“Rinda, please read the next paragraph for us,” stated Mrs. Wright. Feeling my ears and face turn stop sign red with the sense of the walls closing in, I began to sweat. “Ppp, puh, puh,” I stuttered. Mrs. Wright sternly announces, “Photograph.” In my monotone voice, I repeated her and continued on with the rest of the paragraph, which bared less challenging words for a second grader. She then asked me what I thought about the paragraph after I finished reading it. I told her and the whole class, I don’t know. I could hear snickering all around me, and did the only thing left for me to do. I sank deep into my chair, praying for her to move on. She proceeded to explain the context of the paragraph to the class, before she selected …show more content…
Yes, they would poke fun at me if I misspelled words or wrote about my love life. That alone was reason to write a somewhat well-organized letter. The day Mr. Peters read a letter written to me, aloud, was the day I realized how important it is to make sure what I write conveys the accurate message. He read, “I want to have you come for a long time and maybe dinner. How about meeting at the fair around 6pm?” My friend and I died. Everyone had fun with that letter for several months. I believe that event impacted both of our writing skills and revealed how important it is to make sure the message you want to convey is being interpreted the way it is intended. I managed to get through grammar school with the basic necessities required to graduate. I was not one of those kids that had interactive parents that read to me as a child and I was not pressed to go to college. I joined the workforce right after high school. I had a very strong work ethic and knew that I had to work very hard to climb the latter in order to gain financial stability. Within that hard work was the ability to communicate with my superiors and my subordinates. It wasn’t until I received an email from one of my co-workers that was addressed to several employees within the department that I committed to re-reading everything and carefully articulating what I said out loud. It went something like this, “In oder to get the pasient the best care we ned to now how to properly treat the
A typical routine of a fourth grade student in Five Oaks, Michigan shifted immediately when the unfamiliar substitute teacher entered the classroom. Mr. Hibler, the students’ normal teacher, came down with a cough and wasn’t in the classroom for a few days. Inside the school setting is where all the important and developing events throughout the story occurred. The students were used to the typical memorization of facts, predictable subjects, and uneventful classroom teachings. Miss Ferenczi disrupted this normality of the routine of a day the students had. “She said that the Egyptians were the first to discover that dogs, when they are ill, will not drink from rivers, but wait for the rain, and hold their jaws open to catch it.” (Baxter 256) The facts and statements she said to the students engulfed their thoughts. Leading them to be confused, intrigued, and curious to hear more. These were feelings they never expected to feel at school. While, more often than not, Miss Ferenczi was presenting mythical, untrue, or incorrect facts, the students mindsets shifted in the classroom. Boredom no longer invaded the students whenever Miss Ferenczi was speaking. “There was no sound in the classroom, except for Miss Ferenczi’s voice, and Donna DeShano’s
I was surrounded by the sound of graphite moving anxiously over paper. The clamor filled my ears and collided with the dull ticking of the clock that hung over the SAT proctor’s disorderly, graying hair. There were only eighteen minutes left and I still had not written a single word. The prompt reverberated in my head like a ringing bell, but I could not form cohesive thoughts. My heart raced and my fingernails dug into the curve of my palm in panic, leaving small, pallid impressions in their wake. Pleading with myself, I considered the page that lay askew on the on the chipped desk in front of me. I wrote a desperate and painfully arbitrary sentence that I quickly erased. Nothing sounded right. I had studied and prepared for this moment with
I felt the eyes of the other students burning holes through my skin. There was no escaping from reading in front of class, not this time. My voice stuttered, my palms sweated, and my face turned red as I looked at the blurred words on the page. I tried and failed to make sense of the book in front me. I wished, I was invisible.
During this observation I observed a young girl who we will call “Kayla” she was working on her daily journal. I asked the teacher if it would be okay if I asked “Kayla” to tell me a story about her journal page and then have her act it out with a few friends the teacher was actually very excited about this. So when I asked “Kayla” to tell me a story about the time she and her family went to the beach she was super excited I told her I was going to write it down so we could act it out later.
Sitting in 5th period, I absentmindedly slid my pencil along the left margin. As the graphite swirled into abstract designs, my mind began to wander. Rain landed on the metal roof, lulling me into a false sense of comfort and security. I felt myself drifting out of hall three and into a soft daydream. A yawn crept up my throat and escaped from my mouth as I continued scratching at the narrowing margin. For a split second, I tuned back into the voice of my Spanish teacher, making sure that I hadn't missed anything important while I etched flowers into my notes. Suddenly, my pencil stopped its steady motion across the page. The blurry sections in the corners of my vision disappeared abruptly, and the formerly calming drumming of rain sharpened
I’m sitting within my petite Barbie dollhouse when suddenly I hear a slam at the door. I immediately stand up from my pink chair and sprint to the front of the house; it’s my older sister who has arrived from elementary school. From the second she would step foot in the house I would yell at her, “It’s time to read!” after a few eye rolls she would finally squat beside me and read a Dr. Seuss book. The way the words would just roll off her tongue so smoothly made English look so effortless, however, when she handed me the book for me to read I didn’t know where to begin, all that came out of my mouth was gibberish. I would make up my own words, not even knowing what they meant but for some reason, it was satisfying. As I continued to
"Tasnim, can you please stay after class? I need to talk to you." I let go of the door handle and whip my head back to face my third grade teacher Mrs. Russell. She said my name correctly for the first time all year, though her voice was stern. I realize that my jaw has dropped by the expression on her face as she peers over her laptop. As I walk slowly towards her, my classmates whisper, "Ooh she's in trouble" as they sprint out the door for recess. I stand near my teacher's desk waiting for all the students to leave and when the room is silent, Mrs. Russell says,
She walks to the centermost oak tree near Mason Hall, she finally has found the perfect shady spot on an 80-degree day. She passes the boy from her Psychology class and gives him a small smile. She’s taking a journey to a jungle she doesn’t normally observe, a place where many humans and animals inhabit. There isn’t a breeze and the air feels drier than usual. The Diag seems unfriendly today, as she sits down she’s nervous of her surroundings. She plants herself on a somewhat clean patch of grass and pulls out her shiny laptop. She is reading “Werner Herzog’s Conquest of the Useless” for her freshman English class. As she dives her way into the reading she starts to think about where she is, what is going on around her, and the journey that she is on. A bushy red squirrel approaches her, she’s confused why it’s coming so close and quickly gets up to escape its presence. “Why in the world is this squirrel so close to me” she thinks to herself. The girl moves from the tree but as she get up she starts to notice specific details she hasn’t before.
“I see you’re having trouble reading, so I’m going to have you spend some time with the reading specialist. It will be fun! “ She exclaimed with false enthusiasm. Every day from then on, as the other students happily progressed in their reading, I was sent to a musty old room. Its inhabitant seemed equally musty and old at the time. Her white hair was brittle and yellowed like the pages of the vintage books filling the room. In reality she was a kindly woman, but I perceived the sound of her raspy breathing as sinister and threatening. I will always remember the hoarse rhythm of her breaths. They stood out from the oppressive silence as I labored over reading exercises in that airless little
76) The University of Wollongong in Australia conducted a study to find how picture books, specifically those with extremely low word counts, can help children make connections and express matters in their lives, rather than living or seeing simply though the eyes of the characters. (Mantei, Jessica, 2014, pg. 76) In the study the children were read a picture book entitled Mirrors, which has a very low word count; they then created a presentation using art and short writing. (Mantei, Jessica, 2014, pg. 89) The low word count of the book provided a lot of space for the children to use their own lives to explain and share what they believed the book meant. (Mantei, Jessica, 2014, pg. 89) “It is interesting that these participants, with their diversity in cultural and social backgrounds selected similar pages in Mirror for their response. The students’ artwork appeared to reveal something of their personal identities and their competence within the out of school communities with which they engage.” (Mantei, Jessica, 2014, pg. 89) This exercise allowed the children to interpret the story through the lens of the experiences they have had, and share those with their classmates. This is valuable in demonstrating to
Jake fidgeted with the play food in front of him. It was obvious he felt comfortable with the other teacher already seated with him; they had a familiarity that came with having known each other for some time. The other four year olds played around him but were careful to avoid his table; possibly from having history with him, or possibly because there was obvious fire in his eyes. A girl walked over and attempted to grab a piece of play food that had been forgotten at the edge of the table. Anger flashed over Jake’s eyes, I could visibly see him controlling his breathing, counting to ten. The moment passed without more incident, but he was careful to collect the food in a tighter pile near him.
The car was too cold. I looked to the car’s panel, and the green buttons illuminated brightly to my small eyes. The small knob had the heater on medium blast, but I still felt cold. No matter how many times I rubbed them together, there was no warmth. I tried to warm my hands by putting them under my thighs, praying that I haven’t lost my sense of touch yet[EG3] . ((basically I deleted “somewhat” and “my hands are completely frozen)) I directed my awareness away from my cold hands and looked to the back of the car. My brother was fast asleep in the backseats. He didn’t care about mom’s crying; he was only three. He was too young to understand. He slept in such a calming position. His mouth partly opened as he snuggled a vibrant red Elmo close to his chest as if Elmo could somehow become alive and run away from his reaches. With his head tilt to the soft cushions of his baby chair, he looked so peaceful and tranquil. As I watched him, I wished I could sleep like that in times like this. I tried to distract myself from my brother and looked back to my movie again, and this time, the scene was Cinderella confronting the Prince that it was indeed her at the ball that night, but the Prince rejected her. This movie was so cliché, even my mother’s Asian soap operas weren’t even this cheesy. [EG4] ((Should I delete this?? It seems irrelevant to the essay))I shifted my gaze to somewhere else. I sat
Two weeks prior to summer vacation my 8th grade year, Amy and I were in one of my favorite places, a place that was supposed to be nearly silent, but was often much too loud. A fact that was overlooked by most, for we had all just come from lunch and were full and happy.At this point in time the vast room was in a state of orderly disorder, with books strewn everywhere.From the long battered hicory tables and matching chairs, to the typical boring and dusty blue/green carpet found in most schools,to the small, cramped office where the books were usualy sorted.The taste of the creamy tomato soup I had with lunch, was still fresh in my mouth, slightly tainted with the faint smell of paste and fresh lamanation. As always, you could hear the soft roar of papers rustling as the pages of the books held in the hands of engrossed readers turned rapidly. The stained maple book shelves felt more empty than normal and the long and difficult process of replacing the old books with the new had begun, shown by the library specialists rushing frantically around, trying to complete all of their tasks before the end of the school year was upon
Suddenly, there was a hush in the room. The teacher had asked someone a question! I tried to seem casual as I glanced up to see if I was the unlucky person who had been called upon. My heart jumped and then I realized that the teacher was looking at the person to my right, waiting expectantly for an answer. I stared at the girl also, as if I was truly interested in whatever ramblings might come out of her mouth about the dead general and his battle. I felt my face grow warm with a slight blush as I became embarrassed for her and her inability to answer the question. She must have been paying as much attention to the lecture as I had been. Finally, she was able to formulate a less than mediocre answer that satisfied the monotone voice at the front of the room and the lecture resumed. Another glance back at the girl and I saw the cell phone palmed in her left hand down by her side. She had been text-messaging someone instead of paying attention!
“One more time,” I said to my sister. It would be the fourth “one more time” that night, but she would still read to me again. My sister is eight years older than I am and always took on the secondary mom role in my life. As I sat in her lap, I stared at the pastel colored pictures while she read to me the story of Biscuit’s New Trick. The pages were of a double thickness so my tiny hands could grasp the children’s book with ease as I held it in front of her. I remember her hands running through my thin hair as she read the three or four lines per page over my shoulder.