Friday, January 27, 2012

Editing Questions: Narrative

After doing the checklist for your partner, answer the follow in this format:

Name of Reviewed Individual:
1. What are the strengths of your partner’s essay? Why?
2. What areas could use improvements? In other words, what suggestions can you give
your partner that will help his/her paper improve?
3. What is your favorite literary device used in your partner’s essay?
4. What is the part of the paper that stands out as the most "catchy" or important?

Find out your partner's email or blog and post these answers or send these answer to them as well!

Tuesday, January 24, 2012

Narrative Example II and thoughts on a "good narrative"

Read the following narrative and then read the bulleted items and answer the questions on your blog

EMPATHY
by
Julie Smith

According to the dictionary, empathy is defined as “the understanding of another’s situation, feelings, and motives”. I find it difficult to understand that a person could lack such consideration and compassion for another living creature, but, clearly, I have seen otherwise.  On many occasions, I have witnessed disconcerting behavior both aimed at myself, or other individuals and have questioned the our society's complacent moral standards.  For as long as I can remember, my ability to treat others with kindness has been second nature, and a vital part in my moral practices and beliefs.  Faced with many challenges during my childhood, my empathetic disposition was not only enhanced, but, undoubtedly, the strongest building block in my ethical foundation.
Naturally, my mother was a pivotal person in creating my moral standards, but my peers were equally important.  My parents divorced when I was six years old, and shortly after my older sister and brother moved out on their own.  At this point in her life, my Mom had never worked, and suddenly she found herself financially vulnerable.  It was just Mom and I, and as she liked to say, “It’s you and me against the world."  As do many kids, I wore the hand me down clothes, and often did not have the money to participate in extracurricular activities with my friends. Do not get me wrong-- I was very happy. My Mom and I were extremely close, and even though I did not have the best clothes, the best housing, my Mom gave me so much love and generosity in other ways, that I felt I was the luckiest kid in the world.  Yes, I was lucky in unconditional love, but I needed more than just my mother's acceptance in this world.  Less privileged financially than my peers, overweight, and extremely buck toothed, I became the target of much teasing.  A particular group of children at a bus stop were especially mean. Along with their ringleader, Marianne, those kids were so incredibly cruel to me, that I vowed never in my life would I intentionally inflict such pain on another living soul.  Peer pressure, unfortunately, is an obstacle that children must contend with.  Humiliating as the experience was, it taught me firsthand the profound effect our words and actions can have on others.
At the age of thirteen, my life began to change dramatically for the better, but still there were difficult circumstances beyond my control. My mother had been dating a wonderful man named Jack, and they decided to get married.  Not only was I blessed with a terrific new stepfather, but a beautiful new home in a great neighborhood. The braces for my buckteeth were in the near future, and my wardrobe included brand new clothes from the “Pretty Plus” department at Sears.  Indeed life held new promises for Mom and me; however, the devastation from my first day of eighth grade was a hindrance that would be hard to overcome. I was nervous about going to a different school with new classmates, but excited about living in my new home in such a great neighborhood. I was proud to say I lived at 19815 Merryhill Street, and not the run down apartment my mother and I jokingly referred to as ”Sewer City.”   Sporting my new outfit and my head held high, I proudly walked towards the bus stop. When I arrived there all the kids just stared at me. I thought to myself, “Okay, no problem, this is normal.  I’m just the new kid, and they are wondering who I am.” Immediately, I noticed one girl in particular, Marianne, the most popular girl in the neighborhood.  She began whispering to all the kids at the bus stop, and soon everyone was laughing and pointing at me. “Fatty bucktooth!  Fatty bucktooth!” they began to chant in unison.  At that very moment, I thought I was going to die. I asked myself, ” How could they do this to me?”  Suddenly my confidence was shattered, my head had dropped down, and all I wanted to do was go home.  The chanting continued for what seemed like a lifetime, until finally the bus came.  After everyone else had got on board, I reluctantly entered the bus. I began to look for a seat, but Marianne had told everyone not to let me sit down. As I came to each row I would ask, "Can I sit here?" They would either say, "No”, or they would just scoot over so there was no room for me. I could feel the tears starting to well up in my eyes, as I continued to search for a seat.   Finally, the bus driver discovered what was happening, and forced a child to make room for me to sit down. That five minute bus ride was the longest, most humiliating experience I had ever endured at that point in my life.  From that day on, I never rode the bus again. Instead, I would get up extra early, and walk all the way to school just to avoid the name calling and utter cruelty of those children, the children in the neighborhood of my wonderful new home
Remembering the painful experience of that day at the bus stop, never again did I look at someone who was less fortunate or different physically and form an opinion based on his or her outward appearance. Although I feel I have always been empathetic, that morning strengthened my ability to identify and relate to others.  I became constantly aware of the impact my behavior could have on another individual.  People often do not give someone a chance because of their physical differences, and I cannot express enough how disappointing that is.  Approximately a year after this incident, I created a friendship with a girl that most kids either teased or stared at.  My new friend, Lurenda, had rheumatoid arthritis in every joint in her body, and it was apparent by her physical appearance.  Most of her joints had already begun to show the progressive signs of this vicious disease, and just walking was difficult for her.  She was bright, funny, warm-hearted, and more importantly, a genuine friend.  Lurenda has been my closest and dearest friend for over twenty-five years now, and I feel extremely fortunate to have her in my life.  Had those other children been less judgmental, perhaps they could have been blessed with such a great friend.
Certainly, in a perfect world people would be caring and considerate of other’s feelings. The blueprint of an individual’s ethical standards would automatically include empathy to the highest degree. Unfortunately, we do not live in a perfect world. The best we can hope for is that somewhere along the journey we will endure experiences, of both positive and negative influence, that will shape our moral beliefs into something we can be proud of.  I feel fortunate to have endured my own hard times with such a generously loving and supportive mother.  She was a pillar of strength, while our comfortable life crumbled around us. As for the children who chose to ridicule that overweight and bucktoothed girl, I would thank them today. Of course, I thought my world would never be the same again after that morning, but I survived. Ironically, their negative influence promoted the most endearing quality of my ethical foundation, empathy.  Perhaps for some people the ability to be empathetic is second nature.  For others, nature may have to run its course, and teach the art of humanity through painful experience.  I have often wondered about those children at the bus stop. Although graciously accepted that morning so long ago, would that always be the case?  When would life present them with their own “bus stop”? When would they remember that overweight, bucktoothed girl, and regret their behavior?  Sadly enough, maybe they never would.

A good narrative:
bulletinvolves readers in the story. 
It is much more interesting to actually recreate an incident for readers than to simply tell about it.
bulletrelates events in sequence. The creation of specific scenes set at actual times and in actual places. Show, don't tell. Re-create an event by setting it in a specific time and space.
bulletincludes detailed observations of people, places, and events.
Do you recall sights, sounds, smells, tactile feelings, and tastes? Use actual or re-created dialogue? Give actual names of people and places.
bulletpresents important changes, contrasts, or conflicts and creates tension.
Do you grow from change? Is there a conflict between characters? Is there a contrast between the past and the present?
bulletis told from a point of view--usually the author's point of view.
bulletfocuses on connection between past events, people, or places and the present. How relevant is the event today? How relevant will it be in your future?
bulletmakes a point, communicates a main idea or dominant impression.
Your details, specific scenes, accounts of changes or conflicts, and connections between past and present should point to a single main idea or dominant impression for your paper as a whole. While not stating a flat "moral" of the story, the importance of your memory must be clear to your reader.

Look back through your narrative: answer on your blog the questions or statements of each bullet point as it relates to your own narrative.  After reading the piece on EMPATHY, think about some ways that you can change your narrative.  We will be revising tomorrow along with peer editing!

Narrative Essay Guide

What is a Narrative Essay?
When writing a narrative essay, one might think of it as telling a story. These essays are often anecdotal, experiential, and personal—allowing the student to express herself in a creative and, quite often, moving way.
Here are some guidelines for writing a narrative essay:
If written as a story, the essay should include all the parts of a story.
This means that you must include an introduction, plot, characters, setting, climax, and conclusion.
When would a narrative essay not be written as a story?
A good example of this is when an instructor asks a student to write a book report. Obviously, this would not necessarily follow the pattern of a story and would focus on providing an informative narrative for the reader.
The essay should have a purpose.
Make a point! Think of this as the thesis of your story. If there is no point to what you are narrating, why narrate it at all?
The essay should be written from a clear point of view.
It is quite common for narrative essays to be written from the standpoint of the author; however, this is not the sole perspective to be considered. Creativity in narrative essays often times manifests itself in the form of authorial perspective.
Use clear and concise language throughout the essay.
Much like the descriptive essay, narrative essays are effective when the language is carefully, particularly, and artfully chosen. Use specific language to evoke specific emotions and senses in the reader.
The use of the first person pronoun ‘I’ is welcomed.
Do not abuse this guideline! Though it is welcomed it is not necessary—nor should it be overused for lack of clearer diction.
As always, be organized!
Have a clear introduction that sets the tone for the remainder of the essay. Do not leave the reader guessing about the purpose of your narrative. Remember, you are in control of the essay, so guide it where you desire (just make sure your audience can follow your lead).
Courtesy of The Purdue Owl Writing Lab

Friday, January 20, 2012

Narrative Essay: Helen Keller

Narrative Essay-Helen Keller


The Story of My Life
Helen Keller
Part I. The Story of My Life
Chapter IV
The most important day I remember in all my life is the one on which my teacher, Anne Mansfield Sullivan, came to me. I am filled with wonder when I consider the immeasurable contrasts between the two lives which it connects. It was the third of March, 1887, three months before I was seven years old.
On the afternoon of that eventful day, I stood on the porch, dumb, expectant. I guessed vaguely from my mother's signs and from the hurrying to and fro in the house that something unusual was about to happen, so I went to the door and waited on the steps. The afternoon sun penetrated the mass of honeysuckle that covered the porch, and fell on my upturned face. My fingers lingered almost unconsciously on the familiar leaves and blossoms which had just come forth to greet the sweet southern spring. I did not know what the future held of marvel or surprise for me. Anger and bitterness had preyed upon me continually for weeks and a deep languor had succeeded this passionate struggle.
Have you ever been at sea in a dense fog, when it seemed as if a tangible white darkness shut you in, and the great ship, tense and anxious, groped her way toward the shore with plummet and sounding-line, and you waited with beating heart for something to happen? I was like that ship before my education began, only I was without compass or sounding-line, and had no way of knowing how near the harbour was. "Light! give me light!" was the wordless cry of my soul, and the light of love shone on me in that very hour.
I felt approaching footsteps. I stretched out my hand as I supposed to my mother. Some one took it, and I was caught up and held close in the arms of her who had come to reveal all things to me, and, more than all things else, to love me.
The morning after my teacher came she led me into her room and gave me a doll. The little blind children at the Perkins Institution had sent it and Laura Bridgman had dressed it; but I did not know this until afterward. When I had played with it a little while, Miss Sullivan slowly spelled into my hand the word "d-o-l-l." I was at once interested in this finger play and tried to imitate it. When I finally succeeded in making the letters correctly I was flushed with childish pleasure and pride. Running downstairs to my mother I held up my hand and made the letters for doll. I did not know that I was spelling a word or even that words existed; I was simply making my fingers go in monkey-like imitation. In the days that followed I learned to spell in this uncomprehending way a great many words, among them pinhatcup and a few verbs like sitstand and walk. But my teacher had been with me several weeks before I understood that everything has a name.
One day, while I was playing with my new doll, Miss Sullivan put my big rag doll into my lap also, spelled "d-o-l-l" and tried to make me understand that "d-o-l-l" applied to both. Earlier in the day we had had a tussle over the words "m-u-g" and "w-a-t-e-r." Miss Sullivan had tried to impress it upon me that "m-u-g" is mug and that "w-a-t-e-r" iswater, but I persisted in confounding the two. In despair she had dropped the subject for the time, only to renew it at the first opportunity. I became impatient at her repeated attempts and, seizing the new doll, I dashed it upon the floor. I was keenly delighted when I felt the fragments of the broken doll at my feet. Neither sorrow nor regret followed my passionate outburst. I had not loved the doll. In the still, dark world in which I lived there was no strong sentiment or tenderness. I felt my teacher sweep the fragments to one side of the hearth, and I had a sense of satisfaction that the cause of my discomfort was removed. She brought me my hat, and I knew I was going out into the warm sunshine. This thought, if a wordless sensation may be called a thought, made me hop and skip with pleasure.

Helen Keller at the age of seven, 1887
We walked down the path to the well-house, attracted by the fragrance of the honeysuckle with which it was covered. Some one was drawing water and my teacher placed my hand under the spout. As the cool stream gushed over one hand she spelled into the other the word water, first slowly, then rapidly. I stood still, my whole attention fixed upon the motions of her fingers. Suddenly I felt a misty consciousness as of something forgotten--a thrill of returning thought; and somehow the mystery of language was revealed to me. I knew then that "w-a-t-e-r" meant the wonderful cool something that was flowing over my hand. That living word awakened my soul, gave it light, hope, joy, set it free! There were barriers still, it is true, but barriers that could in time be swept away.*
I left the well-house eager to learn. Everything had a name, and each name gave birth to a new thought. As we returned to the house every object which I touched seemed to quiver with life. That was because I saw everything with the strange, new sight that had come to me. On entering the door I remembered the doll I had broken. I felt my way to the hearth and picked up the pieces. I tried vainly to put them together. Then my eyes filled with tears; for I realized what I had done, and for the first time I felt repentance and sorrow.
I learned a great many new words that day. I do not remember what they all were; but I do know that mother, father, sister, teacher were among them--words that were to make the world blossom for me, "like Aaron's rod, with flowers." It would have been difficult to find a happier child than I was as I lay in my crib at the close of that eventful day and lived over the joys it had brought me, and for the first time longed for a new day to come.

Answer the following:
1. What did you think of this narrative?
2. What was most interesting or engaging about it?
3. What surprised you?
4. Did this change your outlook on Helen Keller at all? Why or why not?
5. Copy and paste three examples of vivid detail and imagery that helped enhance the story
6. How can a narrative be more engaging than something like a biography? Why is it important to get someone's personal perspective?
7. Make a bulltted lists of some things you could write a narrative about