Personal Narrative-Racism

Walking along the streets of Las Angeles Steve Lopez was looking for his next article for his column of the newspaper. When he heard the harmonious voice of a violin Mr. Lopez stopped walking in order to listen to a man who was speaking through music underneath a statue of Beethoven.

“For a moment the last sunshine fell with romantic affection on her glowing face; her voice compelled me forward breathlessly as I listened - then the glow faded, each light deserting her with lingering regret, like children leaving a pleasant street at dusk.”

Truth to be told: I don’t particularly pay attention to national events or issues. My family is also incapable of comprehending national issues, especially my parents who do not have any level of proficiency in English. My family lives in a world where we go with the flow, but there are issues that I contemplate whether or not I should be involved in, particularly race inequality. Considering the amount of tension between policemen and African-American around the nation, the race to equal treatment is still ongoing.

In such silence…. All i could hear was the violin, and it was as if Juliek’s soul had become his bow. He was playing his life…. I awoke at daybreak, I saw Juliek facing me, hunched over, dead. Next to him lay his violin, trampled, an eerily poignant little corpse.”

He waited until the night’s 11th hour. By now the Princess rested in the highest tower of the castle, locked away from the dangerous world, yet so oblivious to the dangers that which fated the rest of her life. Silently the peasant journeyed outside, where he stopped at the wall of the tower where she lay. He watched her in the darkness from below, lifting his face to her, letting the light rest on his every surface of darkness. The night was cloudless. The winds wailed between the motionless oak trees as its thin branches clawed out, ever so slightly disturbing the leaves with its hostile screeches. Not the thick moss of the trees nor the damp leaves squirming in his toes could distract the peasant from so enticing a scent. All that encircled him was the sweetness of lavender and rosewood, filling his entire being as he sunk into the grass, like sand washed over by the water, with every breeze passing

Her writings are heart-wrenching and full of longing for freedom, happiness, and her mother. At the end of each entry she would draw heart shaped balloons and look at the moon, hoping her mother could feel her love and sense that she was still out there somewhere.

Nature is calm and serene, while this boy’s life has changed in a matter of seconds from living to dead in a tragic event. The end-stopped lines and enjambments are used very well in the remainder of the poem.

I look for words in the dark, silently describing to myself the particular conditions of the weather on the morning I saw you most recently— the wind, its patterned disarray— my mind elsewhere, distracted, lyrical, while the pianist plays an encore. Mozart was born on this day 257 years ago. All day I have been ungenerous, resentful, impatient. In between movements, no applause but the old ladies cough loudly, violently.

But then they weren't. Her love for writing rotted away, her happiness eaten with it. It didn't stop at her love for writing. First, she didn't want to write. And then she stopped doing her makeup in the morning. Eventually, all of her energy had to be dedicated to small tasks like getting up in the morning and not going to bed the moment she got home. All of her emotions were at an all-time high. She lashed out at small annoyances, sobbed for hours to the tune of slight

All was still. She continued to sit there, lifeless. This puzzled me because even from afar, her distressed body convulsed with such great force that it even made me shudder in fear. What could have been so terrifying that it leads her into loud sighs of defeat? She leaned back into her rusty and squeaky chair, rowing her body back and forth. She seemed helpless, face filled with utter sorrow; I had pity on this poor thing. Another endless sighs of defeat. She stood up ever so quickly, almost knocking the stack of dusty papers off the dustless table, and began to dance. It was quite awful—her dancing. Not to mention that her defeated sighs morphed into unpleasant and cacophonous shrieks of melodic tune. Although she sang, her signs of distress

The ballade started off very calm and peaceful, leaving me in a state of ultimate tranquility. I felt relaxed listening to the notes dance in the air to the pulse of Gregory’s fingers on the piano. The rhythm was smooth and the music flowed like a small stream running smoothly through the mountains.

The night began at seven thirty. Entering the music hall of the first time, there were many red velvet seats neatly set into rows sloping into the stage like an opera house, with white washed walls and a beautiful black piano shining in the center of the stage. A medium tall woman wearing a velvet navy blue dress walks out on stage and sits at the piano. With her back hunched over she begins playing. As her fingers intermediately move across the ivory and ebony keys, the melody is calm and paints the picture of a paint brush filled with paint gliding across a paper with elegance and homophonic texture. The music comes to a faded stop as the audience applauded.

As I watched the hands of the conductor raise, my heart started pounding while lilliputian drops of salty sweat started forming over my face. The bright spotlight turned on, revealing the microscopic particles of dust in the air. Reflected from the spotlight, the gleaming wood of my violin shined into my eyes. The smell of wood and sweat lingered around, being wafted by the air conditioning as it made a pleasing soft rumbling noise.

The sunset was not spectacular that day. The vivid ruby and tangerine streaks that so often caressed the blue brow of the sky were sleeping, hidden behind the heavy mists. There are some days when the sunlight seems to dance, to weave and frolic with tongues of fire between the blades of grass. Not on that day. That evening, the yellow light was sickly. It diffused softly through the gray curtains with a shrouded light that just failed to illuminate. High up in the treetops, the leaves swayed, but on the ground, the grass was silent, limp and unmoving. The sun set and the earth waited.

The deep blue of his eyes calmed the rapid beating of her heart. He knew nothing of her but her name and her song and yet he spoke with a feeling of lighthearted happiness. She would not tell him. She would not ruin this feeling. She held strong to the tendrils of warmth that reached toward her.