Graf #4 (Reaction to "Advice for Writers")

            Whenever I have been given a topic to write about, I try to engulf myself around it. I try to embrace the subject so that I will not be bored with it, and yet, still impress the teacher. However, I usually always need a little inspiration from seeing other people’s writings. I try my best to find interest in each and every topic while still impressing the teacher; however, sometimes I still feel like it’s not good enough. Such as my Graf #2 – I wrote everything down from what I felt deep inside, but it’s not good writing quality. I put myself into the piece too much that it really was as if I was just yelling at her. Not an interesting piece of work. I didn’t want to start over, though. I find that I am good at editing my work after I have written it, but to start fresh on a new page? Forget about it. I need to take that advice and take the time to rewrite everything I have just written. I need to hand in each writing piece with the mindset that ‘it’s a damn fine job’!

Graf #3 (Inventory)

            This is the inventory of my nightstand to the left of my bed. It is all of my important essentials for the night at just a quick arm’s length away.

·         A lamp
·         A TV remote
·         A pen
·         An alarm clock
·         A Post-it notepad
·         My prenatal vitamins
·         A picture frame with a photo of my fiancé, Kevin, and I on my high school graduation in it.
·         A book - Mockingjay by Suzanne Collins
·         My weekly planner containing my homework due dates for each college class
·         A retainer case for my invisalign retainer
·         A breast pump
·         My cellphone

On the floor next to my nightstand:

·         A notebook where I write my letters to Kevin in boot camp
·         A couple boxes of fruit snacks
·         A box of envelopes
·         My college books

Inside my nightstand:

·         Paperwork
·         All my letters I have received from Kevin

 

This nightstand screams teenage mom. She is a mom that’s just trying to keep her teenage life from floating away. Her college books are right next to the bed. This way, once the baby goes to sleep, she can get some studying down. She also has her notebook near the bed so she can write to Kevin and tell him all about his son. All his letters are close at hand and a photo of him within grasp. I think she is showing separation anxiety. Everything she needs for those long nights is just two inches away from her bed. Everything she needs – but, not everything she wants. That ‘everything she wants’ engulfs her nightstand: In the photo, letters, notebook, and the features in their son she so proudly holds. This is the nightstand of a teenage mom who is anxiously awaiting her Marine’s return.

Graf #2 (Worst Teacher)

 

              Last year, during my senior year in high school, I became pregnant. Being pregnant in high school is hard. People are always criticizing you to your face or behind your back. Nobody understands what it is like to be in someone else’s shoes. When you don’t understand a situation, you give the person respect, encouragement, and offer them help. Especially as an adult teacher in high school; you act like an adult, not a gossipy, overly-dramatic high school girl. It is for this reason alone as to why I didn’t like you. You gave me a reason not to like you. I tried to look past the mistreatment you gave your special ed students; but, you treated everyone like that, except for your cheerleaders you coached. You acted just like them. Snobby, two-faced, bitchy, and squished everybody beneath your feet. Nobody likes you. No, not even the other teachers you work with. You act like you know everything and are everything. Do yourself a favor and stop talking behind people’s backs, maybe you would get some acquaintances. You crossed the line with me when you thought you could talk about me. Yes, I was pregnant in high school, but it doesn’t mean that I’m not a person. I was still a student. How dare you try to assume that I would fail classes, drop out, or not graduate high school. Just because there are stereotypes about pregnant girls does not mean that they are applicable to me. I am glad that I graduated high school with highest honors for the year; this way, I don’t have to see you again.
                This was a special education teacher that was at my high school. I never really had a chance to spill my guts about how I thought about her. I never hate or dislike someone without a set cause. She gave me a cause. She always acted like she was top dog to everyone; but, in reality, she’s just the queen of the damned.

Graf #1 (Hands)

           Tiffany, you have watched me experience many of life’s roller coasters. Looking at my hands, hands that might resemble yours, I can relive memories. I can look at my hand and find each scar telling its own story.  Some are burn marks from cooking, bug bites from fishing, and claw marks from rough-housing with my German shepherd. One time, about five years ago, you gazed down at me as I skimmed down a big, ice-capped, snow-covered hill on a runner sled. When I hit that soft patch, the sudden drop of momentum sent me flying over the sled and right smack into shards of ice from the ice-capped snow. It scarred my left hand on the lower knuckle of my thumb for life.

            These hands hold secrets. They lead the way during the greatest nights of my life, and the worst. They have been used and abused, rested and pampered. Taking a part in illegal activities was what they did best throughout high school; for, they hid behind a mask of innocence. You have to go along to get along. These times became my good ol’ times that I will always remember. You stood over me watching, never judging me for a second. It was these times that I became who I am today. These hands allowed me to find my best friend, Kevin. Through holding, loving, nurturing, calming, cooking, writing, playing, and anything and everything else hands do, we became an unbreakable bond.

            Now, as an adult, I am living life’s grandest moments. You watched and listened as my best friend, boyfriend, and overall the most amazing person I have ever met, gently take my hand and bend down on one knee. Months later, these hands held my precious baby boy for the first time. Since then, my hands have continuously written letter after letter to the man who holds my heart down in boot camp; informing him each and every day about our newborn son. You may be in the heavens, but I make sure that these hands care, nurture, and love this baby – your nephew.