Descriptive Essay On The Abdominal Snowman

* 5) Consider the gender expectations of the Ozark community in which Ree lives. Does she succeed by abiding by traditional gender roles or by rejecting them? Both? Neither? Explain.

Snow White is a fairytale that never gets old. Countless young children know the tale by heart: A young, beautiful girl tries to live a happy life while her mother tries to kill her due to Snow White being prettier than her. Snow White, though, has a much more profound, unexploited history. There are many versions of this story that not a lot of people read. Two texts that were particularly fascinating were Gold Tree and Silver Tree as well as Nourie Hadig. In Gold Tree and Silver Tree, Silver Tree becomes jealous with Gold Tree’s beauty and tries to kill her newlywed daughter, but Gold Tree made a new friend, and she helped take care of Silver Tree. In Nourie Hadig, Nourie is left in the forest by her father because her mother wants to kill her. There, she takes care of a prince all the while her mother is trying to find her. Both these stories have amazing similarities and striking differences, but the similarities significantly outweigh the differences. The stories are astonishingly similar many ways, but their characters are the most standout thing about these stories. While these figures have their differences, the similarities are much more eye-catching. These characters are similar because their personalities follow a similar rhythm throughout the stories and their actions also stay the same.

A long time ago, it was a man named Robert Harryson. Robert and his wife Ana lived a happy life with their 3 sons, Alex, Will and Ethan and the twin girls that soon will arrive. They had a good economy and a big house after Robert had sold a part of his big successful business. Everything was just perfect. When the family started to grow bigger they decided to hire a housemade, Sarah, so Robert and Ana could spend all their free time with their beloved children. A couple of month were going and then the twins Emily and Katie arrived. Their big brothers couldn't be happier over not just one, but two small babysisters!! The boys adore them and gave them a snowglobe that they had got from their grandmother.

As a young child, I lived life colorblind, unable to grasp the concept of race or skin color. Growing up in Florida as the only Asian in my elementary school and never being bullied for being different, I assumed everyone was white, including me. But then came that earth-shattering epiphany: I realized I wasn’t white. I started to notice that not every supermarket sold Pocky or bubble tea and that it’s not common to get money in shiny, red envelopes on New Year’s. I realized that not everyone knew how to use chopsticks, that not everyone ate rice with every meal, and that when some people spoke slowly to me, it’s not because they were trying to articulate, but because they thought I didn’t understand English.

There's one memory in particular that I remember most. I was 11 years old living in Richmond, Virginia and my baseball travel team the Richmond Rapids were traveling to the Outer Banks in North Carolina for a Labor Day weekend Tournament. The Outer Banks Classic was the the biggest tournament for 12u players in the Atlantic Region. We were the first team from our region to be invited to the tournament. None of us knew what to expect when we got there. But after an 8 hour car drive and tons of car time my expectations were exceeded when I saw where we would be playing.

Having dark skin and long thick hair has always been things that I was proud of, because this was the way that all the women in my family looked. My mother and grandmother always made me feel like being me or looking like me was the greatest gift in the world, however, I learned from the constant teasing and hair pulling from individuals in my 5th grade class that looking like the rest of my family was not seen as a good thing to others outside of my home. That is when I became truly aware of my differences and I believe those negative experiences changed the way I viewed my own self-worth and beauty. I am no long that confident

During my freshman and sophomore years of high school I was notorious around campus. I was in band and a class officer. I didn’t play football or basketball. I couldn’t dance or rap. Since I didn’t do these things, several of my classmates began referring me as a “white-black guy” and it really pissed me off. I guess because I spoke with proper grammar, dressed with my pants on my waist, and a kept a high GPA, made me “white”. If I don’t fit the stereotype, then I must not be

Murdered. He was murdered. Who? The 5,300 year old human time capsule, whose name is Ötzi. Theories about the death of Otzi are as varied as the ages through which he’s slept . Assassination by an envious, bloodthirsty clan mate seems most plausible. This scenario is likely because of Otzi’s copper axe , the arrowhead which took his life, and a large cave drawing with a shocking story to tell. Ötzi, like all of us, far from invincible, deserves justice.

Everybody has memories they will never forget. The first of mine is playing baseball when I was six years old. My dad had always played sports and I wanted to follow in his footsteps. Baseball was my dream at a young age and it all started with the Tigers. I’ll always remember stepping onto the field for the first time and feeling the excitement rush through me. I was lucky enough to get the opportunity to be the team’s starting catcher. I liked the feeling of being in command behind the plate and felt like I had some sort of control over the game. I don’t remember a whole lot about the first game, but I do remember my first hit. I can tell you that I’ve never felt so excited in my life as I connected with the ball and began running to first base. I knew that made my dad extremely happy.

Of all the memories, one stands out as creating the largest impact on me. The very last time I took the floor with my longtime teammates constantly replays like a movie in my mind. I can still hear the BOOM of the floor during our warm ups. With my coach’s voice in the background as loud as ever, I vividly remember the feeling of layers of chalk coating my hands and legs. I knew the challenge of competing for

traveling to have never seen a group of white women before. This discussion concerned me a bit, just as every time you travel abroad does, but I remember reflecting on the conversation after the fact. I made the realization that I had never been the racial minority ever in my life. Yet I still would not be a minority to the same degree as people of color are in our country. I, being a white female, still held privilege, the privilege of being white. This astonished me, I felt guilty for reasons unknown to me, and I felt that I had done something wrong. As I most likely had, by carrying out the micro-aggressions that we are taught at such a young age. I had not asked to be white, it was just genetics. But by being white, I held the privilege

It was a normal winter morning. I woke up freezing my butt off. The night before we

It was a cold day, so cold that your arms start to sting as if a needle is impaling the surface of your skin. The wind applies a force which feels as if your face is oozing with thick crimson red blood. The gray puffy clouds covered the sky and dropped small snowflakes onto the road’s surface. A man stood there, freezing, clearing the coat of thick white snow from the concrete road. His nose runs with a river of snot that floods out when the cold wind strikes. His sense of smell is heavily clogged by the slimy snot, but he can still smell the scent of the steamy hot chocolate which sits on the top of his snow covered car. His feet start to numb because of the cold flood which soaks through his boots to his white, silky socks. His feet feel as if he stepped into the freezing cold ocean. As if he fell through ice and he was stuck standing there. The vast pile of the ice white snow feels almost like a quicksand around his black rubber boot. Foggy figures of people shovel the big piles of snow off the sidewalks. They scrape and pick at the glossy white ice which sticks to the sidewalk like a little boy clinging to his mother's side. His feet still sting as if he was stepping on pins and needles. His hands are damp with sweat from grasping the curved metal shaft attached to a socket which holds the blade. The blade cuts holes into the thick powdered snow which is removed from the endless pile. The jet black shovel is filled with slushy snow and crystal shards of ice. The end of

It was a frigid day in December. I wore so many clothes that I looked like a penguin. Every breath I took makes a small cloud and scattered. The gloves I worn seemed to be mildness like paws. The buildings behind me were covered by the thick snow. The wall became more brick-red because of the spotless white snow. Some snowflakes drift down on my hair gently. The snow was heavy, but not much wind. My friends bounced from worm house and laughed to me. “We should build a snowman. The snow is heavy enough.” One of my friends advised. We all cheered and started to pile the snow together.

On a snowy and windy night, I was at Barnes & Noble in Green Bay with my friends, Alan and Karina. Christmas music played overhead, the smell of hot chocolate and freshly brewed coffee wafted over, the customers were kind and cheerful, and snow was beginning to blanket the parking lot outside. We were sitting near the cafe wrapping books to support their mom’s school fundraiser. I stared outside and remembered my mom’s warning of the large snowfall that was almost upon us. Around 7:15, the snowflakes were becoming larger and we could barely see outside the window.