Reflective Essay - First Quarter

Throughout the quarter, I feel that my writing abilities have improved. This is probably due to the freedom from the prompts, yet the requirement of consistent posting. In the past, I always had trouble following a prompt that included a rubric and word length/ limit. However, I also had difficulty with motivation to put effort into the essay. But being able to the have almost no limits to my writing, but being motivated enough to put in effort, has given me a drive that, I feel, has enhanced my writing capabilities. And throughout this class, my writing has improved by illustrating a more vivid picture to my readers (comparing Who's your Daddy? to Prologue).

In my previous English class, we were provided prompts and a rubric. In most cases this would make the essay easy to write; you just had to stay on topic and check off the requirements you meet. But in my case, I always try to stay creative in my writing. I try to splash in my own style whenever I can. In some of my earlier writing this school year, I was able to express what I felt, which gave my writing a personal feel. In one piece, I stated:

“During my earlier years as an obnoxious elementary student, I strived to make an appeal  to as many people as possible, whether they are different in terms of age, thought, or sex. This was partly due to my personality, but mostly from my father’s horror stories where if you didn’t fit in, you would be left behind.”

And I’m sure that college professors will allow that. Yet my previous writing teachers insisted on following their rules word for word. And I’m just not that type of person. I need prompts that are challenging enough to require thought, yet generic enough for me to bend in my style.

With blogs and posting, I am able to achieve the required writing needs and express my personal touch to my writing. Because blogs can be more informal, I feel more comfortable with writing what I actually think about an issue, instead of putting down what gets me the right grade. And because I am able to do so in this class, I have gotten used to the process that a rough draft just has to be what you want to say, not how you want to say it.

In comparison to my English 9 class, I have much more freedom in my writing. Last year, I was stuck trying to figure out what the teacher wanted me to figure out. But in this class, even outside of blogging, I am able to make my own analysis. And this really helps me when I am assigned to address a personal topic. For example, in my post about the ASTI Constitution, I wrote:

“Whether an insult is just playful, or intentional, they will always hurt. Yet most have given up and just decided to play along. And when the time came to write up the ASTI constitution, the majority didn't want to give up the joking insults that were tossed around day after day. The student body wasn't dedicated to the constitution. With the guidelines just made to impress the staff, the students simply thought of it as a homework assignment rather than a set of rules.”

As I was part of making the constitution, I am also responsible for this, and I knew it. But because I feel safe and free in the environment the blogs have provided, I was able to state it, risking any consequences. Writing is a very formal task for me. Everything I have ever written had a formal tone to it. And I have always separated professionalism from personalization. Yet when I post, I feel free the write what I actually think. and that is my style of writing.

And even when I’m not blogging, and I’m doing a quickwrite, I feel that I improve. Due to the time restraint, I have to get my ideas down in ten minutes, giving me no time for detail. And without detail, I can easily look at my writing and find its flaws. In addition, writing quickly doesn’t give me a chance to think what information to put in or out, making looking back easier because I know exactly what I was thinking.

Another difficulty I faced in writing lies in my means of motivation. Simply put, I’m unable to write when there’s no point. Sure, my grade gets better, but academics have been long removed from my motivations for life - its more like a stepping stone now. But when I post my writing on the internet, people see it. And each comment I get, whether its positive or not, I get excited just to know that someone read my post. And that’s enough motivation for me to keep posting.Also, without motivation, I don’t have the purpose I need to write. Without my drive, my essays usually turn out weak or unpolished. However, with getting feedback much more often, I feel much more driven and inspired to write.

My writing, as with most people, is at its best when I am motivated, free, and challenged. With the prompts made with so much effort, the gray area for the topic so wide, and the feedback so often, I’m able to maintain what I need to keep my drive for writing. As a result of the constant writing, I feel my capabilities as a writer have improved too. I am now able to establish more reliable ethos, connective pathos, and thoughtful logos. Over the course of the first quarter, I have improve in my ability to illustrate an image to my audience.

Night Analitical Essay: Elie and his Father

In Elie Wiesel’s “Night”, he explains his horrific experiences as a holocaust survivor. He endures many hardships, like losing his mother and sister forever. However, if it were not for his father’s confidence and support during these times, Elie may have not survived this dark chapter of history. Every time Elie feels he has nothing left to live for, his father encourages him to keep moving forward, in hope of a brighter future. In response, Elie never succumbs to the animosity that other sons and fathers endure, killing each other in the process. Elie and his father constantly keep each other in check, both helping each other survive and suppressing them from killing each other to do so.

Both Elie and his father strive for not only their own survival, but also each others. Even before Wiesel faces the full might of the German concentration camps, he already knew he needed his father. When the two of them first arrive at Birkenau, the assembly is forced to small groups. He states, “My hand shifted on my fathers arm. I had one thought - not to lose him. Not to be left alone. The SS officer gave the order: ‘Form Fives’. Commotion. At all cost we must keep together” (Night 27). Even when he is midway through his teenage years, Elie still has a very close relationship to his father. This relationship, shared by father and son, is further shone as the two confide in each other and do near anything for the other’s survival. Elie and his father’s close friendship keeps the both of them and their morals alive.

As the story progresses, the officers become more harsh as the battlefront moves closer to the camp. The rationing of food drops to less than a piece of bread. And they begin to enjoy the suffering of the prisoners. In one scene, Elie witnesses a son killing his own father for a ration of bread. According to the book, “With remark in his eyes, [the father] drew [the bread] out and put it in his mouth. His eyes gleamed; a smile, like a grimace, lit up his dead face. And was immediately extinguished. A shadow had just loomed up near him. The shadow threw itself upon him. Felled to the ground, stunned with blows, the old man cried: ‘Meir. Meir, my boy! Don’t you recognize me? I’m your father...you’re hurting me...you’re killing your father! I’ve got some bread...for you too...for you too...” (Night 96). Here, he witnesses a situation not too different from his own: son and father; starving; desperate. However, Wiesel is much closer to his father than Meir. He does not fall to the temptations, putting him at risk of his own survival, yet he willingly does so.

When Elie is faced with a similar situation - his father ill with dysentery and no longer being rationed; with no hope for survival - Elie still gives up his daily rations to take care of his father. He states, “For a ration of bread, I managed to change beds with a prisoner in my father’s bunk” (Night 103). Elie is willing to give up a ration of bread just to change beds with a block-mate that bunks with his father. Here not only is he giving up his survival for his father; he is also risking his is own life getting closer to his father’s disease. And even when he is questioned for his generous acts and he feels slightly in question, he immediately feels guilty. In his conversation with his superior, it states, “Listen to my, boy...Here, every man has to fight for himself and not think of anyone else. Even of his father. Here, there are no fathers, no brothers, no friends. Everyone lives and dies for himself alone. I’ll give you a sound piece of advice - don’t give your ration of bread and soup to your old father. There’s nothing you can do for him. And you’re killing yourself. Instead, you ought to be having his ration.’ I listened to him without interrupting. He was right...but I dare not admit it...Only a fraction of a second, but I felt guilty” (Night 105). His superior questions why he would give his own life to a man who would die with or without the sacrifice. He states that Elie should take advantage of the situation and reap his fathers rations and clothes. And even though Elie immediately dismisses the idea, the split second that he thought about it made him feel guilty. Unlike Meir, Elie is completely unwilling to sacrifice his father for even the smallest gain.

Elie’s powerful relationship with his father allows him to not only survive, but to survive with the same humanity he had when he first entered Auschwitz. Elie depends on his father for motivation and support when he feels he is in a hopeless situation, and his father is protected by Elie’s unwavering morality. Both of them have something the other needs, and respectfully, the help each other survive with it. “Night” reflects the importance of a strong friendship, or any other type of relationship.

For most, water is a mere basic area of liquid. It is a substance found in almost all other drinks, making it one of the lowest member of the thirst pyramid. However, in the world, there holds a bottle of water so amazing that I have traded my traditional "after school vanilla coke" for just a few sips per week; of its refreshing ice cold taste that I even beg for more.

This water cannot be found in packages like Arrowhead or Smart Water. It cannot be found anywhere except one location. It is housed by a metallic bottle that keeps the cold from escaping. It is accompanied by a block of ice that thaws as you drink it. The cold layer of water that forms around the metallic container chills your hand as you hold it.

But just where can this amazing water be found? Why; the only location that could suit such an amazing taste: Leon's Water Bottle. Everyday, I'll take a small dixie cup for just a sip of it, and I'll trade him a Coke at the end of the week.

At this point, one must be thinking, "Why? Why would someone trade a bottle of soda for a sip of water? It makes no sense." Words cannot describe the errors of this statement, just as words cannot describe the taste of this water.

And so, I can only conclude that this water - this stream straight down from heaven - has given me a new light on water. The simple chemical compound that once bore no taste to me had enlightened me of its delightful taste; its amazing temperature; and its texture. The odorless liquid now possessed an aroma like no other. One that could satisfy a thirst under any circumstances. Whether one was too cold, or too hot, or too hungry, or too full, it was a great compliment to any other taste in competition. And to think that so much - the taste, the texture, and the temperature - could all be put into one small metal container.

Chapter ??? Edit

A mere work in progress for one of the chapters in the future. In this one, the main character describes his newfound relationship with a colleague and its effect on the relationship between him and John. This chapter is not done and I am just posting it for responses on detail improvement.

Since the previous chapters haven't been posted yet, the main premise is, years after the death of John's mother, his father falls in love again, but John isn't too keen on her.

These stories are not to make fun of John Hamilton, a student at my school. Although the purpose of this blog's title was to, this story isn't. The name John is used simply because that's the name on the blog. Any usages of names of my fellow classmates in the future may be.

I never thought I'd fall in love again. But there was something different about her. Maybe it was the way she waltzed by my marble-slated cubicle during lunch. Or maybe it was her whole-hearted, off-white smile.

I figured John already knew. I had started coming home late; I even talked to her in front of him. But he wasn't always the brightest kid. I remember in the days after his mother died, he stopped walking, as if he never knew how to. He would keep crawling across the wooden tiled hallway, as if she was waiting for him on the other side. For the next week, he didn't want to go out of the apartment, play with his toys, or even watch his favorite T.V. channel: PBS Sprout. And he never seemed to catch my message, probably since he was too busy playing with Pedro, her son.

It was as if they knew each other their whole lives; even though to her and I, they seemed as opposite as night and day. Pedro grew his hair similar to his mother's: down to his shoulders, with a neat trim in the front. Sometimes it seemed even longer when he sat next to John, whose head was reminiscent of a brand new Chia Pet. And aside from just physical appearance, John had grown to be more of a slop.

After Pedro left, his room was a mess! His toys poured all over his floor; The game controller lie on his overworked bed. And his clothes lay on the ground like serviced soldiers after a civil war. The room was reminiscent of a battlefield, soldiers laying over the floor, the terrain completely ruined.