Synopsis Of ' 17 Bluebarn Avenue ' Essay

It was another average school night and the red letters on my alarm clock read midnight. My tired eyes stared at the blank word document on the laptop, my mind devoid of ideas. The prompt for this week’s creative writing essay was about bizarre situations. Usually, my mind would be overflowing with ideas like a river, and I would get the assignment done on the first day. Three days passed, and I still had no ideas. I was officially afflicted with the notorious writer’s block I had heard so much of. There was this feeling of having an empty void in my mind, and having uncertainty over what to write next, whether it is over the prompt or the next words. Closing the laptop in defeat and accepting the reality that I would receive a failing grade for the paper, I shut the laptop and trudged over to my bed and dove under the covers. At least I would not suffer the consequences of my actions in the temporary

Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock! There was a knock the door late at night. There was a letter, it was from the manager at the sunny slope apartments. The next morning we opened the letter. It said we were getting evicted. We didn’t know why. But we knew what it meant, we had to move! We were so worried, because we didn’t know where we could move or even worst of all we didn’t know if we were going to have to move a different school. I had been at that school my whole life, and known all of my friends there.

She got up and walked into another room. The house was way bigger than the family units and was filled with objects and tools I’ve never seen before. While she was gone, I just watched Gabriel sleeping, cuddled up in the blanket. Before she returned, I fell asleep myself.

Rain poured on me as I walked home. I was all soaked and as usual, I was alone. It was close to night, and I lived in Del Mar. The other kids walked on the other side of the sidewalk gossiping and insulting me under their breaths, but I tried to not let the voices get to my head. I just kept treading forward. I got to the streetlights and made my across the street to go hike up the hill that leads to my house. My tucked my hands in my jacket pockets and positioned my head down to the dark, paved, and quiet street.

All of my memories are built around a house with yellow shutters and a red rooftop, colors I always begged dad to change. Although all of the houses around me are the same uniform type, black roofed and black shuttered, I look at my house and I cannot help but sigh in relief and think “This is home,” the place where I took my first steps only to fall right after, the place where my mom constantly cooked kimchi-jigae, and the place where I first had my heartbreak - not by a boy, but by my first C on a test.

Me and Sam’s room on the second floor has an aroma of quaint antiquity with old maple wood floors and pastel walls. We live in history. Sam’s family and mine joked about our room’s size and the surprise of sharing one closest, but it felt like home. After hanging up my Tupac Shakur and Snoop Dogg poster beside my Harlem Renaissance painting “Brownstone”, Sam and I said our farewells to our families and headed to dinner together in the school’s cafeteria.

When my father arrived he was bright red, and he was yelling. I was scared. He was worried.

Growing up in the suburbs, I felt alive and yet, overwhelmed. Pulsing with electricity, the whole world was one click away, at my fingertips. A network of sights, sounds, and puzzles spread out before me, an overpowering and uncontrollable force. My life is run by schedules, planning each minute and precious second out in harsh ink. Everything must be in order, must be under control, and must have a purpose. Real life doesn’t run on a schedule; even the smallest decision can alter the direction of the future. I am frightened of just how much I am unable to see, how much I might overlook and be unable to safely tuck away in the far recesses of my memories. In the suburbs so close in contact with uncontrollable chaos, I am not can never be perfectly content. Instead, I find my peace in the middle of my Grandfather’s cornfields.

I didn’t finish hearing the rest, I was going up to my room after drinking a glass of water and when I was about to get to my room I heard my parents saying all that. I went and slammed my door as hard as I could. My head started to hurt and my heart started pounding as fast as lighting. As soon as I layed on my bed pressing my head under my pillow my parents dashed into my room.

After lunch at one of my favorite restaurants, my younger sister Ashley and I hopped into my aged, tan Chrysler Sebring and drove out of the parking lot onto the dirty, bumpy road. The grounds soaked with rain and the autumn leaves floated across the sky. My car was like a bouncy spring on the bumpy road. As we continued to head towards our destination, our excitement grew. After a couple minutes of driving we finally made it to the Luchies’ house. Their house was warm and inviting as Ashley and I entered into it.

The festering disappointment and anger emanating from the front seat was palpable. My parents glared ahead, as I crumpled in the backseat. The gleam of suppressed tears in my eyes.

The morning was long and anxious. Nik needed something to preoccupy himself before he could tell the time was right. So, he decided to go to his grandparent’s house. His mom took him over, on the car ride to his escape the questions of his fate ran in diagonals through his head. Bouncing, battering, and bashing every ounce of courage that he once had. THey arrived to the big brown house that smelled of soul food. It put NIk at ease once more.

It was the end of second grade when we moved into my parent’s home, although whenever I return it still feels like walking in after a long day of Mr. Minchak’s class. The stain on the TV room carpet still smells of orange juice, but the house and I are the only ones that know about its’ existence, like it’s our little secret. The house whispers memories of emotional detachment, it never raises its’ voice. Twelve years later, past thoughts are still there, but the feeling of home has never existed in that space; my parent’s home was never my home to be begin with.

In Brooklyn, the author, Colm Tóibín, tells a coming-of-age immigration story set in the 1950s about Eilis Lacey, a young woman from Enniscorthy, Ireland. Eilis travels from her hometown in County Wexford to Brooklyn, New York with the help of Father Flood and her sister, Rose. Eilis is confronted with homesickness, love, and identity crisis throughout the story. Although Brooklyn is about Eilis’s journey, Rose plays an important role in her life. Rose is Eilis’s older sister who still lives at home with Eilis and their mother. Rose helps support them with money for food, movies, clothes and even Eilis’s schooling by working in the office of Davis’s Mills. While in Brooklyn, Eilis and Rose send letters back and forth until Rose suddenly dies in her sleep and leaves their mother all alone. Colm Tóibín’s creates Rose to be the heroic character of the novel. Initially Rose does seem manipulative but soon proves to be a hero. In this essay I will argue that Rose is not completely manipulative, but that she is actually a combination of both heroism and manipulation; she is a helpful person who sometimes uses manipulation to achieve this.

As my dad’s truck rolled up to a big tall yellow house that looked two stories high and looked like it could use some work on the roof. It looked like a really nice house if the other people who lived here painted it any color but yellow. But what can I do a house is a house. The truck finally came to a complete stop when my little seven year old brother jack said “I get to pick witch room is mine” And jumped out of the truck in the speed of light. I didn’t really care were I slept because I knew I wasn’t going to be here for long. Every were me moved for the past two years we moved out in the first five months. How are you going to have friends when you start to really get to know them and then you move? But what can I do about it. I guess I won’t have any friends. Anyway I got out of the old Ford of my dad’s and went to the tall gate to grab my box of stuff. I picked up my box and walked to the front door of the house.