My Grandmother 's Garden - Original Writing

In “In Search of Our Mother’s Gardens”, Alice Walker looks to educate us on the hardships that almost all black women face when trying to express themselves through things such as art. She delves into many sociological and psychological concepts that have affected black women throughout human history. These concepts and ideologies created a realm for mass exclusion, discrimination, and oppression of many African American women, including Alice Walker’s Mother, who Alice utilizes as one of her particular examples. The writing thematically aims to show how these concepts of sexism, racism, and even classism have contributed to black women’s lack of individuality, optimism, and fulfillment for generations. The author does a tremendous job of defending and expanding upon her arguments. She has a credible background, being a black woman that produces the art of literature herself. As well as being raised by one, Walker’s first-hand experience warrants high regard. Therefore, her use of abstract and introspective language is presented clearly and convincingly. Also, her use of evidence and support from sources like Jean Toomer, Virginia Woolf, and Phillis Wheatley, all produce more validity for her stance through poems, quotes, and even experiences. All these individuals have their own accounts pertaining to the oppression of black women and their individuality. Successfully arguing that the artistry plights of black women described in “In Search of Our Mother’s Gardens” are

The book, The Secret Garden, by Frances Hodgson Burnett, is about a little girl named Mary who discovers a garden that had been kept a secret for a very long time. After Mary became an orphan, she was forced to move in with her uncle, Mr. Craven, who is a very busy businessman and lives in a very big house. At that time Mary was a depressed girl who disagreed with everybody and wanted to live in her own world. She, however, is a very curious girl who isn’t afraid of anything. When she hears crying noises coming from one of the rooms in the house, she follows the noise and she finds Collin Craven. Collin is Mary’s cousin who she didn’t know existed. Collin is very depressed because he is

The three writers grew up in different places. In the Essay, “The Soul of Black Folks” , Du Bois illustrates the soul of a black young boy who saw his life in two different worlds. The world of a black person and the world of a white person; the life of being black and the problems in the hill of New England where he grew up and faced racial discrimination. Du Bois was a sociologist, writer, educator and a controversial leader of the negro thought. Alice Walker wrote about how creative and artistic our mothers and grandmothers were in her essay “In Search Of Our Mother 's Garden”. She grew up in the 1960s in south Georgia where her mother worked as a maid to help support her eight children. Alice described her as a loving, strong and talented artist who showed her work in the garden. She wrote about her mother 's garden and how happy and radiant her mother was when she worked in her garden despite her busy days. She had no moment to sit down to feed her creative spirit because she was busy been a mother, a provider and a slave in the face of the society. She grew up seeing the struggles of hardworking,creative and strong African American mothers and grandmothers. She was a poet, novelist, and a womanist who was against racial and gender oppression of women. Glenn Loury grew up in Chicago’s South Side, where he attended political rallies. He described his childhood as being part of lower middle class. The writing of Du Bois , Alice Walker and Glenn Loury manifests

The essay "In Search of Our Mother's Gardens" by contemporary American novelist Alice Walker is one that, like a flashbulb, burns an afterimage in my mind. It is an essay primarily written to inform the reader about the history of African American women in America and how their vibrant, creative spirit managed to survive in a dismal world filled with many oppressive hardships. This piece can be read, understood, and manage to conjure up many emotions within the hearts and minds of just about any audience that reads it. However, Walker targets African American women in today's society in an effort to make them understand their heritage and appreciate what their mothers and grandmothers endured to

As a child, our home was a place anyone was welcomed in, thus as the saying goes, “Mi casa es su casa.” While my parents were married, we lived in a one story blue colored house with 3 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms, 3 living rooms, 1 dining room, an attic, garage, porch, pool and backyard. Upon entry into the house from the front door you stared into a long hallway. Immediately to the left was 1 of 3 living rooms, where we occasionally ate Dominos thin crust pizza in the late hours of the day and watched TV and movies as a family. We had a 7-piece oak entertainment center with a built in aquarium, where we kept Ceaser our

What was once a beautiful but small lawn with grass is now a patch of dead grass with dirt exposing itself under the grass. What was once the creaky barn doors are completely destroyed, with broken glass on the ground on the outside, leading to the inside. What was once the living room where I had spent so much time watching television and playing games with my siblings, now has its carpet completely torn up, walls indented, and closet in complete shambles with light gleaming sharply through the holes of the closet from holes that were made by vandals who never knew the true value of the humble abode that I used to reside in. My old home, since being lived in by me and my family has since been abandoned by the family that we had entrusted the house to previously. Now the house just stays there, an eerie empty shell of what it used to be. A place where I was safe and happy, now a dark and scary place that no one deserves to live in, a place that humans have indeed used well, so well that there is nothing left of what it used to be. That image of the house was the last I saw it, back in 2010, It is possible now that the house had since been destroyed, with the memories that have been carved into the walls, fireplace, windows, closets, and bedrooms, are now nothing more but a blur of destroyed objects that will one day be removed, as people pass by the home that once was will never be able to see its clarity, but instead will only be able to see the blur of colors protruding from the exterior of the house, or perhaps the brown of the barn like doors, or the patches of green still rising from the dead grass that surrounds it, until eventually, it simply disappears completely invisible to the city that used it ever so

The house sat on the mostly yellow, dead grass of street in Perry Iowa. It of course held memories just like many other houses, but this one tried hard to forget the memories. It was once a yellow like the dead grass it sits upon now. The newly painted blue on the house was a fresh start to the house – making new memories – but just like the ones forgotten they drown in the blue color. It’s an unforgettable house, unforgettable like the memories it produced.

“But now I know more/ about the great wheel of growth,/ and decay, and rebirth”(Oliver). In the poem Stanley Kunitz by Mary Oliver, the speaker talks about a man who she at first misunderstands, but then realizes the reality about him. This man is Stanley Kunitz, who was the tenth Poet Laureate of the United States, and inspired many people(Poetry Foundation). Although many admire Stanley Kunitz, Mary Oliver admired him enough to write a poem about him, and how she wants to be as great of a poet as Kunitz. Even though at first Mary Oliver had misunderstood how Kunitz would work so ethically, and almost thought it was like magic. Oliver soon realized that it wasn’t magic, it had been hard work, which had make Kunitz such a phenomenal poet. Throughout the poem Oliver describes a garden, and how hard this man works to make it beautiful, which makes sense on the surface. When looking at the deeper meaning, the poem is about how hard work pays off and creates beautiful works of art.

Tranquil gusts kissed my skin; the sweet sensation of a breeze and the rustle of the trees’ leaves sung me a lullaby. As I lie, back to my trampoline and limbs sprawled, my mind would undergo a sort of cleansing, ridding me of my troubles. My home held my childhood; it possessed memories that had accumulated from day one, intertwining and condensing them to forge a place that would bear peace and serenity. I never contemplated departure, even when it was apparent my parents sought for a better place to reside, for no place could replace my home. Alas, my assumptions were proven to be erroneous.

I brought my plate outside, the patterned china seemingly wet in the sun. I took a bite of my sandwich. The cool veggies managed to dull the heat. The cucumbers crunched in the bread as i took another bite, my mind wondering as I set. I could recall all of the gathering held in this yard, both joyful and somber. Gatherings of celebration and mourning. Each year we would sit In the yard, mixed chatter filling the small clearing. Everyone flocked to the small, one story home. Grandmothers, cousins, uncles, aunts, all alike. Each gathering, the numbers seemed to grow. We would all sit, listening, gathering, and sharing stories of one another. Though it is always nice be reunited family and friends, the empty yard is an entirely separate place. As I finished my sandwich, I looked around, almost an hour had passed. I begun to clean up the spot I was occupying, stacking my dishes and

Our house on Orangeburg was not what we expected we all figured it would be like the one near Sherwood with a warm cheerful comforting fireplace and open armed trees gathered around in the front.The house on Orangeburg was crumbled like old ugly bread.Time had managed to make this house look irreversible the house was little more than a glorified shed.At least we don’t

It was a distinguished neighborhood, stately houses with sprawling porches made for sipping cold drinks and entertaining guests. Fourteen thirty-seven Twain Street was nestled at the far end the street. The house actually looked out of place when compared to the neighborhood, if it could even be considered a part of the neighborhood. The house was located roughly a quarter mile up the street from the closest neighbor, undiscernible from the woods that surrounded it. I stopped at the gate and regarded the worn house. It was made in the same style as the others in the neighborhood, but something about it made it different. It had character. The paint wasn’t peeling, but it had weathered the long hot sun for many a day and it had begun to form lines, giving the house the impression of a wrinkled and withered old

That we’d get a house all to ourselves and we wouldn’t have to pay rent, or share with anyone. That our house would be big and nice and beautiful and have tons of space and look great. That we’d have a nice basement and I’d have the nicest room and we’d have a huge kitchen and bathroom, and a backyard I could play in, with grass as green as the leaves on the trees. That was the house my mom talked about constantly. But the house on Beach street is not exactly what I was picturing. When I got in, the house gave us a “welcome home”. The house is nice, however, the house isn’t that big and it is as old, and has a dark tone, like the midnight sky. The house is not what I expected, but it is still better than having no house, and the house is still great. I knew I had to have a house. A real house. One that I could point to. This is it. The house on beach

My grandmother’s house has a very special place in my heart. As the family has gotten older and we have all had our own children we do not visit as we should. I visited with my grandmother many times when I was little. Her house always seemed to have something about it that set it apart from all the rest. As you walk into the back door of her house you would notice a long, narrow kitchen that led into the main living and dining room of her house. The smell of food home cooked food was quite evident. Grandmother cooked every day and always cooked big meals on holidays for the family.

Of course you always hear people talking about how great their grandmother or grandfather are, I too feel the same way about my grandmother. I see her as more than my grandmother, she’s a role mole, my best friend and also like a sister when I need her. She’s always been a loving and caring person. Not for only her friends and family, but also strangers. People she has never met a day in her life she would be willing to go give her last too. You don’t find to many people like her too often.