Author Analysis/Emulation
March 19, 2009
Teenage Years
This is a piece written in the style of the narrator of The Scarlet Letter.
Kids rush through the halls, weaving in and out, not unlike the ants that scuttle underfoot or the bees that dance through the air from flower to flower. The classroom beckons to them with an invisible call, a tug on the heart that is not easily ignored. There are those that clutter the halls, clumping in tight groups that sit not unlike boulders in a stream, diverting the seemingly endless flow of students. Some students get trapped between a group and the stream and have to force their way through the crowd, while worrying whether the bell will ring on their way to class. More often than naught they are of small stature and mass; they are not difficult to push around. These are the ones that complain out loud about these boulders, the unmoving and immobile rocks, although not so loud as to induce a conflict, but a longing yet remains to simply strike their foes in their faces.
Teenage emotions are real and ever present in the halls, much of them produced by petty conflicts and pride which arise from teenage foolishness, and take physical form in insults, kisses, hand shakes, and compromises, all of which are documented by the many observers and gossipers that pry open their ears for whatever news they can get. Dominance asserted by upperclassmen takes shape in initiation rituals, which have no remorse or regard for the well-being of underclassmen. The cycle goes on as underclassmen become upperclassmen and take their revenge by initiating new underclassmen. Friends, the enjoyable people in our lives, sadly come and go as opinions flourish and clash with differing ones. Teachers hold the guiding lantern that shines its bright incandescence out over the sea, showing the students the way to enlightenment. Life in high school is often rushed but filled with intense experiences, some of which many remember for the rest of their lives. All of those who do come out of high school come to the same conclusion: teenage compulsions bring out both the best and the worst in everyone.
An emulation of Eudora Welty:
We were always playing in that class. There was never a dull day; we could play cards, make paper airplanes, run around the classroom, and mess around on the computers. Our teacher, Mrs. Mukjian, was the sweetest teacher you’ll ever meet. She had a sweet temperament, loved kids, and enjoyed our playfulness. We delighted her with our creativity and ability to have fun. Of course she got frustrated with us occasionally when we needed to learn how to add 10 to 5 or write complete sentences; we would sit at our desks with books open and listen to her for a few minutes, and then someone always made a distraction. Jared Ware, a tall black kid, had a tendency to belch loudly after lunch. After coming back to the classroom from lunch, we all knew the general time Jared would start his burps. It was every Friday afternoon because he brought sodas on that day. Mrs. Mukjian was in the middle of teaching us about verbs when Jared let out a mighty belch. “You all know what a noun is. Now a verb is an action word and…” “BURP!” We never did get through that verb lesson. I remember I had learned how to make perfect paper airplanes during second grade. The kids were fascinated by my paper manipulation skills and begged me to teach them. Soon after, every kid learned how to make a paper airplane and we had contests to see whose airplane flew the longest. Mrs. Mukjian simply smiled at our discoveries.
Mrs. Gately, our 3rd grade teacher, reminded me of a British matron. She had a tiny tolerance for misbehavior. We had cursive handwriting lessons every Wednesday; Mrs. Gately played a lesson tape that told us what to write in cursive. The voice on the tape was hilarious to us. The man sounded like he was going to die from boredom while reading his script. We burst out laughing after the first 10 minutes of listening to the tape. Mrs. Gately snapped at us to stop laughing and get back to work. I could feel the fear in all of us instantly shoot up. We learned our lesson that day to never get Mrs. Gately mad. Although she seemed to have no room for fun in her life, she did bring us cookies. She walked in with a tray of Christmas tree shaped sugar cookies one day. I looked around to my buddies in confusion and saw my classmates doing the same. It seemed our hard work during that certain week got to Mrs. Gately’s secret passion of baking. We enjoyed cookies every month from then on.
This is a character sketch in the style of Annie Dillard, author of the short story “Terwilliger Bunts One”.
We were playing with our massive collection of Legos one humid and sunny summer afternoon. I had built a giant warship that was armed to the teeth with rocket launchers, machine guns, and laser beams. My brother built his own jet fighter, and together, we fought the imaginary “bad guys” that were trying to take over our backyard. We called this game “Future Wars” and imagined ourselves as buff, fit, handsome, and intelligent Air Force officers that protected Earth from the “bad guys”. The “bad guys” were everywhere: in the woods, our backyard, down the street, and even in our house. Many of our afternoons were spent running around Rambo style shooting everything in sight and not getting shot ourselves. You could say we had unique imaginations. I decided to twist the plot in our story and pretended my ship was hit by a missile.
Quickly, I ran to Patrick’s Lego machine, ripped off one of his guns, and snapped it onto mine. I got back into our raging battle.
“Hey, what the heck!” cried Patrick. “Get your own!”
“No, we need to finish these guys off, they’re almost defeated,” I cried back. “If we beat them here, we’ll halt them for a while.”
“NO, that’s mine!” he yelled.
He ran over to me and snatched his gun back.
Two days ago, we were eating a large Abo’s pepperoni pizza. The Nuggets were on, so we were glued to the TV. After a couple of slices I was parched. I grabbed my brother’s water cup and gulped down half of it. Immediatly, he raised his hands in anger and yelled, “Get your own, what the heck!”
I laughed and kept eating the pizza.
My brother likes to keep possessions to their owners no matter what the possessions are. Even something as little as a sock is considered “his”. If I get on his computer, he quickly boots me off. If I use his calculator, he snatches it away. If I put on his good basketball shoes, he complains and makes me wear the older ones.
“Come on, just get your own dang cup.” “It’s right there in the cabinet, it’s not that hard.”
“No, I can just use yours and we’ll save water by washing only one cup.”
“No, go get your own, this is mine.”
He can share sometimes. I think if he’s in either a tired or laid back mood then he’ll share all of his things. But when he is stressed out, he is one nasty brother. I try to just blend into his surroundings so that he won’t blow up on me. However, we never actually do “blow up”. I just try to be mindful of him when he’s stressed and give him space.
“Why are you wearing my hoodie?”
“I don’t know, I feel like it.”
I was wearing one of his favorite hoodies that he wears all the time. Things like this irk him.
“Take it off!”
“No, I want to wear it.”
“Fine.”
Most of the time, I end up getting what I want because he usually just makes a complaint. It’s funny how I am talking about his selfishness when I am just as selfish, albeit not as much as him. I complain about Patrick stealing a bite of my food a lot. Sometimes, I make a nice, hot, steaming bowl of ramen and he comes in armed with chopsticks and steals a big bite. It bothers me because I put in the work to make the food and he didn’t. I’m sure my brother thinks the same thing when I steal his food, but hey, I’m the older brother. I can take whatever I want from him. Force and power are very convincing.
