species that manifest its sadness through the act of shedding tears. Protein, mucus, oils, and water combine to make a tear drop from my eyes and I have to ask why. Is there an answer? Is just the way things work or the way things are?

My question was answered with silence. Not a sound did that wall make: as silent as the emotional fall. So silent I couldn’t stop that fall. I sat there with my hand by my side and my grip grasping on to the mattress. I had to sit close to the edge so that my feet could lay flat on the carpet floor.

A white light bulb went off in my head. I remembered something important and I felt the urge to acquire more information. I saw my reflection on the mirror. I wiped the moist from my face and waited for the temperature to regulate. I got up from the edge of my bed and walked towards the mirror. I needed a closer view before walking out of the room.

Blog 11: Short essay draft

 

Wall

I remember the time I sat at the edge of my bed. My vanity was located in front of me. It had a mirror. I would usually look at myself in it while sitting at the edge of my bed but I was engrossed by the  wall. I stared at it blankly while seating at the edge: the black light bulb burned it my mind. I felt the heat sitting there.  My breath seemed to get stuck while rising from my stiff throat. It might have been my nose that made my throat squeeze itself tight. It had the job to catch the liquid before it ran downwards.

 And, if the occasion was right, emotional tears ran from my eyes and I have to ask why. Humans are the only species that manifest its sadness through the act of shedding tears. Protein, mucus, oils, and water combine to make a tear drop from my eyes and I have to ask why. Although I know that research is limited and that the human body and its functions are mysterious; I still must find out the reason behind a tear. Through my research I had discovered the following:

• The prolactin hormone is found in tears: the same hormone that is found in women after they give birth to their new born child. Prolactin aids in the production of breast milk. There is nothing more natural than a women feeding her child breast milk but interestingly enough this hormone is also found in women that are not pregnant and men while in high levels of stress.
• Another hormone released by the pituitary gland or the “master gland” which is located at the center of the skull is the Adrenocorticotropic hormone which acts as an indicator of stress in the body. This hormone also increases with high levels of stress and is also found in tears.
• The leucine-enkephalin is a hormone that is also found in a tear. This hormone helps to decrease emotional and physical pain by restraining neurotransmitters before it completely travels through the pain perception pathway.

A white light bulb went off in my head. I remembered that once before we had a common acquaintance. She made good money. I got up from the edge to acquire more information. I decided then to start my own business.  Once the business was registered I made a website and ordered post cards. A friend was called and we went door to passing out flyer in Short Hills New Jersey.  I received an email the same week and landed my first customer.   

 

Blog 10: Long Essay final

Moving Pictures

 

            I fell into a day dream with my eyes open and saw the divorce. Everything changed so fast. There were clues but I didn’t want to see them and when it happened I experienced a conscious shock yet I was unconsciously prepared. An unknown force brought me into reality. I closed my eyes and imagined favorable things. I saw the house with the red roof. My parents had the house made from the ground up and on certain weekends we would drive to Pennsylvania from New Jersey to witness the progress.  I skipped forward and imagined myself happy with my future husband. In this dream I thought about how we would never divorce; only death would separate us. After all, if you stick with something it has no choice but to work.  Love is everything. But my love had not yet arrived, so I’ll do as most single do and watch movies.

 

                It was chilly that day. That’s when I saw it. Dark brown eyes, fair skin, black hair, and a stuck up posture to tie it all together.  Joseph Gorden-Lev played perfectly the role of Jon in the movie titled Don Jon.  The character was a cocky gym rat with soft and touchable black hair.  Jon went on an investigative odyssey until he found her name. He did what most of us do when we want to search for someone, he looked her up on Facebook and found her. A Facebook message is all it took.  How romantic. He saw no other women because she was the most beautiful in his eyes. This women Jon was so infatuated with resembled someone I was well acquainted with. She stood up straight, exuded confidence, and treated men just as I do. I was engrossed by the moving pictures. It was exciting to know that this women, who was like me in that scene had found someone to love her.

 

My step mother had found love in an island. She repeatedly told me her love story. They knew each other as children. He told her that one day she would be his wife and as they become older the prophecy came true. Not even distance seemed to dim their passion for one another. When my father came home from his weekday long trip, all three of us would compete for his affection. I could hear his voice saying, “hola mi amor. My father would give each of us a hug and a wet kiss on our cheeks. He was home for the weekend. We would clean the house and my step mother made dinner. We sat at the dinner table and ate dinner together. My father made funny jokes and we laughed. He enlighten us with his intelligence and we would listen. After dinner, we would watch movies together. Of course, whose ever turn it was to wash dishes had to finish up before or after the movie. Since we were professional procrastinator, all three of us would lie on the carpet and our parents would lie down on the couch. They cuddles while watching the moving pictures.

 

We never got to watch that movie titled Up in the Air. Nothing too interesting happened, but the ending was what mattered to me. After her long trip from work she went home to her love. She had such a busy life. Her husband was probably just as busy as she was. Just because they didn’t see each other as much as other couples do, does not mean that they did not care for one another. Life is tough with many goals to be met.  I began to add on to the scene where she came home. I imagined that they only had a couple of hours to dedicate to each other. I was sure that when they did get to see each other, they talked about the future and what their relationship meant. After they have nothing more to say they would do as most companions do after; unless passion gets in the way and then everything would be done in reverse. A few hours in the night to catch each other up is all that’s needed. I can close my eyes and imagine how fast life can suddenly become yet so slow while they talked and listen. Like the earth took a break from its rotation those nights. But it never did and when they realize that the earth kept on with its usual rotation, they rush back into existence.  Who needs more than that anyways?

 

My Step mother needed my father to work somewhere closer to home. We lived in Pennsylvania and he was a truck driver in New Jersey. Since the nature of his job required for him to travel, he didn’t feel the need to take a job where the main office was closer to home. These conversations usually occurred during dinner, family movie time, or our weekend shopping trip to Walmart. During these conversations my siblings and I would begin to talk to each other about pending subject or begin to joke around with each other until my step mother would interrupt us by asking if we would like to have our father home more often. We would always answer that we would like to have papi home more often and quickly return to what we were doing previous to the interruption.  The conversation didn’t last longer than thirty minutes. My father would end it by asking if we were happy and if he was giving us everything we needed.

 

            I got home one weekend and found the door to the garage missing. My brother was standing by and said that papi had knocked it down forcefully. I asked why but he said he didn’t know. All he knew was that our parents had argued and he rushed down the stairs from his room and found the door on the ground. My sister joined us but we had little answers, therefore we stood around the empty space. Our father walked in with a drill and screws and began to reattach the door. We looked at each other but did not ask. The next weekend arrived and papi had come home with red roses. He gave each of us our hugs and asked for our mother. We smiled and told him that she was upstairs. We all went with him to witness the surprise on her face. In the midst of it all, they began to argue. My father voice became loud. I held on to my chest. He said that she had put the horns on him. A tear ran down my brother’s eyes and the expressions on my sister’s face was nonexistent. My step mother responded by saying that the other man made her feel like a women. He pushed her and yelled at her. She responded by punching him repeatedly with a forceful fist. They began to physically fight each other. We froze. Suddenly my younger brother took action by holding my father back. My sister and I eventually caught on and helped him. After an hour of yelling and fighting, my father rushed out the house and soon after the police appeared. My mother told them that she saw a gun.  Later we discovered that our father had been arrested. To think a few weeks ago she wanted to spend more time with her husband.

 

In the movie titled He’s Just Not That Into You, it explains that if a man does not want to spend time with you then they are not into you. More importantly the movie warns women to take a man’s words seriously; for example, if a man tells a women that he does not want to be in a relationship, it’s because he doesn’t. If he doesn’t want to be a specific women, he’ll show it. The main character had been mistreated and yet she was still enthusiastic about love. She wanted it more than anything and put up with the betrayals and emotional abuse. The main character did not devote an obscene amount of time on one man, as I would. She didn’t stay with one man for several years until he decided to exchange her for another women; only to treat this other women as she longed to be treated. Ironically, towards the end of the movie she did find a man that treated her differently. Someone she had least expected because he was a friend.

 

It was late spring when I discovered that one of my friends graduated from medical school. I went on Facebook to congratulate him. He responded promptly and after a few playful and funny interchange of messages, he told me that he was moving out of the state. Memories of the past four years we have known each other rushed into my conscious. My fingers took action and typed, “I can’t believe it, and we should catch up before you leave”. He explained that he was currently out of the state but when he returns, he would like to catch up. I received a notice a few day later of his arrival. Apparently, he had a question to ask me but he needed my permission to ask it. I slowly typed my delayed response, “Sure”.  He asked if he could take me out for dinner, on a date. My eyes widen followed by another delayed response. I accepted.

 

I was two hours late, so he teased me via text about my incapability to be on time. Upon my arrival I sent him a message. I saw him walking towards me. His blue eyes in the night widen as he spotted me. I smiled at him and when our eyes met I redirected my stare towards the pavement. I dared to look up again but this time he was much closer. He smiled then looked to his side and gave me a hug. We’ve made our way to an Italian restaurant in Hoboken. Once we found our way, I couldn’t find my words. He mentioned something about the weather and I looked out the window and mentioned how beautiful the view of New York was. He replied by saying that he was spoiled by it. He asked me if I was still teaching dirty dancing. I replied by saying that if he was referring to Zumba, then no. I went on to say that it only seems dirty to perverts whose imagination sees what’s not there. He laughed and we began to reminisce about old times we spent together. 

 

Work was stressful that day and I had stayed up the night before writing a paper, but he asked me on another date in advance and I accepted. We took a cab to the restaurant. The night was a rainy one so we held on close while sharing an umbrella. Upon arrival, I stood still as he let go of my hands. He walked around the area before choosing a table. Afterwards, we went to a nearby movie theatre. I picked the movie Neighbors and he agreed. My eyes felt heavy during the movie and I fell asleep on his right shoulder.

 

After the movie, he said to me, “I have a serious question. I have this wedding to go to and I was wondering if you could be my date”. I smiled and agreed. He held my hands and we walked back to his apartment. We sat in the living room and watch another movie, except that we didn’t watch the movie at all. He teased me and we laughed and wrestled, until I we found ourselves face to face. I stared at his clear blue eyes as he stared at my lips. He tilted his head and leaned towards me. I couldn’t help myself and leaned in the rest of the way. We stopped only to stare at each other before resuming. I pulled myself away and told him that I couldn’t sleep with him because I’ve been hurt and I won’t repeat my mistakes. He scratched his head and said “only do what you’re conferrable with because a kiss was enough for me”. With a soft tone of voice and a stern look on his face he said, “You know, you don’t have to date the bad guy, you’re a pretty girl and you don’t have to put up with that”.

 

The day of the wedding was here and I had the perfect dress. We rushed to get there because we were late. The wedding was held in a castle big enough to take a substantial amount of time to explore. He introduced me by my name and one of his friend said, “Yes, I’ve heard of you”. I turned my head straight towards him but saw his chest, so I looked up and he looked away. We collectively walked to our table. Several times during the night he would take my hand and we would explore the castle together. When we weren’t exploring we were dancing or sitting down with his hands either on my knee or intertwined with mines. I felt I was suffocating him, so I branched off with the other dates. Before I could spot his location, he had returned. I looked back and saw his friends standing in a circle filled with laughter.  Since he returned I felt no need to be with the girls and we sat at assigned empty table and played the ninja slap hand game. Time past and our hotel charter bus had arrived. There didn’t seem to be much room and the driver asked if he would like to sit in the front. He declined and explained that he wanted sit next to his date. I attempted to point out the extra room in the back but he was too engrossed by the conversation with the driver. I went to sit in the back in hopes that he would follow. He looked back and didn’t see me. He asked the known guest in the charter where I was and explained that he couldn’t leave his date alone. A women near him pointed to the back and explained that there was room for the both of us were I was sitting. He made his way to towards me, sat down and held my hands. We heard an older guest look back and say “how sweet”. We arrived at the hotel room. There was only one bed. I went to the bathroom to change and when I returned he was lying on his stomach, shirtless and with his eyes closed. I noticed how fit he was before turning off the lights and joined him after. He put his arms around me and kissed me. I told him that I didn’t want to do anything I would regret and he said, “Neither do I”. I took a deep breath and felt my muscles relax as I closed my eyes only to open them when morning had arrived.

 

I texted him to say goodbye. He called a day after he had arrived during late July. We talked about his future plans and about his new apartment. He explained his schedule to me, including possible vacations which he would spend in New Jersey. He explained that he would not be back until November for a few week and that it will be his only vacation for the year. I responded by saying that it wasn’t too bad. The subject had shifted and we spoke of children. I said that if we had children they would be awfully attractive, he agreed and said, “I’m going to be busy the next three years but the idea wasn’t bad”. I laughed and said goodbye.

 

I went to jog in Branch Brook Park during the month of October and noticed the trees outside. Summer had ended and the leaves were dying, giving colorful goodbye. I stopped to stare at the trees and remembered when they were once green. Some had flowers, giving the tree a multitude of colors. Then I thought about how the tree will be naked in the winter; only to be dresses by the bright white snow. Spring would then arrive and the leaves will again slowly return. I closed my eyes and allowed myself to feel the fall breeze. I opened my eyes, took a deep breath and ran the entire way back to my apartment. My father came over later that week. He greeted me with a hug followed by a wet kiss and a, “hola mi amor. My father walked into my living room and sat down on my couch. I sat next to him on the opposite corner as we talked about pending subjects and watched the news.