The Black, And Curly

First, the author uses descriptive imagery to form a strong image in the reader’s head. The text states, “The scars were thick ridges, alternating bright pink and white, in stripes up from her neck.”(pg.16) The author describes a girl she met in the mental hospital. By the vivid words

The author creates a mood of being irritating by her “…awful grandmother…” and brothers “…Alfredito and Enrique…” who are occupied playing outside as “… a B-Fifty-two bomber…” [paragraph 5] and her grandmother with a “… long, long list of relatives … names of the dead and the living into one long prayer…” [paragraph 10]. Including, the imagery provided in the short story described the character’s actions by watching her grandmother pray while she counts her grandmother’s mustache hairs. Later, an unknown lady and man start talking to her brother asking if she could take a picture, than judging by their looks, they assume they do not speak English but only

First and foremost, this novel is about Chicano people and the struggles they endured. While each small passage can be viewed as the progression of the unknown male protagonist, it also gives a multitude of other views as well. Middle-aged male

Alex Martin aka Al whose an african american male who’s 6’1’’,dark brown hair, and allergic to peanut butter has spent the last 9 years in jail.Al went to jail because he robbed a bank.Al’s first impression on the people he first seen when he got out of jail was he didn't care about anyone but himself.When Al seen his mother the first thing she said was how did you get that scar on your face.Al told his mother in his deep voice that he got into a fight with another inmate about who get’s to sleep on the top bunk,and he pulled a knife on him and sliced the side of his face.Alex told his mother he was going to get a job as a mechanic.Al’s dad walked inside his home stumbling and knocking things over.Al was tired of seeing his dad always drunk

Feeble, isolation and dreaded anticipation. I will describe my sadness as death by a thousand paper cuts. For every time I remember that my little boy is leaving me, possibly forever, another cut is sliced across my already weakened heart. None are enough to kill me, but powerful enough to deeply scar. My stinging heart clenches at the thought of the risk that he is putting himself up to. Slowly, I lift my trembling hand with the sellotape bandage wrapped around it, and limply brush off as many white cat hairs as possible. Holding back the temptation to graze my nose across the tip of his and run a hand through the gelled blackthorns of his hair. I attempted to distract myself by smoothening out the creases in the uniform. Can’t the clocks

Having knocked at door of the youth’s room, the girl was waiting for a response for quite a long time and eventually it sounded, when Timothy opened the door slowly, standing with a towel wrapped around his waist, and was mopping his wet head with another towel. His hair was still not dry after a shower, and he looked awesome. The young man’s belly was flat and muscled and Veronica noticed a scar which apparently remained after the rally just below his

We all watched as he ran to Kirimi, and it was a miracle he wasn’t hurt in the fall. “Kirimi! Kirimi!” he called. His sister looked at him, and her eyes widened. It was the first time she had truly seen her older brother without the cloak and wig, and she had finally made the connection.

Out in the field he had worked with three others, Clemson, Miguel, and Edwardo. Clemson, the farmer’s nephew, was always pretty quiet and Miguel and Edwardo we’re two Mexican brothers who never really spoke the greatest English. The work they were doing had started getting so hard and time consuming that they had been staying nights at the Clemson’s. The room they had been staying in though had horrible conditions. The two brothers had tried their best to keep the room clean, but the living conditions still made it very hard.

His torn up white shirt was scattered with dried blood, but would be replace with new one. His pants was in the same condition like his shirt. The young boy hair was oily and messy, now that he thought about it, when was the last time he had shower or went out to see the blue skies.

Her legs were long, lean, and tan. Her blue shorts were loose, unlike her shirt. It was pitch black; showing all her curves and her flat toned stomach, but sadly it didn't show anything more than her neck and hands. Her dark brown hair was pulled in a high, messy ponytail. A strand of hair had fallen out and was on her full pink lips a split second before she unconsciously brushed it away. I took a moment before I finally looked her into her brown eyes. They weren't the brightest but by far the most captivating as she too studied me.

Collectively, these literary images go to describe a young ethnic man, probably of Latin descent, who lives with his mother in a poverty stricken area. The careful recitation of instruction given to the younger man seems to demonstrate an intricate knowledge the narrators has accrued from both predecessors and experience. Singularly, this part of the story is very powerful in that it shows a young man having to hide who he is and where he comes from in an effort to seem appealing to women, and speaks volumes about the deception that both genders go through all in name of the chase.

This story takes place in old Sacramento, California around the 1950’s. A lot of this excerpt from Hunger of Memory covers Richard Rodriguez's childhood and how he has become a grown-up. He is the third of two Mexican immigrants in Sacramento and has two sisters and one brother. Rodriguez shows his youth as "unusual," because of to the battle between his private family life and his public life outside of the family. Before Rodriguez was seven, Spanish was the everyday spoken language and is a part of his home, (qtd. par. 17)…

Andrea sat in the break room, waiting for her shift to start at 8:30, her long, crisp black hair covered the back of the seat. Andrea had her face deep into paperwork but, then noticed Mary walked into the room and looked up, took off her glasses and wiped her forehead. Andrea’s porcelain skin, looked like it has barely seen any sunlight, or even touched. Mary and Andrea had most of the day piled up in paperwork, except for their breaks. At lunchtime, Mary added to her stories of sleepwalking into the forest, including the one early in the morning.

“Fine,” she looked up as a man with a scar running down his cheek smiled sinisterly. She didn’t trust him, she moved to try to get out of his reach but he pulled his arm out. Her eyes widened in horror as his fist came forward, she had stopped crying, watching the fist as if it was coming at her slowly. When it hit her face she barely registered it, it didn’t hurt, only stung and sent a shock through her body. Another fist came, then another. Her vision was going blurry, she heard them say something but she couldn’t make out what it was as her body fell limp against the seat and her eyes shut, unable to handle the pain in her

He then goes on talking about his nieces and nephew’s name. How the children in Mexican families now have an English name. With this, he shows how assimilating to one culture erases the other culture