Essay #1 (personal narrive)

Essay #1

The Personal Narrative

Monday, December 13, 2010

What is the personal narrative?

An essay in which you explore a personal experience for truth, meaning, or value.

A personal narrative is a reflection of you. It can reveal your personality, interests, concerns, reactions, observations,and even your sense of humor. It’s your story, and it should say more about you than any other writing you may ever do.


Draw from . . . Scenes from your Life


Draw from . . . Scenes from your Life


Maybe it’s a crazy pet you have . . .


Maybe it’s a crazy pet you have . . .


Maybe it’s a favorite image or memory . . .


Maybe it’s a favorite image or memory . . .


Maybe it’s a trip you’ve taken . . .


Maybe it’s a trip you’ve taken . . .


Or maybe just a funny, insightful story


Or maybe just a funny, insightful story



Why the personal narrative?


Why the personal narrative?“You might discover new things about yourself -- new dimensions to explore. You might discover thoughts or opinions you didn’t know you had before you wrote them. You might create thoughts or opinions you didn’t have before you wrote them. you might even discover versions of yourself you didn’t know were in you until the writing brought them out.” Mark Christensen, The Familiar Essay.



It’s not expository writing


It’s not expository writing

“For me as a kid and well into college, one of the defining characteristics of expository writing was that it was no fun. You couldn’t be yourself but had to be someone else, someone deathly serious, someone formal, someone who shared the moribund and officious voice of an encyclopedia. A conformist, in other words, someone who wouldn’t challenge the overburdened teacher.” Roorbach, Writing Life Stories.


What might a personal essay look like?


You might start out with a goal.



Then search for the ingredients you’ll need.


It’s often messy and time consuming.

Then search for the ingredients you’ll need.


Don’t discount organization and desire.


In the end, you just put it all together .


In the end, you just put it all together .


Tip #1


Tip #1

Tell a story . . .



! I stood with my father and uncle, Dick Baril, at Myrtleʼs grave. It was Memorial Day and rain threatened from the swollen clouds. A stiff breeze made a jacket necessary. I stuffed my fists deep into the front pockets. Dad and Dick were engaged in similar tactics to guard against the chill.


! I stood with my father and uncle, Dick Baril, at Myrtleʼs grave. It was Memorial Day and rain threatened from the swollen clouds. A stiff breeze made a jacket necessary. I stuffed my fists deep into the front pockets. Dad and Dick were engaged in similar tactics to guard against the chill. ! We examined the new plastic flowers we just set beside the headstone. Dad held last yearʼs faded flowers in his right hand. The new bright yellow, red, and white Kmart flowers seemed out of place. Mom always picked out the flowers and arranged them. We were visiting her grave next.


! I stood with my father and uncle, Dick Baril, at Myrtleʼs grave. It was Memorial Day and rain threatened from the swollen clouds. A stiff breeze made a jacket necessary. I stuffed my fists deep into the front pockets. Dad and Dick were engaged in similar tactics to guard against the chill. ! We examined the new plastic flowers we just set beside the headstone. Dad held last yearʼs faded flowers in his right hand. The new bright yellow, red, and white Kmart flowers seemed out of place. Mom always picked out the flowers and arranged them. We were visiting her grave next. ! After making sure the replacements held their ground against the wind, we broke our silence. Dad said he was taking the old flowers back to the truck. I said that Iʼd be there in a bit and then reached into my jean jacket and snatched my journal. Dick turned his back to the breeze, plucked a Camel from the pack in his breast pocket while he fumbled a lighter out of his khakis. Then he cupped his hands and struck the lighter several times until I saw a red glow from inside his palms. He took a small drag and then the breeze snatched it.


! I stood with my father and uncle, Dick Baril, at Myrtleʼs grave. It was Memorial Day and rain threatened from the swollen clouds. A stiff breeze made a jacket necessary. I stuffed my fists deep into the front pockets. Dad and Dick were engaged in similar tactics to guard against the chill. ! We examined the new plastic flowers we just set beside the headstone. Dad held last yearʼs faded flowers in his right hand. The new bright yellow, red, and white Kmart flowers seemed out of place. Mom always picked out the flowers and arranged them. We were visiting her grave next. ! After making sure the replacements held their ground against the wind, we broke our silence. Dad said he was taking the old flowers back to the truck. I said that Iʼd be there in a bit and then reached into my jean jacket and snatched my journal. Dick turned his back to the breeze, plucked a Camel from the pack in his breast pocket while he fumbled a lighter out of his khakis. Then he cupped his hands and struck the lighter several times until I saw a red glow from inside his palms. He took a small drag and then the breeze snatched it. ! I too turned my back to the wind and pried open my journal. I took the pen that had been crammed between the pages and scrolled, “Myrtle D. Baril (Demann) Feb 21 1905 - July 30 1988.” Then I peered at her husbandʼs name on the headstone and wrote, “Theophile J. Baril March 7, 1905 - May 28, 1971.” I was hoping to fill my journal with the key dates and places to fill in the gaps in my thesis. I needed to give the narratives a context.


! I stood with my father and uncle, Dick Baril, at Myrtleʼs grave. It was Memorial Day and rain threatened from the swollen clouds. A stiff breeze made a jacket necessary. I stuffed my fists deep into the front pockets. Dad and Dick were engaged in similar tactics to guard against the chill. ! We examined the new plastic flowers we just set beside the headstone. Dad held last yearʼs faded flowers in his right hand. The new bright yellow, red, and white Kmart flowers seemed out of place. Mom always picked out the flowers and arranged them. We were visiting her grave next. ! After making sure the replacements held their ground against the wind, we broke our silence. Dad said he was taking the old flowers back to the truck. I said that Iʼd be there in a bit and then reached into my jean jacket and snatched my journal. Dick turned his back to the breeze, plucked a Camel from the pack in his breast pocket while he fumbled a lighter out of his khakis. Then he cupped his hands and struck the lighter several times until I saw a red glow from inside his palms. He took a small drag and then the breeze snatched it. ! I too turned my back to the wind and pried open my journal. I took the pen that had been crammed between the pages and scrolled, “Myrtle D. Baril (Demann) Feb 21 1905 - July 30 1988.” Then I peered at her husbandʼs name on the headstone and wrote, “Theophile J. Baril March 7, 1905 - May 28, 1971.” I was hoping to fill my journal with the key dates and places to fill in the gaps in my thesis. I needed to give the narratives a context.


! My dad was great with the stories, but dates and places were not his strong suit. I was hoping to obtain them from Dick, who was up on his annual visit from the cities. This might be my last chance, for we feared Alzheimerʼs was setting in. Dick had been a day late. Normally that wouldnʼt have worried us, but Dick was well into his seventies. He had trouble finding his way home. Not only did he get lost on the way up, a trip that he made hundreds of times before, but he also began forgetting names and faces. The man who is my momʼs oldest brother, my godfather, and who even shares my birthday, forgot my name at Momʼs funeral last summer. ! I tried drilling Dick about the dates when Granny first began teaching. I watched as he took another drag, noticing his hairy forearms ending in slender wrists. Forearms and wrists that were the same as the ones that held my journal and pen. ! Dick took a shallow puff while I waited for an answer. He looked over at Dad who was now climbing into the cab. He talked about how Myrtle had to walk two miles to her first teaching job at a small country school.


! I asked him about when Myrtle and Theophile - “Tuff,” Dick corrected me - had started dating. He told me they met at the Maple Lake Pavilion and spent Saturday nights dancing there in the summer. He never gave any dates. Finally, he pulled the Camel from the corner of his mouth, kicked up his brown Hush Puppy, and ground the cigarette out on the sole. ! He exhaled and watched as the wind gave the final puff a new life. “Letʼs get out of here,” he said turning his brown eyes on my mostly blank journal and poised Bic, “and Iʼll tell you some stories.” He examined the polished black headstone and its dates one last time. Then he scanned all of the others lined around it. “These are just stones.” ! I wrote those four words down and followed him back to the truck.


Tip #2


Tip #2

• Fill it with voice and details . . .





Avoid “Telling”


Avoid “Telling”


Avoid “Telling”


Avoid “Telling”My family and I were headed to Tracey, Minnesota to visit my grandparents for the weekend. Being cramped up in a van for six hours seemed never ending to me. I passed the time by having my dad quiz me with trivia, playing horse, drawing, singing, telling stories, and bugging my brother (John) and sister (Ann). I most definitely would not be boring and sleep like those two. That was the last thing on my list. As I was jabbering, my brother got so irritated with me, that he yelled “BETH, EVERY TIME YOU OPEN YOUR MOUTH EVERYONE IN THIS CAR GETS DUMBER!”


Explode Moments

Take this moment and develop it more.

Being cramped up in a van for six hours seemed never ending to me. I passed the time by having my dad quiz me with trivia, playing horse, drawing, singing, telling stories, and bugging my brother (John) and sister (Ann).

Show this What does this mean?

Glossing over too much. One illustration will speak volumes



Showing ! We were headed to Tracey, Minnesota to visit my grandparents. I sat in the passenger seat while Dad slouched leisurely behind the wheel and let the cruise control do the real work. Mom was curled up with a Mary Higgins Clark novel behind me. Next to her Ann had the hood of her sweatshirt pulled up and leaned her head against the window, eyes closed. I could just see Johnʼs Nikeʼs propped up agains the back windows as he sprawled out across the entire back seat. ! I defintiely didnʼt want to sleep the whole way or read, so I had Dad quiz me. ! “Whatʼs the state capital of, Alaska?” ! “Uh, Anchorage,” I tried. ! “Nope.” ! “Okay, Juno,” I said. ! “Yep.” ! I sat up even straighter and clapped, pleased with my mastery of the state capitals. ! “Ask me another one,” I said.



! Dad inhaled a deep breath, thought for a second, and said, “Iʼm out of states, dear.” ! “Thatʼs okay. I was out of answers, I guess. You know everyone wants to move to Alaska. Mrs. Mattison talks about it like itʼs the greatest place in the world. But Iʼd never want to live there. Why move all the way up there where they get like two hours of sunlight a day. Iʼd go nuts. I bet the girls up there spend a fortune on tanning beds. Thereʼs an investment idea for you, John,” I called back to the backseat. “Yeah, hunting and fishing is okay but what else can you do all the way up there. And itʼs gotta be cold. I mean itʼs freezing here, and weʼre a lot farther south than Alaska,” I was really hitting my stride and flet my mind kicking into overdrive, when Ann snarled, “Would you PLEASE stop jabbering!” ! “Someone had a late night, “ I said, eyeing Dad for his reaction. A faint smirk hooked across his lips. “You want me to stop talking . . . FINE,” I said and reached for the radio dail. I found XL93 and cranked it.



“Oh, I love this song!” I said. “Oh, sorry Ann. I mean ʻI loooove thisss soooong,” I began to sing. If I couldnʼt talk, by God Iʼd sing! ! Hanson began to flood through the van. ! “MMMMMBOP. DUWAAPPP,” I began to chime. “Come on Mom, get into it!” I said. “Oh, sorry Ann. I mean ʻCooomme onnnn Moommmmmm, geeet intoooo ittttt!” ! I knew instinctivel tthat Mom was smirking from behind her book while Ann was drilling holes in the back of the seat with an evil glare. ! “Oh, you sssssad sackssss. Johnnnnnn, waaaake up you slssssug and give me a beat back there. Annnnnnnn you sssssing the verses and Iʼll take the chrorrrrrus! Come on nowwwwwww!” ! Over my singing, I heard John yell, “BETH, EVERYTIME YOU OPEN YOUR MOUTH EVERYONE IN THIS CAR GETS DUMBER!”



Tip #3 - voice is vital but not at the price of failing to edit.



Itʼs eighty degrees out you throw the last ninety pound bundle of shingles on your shoulder and walk up the ladder. In my mind thatʼs how Iʼm uniquely me, not to many kids these days actually know what a hard days work is like. I love carpentry ever since I was little I remember walking around no older then four watching my dad build are deck, “This guys a genius I wanna do that when Iʼm older.” I thought. My dad started me working young teaching me step by step what heʼs doing and I picked up quick, quicker than I do in most classes. Itʼs liek thatʼs what I was meant to do is carpentry. The feeling you get after working your ass off hours in the sun is unmatched in my mind every day you get to see your accomplishment and know your building something people are going to live in for most of there lifeʼs. I could pour concrete with my eyes closed and one had tied behind my back. That stuff and me get along. That is by what what Iʼve done the most of and I love it. When I get older im going to live in a concrete home, eat on concrete plates, and have concrete kids.



Sometimes it takes several drafts to refine a piece.



Itʼs eighty degress out you throw the last ninety pound bundle of shingles on your shoulder and fight your way up the ladder, and the sun has already burned itself into your back. In my mind thats how Iʼm uniquely me, no too many kids these days actually knows what a hard days work is like. The kind of day where your up by 5 in the morning and I already got half the roof shingled by lunch, just hauling ass! I love carpentry ever since I was little. I remember walking around no older than four watching my dad build our desk and thinking, “This guys a fricken genius, I want to do that when I get older.” Back in those days I was part of the clean up crew, walking around in my cowboy hat with my cap gun picking up garbage. Ever now and again Iʼd get the promotion to go-getter, which is where dad told me to go get, and I got it. My dad started me young. Teaching me step-by-step how to hit the nail and not my finger, although that one I learned the hard way. Heʼs the guy who told me to work smarter not harder. I picked up on the whole carpentry thing alot quicker than I do in class. Iʼd never be able to work inside like an office job would be horrible, Iʼd have to be outside because Iʼm just a hands on person. If something is broken Iʼm the guy whoʼs like “well lets see what we got here.” Although the automotive field is not my forte, thats why my truck is out of commission.


Itʼs eighty degress out you throw the last ninety pound bundle of shingles on your shoulder and fight your way up the ladder, and the sun has already burned itself into your back. In my mind thats how Iʼm uniquely me, no too many kids these days actually knows what a hard days work is like. The kind of day where your up by 5 in the morning and I already got half the roof shingled by lunch, just hauling ass! I love carpentry ever since I was little. I remember walking around no older than four watching my dad build our desk and thinking, “This guys a fricken genius, I want to do that when I get older.” Back in those days I was part of the clean up crew, walking around in my cowboy hat with my cap gun picking up garbage. Ever now and again Iʼd get the promotion to go-getter, which is where dad told me to go get, and I got it. My dad started me young. Teaching me step-by-step how to hit the nail and not my finger, although that one I learned the hard way. Heʼs the guy who told me to work smarter not harder. I picked up on the whole carpentry thing alot quicker than I do in class. Iʼd never be able to work inside like an office job would be horrible, Iʼd have to be outside because Iʼm just a hands on person. If something is broken Iʼm the guy whoʼs like “well lets see what we got here.” Although the automotive field is not my forte, thats why my truck is out of commission.



The feeling I get after working my ass off for hours in the sun is unmatched in my mind. I go home tired as all hell but I feel honest and proud. Every day I get to see my accomplishments, and know Iʼm building something people are going to live in and raise a family, makes me feel important.Or like we would build barn and gotta give the farmer quality barn, my dad told me along time ago that anything your about to put your name on better do it right because weʼre Johnsonʼs. I could pour concrete with my eyes closed and one hand tied behind my back. That stuff and me get along. That is by far what Iʼve done the most of and I love it. When it comes to concrete its not about knowing what your doing you have to be an artist with that stuff because theres no second chances. When I get older Iʼm going to take over my dadʼs company and work my ass off and make enough money in my life to be happy. These days it seems like the only way to have a good life is to do so much schooling and preparation to fit the mold, I just want to live my life a little simpler and little slower, and just keep the shit to shoe level.



Tip #4 - Use Reflection



Don’t just tell a story.



One time when my brother and I . . .




Don’t just analyze a situation.





Shooting my first deer taught me several important lessons: how to be a man, how to make my father proud, and how to gain the respect of my family.





Shooting my first deer taught me several important lessons: how to be a man, how to make my father proud, and how to gain the respect of my family.

Combine them into a unified essay --



And it will all come together . . .



What Dadʼs Always Wanted

The ground is cold and full of snow as I lay on it. On my stomach Iʼm waiting for the right moment. Come on You can do it. I canʼt do it. Come on, just do it. My dad sits behind me still and quiet. I know he is just waiting for me to pull the trigger. I canʼt keep steady. The cross arms are jerking all over the place. I canʼt think straight. I wouldnʼt dare bring myself to back out of this now. Not when I have the cross arms on the deer, ready and aimed. All I have to do is pull the trigger. You canʼt back out now, not now. Just pull the trigger, dadʼs waiting. this will be my first time taking a life. Can I do it? I canʼt. This inner battle is tearing me apart. Dad isnʼt saying a thing, or indicating that heʼs getting tired of sitting here, but I feel like heʼs breathing down my neck. Heʼs waiting for me to pull the trigger. Finally I give in. I close my eyes; I pull the trigger back as hard as I can. BAM! My dad is patting me on my back congratulating me on my first big kill. “Great job honey. Great, great job.” We walk up to the dead deer and count the antlers. Itʼs eight points. “You did great dear.” He seems more excited than I am. I become a hunter in a matter of five seconds. After loading the deer into the back of the pickup, we head over to my dadʼs friendʼs house to brag about my big kill. The inner battle is exhausting. All I can think about is now I am finally what my dad has wanted all along.


Theme #1 - Personal Essay


Essays --

• Essay 1.1 - Rite of Passage (check today)

• Essay 1.2 - Expertise (check Wednesday)

• Essay 1.3 - Pet Peeve (check Thursday)

• Final draft - due Monday.


Essay #2The Personal Essay

Now it’s your turn.

GIDDYYYUP!!!!!!


Education

Essay #1 (personal narrive)