Descriptive Speech

My Father, Micah Nodine, is a nasty and cruel man. Someone that everyone loved. I loved him once. I was considered a “daddy’s girl.” He was my idol. Someone who comforted me while I drank my “special milk” on a Sunday evening. Someone who, when life was turned upside down and I was miles apart from, I could still call and he would be right there. When my father divorced my mother, I was three. It never really hit me until I grew older. The lies and heartaches began. He made huge mistakes—mistakes that affected me. Mistakes that I thought no man who called me his “daughter,” would ever do. He was someone who lied to make it seem like he was a better person. While at the same time, he was living a totally different life.

One day waking up thinking this was a normal day at my birth home, Jamaica, I walked to my grandparents’ house, stayed there for a couple of hours, then I saw this pretty, shiny, new Nissan Altima pulled up, and stopped. Moments later a tall dark-skinned guy stepped out the vehicle, fixed his hat, and walked to the door. When the doors open he burst into tears and said to me, “Hey son”, at first my siblings and I was in shock because we have not seen our father since 2004, I did not know what he looked like until I saw pictures of me and him together. Later that night we party and have fun together. The next morning, he drove in and we took pictures, then, we went to dunns-river falls, also we went and eat.

At first I had no idea why I hadn’t seen my dad in days and why I would have to take a long trip to Washington. After sometime my grandparents sat me down and informed me that my dad did something wrong and was going to jail. They also gave me the life-changing news that I was going to move in with them permanently and they were going to adopt me. After being adopted by my grandparents and taken from my father and home

I realized that I didn’t really have a father on March, 20, 2008, the day I turned eight. I was never extremely close with my “father” and even though my parents were divorced, I always wanted to have a normal father-son relationship with him. I just wanted to go outside and play catch or go to a ball game even though I hated sports. I wanted to have the same experiences

My family woke up the next morning at 4:00am to head straight to Walt Disney World. We all put on our matching blue tie-dyed Mickey Mouse shirts and piled in the cars. Once we were all in the cars we were happy, happy, very happy. Then my Papa gets a call. “We are sorry Sir. You’re mom has passed away. She passed away very peacefully.” Though my family was expecting it, this trip suddenly took a sad turn. Everyone in the car started crying.

Not understanding the reasoning behind my father’s absence, I grew to identify another man as my father. Although I had a father figure, I still wondered why my biological father was not present in my life. His lack of presence contributed to my personal self-worth and identity and played an integral part in my willingness to develop meaningful relationships. Fear of abandonment was always in the back of my mind when developing personal relationships and therefore it became hard for me to be open to others because of fear of being vulnerable.

Intensifying As our friendship progressed, we started hanging out more and more, going to parties together, doing favors like borrowing money from each other, he would buy the beer one night and I would would buy the next night. This was about the time when we started to plan a trip we called the “Cali Cruise” witch was we would build and restore a 1981 Pontiac Trans AM. Then we would take two weeks off of work and drive up and down the coast of California, stopping to party along the way.

Growing up I dreamed of my first daddy/ daughter dance at school, walking at graduation and seeing my father stand up and yell out “that’s my daughter!”, having my father walk me down the aisle on my wedding day and countless other things. Ever since I was about 6 years old I have had a question on my mind, who could my father be and how can I be sure? The man who I used to call my father, Dan, put that question in my head when one day he said to me, “you have no right to call me dad because I am not on your birth certificate and I never will be because I am not your father.” That day was the day that changed everything for me. I knew I wouldn’t have someone to do those things for or with me. Knowing I wouldn’t have someone there to be proud of me I began to push myself to be a better person and to be successful to make myself proud, but the question never went away.

After the snap of my father I knew I could no longer trust him. My father was like a wild animal, calm and graceful from a distance, but when he snapped, there was no turning back. I have no idea what my father is capable of, and I don’t want to know. Fathers cannot be trusted when growing up because of the impact they have on such a young innocent white soul. Trust is like a dam, once it’s broken it is impossible to stop the gushing of uncertainty and lies. I am afraid of the things fathers can get away with. Nobody can trust a father: fathers get drunk too much, fathers yell too much, fathers are liars. Upon my release, I left daddy’s little girl, alone, sitting in the white laundry basket, crying--where she still is today. Emerging a warrior, my skin became my armor and my bones became my support system. Never again will I let my father step on the toes of innocence. I

I first met my dad on September 15th, 1997. My mother always seems to remind me that the day was rainy and unusually cold for that time of the year, however the room inside the Newton Community Hospital was encompassed in warmth. I was my parents’ third child and as my two elder siblings waited, too young to understand the significance of birth, I was passed from the nurse to my mother and then finally to my father.

had been more active in forging a relationship with him. Due to our shared, strong connection to

I constantly asked my mother where my father had gone. I wanted to resume our daily game of “Knock, knock”. She would not say a word to any of my questions. Yet, one day, a small tear rolling from her eyes answered them all. Eventually, she got a telephone call explaining where my father was. The news was bittersweet. My mother wouldn’t tell me anything, except that we were going on a short drive. We hopped into the car, neither of us knowing how the day would turn out. The drive seemed to last years, aging each one of us to a new level of maturity in preparation for the meeting with my father. We finally stopped at the Georgia County Jail. I looked at my mother in shock, unable to believe that this was where my father was. A small nod and the look of her eyes told me she felt the same confusion I did. She pulled me inside, where I saw lots of brown faces. I scanned each of them quickly, desperately looking for my father. I saw him and beamed with joy! My father was merely 10 feet away from me. I ran up to him, trying to play our old game of “Knock, knock”,

“Smile!” the photographer yells. My soon to be step-mom (Jen) wraps her arm around me. I can feel her hand brushing against the soft, smooth lavender gown that I’m wearing. I lean in closer to Jen causing my hand to sweep against the cold, embroidered beads on her beautiful wedding dress. Her decorative hairpiece was gracefully placed beside the bun of dark brown hair.  Jen’s dress and jewelry spoke volumes (Personification). Again, I make a few adjustments to my dress and flowers to guarantee the photo turns out well. I swiftly brush away a few strands of hair that have fallen on my face, they had fallen out of my big, brown braid. A smile naturally stretches across my face as the happiness is enough to make even a sullen person smile.

A very determined teen mother named Amanda has inspired me to become the person I am today. She has inspired me because no matter what knocked her down she always got back up even though everyone doubted her. Amanda was abused and molested as a child from ages three to eleven. Her parents were too busy worrying about sex and drugs to realize what their own daughter was going through. Amanda was thirteen years old and fell in love with a boy that she eventually lost her virginity to. She was so hurt by people in her family that she put everything she had into this relationship that eventually came to an end. Amanda was fourteen years old and met another boy to drown her sorrows in and became pregnant during this relationship. The father of the child left when the child was 4 months old. Amanda played sports at school ,had great grades,and played in the marching band. Amanda had to give all of that up because she was pregnant. Amanda gave birth to her son at the early age of fifteen. Amanda knew life had to be different now that she was a mother. She continued going to school and worked two jobs just to provide for her newborn baby. When Amanda was sixteen her mother made her move to a different town where Amanda had to attend a different school. She didn't know anyone and the teachers didn't know anything about her. School became to hard to continue so Amanda quit school her sophomore year. She continued working two jobs to raise her son. She started GED classes and when she

With the vast possibilities of imagination, nonfiction descriptive writing has become very instrumental in allowing readers the opportunity to live experiences led by various authors in the field. As a result, most readers envision writers as artists expressing their paintings in writing, using a pen as the brush and a paper as the canvas. Using this analogy, readers expect to enjoy the meaning of the story through the content, experience some sense of verisimilitude through the style, and perceive the attention to detail through the grammar. With these key concepts in mind, one looks to examine two nonfiction descriptive writings by two different authors on two different subjects and try to determine how these various central concepts make each story truly exceptional. For this analysis, one examines E.B. White’s Once More to the Lake and Langston Hughes’ Salvation.