Blog 24: Course Reflection

Course Evaluation/Reflection

Questions:
What did you learn in this course?
I learned that writing is a complicated process and cannot be mastered in a few drafts. Its okay not to be happy with my work the first time, that’s what revision is for. What matters is I have my thoughts down and can go from there. Also I learned not to be so self conscious and critical of my writing; every writer struggles with an inferiority complex at one time or another.
About the form of CNF?
CNF can take on many forms, some more enjoyable than others, as long as it hones in on a personal experience/idea, and continually circles around it. I don’t think it is the CNF author’s job to provide answers, but to leave the door open for interpretations by the audience. Some of the best books are those who have left me ambivalent about certain ideas rather than saying outright, “this is right” or “this is wrong”.
What did you learn about how to write CNF?
So much- considering I didn’t know what it was when I walked into the class in September. I learned than what seems like a trivial experience can be molded into a smart, interesting piece. I also learned that I have to stop rushing my work; it’s okay to write in pieces and go back after a day or two. Also, I learned to use discretion when writing about others without compromising the integrity of my story/memories. Sometimes I have to make the decision to put the truth out there whether or not some may think it is selfish or insensitive.
About where to publish/find publishing venues for your creative writing?
I never knew there were so many venues dedicated to CNF writing, but I know have the knowledge to pursue publication and also to read other work and maybe get ideas for my own.
Did you change anything /try anything different in your writing process? Please describe.
The segmented essay was new to me and it turns out that I love this form. As far as the process goes, I found myself jotting down snippets of memory in my journal which later turned into whole chunks of my essays. Because I was often writing from memory, there was no need to map out every line, it flowed naturally when I was typing. This is a time saver.
Which class assignments/class experiences helped you learn whatever you learned?
Lott’s definitions laid the groundwork for this course, although his is not the final say on CNF, his guidelines were invaluable. I also liked some of the journal prompts although I’ll admit at times I was scrawling nonsense because I didn’t know what to write.
What do you wish the course spent more time on?
Reading our pieces out loud; even though the Reading Day was not an official part of the class, I loved it. It was actually one of my favorite activities from this course.
What do you wish we'd spent less time on?
I am not a fan of group assignments, even though we only did two or three. It’s awkward when only a few people did the reading.

2. Structure of course/assignments
Questions:
Right pace/schedule?
If I could change one thing I might have the students write their first essay a little earlier. I know it was logical to do the readings before we started writing our own CNF, but I felt a little rushed at the end as far as writing one essay after another.
Coherence of material?
Absolutely- everything we read expanded my understanding of this genre and influenced my own essays in some way.
Workload =>
Yes, the work load was fine- one blog a class is not too much to ask. 
Cover material appropriate to course goals? Definitely; we accomplished everything you told us we would.
Enough feedback for grades?
Yes the feedback was very helpful thank you. I also appreciated how you gave us constructive criticism without being overbearing or pompous like some professors. You gave us an honest opinion and suggested revisions rather than demanding them. It made me want to improve my essays and not give up on them.

3. Provisions for feedback/grades
Forms of evaluation + feedback
Questions:
Which form of feedback was most helpful?
I thought both forms were helpful, but the written feedback was more convenient and if we had more questions you were available for a conference. It gave the class flexibility which is appreciated.
Which did you enjoy most? written
Did you feel the grading system was fair? yes
Did the grades/grading system contribute to learning?
As far as the drafts being our practice essay and not receiving a letter grade- yes!. I think students miss out on the writing process when they are hung up on the grade they will receive, but the drafts allowed us to explore ideas and try new things without risk.

4. General response
Is there anything you could tell me that would help me teach a better/more engaging course?
Not really. I like your style of teaching and you did a great job of making this course interesting and educational.
Anything you want to say about your experience of the course?
I loved this course! Thank you for being helpful and understanding with our writing; and so open with your own experiences.

Blog 23: Essay 3 Revised

My Unanswered Questions


The photo is 3 ½ x 5, matte finish in a gold plaited frame. Pictured are my grandparents, Maryann, Rosario, Marlene, and John in that order, and myself in front, age eight in my Communion dress. It’s the only picture in existence of the five of us together; the past and the future, my extraction and their legacy- sixty years of rich history and few opportunities taken to explore it. We are standing in my backyard which looks uncharacteristically groomed and luscious, in the spring of 1995.

The order my grandparents are standing in has always held an eerie significance for me. My maternal grandparents, Maryann and John, are separated like bookends on either side. Divorced for many years (how many I can’t say, but I do know that I had never known them while they were still married), they remained close friends. Why they decided to stand apart like this is a mystery. Maybe it sends the wrong message if a man and a woman, once married, having five children together, stand beside one another as if they are still partners. I always wondered if they felt a twinge of longing or regret as they stood there, framing a marriage still intact, their in- laws in each other’s embrace. I don’t know and I never asked. Such things were not discussed.

I remember the exact moment this was shot, my aunt, the self appointed family photographer poised with her camera, exclaiming, “Kimberly, go stand by the birdhouse, I want a picture of you and all four grandparents.” Cooing approvingly as we made our way to the center of the yard to pose, ”Perfect now smile, that looks great, hold it..” Click. Hold it, I want to go back.

Maryann, my mother’s namesake, beams first in line, forever looking like a posh catalogue model. A smartly tailored white jacket with black lapel and buttons hugs her still curvaceous figure. A stiff white hat with an upturned brim and large ribbon dangles gently from her hand, exposing her teased light ash blonde hair. Not a hint of gray because she wouldn’t allow it. I can still conjure her scent, a pleasant mixture of flowery perfume and used makeup sponges, clean yet worn. The same smell as her bedroom, with the deep closet overflowing with tasteful, expensive garments and vanity table laden with miscellaneous broaches and coral press on nails.

She was a tough, independent woman, the kind I think who would have burned a brassier in protest if she had been from that generation. After the divorce she went back to school to earn an M.A. in Business, working as Director of Physician Affairs in a hospital. I kept her photo I.D. all these years along with a pin that rested on her uniform jacket asking “how can I help you?” I was never told about the betrayal by my mom, and to this day we have never spoken about it. My older cousin Lyndsay stared at me incredulously one day, “You mean you don’t know what happened? Haven’t you ever heard them talk about Jack Sweeney? Grandma had an affair with him and that’s why they got a divorce.”

I felt ashamed, like a voyeur peering at someone’s most intimate moments. I stopped seeing Grandma as only a source of love and kindness, Thanksgiving dinner and beautiful Christmas gifts, a house near the woods that smelled of scented soap and burning wood and a piano I loved to fumble on-she was a woman; a woman with fear and passion, anger and remorse. I want to hear her story, the whole story. I want to turn around and ask her, what happened that you fell out of love with Grandpa? How did you raise five energetic children without tearing out your hair? Help me please to fill in the blanks. What was it like to grow up as the mischievous “Biddy” in a tiny Bronx apartment? Did boys say you were as beautiful as I think you were? I wonder if she would tell me though.Would I really have the courage to ask? I don’t know.

Next in line is my grandfather, dark skinned with salt and pepper hair in a crisp white collar, smiling jovially, the same wrinkles forming around his eyes and mouth as when he laughed. He made the stone birdhouse that sits high above our heads, on a pole stuck in my mother’s blue hyacinth plant not yet in bloom. It was one of the many creations he labored over in his tool shed throughout the years. A master craftsman; I always told him he should start his own business, but he said it was just for fun. His left arm is wrapped protectively around his wife, Marlene; his good hand I think. Years later he would remark, at the kitchen table over a bowl of ziti and gravy, “When Grandpa dies, remember he always made you laugh” speaking about himself in the third person as if already gone. I didn’t like when he talked like that.

I will my eight year old self to obey. Turn around and take his hand, lead him to a chair and say “let’s talk”. Ask him about growing up in Elizabeth as a first generation American. Greedily absorb every detail before the camera blinks its ominous eye and the moment is lost. Tell me please, what you felt as a child. Did you play in the snow on a frosty December morning, gliding through the air on a wooden sleigh? Did you run through the geyser of a red hydrant with the other kids in the muggy August dusk? Where you embarrassed when little grandma and grandpa, in their thick Sicilian tongue said “bacchaus” referring to the “back house” when they went to the rest room? Why didn’t you ever learn to speak their language and pass it on to me? Mi manchi tanto, ti voglio bene. Not perfect, but coming along; are you proud?

Grandpa worked in a factory in the 60’s and 70’s, an era where safety was an afterthought. One day when he was operating a metal press, his hand got caught under it and he lost the top of his thumb. I remember the little stub wiggling, comical yet sad, as he wiped a ring of red wine from around his mouth. I repeatedly asked him what happened to his thumb. “I got in a fight with Grandma and she bit it off”, he replied smirking. I tumbled to the floor laughing.

My grandmother Marlene, named after Marlena Dietrich, smiles sweetly, knowingly; her blonde hair styled in what our family fondly named the “beehive doo”, eyes shaded with dark prescription lenses. She possessed an understated elegance, never over the top and never sloppy; Grandma always made a point to curl her hair for company, even during a bad spell. Her gold wristwatch catches the afternoon light and on her hand wedding bands sparkle, both diamond, beautifully durable, like her marriage. She loved my grandfather more than I have ever seen a wife love a husband. Sometimes I feel I am most like her, although capable of many things, sensitive, at times fragile and in need of a partner, a lifelong friend to carry me along.

I asked her once why her parents never insisted that she marry a Polish man, as it was the custom in those days to marry within your own circle. “I dated a Polish boy once, and he tried to do bad things to me”, she replied, in a way that makes a small child content with information otherwise not meant for her ears. What was it like when you fell in love with Grandpa? Did you feel as if you had found your other half, someone to provide comfort and fortitude? Back then I might have sat on a cushion in her room, giggling and flushing with childlike embarrassment as she told me about their first kiss or perhaps the exact words he used to propose to her; but I would look back upon that story with fondness and appreciation, like so many other moments spent with her.

Oddly enough, they are standing in the order of death, Maryann of cancer, Rosario a heart attack in Home Depot, Marlene of complications triggered by a lifetime of poor health. My Grandfather is left, standing tall and sturdy on the end in a striped polo and slacks, “golf attire”. I realize that I know very little about his life. He is a good, hard working man who took the subway to the bank for over thirty years to support his family. He gave his wife their house when the marriage was over, and moved to a rural town down south. He never stopped loving Maryann, convinced she was the only woman for him. One night when the cancer had nearly completed its insidious work on my grandmother, he came in from the porch after sitting for hours. His eyes were teary and he looked away from me quickly. It was the only time I have ever seen my grandfather cry. He is not a one dimensional image like the others though, a feeling I carry in my chest; he is a real person still with me. Why don’t I ask? Maybe some stories are just too sensitive to prod and examine. Maybe some things are meant to be swept under the rug.

My grandfather is a proud and private man; he sends me a birthday card every year and I give him the obligatory thank you phone call, short and thoroughly awkward. I find myself hoping to catch his answering machine. If not then it goes something like this, How’s the weather down there Grandpa? Oh really that much rain, wow. And your cats, how are they doing? Great, great, well it was good to hear from you. Love you. Buh Bye. I scold myself while replacing the receiver, what was that? Why didn’t you talk to him? He is an incredibly knowledgeable man and enjoys talking about wildlife and trees, occasionally politics, nothing heavy. Our family doesn’t like to squirm.

I am a miniature bride. Standing with palms kissing and feet positioned elegantly, resembling a non committal fourth ballet pose, I am surrounded by the love and strength of decades- no need for questions and answers. My head is cocked slightly to the side, a purposeful maneuver to look cute and innocent. What a ham. I remember trying to keep my balance as the camera captured us, grateful that I would have a snapshot to remember this moment for years to come. I am the maiden of honor, reveling in the spotlight; chasséing around the yard, greeting guests with giggles and the rustle of my clean white gown. It’s okay, I whisper to my eight year old self. Keep twirling; you know enough for now.

Blog 22: Publication Venues

Sub-Lit :

Laurah Norton Raines is co-founder and head fiction and non-fiction editor of SUB-LIT.

What do they want?

Editors’ statement: “We want inventive, exciting work. SUB-LIT’S editors are frustrated by the lack of diversity in many mainstream literary journals, particularly those that seem afraid to publish writing that is daring in subject matter, form, or tone. Publishing should not be an academic circle jerk or a realm where blandness is encouraged.
That said, we want literature, not genre. Fantastical elements (or form blending) are fine, but make sure the work moves beyond those elements to explore the human experience.”

This is a venue for an edgy style of writing. Sub- Lit features fresh subject matter that comments on the often unexplored aspects of a shared human experience. These writers are not afraid to use profanity or divulge about their sexual escapades. Some themes I found, although not prevalent in all, include: drug use, promiscuity, family violence, identity crisis, stereotyping, turbulent parent/child relationships, and adolescence in general. The voices in the stories, much like those on the website, are comical, sarcastic, defiant, quirky and fun.

Sample Essays:

1. Thirty-eight by Eric Lehman: This piece is a mere page and a half but exemplifies the idea of unorthodox subject matter. It’s about a young man’s encounter with his crush who turns out to be a pot dealer. The description of marijuana plants and water bongs filling her apartment living room is coupled with the awkwardness and tension the author feels for this girl; it mirrors feelings we have all felt with a crush. This is what they mean by combining shared aspects of a human experience in an unexpected way.
2. Sluts by Anna Moore: Anna Moore experiments s with a different and unusual point of view in this piece. She refers to the main character as “they” rather than “I” and it’s not until halfway through the piece you realize she is speaking about herself rather than two distinct people. The split voice serves as a signifier of a sexual schizophrenia or loss of the self, because she is continually thwarted by the man she loves.

Facts about Sub-Lit
• Sub-Lit does not pay, but they will send you Sub-Lit stickers!
• Does accept simultaneous submissions; however you must let them know where else you are submitting and if you are accepted.
• Sub-Lit will try to respond within two month of a submission.

Publication Rights/Submissions

• *Publication rights assumed: “For written work, we assume internet publication rights--that is, we assume the right to publish online. By agreeing to this, you are agreeing not to publish A) the same submitted and accepted work online with another journal, or B) in some other public online format. This is becoming standard for online journals. We do not assume any print rights, but we do assume the right to archive your work within our journal. We don’t mind if it exists in other online formats, but try not to send us stuff that’s plastered all over the internet.”

• This magazine is open to just about anything, whether it be memoir, humor, or essay--don’t be afraid to submit a piece that defies genre. They don’t want creative writing that is boring but rather “work that is deftly narrated, vividly written, and focused on story, whatever the subject matter”.

• Creative nonfiction submissions may be as short as you like, but should not exceed 7000 words. For longer pieces, ask them first. Submissions are taken electronically only. Simply address your submission to nonfiction@sub-lit.com. A cover letter that includes contact information is required and format your email subject line as follows: nonfiction/title/author/word count.

Sub-Lit is currently reading submission for Vol. 2 issue 3 which will be out in April. This marks the start of a triannual publication of the online magazine. It is not too late to submit your work, but do it ASAP. Sub-Lit’s staff is all volunteer and since they receive so many submissions it is often hard for them to keep up. With a three times a year schedule, the editors are confident they can now focus on submissions more attentively. That said, from what I have gathered from reading the website, they are more than happy to accept extra help( i.e. bloggers, or staff)-although almost all the staff has at least an undergrad degree in English or writing.

A Final Note from the staff:

“SUB-LIT isn’t an uptight rag. Sure, we want your best work, but we also appreciate originality, derisiveness, decisiveness, and most importantly, dissidence. Is your work experimental, focused on a less-than-mainstream topic, or reflective of counterculture? Good. We’ve read and enjoyed Alice Munro, Raymond Carver, and Ernest Hemingway, but we don’t want their imitators. We want new, exciting, funny, or even shocking work--give us writing that comes from the gut.”

Blog 21: "What's in a Name?"

Finding a Title:(p.85)
In this blog I am trying to come up with a better title for "My Unanswered Questions". This is mostly rambling and choppy sentences/phrases, I'm thinking as I type...

Geography-backyard, under the birdhouse, in front of the camera
frozen in time, frozen memory, I'm thinking something about being caught in front of the camera?

Chronology- my Communion, 1990's, childhood, generations, before I knew things, secrets still unrevealed, simpler time

Furniture- something symbolic? Lens of camera as an eye...all seeing eyes, behind the lens, caught in the lens, numbers four and five, living in the moment, being content with what you know? Not always seeking answers, nobody is perfect, every family has secrets/shame but they should not be the things we dwell on, the laughter and happiness takes precedent

So far I like the idea of the camera lens and perhaps being frozen in time or something along those lines.However, I still want to convey the idea of my unanswered questions but maybe the story conveys that without having to state it directly in the title.

Blog 20: Revising Final Essay

I have decided to revise my third essay "My Unanswered Questions". Writing this piece was unusually emotional for me because it allowed me to express my affection and frustrations as well as ask questions that are often ignored. Some situations I address in my essay, like in most families, have been "swept under the rug".

I am going to concentrate on the part surrounding my Grandmother Marlene, because I didn't go into much depth about her life in the first draft. I have to add a story that sets up the questions I am asking. I really wanted to keep the stories in the order I have them, which mimics the order each grandparent appears in the photo, but I have to think about how effective it would be to switch them around.

I was going to end the essay with the part about my Grandfather, but that would not send the message I am trying to convey. I wanted to make the point that, as hard as we try to uncover everything there is to know about our families, it is more rewarding to just live in the moment and love them for who they were(and still are in my mind and this photo). It's true I have many unanswered questions, but actually I'm not sure I would reveal them if my grandparents were still alive. Some things are too personal. I loved them, and that's what I will remember and pass on.

Brainstorming Over Again

I've decided that I hate my initial idea for essay 4- so I'm changing it. My object is a magazine cover, or more specifically the woman on it. I won't name her, but every detail of her appearance will be disclosed. I'm going to weave in my perception (warped or not) of beauty/sex appeal and self esteem issues I have dealt with in the past. I also want to incorporate the idea of the Golden Ratio because I find it fascinating and it is intrinsic to the idea of aesthetic perfection.

Blog 19: Brainstorming for Essay 4

Main Focus: My older cousin Lyndsay
Points to explore: my evolving relationship with her, progression from jealousy to pity/anger, to admiration and self acceptance- Using her to understand myself.
Scenes/facts/settings: 1. coloring pictures (I wanted to be like her)
2. How I was a brat and used to annoy her (I wanted a mixture of her attention and also to make her life miserable)
3. Grandma devastated about her moving away (jealous that she wasn’t saying things like that about me)
4. her rebellious phase(how I was shocked and disappointed)
5. having a baby(feeling pity and then understanding)
6. going back to school(admiration)
I had a very strange relationship with Lyndsay when I was a child; I loved and hated, idolized and resented her. I thought she was beautiful, cool, smart ( the exact opposite of everything I felt about myself). I want to use this essay to show the evolution of my feelings toward her in direct relation to my understanding and eventual acceptance of myself. I found that when I hated Lyndsay it was also a time when I hated myself, but when I learned to be confident in my own skin, I understood and loved my cousin even more.

Blog 18 Again

I don't think I did this assignment correctly so let's try again...

It hardly looks like the one I attended. The blacktop where I used to play tag has been covered by an entirely new building, a replacement for the crumbling structure that served as the elementary school since the thirties. A chunk of the facade fell off once, crashing to the pavement while we were thankfully in class.The hallways are bright white smelling of floor polish and wood, a smell I had grown accustomed to , only now without the staleness of age.
I stroll into the older area I feel almost alien. I recognize the faces of the secretaries, who after all this time still remember my name. I have the strange sensation that I'm loitering and someone is going to shoo me back to class any second. I glance at the water fountain and remember a year it was draped in hot pink cellophane with "Love Potion #9" written across the front for a Valentine's Day decorating contest.

I walk in to the first floor bathroom, the one adjacent to the girls locker room. I see the same drab creme tiles and walls painted in a hundred coats with a color of the same family, covering years of graffiti, phone numbers, obscenities,and bathroom poetry, which I'm sure I contributed to at one point. This bathroom was the "hot spot" during our school dances where blossoming preteens would congregate to apply blue mascara and bright gloss, intended to make them look mature but having the opposite effect. I crouch down to look in the smudged glass, I feel old.
I walk out facing a line of lockers trying unsuccessfully to remember which was mine. These lockers were the center of a recurring nightmare I had where I forgot my combination and kept missing class, or in a variation of the same dream all my things were stolen because I had left it wide open. I don't have to stand on my tip toes to reach the top shelf. The children roaming the halls seem impossibly tiny.

Essay 3 Rough Draft

My Unanswered Questions


The photo is 3 ½ x 5, matte finish in a gold plaited frame. Pictured are my grandparents, Maryann, Rosario, Marlene, and John in that order, and myself in front, age eight in my Communion dress. It’s the only picture in existence of the five of us together; the past and the future, my extraction and their legacy- sixty years of rich history and few opportunities taken to explore it. We are standing in my backyard which looks uncharacteristically groomed and luscious, in the spring of 1995.
The order my grandparents are standing in has always held an eerie significance for me. My maternal grandparents, Maryann and John, are separated like bookends on either side. Divorced for many years (how many I can’t say, but I do know that I had never known them while they were still married), they remained close friends. Why they decided to stand apart like this is a mystery. Maybe it sends the wrong message if a man and a woman, once married, having five children together, stand beside one another as if they are still partners. I always wondered if they felt a twinge of longing or regret as they stood there, framing a marriage still intact, their in- laws in each other’s embrace. I don’t know and I never asked. Such things were not discussed.
I remember the exact moment this was shot, my aunt, the self appointed family photographer poised with her camera, exclaiming, “Kimberly, go stand by the birdhouse, I want a picture of you and all four grandparents.” Cooing approvingly as we made our way to the center of the yard to pose, ”Perfect now smile, that looks great, hold it..” Click. Hold it, I want to go back.


Maryann, my mother’s namesake, beams first in line, forever looking like a posh catalogue model. A smartly tailored white jacket with black lapel and buttons hugs her still curvaceous figure. A stiff white hat with an upturned brim and large ribbon dangles gently from her hand, exposing her teased light ash blonde hair. Not a hint of gray because she wouldn’t allow it. I can still conjure her scent, a pleasant mixture of flowery perfume and used makeup sponges, clean yet worn. The same smell as her bedroom, with the deep closet overflowing with tasteful, expensive garments and vanity table laden with miscellaneous broaches and coral press on nails.
She was a tough, independent woman, the kind I think who would have burned a brassier in protest if she had been from that generation. After the divorce she went back to school to earn an M.A. in Business, working as Director of Physician Affairs in a hospital. I kept her photo I.D. all these years along with a pin that rested on her uniform jacket asking “how can I help you?” I was never told about the betrayal by my mom, and to this day we have never spoken about it. My older cousin Lyndsay stared at me incredulously one day, “You mean you don’t know what happened? Haven’t you ever heard them talk about Jack Sweeney? Grandma had an affair with him and that’s why she and Grandpa divorced.”
I felt ashamed, like a voyeur peering at someone’s most intimate moments. I stopped seeing Grandma as only a source of love and kindness, Thanksgiving dinner and beautiful Christmas gifts, a house near the woods that smelled of scented soap and burning wood and a piano I loved fumble on-she was a woman; a woman with fear and passion and anger and love and remorse. I want to hear her story, the whole story. I want to turn around and ask her, what happened that you fell out of love with Grandpa? How did you raise five energetic children without pulling out your hair? Help me please to fill in the blanks. What was it like to grow up as the mischievous “Biddy” in a tiny Bronx apartment? Did boys say you were as beautiful as I think you were?

My grandfather, dark skinned with salt and pepper hair in a crisp white collar is smiling jovially, the same wrinkles forming around his eyes and mouth as when he laughed. He made the stone birdhouse that sits high above our heads, on a pole stuck in my mother’s blue hyacinth plant not yet in bloom. It was one of the many creations he labored over in his tool shed throughout the years. A master craftsman; I always told him he should start his own business, but he said it was just for fun. His left arm is wrapped protectively around his wife, Marlene; his good hand I think. Years later he would remark, at the kitchen table over a bowl of ziti and gravy, “When Grandpa dies, remember he always made you laugh” speaking about himself in the third person as if already gone. I didn’t like when he talked like that.
I will my nine year old self to obey. Turn around and take his hand, lead him to a chair and say “let’s talk”. Ask him about growing up in Elizabeth as a first generation American. Greedily absorb every detail before the camera blinks its ominous eye and the moment is lost. Tell me please, what you felt as a child. Did you play in the snow on a frosty December morning, gliding through the air on a wooden sleigh? Did you run through the geyser of a red hydrant with the other kids in the muggy August dusk? Where you embarrassed when little grandma and grandpa, in their thick Sicilian tongue said “bacchaus” referring to the “back house” when they went to the rest room? Why didn’t you ever learn to speak their language and pass it on to me? Mi manchi tanto, ti voglio bene. Not perfect, but coming along; are you proud?
Grandpa worked in a factory in the 60’s and 70’s, an era where safety was an afterthought. One day when he was operating a metal press, his hand got caught under it and he lost the top of his thumb. I remember the little stub wiggling, comical yet sad, as he wiped a ring of red wine from around his mouth. I repeatedly asked him what happened to his thumb. “I got in a fight with Grandma and she bit it off”, he replied smirking. I tumbled to the floor laughing.

My grandmother Marlene, named after Marlena Dietrich, smiles sweetly, knowingly; her blonde hair styled in what our family fondly named the “beehive doo”, eyes shaded with dark prescription lenses. She possessed an understated elegance, never over the top and never sloppy; Grandma always made a point to curl her hair for company, even during a bad spell. Her gold wristwatch catches the afternoon light and on her hand wedding bands sparkle, both diamond, beautifully durable. She loved my grandfather more than I have ever seen a wife love a husband. Sometimes I feel I am most like her, although capable of many things, sensitive, at times fragile and in need of a partner, a lifelong friend to carry me along.
I asked her once why her parents never insisted that she marry a Polish man, as it was the custom in those days to marry within your own circle. “I dated a Polish boy once, and he tried to do bad things to me”, she replied, in a way that makes a small child content with information otherwise not meant for her ears. What was it like when you fell in love with Grandpa? Did you feel as if you had found your other half, someone to provide comfort and fortitude? Can you tell me what it was like losing your mother at such a young age, and why you were sick for most of your adult life? I am convinced that once her husband passed away, Marlene slowly lost the will to continue; it was just too lonely and she was too weak.

Oddly enough, they are standing in the order of death, Maryann of cancer, Rosario a heart attack in Home Depot, Marlene of complications triggered by a lifetime of poor health. My Grandfather is left, standing tall and sturdy on the end in a striped polo and slacks, “golf attire”. He is a proud and private man; he sends me a birthday card every year and I give him the obligatory thank you phone call, short and thoroughly awkward. I find myself hoping to catch his answering machine. If not then it goes something like this, How’s the weather down there Grandpa? Oh really that much rain, wow. And your cats, how are they doing? Great, great, well it was good to hear from you. Love you. Buh Bye. I scold myself while replacing the receiver, what the hell was that? Why didn’t you talk to him? An incredibly knowledgeable man, he talks about the weather and the trees, nothing heavy. Our family doesn’t like to squirm.
I realize that I know very little about his life. He is a good, hard working man who took the subway to the bank for over thirty years to support his family. He gave his wife their house when the marriage was over, and moved to a rural town down south. He never stopped loving his wife, convinced she was the only woman for him. One night when the cancer had nearly completed its insidious work on my grandmother, he came in from the porch after sitting for hours. His eyes were teary and he looked away from me quickly. It was the only time I have ever seen my grandfather cry. He is not a one dimensional image like the others though, a feeling I carry in my chest; he is a real person still with me. Why don’t I ask? A little voice chides, don’t squander the time you have.


I am a miniature bride standing with palms kissing and feet, covered in white flats positioned elegantly, resembling a non committal fourth ballet pose. My head is cocked slightly to the side, a purposeful maneuver to look cute and innocent. What a ham. I remember trying to keep my balance as the camera captured us, secretly coveting the gifts and money envelopes waiting for me to devour. I was the maiden of honor and I reveled in the spotlight; chasséing around the yard, greeting guests with giggles and the lacey flourish of my clean white gown. It’s okay, keep twirling little one. You know enough for now.

Blog 18: Revisiting Important Locations

My Grandparents shore house: I grew up in this house. Every summer from the time I was born was spent in Tomsriver. I learned to swim here and how to catch and clean crabs and fish. I can still smell the salt and mugginess in the air, and hear the seagulls cawing at six in the morning. We are in the process of selling this house now. The deck is warped and splintering, the weeds have staked claim to most of the property; worst of all the sounds of life have disappeared. No children laughing, water splashing, chicken sizzling on the grill, it seems so empty.

Barnes and Noble/Library:
I have loved books since middle school. All books: novels, nonfiction, manuals,reference, biographies,religion/spirituality, textbooks etc. I love how they feel in my hands and smell right off the shelf. Even if I'm not reading one at the moment, sitting in a room full of books is comforting, like I'm "in the loop" and have access to information that others may not. My love for reading is what prompted me to be a writer.
North Carolina: Vacationing in North Carolina is a tradition started when my Mom was a teenager and was revived when I was about nine. I lived there for a year though, and I would much rather be a guest than a resident. My parents decision to move there caused me to spend my first semester at HP University, and if they had followed through on their plans, my life would be so different.My first hurricane was experienced in Kitty Hawk; "Bonnie" decided to show up at the end of August and had us all evacuated to a grimy motel inland. It was lots of fun.

Blog 17: Moving Forward

Our class discussion groups were really helpful and I got some great ideas/insight into my essay. The topic of religion as "glue" that keeps family together was mentioned which is appropriate because the photo was taken on my First Communion.

I think I want to focus on each grandparent individually at first, giving a small vignette about their lives, while still circling around physical details in the photo, and eventually bringing it all together with some sort of idea about family coming together to overcome sorrow and hardships. Making this a segmented essay seems fairly easy given the fact I will be going back from the photo and each grandparent's life; I have many stories I could include so I'm going to work on narrowing them down to the most relevant ones.

Blog 16: Ideas for essay 3

I have many ideas for my third essay but I’m leaning toward a picture taken of me on my Fist Communion with both sets of grandparents behind me. I think this is the only photo I have of all of us together and remember at the time I was grateful somebody had taken it. The body language, clothing, and even the order in which we are standing has always interested me, and along with physical descriptions I will connect this to my family story. My mother's parents (who were divorced for many years) are standing apart like bookends on a shelf and my father's parents are squeezed in the middle, my Grandpa cradling his wife's shoulder with his left arm. We all look happy, (I thought I was a little princess that day) but I wonder exactly what was going through their heads. I'll never know of course, but I can speculate.

I know I have to do more than simply tell a story and so I’m trying to figure out what exactly I want to bring into question/explore.I really enjoyed “Silent Dancing” and will most likely use this as a model for my own piece. I would like feedback as to what I should be exploring (marriage, family gatherings, my perception of their relationships as a child vs. as an adult etc). I know all this sounds pretty vague, but I’m still in the planning stages.

Blog #15: Revised Essay

Kimberly Castro
11/1/09

The Same

Guilt is a terrible, complicated ailment. I often wonder if, being highly indecisive and at times insecure, I am more susceptible to self imposed guilt; the nonsensical, unexplainable kind that hovers like a faceless demon. I thought about this after a phone call two years ago. My mother’s voice sounded tired and slightly chiding through the receiver, “You know, Colleen was crying the night you left. She thought she was never going to see you again.”
My heart sank and my nose stung with threatening tears. The inexplicable demon rose once again to choke me. The night my mom was referring to was the last night I could stand living in that house. The house I had slept and ate and laughed and loved in for twenty years- no more, I was gone. I could remember how Colleen looked, sitting in the brown suede rocker, her chin resting on folded knees with a look of sad bewilderment. She watched me take my bags, one by one, into the snow. When I held the last one, I bent down to hug her and said “See you later, love you.” I could imagine her sobbing into the armrest after I had driven away, asking Mom where I had gone. I gave her no explanation, and no indication of when “later” might be, I was too distraught.
I’ll admit that running away (although at my age I don’t think that term is applicable) may seem somewhat courageous or daring, but believe me it isn’t. I in fact ran to my boyfriend Adam’s apartment. If I had been single, having little money and even less inclination to live independently, I might still be at home. I am not at home though, but I feel like I should be, like I own it to my sister. My childhood is over, but hers is happening right now as I write- in that same house, and I wonder how our conflicting experiences have and will continue to shape us. Everyone has a different family story, even siblings under the same roof. Time however, can be both cruel and magnanimous in what it gives to each of us.
♦♦♦
In 1987 my parents were different. They were vibrant newlyweds who had purchased their first home just two years earlier. I used to love flipping their wedding album, looking at a time before I was even a thought. In one photograph my mom, thin and twenty three, is holding up her lace gown exposing on her thigh a blue garter belt, while the ring bearer closes his eyes in mock embarrassment. In another, my dad, so handsome with black hair and a full beard, is gazing lovingly into my mom’s eyes. Sometimes I can’t believe they are the same people, but I bet they are thinking the same thing. The biggest difference though is not physical, back then they were in love. They had all the time in the world and the energy to match it. Maybe Dad will quit his job as a truck driver soon, because he’s been there since he was seventeen and hates it with a passion. Maybe Mom will go back to school to get her dental hygienists license. Maybe they will travel to all the exotic places they dream about. They can do it all.
This is the way I came into the world; with a pair of young, attractive, so-in-love parents with big dreams and plenty of time in a just-bought house. I was greeted with all the excitement and celebration on would expect for the first born, even more so by my paternal grandparents because I was their first grandchild.
My parents told us they were having another baby when I was in eighth grade. To say my initial response was less than enthusiastic is a generous understatement. I wasn’t expecting another sibling and I wasn’t about to abdicate my position in the attic, a bedroom for which I had patiently waited eight years. I think my parents were just as shocked and unprepared as my brother and I were. They were far removed from their 1987 selves, not just in age but in their outlook on life. I was aware that my mother had been contemplating divorce from my father whose drinking and bad temper had both progressed over the years. He was still at the same dead end job he had worked at and loathed for twenty five years. My mom had battled depression during and after her own mother’s losing battle with cancer. Our family had somehow grown cold, distant, and dysfunctional. I can’t say how or when, it just seemed to sneak up on us, but Colleen gave us some relief.
As I look back I wish I had shown more excitement and support for my mom’s pregnancy. I was selfish though. I never spoke of the baby or asked questions- nobody did really. I didn’t want to touch her stomach to feel the baby kicking or talk about what she might look like. In fact, I averted my eyes from the bump whenever my mom walked into the room. I’m ashamed of that now. Once Colleen was born though, everything changed. The first time I held her, I was overcome with a profound desire to protect and nurture her. It felt like I had given birth in a way.
Growing up, I remember family being such a large presence. We were big and boisterous and so happy. Thanksgiving and Christmas was a colossal event for both sides of my family, with dinners accommodating as many as thirty people at a time. Before anyone had died or gotten a divorce or moved away, we were just a room full of clamoring plates and laughter around a turkey. I remember hiding under the dining room table with my cousins after dinner, watching as our Grandma scooped dollops of whipped cream onto warm chocolate pudding, our eyes wide and mouths watering. My father’s parents especially doted on me, and some of my happiest memories are of building things with my Grandpa in his tool shed and helping my Grandma knead pizza dough, somehow always managing to wear the flour before I was finished.
It was a muggy, summer afternoon about six years ago, when a few of my family members were crowded around my aunt’s porch. My Grandpa was standing with my mom watching Colleen toddle up and down the sidewalk. He turned to her and said, “This one’s gonna keep you young.” They both laughed and for a second my mom did look much younger to me, not as tired. I felt safe then, like things were as they had always been, if only for a minute. Will she remember this when she is my age? Probably not, but there will be other things to remember.
The last Christmas dinner before I moved out was awkward and mostly silent. No pictures, no dresses or ties, no laughter- we were happy just to get through in one piece. It was only the five of us around the table, having long abandoned our large family gatherings. Half of our extended family had moved away, the other half was dead or not speaking to one another. We ate slowly, ignoring my parents’ attempts at conversation. I glowered at my dinner plate; my brother glowered at my Dad. The two of them been fighting about something hours before, and my mom had to practically drag Joey downstairs to eat. Halfway through the meal Joey bolted from the table screaming obscenities at something my Dad said to him and ran back up to his room. Feeling a brawl coming on, I exclaimed I was no longer hungry, dumped my plate in the sink and drove to Adams’ house. My poor Mom sat behind her half eaten turkey, eyes glassy and mouth turned down; she was infuriated but too exhausted to respond. As this was unfolding, Colleen sat eating her dinner, more or less unfazed. This was not an uncommon episode. I always felt guilty after fighting in front of my sister. I told myself I was contributing to her tainted childhood. Her memories would be poisoned, one day relayed in a sobbing voice, to a psychiatrist on a leather couch. I don’t remember too many fights between my parents when I was younger. I wonder if they were infrequent or if they were simply hidden from me?
Colleen never met my mom’s mother, who died of cancer two years before she was born, and by the time my sister was five, both my dad’s parents had passed away. My mom’s father is still healthy and active, but lives in Maryland so we see him maybe once a year. I suppose I’m angry that Colleen will never know our grandparents the way my brother and I did. She doesn’t experience the raucous holiday dinners with suits and dresses and family portraits. She isn’t spoiled by them with presents and candy for no reason. She has never swam in the murky lagoon with Grandpa or been lulled to sleep by one of Grandma’s stories.
What will she carry with her into adulthood? Maybe the feeling of rejuvenation brought to us by her arrival, the reanimation of a stale and angry family dynamic. She was a reason for all four of us to be in the same room and talk and laugh. Her momentous occasions, first Christmas and birthday, Baptism and others, led us to reminisce with family movies and photographs of our own firsts. Maybe her greatest memory will be of this newfound sense of hope she brought, a tiny light in the dark that was our great loss.
Am I trying to protect her from my own pain, anger and resentment? It is mine though, and I can’t ask her to share it. Do I color my perception of Colleen’s relationship with my father based on my own experience now? I know he loves us the only way he knows how, and my problem with him is not her problem to worry about. It’s her turn to be “Daddy’s little girl” and if it turns out that she grows up and has a healthy relationship with him I should be relived, not self pitying. Why can’t I let her make her mistakes and cry about them if she has to? Why have I concocted this immense guilt and carried it with me all this time- it is irrational. I realize it is more irresponsible, more selfish to deprive her of a unique and singular childhood. I cannot give her my childhood but I can and should be there for hers.
Colleen has something different than what I had. She has family spread to four corners of the country and cousins she goes several years without seeing. She has small, quiet Christmas dinners with plenty of arguing and a hand- me -down attic bedroom. She has parents who, although not so in love with each other anymore, would sacrifice everything to make her happy. She has a brother who teases her in the affectionate way characteristic only of older brothers and a sister who is more like a second mom. But I’m not her mother and I can’t pretend to be. She doesn’t need another Mom; she already has a strong capable, loving mother. What she needs is an older sister, a friend and confidante when she is older, a role model to be proud of. I should work on improving her future rather than trying to capture my past. We may argue frequently and harbor a lot of unresolved anger, but I have to stop dwelling on our flaws and start highlighting our redeeming qualities, at least for Colleen’s sake.
♦♦♦
“Can I talk to her please?”
My sister takes the phone from my mom and I hear her excited, munchkin voice, “Hi Kimmy. I was wondering if you can come over and play?” I realize then that she is perfectly fine. My leaving did not cause irreparable damage and I am not the horrible abandoner I imagined. “Yea Colleenikins, I’ll come over later. I miss you.”
To an outsider Colleen and I are as different as can be. I am fourteen years older and often mistaken for her mother. She has blonde cropped hair, a little snub nose and porcelain skin, resembling our mom. I take after my dad with an olive complexion and dark hair. Colleen is rambunctious and silly, I am introverted and private. I was the first grandchild and she was the surprise baby.
My memories are different from hers, but is different indicative of something worse or inadequate? Why do I try to compensate for what I think she is missing-maybe it’s all in my head. What is lacking or in excess may not be the point. She will have the same opportunities I had. She will have the same support system I had. The love she feels and reciprocates is the same, possibly greater. What more can I ask?

Blog 14: A Photo

In this photo, my boyfriend is sitting in a booth drinking coffee with one on the managers(his Greek friend). Another waiter, Nicholas, is standing to the far left, smiling tentatively. I forget the mangers name but Adam and I went to visit him two years ago at the diner he opened in Sayerville. He has one of the biggest smiles I've ever seen, and genuine, like he's really happy about life. This photo was taken before I got a job at the diner in the winter of 2007.
I wonder who is holding the camera? Probably Sophia, the owner's wife, or Maria, the only female manger(both of whom were considered "lunatics" by the staff). Adam and his friend are both holding menus and I wonder if they were put there purposely for effect, because they both knew the menu by heart at this point. Nick has a white towel draped across his shoulder and a silver pen peeking out of his front pocket. He probably had just a second in between orders to pose for this picture with his buddies. Nick was very polite, respectful to women, which was rare in that particular setting.
I know the booth they are sitting in very well. It is the first booth by the front door and the one with a little privacy because you can slide up against the glass partition and out of view of the boss who is standing watch at the front counter. Back when Adam and I were just "an item", a piece of gossip to fill the mouths of the wait staff in between screaming at each other and the cooks, this is the spot we sat late at night and talked. Talked about school, his town in Cyprus, or talked about nothing in particular, my foot casually rubbing against his leg then coiling back as if it had been a mistake. I'm not positive, but this may have been the spot where I realized this might be more than a crush.

Blog 13: Rummaging for Memories

At the top of my closet is an old pink wallet I never use anymore. I remember shopping in Macy’s with my mom and begging her to buy it for me; my birthday was close so she obliged. Now it collects dust along with my other discarded articles of clothing and torn, musty purses. It was what I found in one of the folds that caught my eye; two faded Amtrak ticket stubs from August 2006. The ink is so faint I have to squint to read the price and destinations: one, Express first $95.00, NY Penn Station to Boston, MA-the second, same class and locations, $.00.
I remember this trip to Boston with my ex boyfriend vividly. It was the summer I had come home from a strenuous year at High Point University and he wanted to take me away for the weekend. This was a time when I still thought I would be in love with the same person forever, before I realized that is an exception not the rule. It rained the morning we left and it rained the night we came back (and most of the time we were in Boston as well). I told my parents I was going to my friend Dawn’s beach house in LBI (the same excuse I would employ a year later when flying to Las Vegas for 24 hours for a Celine Dion concert, which turned out to be cancelled anyway).
It was the first time I had ever ridden a train not counting the NYC subway, which in my opinion is not so much a train as a moving container of filth and malfeasance. I was really excited to return to Boston for a second time, the first being an eighth grade trip where we were escorted to each destination on our itinerary like little sheep. Once we got to Boston though, I don’t remember doing much except watching TV in our hotel room and stopping at an enormous Barnes & Noble on the way to dinner at Applebee’s.
Tom loved to travel; in fact I remember him leaving me a least once a month to go on some random excursion to Chicago, California, Pittsburgh, once even Alabama (I still haven’t figured that one out.) Toward the end, I found myself needing him the most when he was gone and finally it was too much to deal with. Selfish or not, I need a boyfriend who will stay by my side. When I met my current boyfriend Adam I was infatuated, and slowly began to hate myself for falling out of love with Tom. It’s funny how the objects of our greatest affection sometimes lose their luster and we find we don’t need them like we use to, kind of like the pink leather wallet I used to love.

Blog 12: Revising my essay

Although my first essay has potential and I would like to return to it later, for this class I am going to concentrate on revising my second piece, "The Same", which is a comparative narrative about my sister and I. I chose to revise this story because I have a lot more to say and feel I have not fully developed crucial elements and ideas. The whole point of the story was to ruminate over the differences between my sister’s childhood and my own. Initially I was going to come at it from a birth order angle, but found that was both difficult and possibly ineffective. It was also difficult to “tell” Colleen’s side of the story because I am writing on pure observation. As Maureen commented on one of my blogs, I am comparing my insides to Colleen’s outsides, which can be problematic if not addressed somehow.
I think I can expand several scenes that I mention fleetingly such as making pizza with my Grandma and I want to add a scene that captures the incongruity of our home life in the present and when I was a child. I also plan to add more dialogue, but I haven’t decided where it should go. I am flirting with the idea of completely changing the structure of the story as well. After reading Stanton’s “Laundry” I was inspired to try a parallel structure that requires alternating episodes that ultimately tie into one another (my childhood + Colleen’s childhood= a shared experience.) It would be more intentional/obvious than the parallelism I have created in the first draft. I want to smooth the transition between the opening scene when I’m on the telephone with my mom and the flashback to 1987, but I’m not exactly sure what needs to be done.
It is obvious now that I have to choose one subject and hone in on it, rather than address several things at once. What is the message I want to convey here, is it guilt?love?being a role model? I don't know yet.

Bog #11: Second Narrative

The Same

My mother’s voice sounds tired and desperate through the receiver, “You know, Colleen was crying the night you left. She thought she was never going to see you again.”
My heart sinks and my eyes and nose sting with threatening tears. I hate the thought of causing my little sister sadness or fear; I am supposed to protect her, not make her cry. I feel like such an ass, but it can’t be helped. The night my mom is referring to was the last night I could stand living in that house. The house I had slept and ate and laughed and loved in for twenty years- no more, I was gone.
I’ll admit that running away (although at my age I don’t think that term is applicable) may seem somewhat courageous or daring, but believe me it isn’t. I in fact ran to my boyfriend Adam’s apartment. If I had been single, having little money and even less inclination to live independently, I might still be at home. I’m not at home though, and is Colleen suffering?
♦ ♦ ♦
In 1987 my parents were different. They were vibrant newlyweds who had purchased their first home just two years earlier. I used to love flipping their wedding album, looking at a time before I was even a thought. In one photograph my mom, thin and twenty three, is holding up her lace gown exposing on her thigh a blue garter belt, while the ring bearer closes his eyes in mock embarrassment. In another my dad, so handsome with black hair and a full beard, is gazing lovingly into my mom’s eyes. Sometimes I can’t believe they are the same people, but I bet they are thinking the same thing. The biggest difference though is not physical, back then they were in love. They had all the time in the world and the energy to match it. Maybe Dad will quit his job as a truck driver soon, because he’s been there since he was seventeen and hates it with a passion. Maybe Mom will go back to school to get her dental hygienists license. Maybe they will travel to all the exotic places they dream about. They can do it all.
This is the way I came into the world; with a pair of young, attractive, so-in-love parents with big dreams and plenty of time in a just-bought house. I was greeted with all the excitement and celebration one would expect for the first born, even more so by my paternal grandparents because I was their first grandchild.
Growing up, I remember family being such a large presence. We were big and boisterous and so happy. Thanksgiving and Christmas was a colossal event for both sides of my family, with dinners accommodating as many as thirty people at a time. Before anyone had died or gotten a divorce or moved away, we were just a room full of clamoring plates and laughter around a turkey. I remember hiding under the dining room table with my cousins after dinner, watching as our Grandma scooped dollops of whipped cream onto warm chocolate pudding, our eyes wide and mouths watering. My father’s parents especially doted on me, and some of my happiest memories are of building things with my Grandpa in his tool shed or of helping my Grandma knead pizza dough, somehow always managing to wear the flour before I was finished.

My parents told us they were having another baby when I was in eighth grade. To say my initial response was less than enthusiastic is a generous understatement. I wasn’t expecting another sibling and I wasn’t about to abdicate my position in the attic, a bedroom for which I had patiently waited eight years. I think my parents were just as shocked and unprepared as my brother and I were. They were far removed from their 1987 selves, not just in age but in their outlook on life. I was aware that my mother had been contemplating divorce from my father whose drinking and bad temper had both progressed over the years. He was still at the same dead end job he had worked at and loathed for twenty five years. My mom had battled depression during and after her own mother’s losing battle with uterine cancer. Our family had somehow grown cold, distant, and dysfunctional. I can’t say how or when, it just seemed to sneak up on us. A third baby was not in their plans, but turned out to be their saving grace.
As I look back I wish I had shown more excitement and support for my mom’s pregnancy. I was selfish though. I never spoke of the baby or asked questions- nobody did really. I didn’t want to touch her stomach to feel the baby kicking or talk about what she might look like. In fact, I averted my eyes from the bump whenever my mom walked into the room. I’m ashamed of that now. Once Colleen was born though, everything changed. The first time I held her, I was overcome with a profound desire to protect and nurture her. It felt like I had given birth in a way.
One muggy, summer afternoon about six years ago, a few of my family members were crowded around my aunt’s porch. My Grandpa was standing with my mom watching Colleen toddle up and down the sidewalk. He turned to her and said, “This one’s gonna keep you young.” They both laughed and for a second my mom did look much younger to me, not as tired. I felt safe then, like things were as they had always been, if only for a minute.
Colleen never met my mom’s mother, who died of cancer two years before she was born, and by the time my sister was five, both my dad’s parents had passed away. My mom’s father is still healthy and active, but lives in Maryland so we see him maybe once a year. I suppose I’m angry that Colleen will never know our grandparents the way my brother and I did. She doesn’t experience the raucous holiday dinners with suits and dresses and family portraits. She isn’t spoiled by them with presents and candy for no reason. She has never swam in the murky lagoon with Grandpa or been lulled to sleep by one of Grandma’s stories.
Colleen has something different. She has family spread to four corners of the country and cousins she goes several years without seeing. She has small, quiet Christmas dinners with plenty of arguing and a hand- me -down attic bedroom. She has parents who, although not so in love with each other anymore, would sacrifice everything to make her happy. She has a brother who teases her in the affectionate way characteristic only of older brothers and a sister who is more like a second mom.
♦ ♦ ♦
“Can I talk to her please?”
My sister takes the phone from my mom and I hear her happy, munchkin voice, “Hi Kimmy! I was wondering if you can come over and play?” I’m now crying and laughing at the same time and reply in a nasal tone, “Yea Colleenikins, I’ll come over in a little while. I miss you.”
To an outsider Colleen and I are as different as can be. I am fourteen years older and often mistaken for her mother. She has blonde cropped hair, a little snub nose and porcelain skin, resembling our mom. I take after my dad with an olive complexion and dark hair. Colleen is rambunctious and silly, I am introverted and private. I was the first grandchild and she was the surprise baby.
My memories and experiences are different from hers, but is different indicative of something worse or inadequate? Maybe I should stop trying to compensate for what I think she is missing because maybe it’s all in my head. What is lacking or in excess may not be the point. She will have the same opportunities I have. She will have the same support system I have. The love is the same, and isn’t that what counts?

Blog #10: Focus for Essay 2

Looking through my journal entries I noticed that most of my memories centered around a particular time in my childhood (from about 4 to 10). This must have been a particularly great time in my life for me to keep returning to it page after page. I'm thinking of writing a comparative piece about me and my sister Colleen. Because we are so far apart in age (almost 14 years) it might be interesting to focus on the differences between our childhoods as well as the things that remain the same. Sometimes I worry that our family dynamic has shifted so much that Colleen is being deprived of some of the things my brother and I had, but I do what I can to make sure that she has a wonderful childhood, no matter how different. ( I should also stop assuming that different means bad, in this case some things are worse but some are better) For example, I always wished I had older siblings to look up to and stand up for me, but I'm happy that my sister has two.
There is a set of stories involving memories of my grandparents, getting my first puppy and when my brother was born; I would like to incorporate these memories and maybe juxtapose them to some things I think my sister will remember about this time in her life. Of course there will be an element of speculation/ artifice to this because I will never know what my sister's thoughts about this period are until she is older and shares with me.
I want to express this through some sort of parallel narrative but I have not decided on the form yet. I also have to think of some sort of underlying theme that an audience can relate to. Maybe I can explore the idea of birth order/time and how it shapes us. Also I think I should be making specific commentary on family ties. I still have a lot of brainstorming to do.

Blog #9: Reflections on Essay #1

Writing the first essay was very therapeutic for me. I wanted to express a lot of those emotions before but always stopped myself from writing them down. It also opened up many other possible topics for me to explore in the future. As far as form and content, I have some work to do in regards to length but the main idea of a journey coming full circle was definitely conveyed. I’m going to add another scene in the beginning and make the ending (my moment of realization) the fist fight between my cousin and I.
One point I want to hit home that may not have been too clear is this: I ran away from what I didn't want to be (angry, hateful), and I found that these feelings followed me to North Carolina- not just because they were saturating my cousin's family but because they had become a part of me.
Once I was able to make a rough outline of my ideas, it was easier for them to come together on the screen. I wasn’t as concerned with how the first draft sounded as long as my message was clear-now I can go back and polish it. I usually write a story in my notebook before typing it, but in this case I wrote everything on the computer so there wasn’t as much editing involved.
I have not decided what my next topic will be, but all of the things I am considering are directly related to the first one. It’s like an emotional domino effect; one door opens many more and I have rediscovered things about myself that I was repressing for so long. This introspection was much needed, and I’m excited about writing another one.

Bog #8: First Draft

Kimberly Castro
10/6/09
Personal CNF essay

High Point
New Jersey

I left for High Point, North Carolina on August 19th, my sister’s fourth birthday- the only time we had not given her a party. I didn’t know how I was going to survive for an entire school year without seeing my mom and sister, but I ignored my feeling of impending loss and repeated my newly adopted mantra: you’re getting away from all the bullshit, you’re getting away. I held my little sister tighter than I ever had wanting to hide her in the backseat when nobody was looking. I said goodbye to my brother Joey, knowing that despite our differences I did love him. I said goodbye to my Dad (did I?), I don’t remember. I relegated my problems to the back of my mind and concentrated on the ten hour drive ahead of us.
The night before had been rough. Another screaming match, more pushing and shoving, probably another hole in the wall or broken lamp, I’ve forgotten by now, who cares? I do remember running to the black car on the corner (our meeting spot) and jumping in. I got in with my boyfriend, at the time, and the biggest secret I had managed to keep from my parents for almost a year. He was a secret for more than one reason, partly because of his age (23) partly because I didn’t want him to see the problems I had and the rage I often allowed to consume me. He knew all along of course. We talked and hugged and said our goodbyes. When I got out of the car it was after midnight and hot, but I was shivering. I felt truly alone for the first time. I wanted to let him in and help me deal with things, but I wanted more to crawl into a shell and shut out everyone, so I did.

Delaware

I was exhausted by the prospect of another seven hours in the car. I slid a mixed CD of 80’s love ballads into the stereo. “My boyfriend made this for me.” It felt strange saying these words out loud to my mother. I had never spoken to her about Tom voluntarily.
“I like it”, she said tapping her fingers rhythmically on the steering wheel. My bottom was already sore from sitting and my face was numb from the blasting AC. I complain way too much. Just shut up and be happy. Be happy. It seemed like a simple enough idea but so inaccessible at the moment. I wanted to be excited about college and making sophisticated, intellectual friends, and having some independence. I wanted to be a normal functioning seventeen year old, but all I could muster was a stream of anxiety and regret punctuated by moments of panic. I could feel my mom’s eyes flashing from me to the road and back. She knew I was depressed and did her best to console me. “You know when we sell the house in Jersey and get settled down there, you can invite your friends over. We’ll have a barbeque in our new yard. It’ll be great. You can even invite your boyfriend to stay in the guest room. What’s his name again? Tomasquo?”
“Mom, he’s not a Native American.” I rolled my eyes. “It’s Tomasso.”

Maryland

As the mixed CD switched tracks, I thought of how my best friend’s sister had unceremoniously told my mom about Tom on our prom night. I felt guilty for being so secretive and knew I had hurt my mother by not sharing such an important part of my life.
“Why is your family the last to know about your boyfriend Kimberly?” she asked in between group photos. I was standing in the front yard in my pink dress feeling an equal mixture of humiliation and anger. I wanted to scream "well maybe if we had a normal family I could bring him home, but we don’t so you’re never going to meet him!" I didn’t say anything though. I shrugged and walked away to join my friends in the limo.
Why was I punishing my mom? Did I resent her for staying married to him even though she was miserable? I had no right to assume I knew her situation, no right to judge my mom, she had given me everything. It wasn’t her fault she had married a crazy person, he hadn’t always been like that. I remember we had been happy at one time. Life was simple; I knew who I was and what I wanted. His best friend died though and things changed, slowly but steadily growing worse. As I got older and reached adolescence, his role as the enemy became more evident. He lost his friend and I didn’t understand what that was like. I didn’t take the time to listen, just yelled. Is that an excuse?
The day she told me they wanted to sell our home in New Jersey was the day she said she was leaving my dad. I was relieved but mostly angry that we had all been cheated of something better. I never felt an ounce of sadness though. Later, when they had decided to “work things out”, I was furious. I felt betrayed by my mom and indignant that my dad had more or less won.

Virginia

Maybe I am being hypersensitive to things, everyone has family problems right? It could always be worse. Sitting there in the car I suddenly felt like a little child being scolded by her parents. Am I being ridiculous? Should I be grateful instead of bitter twenty four hours a day? Does my mom think I’m a brat and is it my imagination or did she just scowl at me when I thought that? Shut up, you’re crazy.
I was flushed with a new found optimism that told me maybe North Carolina wouldn’t be the hell I pictured. I would meet new, hopefully interesting people, experience southern life, maybe develop a drawl…okay no thank you. High Point University is a respected college with a beautiful campus in an up and coming city with plenty to do. This is an adventure! I cringed at how corny I sounded to myself. At least you won’t be fighting with your father. Yeah, that was definitely a plus. I would also be sharing a room with my cousin Ashley who, despite the temptation to strangle sometimes, was one of my best friends. Maybe everything will be okay. Maybe that’s not so crazy to imagine. Just breathe.

End of the Road, North Carolina

By the end of the first week I was a basket case. The slightest upset caused me to burst into tears on and off campus. I soon realized that my cousin’s family was just as dysfunctional, maybe more so, than mine. I had daily flashbacks of my parents hurling accusations and insults, doors slamming after repeated proclamations of divorce. Ashley’s contempt for my uncle and their violent encounters was both remarkably and sadly the mirror image of the relationship I shared with my dad. I was reminded daily of the things I had so desperately tried to flee. What made it worse was that I felt like an intruder; a charity case eavesdropping on ugly family secrets. At one point the tension erupted into a fistfight between my cousin and I, (I gave her a black eye, she cut my lip. I think I won.)
I began to question myself and my aspirations. What the hell was I doing down here? Is this what I really want or is it a stall? I hated having no friends and no car, and I hated being a burden. I hated myself for wanting to run away from what was mine, no matter how shameful and depressing it could be at times. Every phone call and email was a desperate attempt to reconnect to my old self, my old life. I wanted it but I still hated it. Eventually, a constant gnawing ache developed in my chest, not the metaphorical kind but the physical kind caused by excessive sadness and anxiety that makes you want to expel it by vomiting. I was left wanting. My condition had nothing to do with the place I was located; it had everything to do with the place I was in personally, it was all me and my hang-ups. This is the most accurate description of my initial college experience; I wanted to vomit. I needed my sister and my mom. I missed my secret boyfriend. I even missed the notorious garbage smell of New Jersey. High Point was my low point and I had to turn around.