Too Young to Kiss

Before I walked in, I quickly made way towards the girl’s room and wiped off the sticky red lipstick my mother insisted I wear. With two paper towels and one rinse under the sink, my innocent youthful lips were back.

The DJ booth separates the room, boys on one side and girls on the other like usual. It made sense though, how else should eleven year old kids act? The boys were to the left, some on their new camera phones, exploring the new world of photos through their mobile device; some bobbing their bodies to the beat of The Black Eyed Peas newest hit, “Roses.”  The girls are to the right, some whispering in one another’s ear with their hands over their mouths, telling secrets and starting drama with the group of girls next to them. The rest of the girls dancing, showing off their dance routine they are working on for their recital coming up in May. Meanwhile, I am thinking about all of the excuses I could use to leave this shindig.

I tried avoiding my friends for most of the night, but sooner or later they found me.

“Kristen! Dan is looking all over for you, stop being a baby and go dance with your boyfriend!”

My heart dropped to the pit of my stomach and I began to taste my pasta and meatballs Mom had made for dinner. Trying to snap out of my prude funk, my “friends” dragged poor Dan over to me.

“Uhm DJ can you please put on a slow song?!”

Bitches. Dan approached me, our feet met, and eyes locked. Awkwardly, we assumed the position (the slow dancing position). I stared through the dark tunnel in his mouth between his two front teeth. I knew if I starred for too long I would be trapped in his dark tunnel, trapped somewhere I did not belong.

The last verse to Christina Aguilera’s “Come on over,” song was on, and my palms began to sweat. Dan closed his eyes, and counted to three quietly to himself (little did he know I had extremely sensitive hearing). He came at me like my orthodontist would moments before tightening my braces.  Before I knew it, his punch stained, wet, emotionless lips were latched onto mine, and adolescence had begun too soon.

Britney Spears began to echo the room and Dan jolted from me before I could blink. I began to feel the way I did when I rode my two wheeler bike before I was grown enough; inexperienced and out of line. Meanwhile, my petty friends are proudly hanging on to their training wheels.

The night ended before I could say sorry to Dan. I don’t know why I wanted to say sorry though, I was just, sorry.

Wanting to blame the red lipstick for my lips bold actions, I shamefully stepped into my mother’s Toyota that waited for me outside. I prayed she wouldn't ask me about my night, but as any mother would have, she did. I wanted to tell her I wish I had not gone, but revealing my wild woman like actions would only disappoint her.  

RHETORICAL ANALYSIS OF PUBLICATION VENUES

SWITCHBACK
http://www.swback.com/

When you think of the word Switchback, you are left with questions, what does Switchback mean? However, Switchback addresses relatable issues and memories that an audience of young adults to adults of all ages could be engaged in. The founders of Switchback want their readers to “feel,” with the contributor as they read and to be left “thinking,” at the end of each piece. Each genre focuses on/ discusses realistic issues and memoirs that we as adults could easily find some sense of relation to. I found myself reading piece after piece in the CNF category. The pieces are provided under the category, “Issues,” http://www.swback.com/issues/, and are broken down into sections such as: Rising, Broken, Current, Rosita, Global vs. Global, Intuition vs. Logic, Minority vs. Majority, Process vs. Product, Figurative vs. Literal, Horizontal vs. Vertical, Still vs. Frenzy, Accident vs. Design, and so on.  The purpose of Switchback is to share deep, heartfelt personal stories/struggles/memories/thoughts that individuals everywhere could relate to.

CNF essays published in Switchback forms vary from traditional to segmented form, these include: essays, meditations, lists, letters, manuals, artful digressions. Switchback wants their prose to be quiet and thoughtful, urgent and explosive. They want their essays in the form of personal stories that are more than just personal stories. The stories need to have a further meaning, a message, an overall heartfelt purpose.  Switchback does not want their CNF pieces to be informative or upright; they want to be able to think when they are reading each piece. 

The CNF essays published in Switchback are the types of work you can feel as you read it, and are left thinking after you read. The contributors to Switchback use a reflective tone. All of the topics were relatable and passionate. In the “Issues,” section of Switchback, there is a category labeled “Broken,” which leads readers to seven personal non-fiction stories shared by Individuals who went through difficult times in their lives and shared them through their writing. http://www.swback.com/issues/017/.  A piece I really liked in this section called, “Be Gay,” http://www.swback.com/issues/017/be-gay/1.html a story of a lesbian couple trying to get pregnant; during this read, I could feel the emotion behind the writer but still left me thinking at the end, “Did you ever end up having kids?” I thought to myself. All CNF essays are listed and available to read; they are divided up into the different categories of the “issues,” section of the website.  The CNF pieces go from dramatic pieces, such as a man writing about his thoughts towards the shooting at Sandy Hook http://www.swback.com/issues/018/december-notes/2.html to memories, such as a man writing about his attic and  relating his surroundings to family memories http://www.swback.com/issues/007/attics.html. Switchback’s CNF pieces are a variety of dramatic, passionate, humorous, and relatable stories. The personal narratives vary in length, some are longer pieces, slightly short of 3,000 words some are shorter, just reaching 1,000 words and other pieces that just reach 500 words. A list form piece, “10 Rules to Remember Before Stepping on a Scale,” is as long as some of the shorter personal narratives, reaching 1,500 words. http://www.swback.com/issues/016/Before-Stepping-on-the-Scale.html.

Switchback is a good venue for writers that express and enjoy writing about personal issues that individuals face regularly. Also, if you enjoy writing about memories and flashbacks, this is a good place to start. Switchback does not accept work with your name on it; they like to read the pieces submitted without knowing who the writer actually is. I would say that this is an effective venue for emerging writers, but many of the contributors to Switchback are writers with their MFA, many have other pieces of work already published. There are some contributors who are not writers, so I guess it just depends on the quality of the writing! If you have a personal story or memory that you think could be felt from other readers and leave them “thinking,” Switchback could be your venue.

Interested in submitting:

Switchback is a biannual journal, open for submissions four months at a time. Switchback is a venue that accepts fiction, nonfiction, poetry, art, and literally reviews. Their next issue will be published on May 1, 2014. If you would like to be considered for their fall issue, submissions are due no later than February 28, 2014. Switchback does not pay their contributors, but for the next issue, an Editor's Prize will be awarded in the amount of $200.00 to the submission they find the “most inspiring, jarring, outstanding, or just downright brilliant.”Additional prizes in the amounts of $75.00 and $50.00 will be awarded to the first two runners up.  There is no fee to submit your work. Switchback accepts simultaneous submissions, but they ask you to notify them if your work is accepted anywhere else. Switchback only considers unpublished works, and they only accept submissions through "Submittable." https://switchback.submittable.com/submit. Switchback also asks for all submissions to be sent in anonymously. http://www.swback.com/call/

Too Young to Kiss

The DJ booth separates the room, boys on one side and girls on the other like usual. Boys and girls should be separated; we do not have the mature personalities to converse with the opposite gender yet. The boys were to the left, some on their new camera phones, exploring the new world of photos through their mobile device; some bobbing their bodies to the beat of The Black Eyed Peas newest hit, “Roses.”  The girls are to the right, some whispering in one another’s ear with their hands over their mouths, telling secrets and starting drama with the group of girls next to them. The rest of the girls dancing, showing off their dance routine they are working on for their recital coming up in May. Meanwhile, I am thinking about all of the excuses I could use to leave this shindig. I knew I should not have came, why did I listen to my friends?

I tried avoiding my friends for most of the night, but sooner or later they found me.

“Kristen! Dan is looking all over for you, stop being a baby and go dance with your boyfriend!”

My heart dropped to the pit of my stomach and I began to taste my pasta and meatballs Mom had made for dinner. I was going to be sick. As I snapped myself out of my prude funk, my “friends” dragged poor Dan over to me.

“Uhm DJ can you please put on a slow song?!”

Bitches. Could they be any more forceful? Dan approached me, our feet met, and eyes locked. My hands reached over his shoulders as his wrapped around my waste. I stare through the dark tunnel in his mouth caused from the huge gap between his two front teeth. We did not say a word to one another, but I knew he was not ready for this either. I know it sounds stupid, but no one talks to their boyfriend or girlfriend in the sixth grade, it is just cool to say you have one. But right now, it didn't feel so cool; it felt like a stomach virus.

The last verse to Christina Aguilera’s “Come on over,” song was on, and my palms began to sweat. I felt my friends staring at me, waiting for it to happen. Dan closed his eyes, and counted to three quietly to himself (little did he know I had extremely sensitive hearing). Before I knew it, his sweaty wet, emotionless lips were latched onto mine, it was a nightmare. Forgetting to close my eyes, I watched my entire sixth grade class point towards our direction.

Britney Spears began to echo the room and Dan jolted form me before I could blink. I turn to my friends, watching them giggle. “Okay, so now it’s your turn, I will go find your boyfriends.” I said to my friends, thinking that is exactly what they wanted since they made me do it first. Before they could answer, the lights turned on and the music ended, it was time to go home. I stepped into my Mom’s Toyota truck, feeling guilty and sick to my stomach. Looking over to her right, my mom asked me how my night was. Over supplying my lips with Chap Stick I responded, “I will never let my friends boss me around again.” 

Brainstorming for short essay #2

I really had trouble with possible ideas for my second short essay. Here are a list of topics I could possibly work with:

 

1.      The first time I got stitches due to riding my oversized bike with no hands.

2.      My first kiss (and how horrible of an experience it was)

3.      Moving my sister into college

4.      The time I fell in front of a full restaurant while waitressing.

I think depending on what route I want to take, funny, embarrassing, or emotional, is where my choice in topic lies on. I could write about all four of the topics given, I am just not sure where to start from here. I think if I write a few words just listing emotions I felt during the four listed topics will help me choose which one I would like to write about.

 

1.      The first time I got stitched due to riding my oversized bike with no hands

a.       Defeated

b.      Petrified

c.       Angry

d.      Embarrassed

e.       Aching

2.      My first kiss

a.       Nervous

b.      Scared

c.       Nauseous

d.      Disgusted

e.       Disappointed

f.       Shameful

g.      Sinful

3.      Moving my sister into college

a.       Joyful

b.      Worried

c.       Reminiscing

d.      Shock

e.       Overwhelmed

4.      The time I fell in front of a full restaurant while waitressing

a.       Livid

b.      Embarrassed

c.       Upset

Two Different Worlds

On the outside looking in, everything seems to be fine; maybe Sandy did not have a chance to stop here. The house is still in place, grey, with a black front door, and a thick brick path leading to the back entrance. The back entrance is what we have used since I was a child; along with the outdoor dinner table and outdoor shower; we always managed to spend most of our time outside.

Using the right side of my hip to bust through the hunter green door, a sense of shock and reality hits me like an eighteen wheeler truck. It’s me, my mother, my father, and little sister, surrounded by pillars, pillars, three feet of water and more pillars. It seems that these pillars were the only thing keeping this house in place, but I could not wrap my head around it with the smell of mold that was traveling through my nose and into my brain; I found myself losing brain cells by the millisecond. However, the pillars felt weak, there was much more keeping this house standing than meaningless pieces of wood.

I watched my mother’s pupils dilate, they were creating such active commotion that I could see her childhood and greatest memories flash before her eyes. Running her hands through her short, jet black hair to collect herself, she grabbed everything she could rescue; pictures of the family, of my sister and I, of gram. She managed to grab the few decorations that had survived the storm, and a few throw pillows just to hold for a sense of hope on our ride home. She also stumbled upon the one book that did not have one scratch or tear at all, Ortley Beach. I never read the book growing up, I had always thought it was used for show; my mother has a tendency to use functional objects as decorations. The way she held the book so tightly against her chest, left me with the impression that she would no longer be using it as a typical embellishment.

“Come on girls, time to go back home,” my parents said to my sister and I as we inhaled and exhaled slowly, taking photos in our head every time our eyelids blinked. As my parents left the temperature dropped lower and the pillars suddenly appeared weaker.

 I look down at the fifty year old kitchen tile; I take a mental picture of the brown stain that has been a mystery since summer 2004. I snap another one of the day bed, located across from the oven in the kitchen. I see four of us cousins squeezing into the double bed just to have a place to sit in this four room memory. My last picture is of the wooden picnic table in the breeze way, the long, cheery brown table that seated twenty of us at a time, and still managed to hold endless pounds of pasta and family arguments. I inhaled for a few solid seconds more, trying to plant the smell of the kitchen in my head forever.

I lean against a pillar, as my sister exits the house, a piece of the roof tears off and sinks into the water beneath me. I suddenly began wishing to myself that I had just stayed outside where the only thing missing were my beach chairs and annoying cousins. This was it, for all I know these pillars could collapse any second and the remainder of this house could be brushed away into the back of a disposal truck, gone just like that; kind of like magic.

Before leaving, I stand in the breezeway, my favorite room of the house; I look outside through the windows, starring at my parents in their white Toyota Rav 4 truck. I imagine myself each summer in the opposite position, I see myself waiting in the back of my parents car as they took their time to get ready, I was always so anxious to leave, but not today. From the inside looking out, it was an entirely new world; a world in which sacrifice, emotions, and memories are going to come into effect.  

Slowly, I got into the truck and we drove away, away from what used to be. This was definitely going to be a bumpy ride; a ride headed into the direction of something that has yet to come. I closed my eyes for the ride, making sure I didn’t look back.

 

If The Shoe Doesn’t Fit, Don’t Wear it.

“You don’t know shit girl, you’re just a dumbass sorority chic who has no priorities in life but partying and drinking.” That’s me he’s referring to, the dumbass sorority chic. I stare angrily at him, judging the large, obnoxious football player in front of me. I should have never started discussing overall grade point averages. I shot a comment at him about being a stupid jock, not thinking twice about it. I made my way towards the exit as soon as I was referred to as a “dumbass sorority chic,” quite frankly; I am a hell of a lot more than that.

As I enter the Greek Lounge at approximately 8:00 P.M, my usual routine on Wednesday nights, I stress about the things I have listed on my agenda. 8:00-10:00 P.M every Wednesday night; I guess you could say it’s a part of my life. I stare at the fifty three empty chairs that take up the entire lounge; they wait patiently for the rest of my sisters to arrive. I wait with the chairs, wishing I was elsewhere. I would never admit that, of course. These meetings are a ritual, sacred to our beliefs and a staple that defines who we are today. Theta Phi Alpha, which is a national sorority here at Kean University. National meaning, across the country; there are Theta Phi Alpha’s across the United States; it is kind of fascinating when you think about it.  As the clock ticks and the executive board discuss finances, future rules, suspensions, and proper badge attire, I notice my finger latch onto my pen, doodling its way into its very own dream.

Engaged in my favorite movie, my eyes were a magnet to the girl’s shirt on my television. “Where can I get that shirt?” I asked my cousin Gia. “Those are Greek letters stupid.” Gia said to me as I pictured myself in those same exact letters that the girl from House Bunny was wearing. I asked her what Greek letters meant, why Greek? Why not Spanish letters or Italian? “Greek letters represent the sorority girls are in, you don’t want to be in one of those, there a bunch of dumb sluts who pay for their friends.” I ignored her. How would she know anyway? I mean, she is only fifteen years old, exactly one year and twenty eight days older than me. She is only a sophomore in high school, how would she know what college sorority life was like?

Each member in my sorority strolled through the door with their closest friends, sitting in the empty seats that have been waiting for them since 8:00 P.M. Finally, the meeting began. As each sister went through her agenda, I noticed and felt the rash on my finger begin to act up again. The doctor said this should only happen when I start to feel a wave of stress. I am always stressed, so what does that matter? “October 19^th is Homecoming, so be there at 7:30 A.M to help set up our table and practice our song; judges will be at our table by 11: 00 A.M.” Lauren, the head of our homecoming events, said sternly, making it clear that it was crucial we were there on time. “October 20^th we need to be at the Autism Walk at 11:00 A.M for registration, and October 26^th is the Lymphoma Walk in Morristown at 5:00 P.M, and October 27^th is the Breast Cancer walk at 10:00 A.M in Edison,” our philanthropy chair reiterated. Philanthropy is a specific charity one chooses to donate to, in our case, we enjoy group walks. As I wrote all of my upcoming events down in my agenda I noticed the tip of my fingers losing their firm grip. We have not even gone through half of everyone’s positions, am I going to have time to breathe this week? My brain joined my pen, and began to lose focus.

“I got accepted for a Bid into Θ ΦA!” Brianna, my best friend said to me. Meanwhile, I’m away at Bloomsburg University in Pennsylvania, a lonely, eighteen year old, freshman, wishing I was at home with my best friend. But, what were those letters and symbols in that text message. I thought about House Bunny, and the hot, fluorescent pink letters on the girls’ shirts, but those weren’t it; maybe these were letters from another specific background, like secret code Asian letters or something. “Theta Phi Alpha is a sorority on campus, it is the best one and I am going to be a part of it!” Brianna explained further what she was joining, and I was wrong, it wasn’t a secret code for Asian letters, it was a sorority, Greek letters, the letters I had always wanted. I wanted to have fun and wear those letters. I didn’t know whether I was extremely happy for my best friend, or just jealous that I could not wear those shirts.

I glance over to my left and watch Brianna doze off. Poor girl, she works every day, takes eighteen credits, and still devotes all of her free time to this sorority. And one by one, each sister shoots out more dates for us to write in our agendas. Not even noticing that half of the girls are wearing the same letters; matching, representing what family line she falls under in our sorority. Meanwhile, I forgot to wear letters today, hopefully no one would notice. I mean, I am a senior, trying to graduate in May. My mind runs nonstop throughout the day, how could everyone expect me to attend all of these events, fundraise, receive dean’s list, and work thirty hours a week?

“Kris, if you are that unhappy at school, transfer home to Kean, and join my sorority, everyone will love you and you will never be happier.” Brianna said to me as I continuously cried to her about how homesick I was away at Bloomsburg. I thought about it that night and woke up feeling like I was on cloud nine. That is it. I am transferring home and joining that sorority, Theta Alpha something, whatever I didn’t care. I was going to wear those shirts, just like the girls in House Bunny. Yes, that was going to be me, living in a house and partying on frat row, just what I had always hoped for. Me and all of the letters I could possibly imagine.

As our meeting approaches the end, I look over at my little, Samm. “Littles,” in sorority terms is similar to a little sister through actual blood. But “Littles” in sorority terms are treated like our children. It’s complicated. Samm is a sophomore, without a position, living life to the fullest. She is having the best time of her life and has minimal distractions. She wears her letters proud and as often as possible. I would do anything to go back in time to her age.

Finally, I was accepted into my sorority. The only thing I was concerned about were those letters on that shirt I saw in House Bunny. I wanted my OWN letters, and that was final. I made sure that was my first completed task after finally being accepted in.  Hundreds, and probably thousands of dollars later, I had enough letters to wear once, every day of the month. I was told I had the most letters of any girl in the entire sorority. That’s me, “Krissy-Girl,” the one with the most letters, and usually the silliest sister in the bunch. What else mattered?

Collecting myself together at the end of my meeting, I stop and laugh at my attention span during the last two hours. I am a senior, and one of the top six leaders on the executive board of my sorority. Things are not as easy as the girl in House Bunny said they would be. Although, she never really said much, she just bounced around with her blonde hair, looking pretty as she did kegs stands in her hot pink florescent Greek letters, what a joke.

A dumbass sorority chick that has no priorities in life. Damn. Is that what people see? Don’t they know what we do throughout the week? Months? Years? I paused as reality hit me like an eighteen wheeler as I left the football house. Letters. That’s all I cared about at first, which is all I saw. How could I be mad at him for what he said? In reality, he saw more than I ever did before joining my sorority. However, what he said was not true, and extremely rude. How would he know the truth of something he was not a part of? I walked away from my friends; I needed a moment to collect myself.

Right before Ashley concludes the meeting; my mind takes a snap shot of what is in front of me. Me, the recruitment chair, next to the President, Vice- President, Treasurer, Secretary, and New Member Educator; sitting at the head of the meeting. Fifty three girls down the rows, wrapped around the room, all valuable, unique members.  There are some blondes, brunettes, blacks, whites, Spanish, Asian; a bunch of puzzle piece that create one big picture. A sorority, filled with different voices, opinions, and ideas; all formed together as one, trying to make a difference and be the best we possibly can be. How could anyone stereo type a sorority? I look down at my phone and see four text messages from my boyfriend. I don’t know how many times I have to tell him I cannot text during my meetings. But what does he know about sorority meetings, his baseball meetings can’t possibly be half as serious as this.

“Are you sure I can have these?” My little says to me as I hand her a pile of my old letters.

“Yeah, I don’t need those anymore I have too many and I barely wear them.”

Without putting up an argument, she grabbed a shirt stuffed in the back of my closet, “Can I have these?” She asked as she began to stuff my hot pink florescent letters into her bag.

“Uh… no, not those,” I responded while slowly pulling my letters away from her, picturing the girl in House Bunny. There are some things that I cannot let go of.

I gathered my belongings and began the dreadful walk to my car, which was parked in the farthest lot possible.  I think to myself and try to summarize everything that just went on during that meeting: philanthropies’, fundraisers, sisterhood events, so many things to do, but valuable and productive enough to dedicate my time to. I may dread things at times, but who doesn’t dread things that make up who you are, like school and work; everything holds a special purpose.  Assembling my thoughts, I picture that football player, the one that knows nothings about Greek life because he is not a part of it. How dare he say that about me, about my sorority, about my sisters? He doesn’t know what being part of a sorority means at all. How could people like him make comments about sororities when they don’t even know half of what really goes on anyway. After all, he’s just a stupid jock who only cares about himself and his own ego, right? Clearly, we will always be surrounded by stereotypes.

Short Essay Idea

When I think of a scene that I could condense into a short essay, one thought comes to mind. Exactly a year ago today, Hurricane Sandy took place, taking a major toll on individuals lives and their families; including my own. Although I was fortunate enough to still have my primary home in mint condition, something was taken away from me that I will never get back. I have previously written about my Great Grandmother, and how special she truly was to me. My entire life my family has been devoted members to Ortley Beach, a small town down at the Jersey Shore. The house may have been a total of four rooms, with one bathroom and an outdoor shower, but those rooms meant everything to my family and myself. My Great Grandmother owned the house, so when she passed away the house was passed down to her three daughters. Since my mother's mother passed away when she was only eighteen, my mother became an owner of our shore house. My mom's side is Italian and large, fitting over thirteen people in that house every weekend in the summer was standard. This house brought us together as a family; one would never know that my third cousin wasn't actually my sister, and my Aunt was actually my second cousin. This was what made us a family.

The day after Sandy hit, my mother informed my sister and I that our innocent little beach house had four feet of water in it, left with nothing but an empty house being held up by pillars. I was not sure what she meant. Was the house going to be fixed? How are three owners going to agree? What was going to happen to my family? I realized at that moment the reason behind Gram telling us to sell the shore house as soon as she passed away.  She knew that once she died, things would never be the same. Hurricane Sandy may not have stripped my family of our living conditions, but she sure took away something that we will never have again. Ever since last year, a piece is missing to my families puzzle; that piece being my shore house.

Always Read Your Letter before Your Mail It.

I sit at the top of the head of the table; me, recruitment chair, next to the President, Vice- President, Treasurer, Secretary, and New Member Educator. Fifty three girls down the rows, wrapped around the room, all valuable members.  There are some blondes, brunettes, black, whites, Spanish, Asian; just a pool of diversity. A sorority, filled with different voices, opinions, and ideas; all formed together as one, trying to make a difference be the best we possibly can be. How could anyone stereo type a sorority? There are so many positive characteristics involved in it. I began to doze off during my meeting.

I brought myself back to me, at age fourteen, trying to figure out what the large hot pink letters imprinted on the girls shirts in my favorite movie, House Bunny really meant. “Those are Greek letters stupid.” I remember my cousin Gia saying to me as I pictured myself in the same exact shirt. I asked her what Greek letters meant, why Greek? Why not Spanish letters or Italian? “Greek letters represent the sorority girls are in, you don’t want to be in one of those, there a bunch of dumb sluts who pay for their friends.” I ignored her. How would she know anyway? I mean, she was only fifteen at the time, exactly one year and twenty eight days older than me. She was only a sophomore in high school, how would she know what college sorority life was like?

As each member in my sorority went through her agenda, I noticed and felt the rash on my finger begin to act up again. The doctor said this should only happen when I start to feel a wave of stress. I am always stressed, so what does that matter. “October 19^th is Homecoming, so be there at 7:30 A.M to help set up our table and practice our song; judges will be at our table by 11: 00 A.M.” Lauren, the head of our homecoming events, said sternly, making it clear that it was crucial we were there on time. “October 20^th we need to be at the Autism Walk at 11:00 A.M for registration, and October 26^th is the Lymphoma Walk in Morristown at 5:00 P.M and October 27^th is the Breast Cancer walk at 10:00 A.M in Edison,” our philanthropy chair reiterated. Philanthropy is a specific charity one chooses to donate to, in our case, we enjoy group walks. As I wrote all of my upcoming events down in my agenda I noticed the tip of my fingers losing their firm grip. We have not even gone through half of everyone’s positions, am I going to have time to breathe this week?

“I got accepted for a Bid into Θ ΦA!” Brianna, my best friend said to me while I was away at Bloomsburg University in Pennsylvania, a lonely, eighteen year old, freshman, wishing I was at home with my best friend. But, what were those letters and symbols in that text message. I thought about House Bunny, and the hot pink letters on the girls’ shirts, but those weren’t it; maybe these were letters from another specific background, like secret code Asian letters or something. “Theta Phi Alpha is a sorority on campus, it is the best one and I am going to be a part of it!” Brianna explained further what she was joining, and I was wrong, it wasn’t secret code for Asian letters, it was a sorority, Greek letters, the letters I had always wanted. I wanted to have fun and wear those letters. I didn’t know whether I was extremely happy for my best friend, or just jealous that I could not wear those shirts.

One by one, each sister shoots out more dates for us to write in our agendas. Not even noticing that half of the girls are wearing the same letters; matching, representing what family line she falls under in our sorority. Meanwhile, I forgot to wear letters today, hopefully no one would notice. I mean, I am a senior, trying to graduate in May. My mind runs nonstop throughout the day, how could everyone expect me to attend all of these events, fundraise, receive dean’s list, and work thirty hours a week?

“Kris, if you are that unhappy at school, transfer home to Kean, and join my sorority, everyone will love you and you will never be happier.” Brianna said to me as I continuously cried to her about how homesick I was away at Bloomsburg. I thought about it that night and woke up feeling like I was on cloud nine. That is it. I am transferring home and joining that sorority, Theta Alpha something, whatever I didn’t care. I was going to wear those shirts, just like the girls in House Bunny. Yes, that was going to be me, living in a house and partying on frat row, just what I had always hoped for. Me and all of the letters I could possibly imagine.

As our meeting approaches the end, I look over at my little, Samm. “Littles,” in sorority terms is similar to a little sister through actual blood. But “Littles” in sorority terms are treated like our children. It’s complicated. Samm is a sophomore, without a position, living life to the fullest. She is having the best time of her life and has minimal distractions. She wears her letters proud and as often as possible.

As soon as I finally was accepted into my sorority the only thing I was concerned about were those letters on those shirts I saw in House Bunny. I wanted my OWN letters, and that was final. After spending hundreds and probably thousands of dollars on a new wardrobe, I officially had the most letters out of my entire sorority. I managed to top the record by the middle of my junior year. That was me, “Krissy-Girl,” the one with the most letters, and usually the silliest in the bunch. What else mattered?

I’m a senior now, one of the top six leaders in my sorority, worrying about the respect, financial stability and overall happiness of my sisters. I don’t even remember the last time I made letters. I do not have time for that, I am too busy with everything else on my plate.

“You don’t know shit girl, you’re just a dumbass sorority chic who has no priorities in life but partying and drinking.” This comment stuck with me like hot glue. It was a few days after Hurricane Sandy had hit, one of the only places around school with power was the local football house. Me, judging the large, obnoxious football player in front of me, started discussing overall grade point averages. For what reason, I could not tell you. I shot a comment at him about being a stupid jock, not thinking twice about it. I made my way towards the exit as soon as I was referred to as a “dumbass sorority chic,” quite frankly; I was a hell of a lot more than that.

I stare at Samm and see myself. I see myself two years ago, an innocent blonde sophomore. Not realizing the importance and differences around me. She is new to the sorority, but definitely knows more then I knew, or cared about at her age. I catch myself dozing off before the meeting is even over. All of this reminiscing on what I thought this was all about definitely took a toll on me.

I knew when I woke up the next morning, still angered from that stupid jock; that my perspective towards my sorority had changed. A dumbass sorority chick that has no priorities in life. Damn. Is that what people see? Don’t they know what we do throughout the week? Months? Years? I paused as reality hit me like an eighteen wheeler. Letters. That’s all I cared about, that is all I saw. How could I be mad at him for what he said? In reality, he saw more than I did. Although what he said was not true. How would he know the truth of something he was not a part of?

The meeting was finally brought to an end, and I was snapping out of my day dreams. I think to myself and try to summarize everything that just went on during that meeting: philanthropies’, fundraisers, sisterhood events, so many things to do, but valuable and productive enough to dedicate my time to.  Collecting my thoughts, I bring myself back to that night of hurricane Sandy. How dare he say that about me, about my sorority, about my sisters? He doesn’t know what being part of a sorority means at all. After all, he’s just a stupid jock who only cares about himself and his own ego, right?

Feelings/thoughts for second draft

1. You don’t know anything from the outside unless you are in

2. Sometimes the stereo types are true

3. It’s not all fun and games

4. Passion

5. Stress

6. Family

7. Symbolism

8. Responsibility

Scene- I sat uncomfortably at the football house I was dragged to one night during hurricane sandy. I mean, I didn’t have any power and the bar closed early, so my friends found us an alternative place to go, why not? Never getting along well with football players, I sat quietly on the couch. Quietly and calmly, that was until the big meat head stomped down the stairs. Trying to hold a knowledgeable question with him was painful, he didn’t have much to say. Well besides, “What’s with your attitude you blonde bitch, you think you’re so smart, you’re in a sorority, sorority girls are dumbasses.”  

After brainstorming in class, I realized a lot of my thoughts going through my head about my sorority. Wednesday night I always have my mandatory sorority meetings at 8 P.M so if my brain is asked to write down what it is truly thinking, everything will focus on my sorority. Since my first draft of our first assignment was rather depressing yet memorable, I decided I am going to lean towards the lighter, more humorous side, and focus on the life of a “sorority girl.” I mean, we are all the same aren’t we? That’s actually not true. The stereotypical sorority girl is rich, pays for her friends, snobby, and only cares about partying. I feel that in this draft I can really put my true feelings and emotions behind those stereo types. By doing that, I can also incorporate all sorts of stereo types; coming from a girl who is often stereotyped for my sorority and blonde hair, I know how it feels. Its an awful feeling to be looked down on, especially on something you work so hard and long for. There is a lot to know about the life of a sorority girl, and I feel that this draft is my chance to let everyone know.

Plans for Revising Draft One

 

After class last Wednesday, I was pretty confused as to why Dr. Chandler said we were all telling stories, not creative nonfiction stories. “What are you really saying?” Was the question I kept hearing; I didn’t know the answer. I thought my essay was written well and I was not sure how to change it. After meeting with Dr. Chandler, everything fell into place. I realized my essay about my Grandmother was definitely effective, but there was a message I needed to focus on and try to incorporate more of.  I realized that my main topic I was addressing in my draft was memory loss. What is memory loss? How could memory loss affect someone? After continuously asking myself about the loss of memory and trying to bring me back to my experiences with Gram, I realized something major. I was experiencing memory loss! I realized I could bring in more ideas of memory loss in life so that my readers could find a way to relate. For example, my memory about my grandma using Chex Mix in her chicken dinner, I tried to remember what happened after that. Did my mom say anything? Did we eat the dinner? I could not remember. At this point I realized that memory loss is not just a characteristic of Alzheimer’s, memory loss is a life experience that reoccurs over time. I realized that I had to bring real life into each section of my paper.  I am going to take out certain parts of my draft that make it more of a narrative, and add relatable situations that will allow it to fall under Creative Non-Fiction.          

These are the first four pages of my essay that covers a huge part of my life, my great grandmother.

If I Take Care of You, Will You Take Care of Me?

As I sit in the bathroom, I immediately picture Gram sitting on the ledge of the bathtub across from me fourteen years ago. For some reason, Gram felt that both my sister and I needed her moral support when making causal trips to the restroom. It is quite funny how that was where most of our catching up was. I would tell her about the girl in class who stole my pink scissors, and she would continue to tell me stories about her brother Vito, or her olive trees in Italy. She even let me sing to her. I always thought I was destined to become a future pop star; my voice echoing in the bathroom justified my dreams. Well, so did Gram, she loved when I sang to her, even if I was singing about my crust less PB&J sandwich I had for lunch that day. Everything that came out of my mouth was valuable to her.

Although Gram is my great-grandmother, no one ever knew the difference. Since my mother’s mom passed away when Mom was just eighteen, Gram took on the role of raising my mother, and helping my mother raise both my sisters and I. Gram lived with my family and I since the day I was born, even longer than that; I never knew what it was like to have a “teenager” as a babysitter. I didn’t care though, and neither did Karly, my baby sister. Since we always had someone home to take care of us, “play-dates” were always at our house. Both Karly and my friends formed a special bond with Gram. Whether they were forced to eat her home cooked meals or listen to her almost unbelievable stories about Italy, everyone always seemed interested in what Gram had to say. Gram did everything for us. Italian home cooked meals prepared at the same time every day, answers to my endless questions, and a shoulder to lean on. The only thing she ever asked us for was right before bed, which for her, was at 7:30 P.M.  Karly and I went into Gram’s room together every night, kissed her forehead, and handed her three grapes, green or purple, she didn’t care. The nights we would forget she would ask, “Mama belles, can you please bring me a couple grapes, my mouth is very, very dry.” We usually always remembered though, always three grapes, if we brought her two she thought we were being cheap. Those grapes at night was the only time Gram needed me, or anyone else.  I knew she was old, but she was Gram, Superwoman, unstoppable, four feet and eleven inches of full Italian blood…. just Gram.

 

After eight years, the occasional bathroom hang outs began to fade.  Gram was ninety three now, struggling with Alzheimer’s.  You know, she sometimes would forget things we had told her, or where she hid her money. Luckily, her inner Italian habits always lead her to finding her money under her mattress. Most of the time, her mind was basically there. She started moving slower, taking an extra forty five seconds to come up the back stairs. We didn’t use the front door; Gram taught us that “Back door guests are best.” Her voice weakened in volume, which was not necessarily a bad thing.  Having an Italian mother and great grandmother to talk over was always a struggle for me, now I stood a chance. Her eyes grew more tired as the days went on, along with her olive skin. Four feet nine inches now, she was still going strong. Homemade meals prepared three times a day, sometimes a repeat in meals throughout the week. Eggplant Parmesan on a Monday and Wednesday night, who can complain about that? The meals took longer though, I knew she needed my help. Although she never asked, I told her I wanted to learn for myself. Soon, I became Gram’s little assistant in the kitchen.

 

“Hello Richard!”Gram said to me as I walked in from basketball practice. Turning around seeing that Richard was directed towards me, Kristen, I knew Gram was beginning to feel her age. “Hi Gram.” I replied to her, finding it somewhat humorous that she called me Richard, and feeling too sad to embarrass her with my correction. Smelling another one of her meals, I opened the oven to see what Gram had made for that night. A large oven stuffer, chicken, peas, potatoes, and…. Chex Mix? I thought about it and knew that Chex Mix was never included in grams famous oven stuffer. Asking her the reason behind her new special ingredient did come across my mind, but I knew she didn’t know the answer to it; one of the first times I realized that she could not answer something I asked. The meals began to suffer, her soup’s salt was too high and her meat too bloody to consume. Not knowing any better, Gram went about her business, needing the occasional lift from the couch, or a hand to hold as she walked down the stairs.  Her three grapes at night turned into, three grapes, five pills, and some lotion for her dry skin. Nothing major though, she still was unstoppable to me.

 

                  When I came home from basketball a few weeks later, my mother was in the kitchen. “What are you doing,” I asked her, not realizing that it was obvious she was making dinner.

“Making dinner hun.” Mom replied to me as a look of sadness brushed her face. I knew my mom could cook, but Gram always cooked, it is what she looked forward to each day. Being her kitchen assistant, it was something I looked forward to as well. Mom cooking dinner became more common than usual, trying her best to live up to Gram’s meals. She did everything the same as Gram but… it just wasn’t the same. Gram sat off in the corner, being too old to maneuver a cheese grater. Grams body was there, but her mind wasn’t. I looked at her and saw frustration. Frustrated about herself, her condition she was in, and for the first time, not being able to fix something that was almost broken.

                 Occasionally, after I tucked her in at night, I didn’t go to my room. I slept on the other side of her bed, discussing whatever came out of her mouth. After each late night chat, we would say two prayers in Italian, and doze off into our own separate dreams. Except for one night, Gram turned over and looked at me. Tears clogged her hazel, tired eyes, “I am an old lady. I want to die.” Without saying anything, our hands intertwined and laced together like a pair of shoes, we both went to sleep.  I dug my face deep into her feather pillow; I could smell her more in her pillow than the person lying right next to me. The Gram I knew my entire life, the woman that raised me, was mentally gone.  I woke up that morning wishing I was still asleep. Those words felt like she wrote them in permanent marker around my broken heart. My superhero wanted to die; she did not want to continue conquering the world around her. And then there was me, a fifteen year old girl, sophomore in high school, trying to figure out who I really was. How could I do it without her?

 

            Weeks went by and my household became a free verse style poem. Every day, something new happened. One night Gram would be hallucinating, accusing people around her of things that never happened. The next morning, her feet would be too swollen to walk, from retaining too much water. Some afternoons her heart would be racing, causing her to find difficulty in breathing. Before I knew it, the members on the first aid squad knew my family and I on a first name basis, and their process of getting Gram onto the stretcher and into the back of the truck could have been timed and completed in less than three minutes. My walk home from the bus stop everyday was a suspense, I never knew whether or not an East Hanover First Aid Squad orange and white truck would be there to greet me or not.

Possible Essay Topics

1.      Moving my baby sister to college

2.      The first time I left for college

3.      The first time I tried alcohol

4.      Noticing someone hit my car

5.      Being in an abusive relationship

6.      Having to remind my grandmother who I was

 

1.      Last year, my sister was a senior in college, always there, always needing me. It never crossed my mind that before I knew it, she would be off to college, and things would never be the same. My feeling of denial was huge before she left. Weeks before the day came I felt off; I knew she was still home, but the thought of her leaving brought me to tears. The feeling I had when I moved her in, how I was proud, nervous, emotional, and excited.

 

2.      Sleepless nights before I actually moved away. The sob scenes of saying goodbye to my best friend. Saying goodbye to my parents. Feeling trapped in a small room. I would further go into my realization that living away at a college isn’t always for everyone.

 

3.      How guilty and inexperienced I felt the first time my lips touched vodka. My inexcusable actions. My naïve, immature, aspect on life, compared to how I am now.

 

 

4.      Walking out to my car realizing my neighbor crashed into it. Feeling defeated and distraught. The external injury of my car and its affect on me internally. Something I worked so hard for destroyed within seconds.

 

5.      Feeling trapped. Feeling like a puppy that had to beg for attention from her owner. Being young, naïve, and stupid.

 

6.      Having a woman who raised me wake up and forget who I was. Taking care of someone who took care of me at age 15. Continuously feeling like bad news was approaching every time the phone rang. Watching someone I loved suffer until she passed away.

 

All of these situations played/play a big part in my life, whether good or bad, little or big. With time and serious thinking, I could easily develop each one of these topics into pages worth of work. Every one of these scenarios means more to mean than just a written assignment, I could go on forever; which I feel is crucial in creative nonfiction!