An Immigrant's Voyage To The Caribbean Princess

Columbus’s invasion of the Caribbean in 1492 brought Native American and European cultures together for the first time in a startling encounter that reshaped the worldviews of both groups. In The Conquest of America: The Question of the Other, Tzvetan Todorov seeks to understand the ways in which the Spanish worldview shaped Columbus’s perception of the natives of Hispaniola, as he fashioned an other from his own sense of self. In Todorov’s model, the other is defined in terms of its correspondence, or lack thereof, to different facets of the self, including culture, language, physiognomy, religion, and knowledge; furthermore, the other is valued, distanced, and

“Don't listen to him,” her mother says, taking her hand and leading her inside the small house, closing the door on him. “He'll come around, Awen, you'll see. Please, sit down. We have so much to get caught up on, and I just put dinner in the oven.”

Thea wakes up first, so she wakes Lily up and they play on their floor for a while until Tom comes in and joins them, Toms says that it's good to let you child side out once in a while. Addison comes in the room and says that breakfast is ready and that everyone should come and sit at the table. Tom and the girl's go and sit at the table and it's full of food again.

I haven’t been able to sleep for the past month. I hear my door creak and I look at the door. I see someone open the door very slowly before coming in. I look to see Maria tiptoeing into my room. “What are you doing?” I ask “You know your mom would kill me if she saw us.”

Avery and Garrett spent their time trying to perfect the baked potatoes and macaroni and cheese they picked out. Every person there had so much excitement for the meal that we’d worked throughout the day to bring together. Finally it was done. The burgers were done. The sides were done. The cookies were done (and frosted very well, I must add.) The guests were arriving every few seconds and the red, white, and blue balloons were everywhere you looked. Dinner was laid out in a hurry and eaten in the same hurry. Seconds were had, and the night was one that I will remember for the rest of my

One-thirty on a Thursday morning. I laid in bed worrying, after watching John rush to Main Street for a fire call. My head spun as the pager near my head continued to dispatch calls. “Be careful on the roof Watson, I can see light through,” Feltner’s voice echoed. Ambulance sirens boomed down a four-block stretch of Main Street. My body sprung from the bed and hurried out and down the block. My face began to fill with heat. Just then another page came through, “I know idiot, I put it there.” It was John’s voice. I felt relief and began to walk back down the sidewalk to our home. I heard a young girl screaming for her dog, hysterically. Finally, back in my house, I completely forgot that I had left the two girls upstairs. Thankfully,

I was starting to worry, it is getting dark out.” She told me kissing my forehead. “Now come help me with dinner.’ Taking my hand and dragging me away, but not before I could see the smugness of my brother’s face. I sent him a glare before making it into the kitchen. The rest of the night went on, and rather like other nights when we’ve been together. We sat down, ate, and talked. Nothing particularly special about the rest of that night, excepting George’s visit. Still though, this was one of the few occasions we could actually all come together. At least one that was enjoyable. The next morning was one I was genuinely looking forward to. But when I woke up hearing Mum calling me. So I had gotten dressed, in a skirt this time, in an effort to silence her. I left my room expecting to see my mother making breakfast. But instead seeing two officers of sorts, waiting at the open door. With my mother and father standing in front of

In a world full of freedom, different rights exist freedoms of speech, belief and ownership of property, but an evil institution corrupts the heart of the people. Slavery strips these freedoms away from the oppressed. Mary Prince a former slave on the West Indies, introduces the world of slavery in her self-titled story. As the narrative develops Prince pleads to abrogate this institution by creating pathos, ethos, description, and narration. To accomplish her goal of abolishing the system of slavery, Prince connects with the audience.

A shadow of light cast itself across the room illuminating my sister who lay next to me in bed. She had pushed all the blankets on my side, sprawled her legs across the entire king size bed, and rested her head on my pillow, so close to me that I could taste the putrid odor on her breath. I glared at her. As stealthily as I could, I slipped off the blankets and got out of bed. The thermostat read 78 degrees. I pressed the snowflake button ten times so the thermostat read 68 degrees: the perfect sleeping temperature. Each time I pressed the button a high pitched beep filled the void in the silent room, echoing off of each of the walls. My sister's eyes flew open on the tenth beep. She sat upright and looked at me with an immense anger. Then she screamed. Before she could finish yelling my name, my parents were awake and out of bed, running over to her in alarm. “She tried to turn down the heat,” my sister shrieked through her heavy sobs. She started flailing around, rolling in the sheets and punching the mattress. I made a beeline for the bathroom, where I had hid three hours earlier when she had the exact same melt down. Through the

I was soon to be queen Isabella when she was going to give Cortés his mission. I was partners with king charles but, wasn't yet married to him. We lived in Spain, I'm about to become spanish queen. I was kind of like Cortés Boss/ commander at the time, and I would give him missions to do and yes, this specific one was illegal (like most of the missions). I gave cortés the voyage to go to the Aztecs and kill them. where he will wipe out the whole culture. And again, I wasn't yet queen so it was illegal for mexico and even my own country, and I hadn't even thought about that until the last. Then had to make an decision.

Ellie and I lay in our beds, neither one of us knew what to say. In the other room, our host parents were arguing. We didn’t know what about, but we knew it was serious. Then we heard a “THWACK” followed by silence. Ellie and I sat up in our beds and looked at each other, I could tell she was as scared as I was. “Was that? Did he just?” she asked me. Then the arguing started back up again. We calmed back down until we heard it again. “THWACK” We knew then, the noise we heard, was him beating her. We got up, our hearts racing; neither of us knew what to do. We got our nerves together to go get help. When we opened the door to our room we saw the children sitting on the couch crying out for their mother. I could see the fear in their face and I knew something needed to change.

“Annie John is considered one of the best examples of the Caribbean bildungsroman or novel of development” writes Paravisini-Gebert, in her critical companion to Jamaica Kincaid and continues:

It was early one summer afternoon, shortly after lunchtime, when I heard my mom scramble towards the door. There was little noise, besides her loud stomps and faint cries through the drywall. The wind whistled faintly through my slightly open windows. Suddenly, the air conditioning kicked in startling me. It sounded as if it was a faint boat in the distance. I could make out the sound of the air conditioning through my vents. My brother’s television powered on, as well as my dad’s. They whispered silently through the insulation. Eventually, it all turned off and once again there was my mom’s loud stomps and faint cries.

After we were assigned a table, we searched through the menu for the perfect meal. The interior of the place was homey and warm. The atmosphere excited and joyful. As we waited for our meals we talked about everything that had been going on. I told them about the weird

Derek Walcott and Jean Rhys both have texts that use the fragments of the Caribbean history to create their texts. Walcott has mentioned in many essays and interviews how important it is for the artist to not become disillusioned and bitter about history. Rather, artists should make use of these fragments of European, African, and native Arawak/Amerindian, to reinvent and create a voice that entails all of those influences.