A DOSE OF REALITY
The smell of spring flowers, the dust that has been blown by the wind from the kids playing with chalk on the sidewalk. The beautiful flowers and leaves on the trees are all starting to come in. outside playing with the neighborhood children. There is never enough time in the world. When the street lights come on I have to be on my way in the house. Ahhhh my favorite, as I try to sneak past my mom before she notices I wasn’t in the kitchen helping my older sister cook. “Shouldn’t you be in the kitchen helping with something young lady?” There’s a thing about cooking my native food, it takes a lot of time and effort. So playing outside was my way out of the work. We had a big dining room table that we all sat at to eat and enjoy each other’s company. It was always best to eat before you got in the tub because if you know anything about African foods they are strong in smells that most people are not used to. I enjoyed those times watching my father laugh so much that he couldn’t eat. He would always tell us stories from his childhood, constantly giving us encouraging words about how important education is. I would sit there and take it all in. He would ask me to go on his evenings walks with him after I did the dishes. I loved our walks because that was when we would catch up on what went on in our day in details. I got a lot of life lessons on our walks. My father was a very lively person, he was one of those people that knew a lot about a lot. He was always willing to lend a hand. He loved his family with all he had. Super Man had nothing on him. He worked hard came home in time help with homework. He loves The Sampson’s show and even though it is a bit inappropriate, it was our thing. I looked forward to the intro scene every week because it was always something different. He was such a great example of a man. He was the kind of father that you could go to and talk to about any and everything. The only thing my father was strict about was education. We are from West Africa, Liberia. A better education was one of the reasons we had to relocate. For as far as I can remember he was always in school. He would always tell me the story about his mother not being educated. My grandmother, his mother valued education more than anything else. Maybe it was because she was forced to sell as a little girl and never got the opportunity to go to school. She didn’t speak a word of English but she could read your report card. In Liberia when you got your report card all the good grades were in blue or black ink and all the bad ones were in red ink. Now that I think about it, it was probably because of the huge percentage of uneducated people. Well, my father said when he would bring his report card home, all my grandmother would look for were any red marks. If there were any she would yell at him saying “why do you have chicken blood on your paper?” I knew the importance of then as well as now. The only difference is now I know how valuable education truly is. Over the years other the somehow we drifted apart. Maybe it was the coming of age or the fact that I wasn’t all he had hoped I’d turn out to be. The wedge to grow between us and it just got bigger and bigger over the years. My father had another straight rule and that was NO BOYS!! I started noticing boys and they started noticing me too. My father didn’t like that which made us grow even further apart. He felt boys were a distraction for me, I just liked that they liked me. Every time a boy would call for me he would voice his opinion on the matter. I felt like he didn’t understand. In fact, we both started to not understand each other. Things got so bad during my high school years that I got kicked out of the house after coming home past 9 pm one night. I was 18 and he was sick of my crap. Since I didn’t want to abide by his rules and felt I was grown. I didn't have anywhere else to go but I was so angry with him for not trusting my judgment that I stormed out with just a book bag full of clothes. I was working and I was going to proof to him I didn’t need him. I made a few calls and was able to find a place for the night. A few months later my mother was able to track me and she asked me to go back home. I was having the time of my life without a care in the world. I did not want to go home, but I couldn’t say no to my mom. I missed the freedom of not having to come home at a certain time. I started looking for ways to get kicked out again. This time it was worst I had gotten a taste of freedom and I wanted more. I finally managed to get kicked out. At this point I had a boyfriend so to me it was the perfect opportunity to spend more time with him. I happily left home this time. I had a job, a boyfriend, and a spot to sleep every night. What could go wrong? Well, a whole lot. For one I was still in high school and two there’s no place like home. Trouble always same to have found me. I got tired of doing whatever I wanted to do and decided to go back home. It was fall and all the leaves had fallen off the trees. They all looked like skeletons. The night skies fell quickly. As I hurried through the falling leaves I noticed something I hadn’t noticed in a long time. Traces of chalk left from the summer before, expect they were almost gone. There wasn’t any laughter I could almost feel the cold of winter slapping me in the face. I hurriedly rang the doorbell, my little brother opened the door. He gives me a double look as if he notice something new about me. Where’s everyone? He pointed to where felt like at the time the room of no return. I walked in and greeted everyone individually. When I got to my father I couldn’t help but notice that his face hair and skin was starting to show signs of aging. There were a couple of specks of gray hair that I never noticed were there before. My eyes followed a few lines of wrinkles that led me to his lips. Lips that looked like they had not smiled in years. For the first time, I noticed something unfamiliar. I noticed the sadness in his eyes. This time around things were different, I saw his point better. Experience had thought me that all along he truly had my best interest at heart. He just wasn’t very good at communicating that. We all went around sharing our feelings. When it was my time to share I took my time and first apologized for all the headaches I cost over the years. I explained that I would like to come back home and stay with my family. They wanted to know what had changed my mind. I noticed how my home had changed, there were things in places that weren’t there before. My brother was in the kitchen making himself a plate. He got taller and I missed it. He had always been shorter than me. He had finally caught up. I was too busy being selfish and I missed it all. There I was sitting in a very familiar spot except nothing was the same. I had changed and so had they. I wasn’t such a little kid anymore and there was no turning back now. I made my bed and I had to lay in it. The innocence of my childhood was gone. My body was preparing me for the brand new chapter that I had no idea about. The smell of the food in the microwave started to make me nauseous. I turned to the window that was cracked a little to help me from not throwing up. The some food that used to make me salivate was now causing an opposite reaction. As I looked out the window I couldn’t help but notice a little bush that hadn’t lost all its flowers yet. There was a little flower that stuck out to me. It was the only one that had not lost all of its colors yet. It looked totally out of place but it was right where it belonged.
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Who did I work with to compose my hiraeth project? Was this a good approach?
Well I wasn’t able to work with anybody, I wish I had done so though. What was the most difficult part of my writing process? Why? What did I do to overcome the obstacles? The most difficult part my writing process was figuring out exactly what I wanted to write about. I just couldn’t for the life of me think of any home sickness that was worth writing about. I just wrote, well to be fair I wrote and deleted a few times. (sheeee you did not read those last few words) When did I write this project? Good approach? I started a couple of nights before I had to turn it in. I just had to become more familiar with the word. My Approach could’ve been better. Where did I write this project? Good approach? I wrote the paper at home on my laptop. Right now I don’t have too many places I could write. Why did I choose to write about my chosen hiareth? It was the only topic that when I thought about that really give me that longing feeling. How will I adapt/revise my writing process for future revision of the hiraeth assignment. [Be specific. Review your original six-step writing process plan and consider posting a new six-step plan.] I honestly feel there may be a whole lot of changes to my writing. I’m even tempted to do a whole new one. Rosetta Irving
English 100 I must have been four or five, when he decided to send for me from the Village. I left with no hesitation, non what so ever. My eyes at this point was at its worse. If it didn’t get taken care of I could have went blind. At least that’s what I was told. I don’t really remember exactly what were wrong with my eyes but it was very uncomfortable. They would itch all of the time and when I rub them I’ll rub so hard and so often that I would break the skin around them. Mornings were always horrible between my eyes feeling like they were glue shut from all the build-up and the soreness from me rubbing it all night, I hated it. We left for the city early one morning in hopes that they would find the cure for my mysterious eye trouble. The bus was jammed packed so I had to sit on the lap of the person taking me to the city. We made a stop and the most different looking human I had ever seen in my four to five years of living got on the bus, I got so scare because he looked like he stepped out of one of the scary stories I was told. His head was unusually big for his body and his eyes were too far apart or something like that. There were other things that I can’t really remember at this point. The smile was wiped off my face instantly. I spent the entire bus ride trying not to stare which I failed miserably at. We arrived at his house and it was an unpainted cement two story building. The entrance was in the back we hurried back and quickly climbed the two flights of steps. I waited with excitement to meet him. He got home shortly and I ran into his arms as if I knew him. I studied every part of him, he didn’t look too much like me could he really be my father? Was I really finally meeting him in person? He unlocked the door to the bedroom he was renting. We walked in and he took my things. The room wasn’t that big, there was a full/queen size bed and a couch and I think a table with two chairs at the window. This was it my mother had done her part and it was his turn. I don’t remember exactly why but I was very happy there with him he was a better provider and he had the strongest shudders I could climb on. He always had something for me after work. I loved falling asleep in his lap. He would always tell me to go to sleep but I was never sleepy. We had this bond that no one could touch. We were two peas in a pod. My father was my favorite person in the entire world I never thought I had see the day when I would feel any differently. I’m not sure if it was moving to a new land, new culture or the coming of age but my father and I relationship started going south shortly after we arrived to the U.S. maybe us being apart for two years changed something. I was on the mission to keep him happy with me. He just didn’t seem the same anymore. There was sadness in his eyes. He had four lines of wrinkles on his forehead. The stress of providing for a family of five in a strange land must have played a part. He never had time for a back scratch or late nights stories. He had to keep a roof over our heads and he didn’t take that lightly. As the years passed his smile erased slowly and slowly, he has somehow manage to be a joy sucker. He’s always worried about something now. There’s not that much joking with him. He just seem to take the weight of the world and put it on his shoulders. There’s not much I can do to put a smile on his face. He was is school for a while and I was hoping maybe once he got the degree and the job he always wanted for sure he would be a happier person. I was wrong, he stays to himself, he don’t like a lot of company. He just seem very unhappy all the time and no one can guess why. He has his masters and is working at a job that he is well respected so for the life of me I can’t seem to figure out to get my father happy again. When I was in middle school I had a friend that I was so close to we did everything together. I thought for sure she and I were going to remain friends to the end. Her mother was a single mother with three girls that would make her children tell people that her husband was out of the country and the whole time he was in New Jersey. Her mom was very manipulative and she would always bring this girl down. Nothing this girl did was good enough. My friend was not allowed to think for herself she had this girl feeling like she was nothing. I hated it because she had two other daughters and they were treated like humans. I would always make sure to tell her that the shade of her skin did not define her beauty nor did the size of her lips. Her mother hated me she hated that I had her daughter seeing herself as beautiful. She had to have control over this girl for some odd reason. Maybe it was the fact that she was the only one that looked like her father or maybe she just had a problem but whatever it was she was horrible. The mother would allow her other children to verbally abuse their sister. We graduated high and thing went south after that. I got pregnant and had a baby and her mom was able to convince that was a bad influence and she was not allowed to have contact with me what so ever. I truly miss the friendship we shared. I don’t think we could ever be friends again because we have grown apart over the years. We have different interest. Her mother is still heavily in her life and she pretty much picks out most of her friends. I don’t think I would be able to bite my tough as much as I did then, now.
Hiraeth is defined as a deep longing for home, homesickness tinged with grief. I think it is somewhere you would like to go but can’t anymore. It said in the definition that it is heard to translate into English. I read the history on this word and I think it’s more like a place that was once home but somehow doesn’t feel that way anymore. Here is a small example. I love my parents a great deal, I love going over and having my mother’s cooking but I won’t be able to live with them anymore. I have gotten a custom to running my household the way I want and my parents have gotten use to not having any of their children living with them. However my family and I had no choice when we had to stay with them for a month while our house got ready. There were five of us coming to invade my parent’s space. They were very welcoming but there was a few things I had to readjust to and so did my family. My father is not a fan of leftovers avers and we love leftovers like it is a part of the family. He thought me being there was is joy ride to fresh cooked meals town every day. He was so wrong. I would always try to make sure there was food in the house. Those 30 days could not go by fast enough. We love each other but distance makes the heart grows fonder. It’s so funny how we forget how your parents parent. They were parenting me parent my children. I would probably wright about a person that I wish I was still friends with. I could also wright about my first apartment. There are a few ways I can go with this.
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Rosetta Irving I will use this blog to become a better writer. Archives
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