Once I heard an echo from all quarters. Perhaps mine has been a flight of fancy too. I love the words. I should be a writer, but I will be a doctor, and out of the philosophical tension I willcreate a self. Through excited language and illustrative anecdotes, she offers acomplex picture of her multifaceted nature. The writing is as fluid as its subject matter.
One paragraph runs into the next withlittle break for transition or explicit connection. It has the feel of an ecstaticstream-of-consciousness, moving rapidly toward a climactic end. The author is as immediate as she is mysterious.
She openly exposes her charged thoughts, yet leaves the ties between themuncemented. This creates an unpredictability that is risky but effective. Still, one ought to be wary in presenting as essay of this sort. The potential forobliqueness is high, and, even here, the reader is at times left in confusionregarding the coherence of the whole.
Granted the essay is about confluence ofseeming opposites, but poetic license should not obscure important content. Thisparticular essay could have been made stronger with a more explicit recurringtheme to help keep the reader focused. In general, though, this essay stands out as a bold, impassioned presentation of self.
It lingers in the memory as an entangled web of an intricate mind. Plagiarism is severely punished! And then there are the basketball players. Playingwith friends at home, I always imagined the booming ESPN voice of Chris Bermangiving the play-by-play of our street football games. Still concerned as senior year rolled along, I visited a growth specialist. Willmy social status forever be marked by my shortness? Thebones in my seventeen-year-old body had matured. I would not grow any more. I clenched the steering wheel in frustration as I drove home.
What good was it to pray, or to genuinely live a life of love?
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Nomatter how many Taekwondo medals I had won, could I ever be considered trulyathletic in a wiry, five foot five frame? I can be a giant in so many other ways:intellectually, spiritually and emotionally. Being short hascertainly had its advantages. The school budget was tight and the desks were so small an occasional limb couldalways be seen sticking out.
The same quality has paid offin hide-and-go-seek. Lincoln once debated with Senator Stephen A. Douglas — a magnificent orator,nationally recognized as the leader of the Democratic Party of … and barely fivefeet four inches tall. It seems silly, but standing on the floor of the Senate last yearI remembered Senator Douglas and imagined that I would one day debate with a Plagiarism is severely punished!
It helped to have a tall, lanky, bearded man with a stove-top hattalk with me that afternoon. But I could just as easily become an astronaut, if notfor my childlike, gaping-mouth-eyes-straining wonderment of the stars, thenmaybe in the hope of growing a few inches the spine spontaneously expands in theabsence of gravity. Michael J. Their height has put no limits totheir work in the arts or athletics. Neither will mine.
At five footfive I can laugh, jump, run, dance, write, paint, help, volunteer, pray, love and cry. I can break in bowling. I can sing along to Nat King Cole. I can run the mile in under six minutes,dance like a wild monkey and be hopelessly wrapped up in a good book though Ihave yet to master the ability to do it all at once. This piece works because it is to the point, honest, and straight-forward. As the essay progresses, Shim reveals his personal feelings and aspirations.
Hegives us a window into the very moment of discovery that he would no longer beable to grow. We are taken on a tour of what makes Shim tick. Being short hasshaped and influenced his outlook on the world, yet it has not diminished his goals. It is personal, yet remains positive.
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He recognizes both the benefits and negatives ofhis short stature and is able to convey them in a thoughtful manner. PullmanThe black and white composition book is faded, and the corners are bent. Almost every sheet is covered withwriting — some in bold handwriting hardly revised, others uncertainly jotted downcompletely marked up and rewritten.
Flipping through the thin pages, I smile,remembering from careless thoughts to assassinate prose to precisely wordedpoems, this journal marks a year of my life as a writer. In junior year, my English teacher asked us to keep a journal for creative writing, asa release from otherwise stressful days. We were free to write on any topic we chose. From then on as often as I could, I would steal away to the old wooden rocking chairin the corner of my room and take time off to write.
As I now try to answer the question of who am I for this essay, I immediately thinkof my journal. I am a writer. My writing is the most intensely personal part of me. I pour my heart out into myjournal and am incredibly protective of it. Growing up, I would always ride my bike over to the elementary school across thestreet and into the woods behind it.
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Crab apple trees scented the fall air and thewinding dirt paths went on forever. All afternoon I would sit in these trees whose branches curved outa seat seemingly made just for me.
One day I biked across the street to come face to face with construction trucks. Those woods are now a parking lot. I cry every time I see cars parked where my crabapple trees once stood:He allowed the sweet sadness to lingerAs he contemplated a world Plagiarism is severely punished! That he knew too much about.
I am a daughter, a cousin, a great-niece. My family is very important to me. My mother has a huge extended family and we allget together once a year for a reunion. I play with my little cousins and toss them inthe air to their squealing delight. Many of my relatives are elderly, however, and Ifind it hard to deal with serious illness in these people I love. I am also deathly afraidof growing old and losing all sense of myself.
When visiting relatives, I have to cometo terms with these feelings:With the toe of my sneaker, I push at the ancient pale yellow carpet. Like all theitems in the apartment, it is way past its prime. It willnever be as nice as it once was, that much is certain.
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At home it would be pulled up,thrown out, not tolerated in an ever-moving young family, not fitting in with all theuseful, modern surroundings. But here, in this foreign, musty apartment where mygreat-aunt and uncle have lived so long that they seem to blend right into the fadedwallpaper, the carpet is a part of the scenery.
It could not be removed any more thanthe floor itself. I am a friend. I will always treasure memories of sleep-away camp and the friends I fell in lovewith there. Many of these people I have managed to keep in touch with, but I regretthat some I have lost:But now… the weather is changing. A cold front has moved in.
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Perhaps other pictures of other memories brighter and newer hide it fromview. A cool breeze steals in through the open window, and the careless wind knocksdown an old picture from the bulletin board. The picture falls in slow motion, takingwith it a far-off memory. It comes to rest behind the desk, lying on the floor, neverto be seen again. Its absence is not even noticed. I am an incurable romantic.
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