Response to Articles Part 2

Journal I Hate You:
--I think it's interesting to hear someone confess to being obsessed with recording life in the form of journaling. The fear of waking up and realizing half your life is gone is way too real. As someone who believes 2010 was only a few years ago, I always become a little flustered when I realize that year passed six whole years ago.  I don't think it's a bad "problem" to have.


Navajo and Native American Identity:
--The author made an interesting point when explaining the importance of having Navajo scholars tell the history of the Navajo people. The Dine language is important to the culture and the elderly are worried about the lack of fluency of dine among the youth. Language is a huge part of any culture. The language a person speaks makes up who they are.

Response to Articles

I've been that person to get offended when sharing work in a writer's workshop. Hopefully it's never been obvious. As a writer it's natural to take critiques personally especially since we're usually attached to our work. It's hard to write for an audience at times. As I'm writing, some things make sense in my head, but as it's being reviewed in class I realize I haven't properly explained something that I thought was obvious. I found the article very relatable. I agreed with almost all of it. Good art should make you feel something. 

Responses to essay part 2

Conor: I appreciate how personal this essay is. The personal touch helped me understand the main points you made. I also really like the quote "journaling allows you to dialogue with the parts of your psyche that are frozen in time." You also mention release, the release of emotion/anxiety/depression which is what you say writing is for you.

Tilden: You explored the truth of personal essay in your own essay. I think it's very interesting when writers try to write from memory. Bringing up the idea of writers knowingly making up information to fill in the forgotten spaces. I never knew about the David Sedaris controversy. I personally feel that it is okay to embellish when it comes to personal essay as long as the writer stays true to their point.

Kelsey: I've read a lot about writing as a healing mechanism. It makes sense that writing which has a lot to do with control could be soothing for someone experiencing OCD. When writers craft they choose what to include. It's empowering. 

Response to Essays

Jeremy: I've never played a sport, but I can imagine the pressure. Honestly, I've never been a fan of group projects or group work. I can imagine a person on a team constantly comparing themselves to their teammates. I imagine the frustration. I must have been in the 2nd grade when I broke down because I couldn't sketch SpongeBob right. I was trying my very best, everyone seemed to to get it but my hands weren't doing what I wanted them to do. It was beyond frustrating so I broke down crying. Ms. Susman, the art teacher looked mortified.
It's very interesting that we don't teach about emotion. I think it's important that we address it. When I was younger I thought growing up meant growing out of feeling things. As we get older I think we are taught to repress our emotions, which is a shame.

Diego: The each/student relationship is a very interesting one. I've been blessed to have many good teachers in my academic career. Your essay reminds me of my sixth grade teacher Mr. Boyle. He thought I was smart and was always telling my classmates they should be more like me and read during their free time. It was embarrassing and flattering. I'm not sure how it started, but one day i walked him to his car. It became a routine of ours. After school, I would would go pick up my little sister. his car was parked right next to the playground where she would be waiting. So it made sense. I would ask Mr. Boyle a question and he'd go on and on; he really liked the sound of his own voice. I liked that he seemed to be treating me like an equal. Well I guess someone noticed because one day another teacher intercepted my path as I was walking to Mr.Boyle. They walked off together. I got the hint, the walks had to stop

Cindy: You say writing is a medium. I agree, I'm a bit sick of this subject. I like to think of writing as a kind of magic, and like all tricks it's ruined when you analyze too deeply and pick it apart. Writing is soothing, so it makes sense that it would function as therapy for some. I think a more inserting study would be why some people take to writing and why some people don't. What I've noticed is that those who enjoy reading usually are the writers. It's interesting.

Gaby: You're essay was really interesting. Life is interesting I guess. There's a lot of things that shape who we are as people. By things, I mean experiences. I especially how you explained what writing had to do with religion, death, puberty and other rites of passage. I love to read because at the end of a novel I sometimes feel as I have a better understanding of the world and people in general, which is a pretty amazing thing.

Morgan:It's natural to care about yourself and what has happened to you, It makes sense that when people are asked to write they pen a little something about their lives. it's interesting though, the need to release the bad that's happened. how we come we don' feel the need to write about happy things? the happiest days of our lives? 

Essay

Lashanda Anakwah

Writing is a Tool

Ever since I first learned to write my name in kindergarten, I’ve been enamored with the act. I still remember my surprise in being able to capture my name down on paper. I felt cemented; and that, I’ve always thought, was the moment I became a writer.

Writing is a technology. It’s seems a bit odd to think of it that way. The act of writing is now second nature to those who live in literate societies but it was very new once upon a time. Plato, the famous Greek philosopher thought writing would create forgetfulness, he feared people would no longer rely on memorization, turning their brains to mush. In his work he expresses his distrust, “writing is simply a thing, something to be manipulated, something inhuman, artificial, a manufactured product.”  Writing has in fact, done the opposite. Humans have created a technology that changes the workings of the mind. Walter Ong explains this phenomenon in his piece, Writing is a Technology that reconstructs thought.

If functionally literate persons are asked to think of the word 'nevertheless', they will all have present in imagination the letters of the word-vaguely perhaps, but unavoidably-in handwriting or typescript or print. If they are asked to think of the word 'nevertheless' for two minutes, 120 seconds, without ever allowing any letters at all to enter their imaginations, they cannot comply. A person from a completely oral background of course has no such problem. He or she will think only of the real word, a sequence of sounds, 'ne-ver-the-less'. For the real word 'nevertheless', the sounded word, cannot ever be present all at once, as written words deceptively seem to be.

Writing overcomes the passage of time, a privilege  oral societies don't have. The quote above explains how writing captures a word and takes it of time. The syllables are captured on paper and don't disappear when the next letter is sounded out. I do not jot down notes without first marking the page with my name. Once my name is written I feel as if I can then write anything. In fact, there is nothing that calms me down more than writing my name continuously. My middle school notebooks have pages upon pages of my name written over and over again.  There have been many studies that have shown writing as an effective stress releaser. Dr. Pennebaker conducted a study where 46 healthy college students wrote about traumatic life events for fifteen minutes on four consecutive days. Those students reported a decrease in their intake of pain relievers. Writing my name takes me back to my first accomplishment. It reminds me that I am here in the world, that I exist. The familiar motion is also calming. A study conducted by researchers at the University of Chicago found that students with high test anxiety did better on test when they were given a couple minutes to briefly write about their thoughts before their tests.

            Writing does what speech can’t. The process of writing includes thinking, analyzing, and processing. It happens all at once. When something traumatic occurs people usually find it extremely difficult to express in words how the event made them feel. When people write it leads to discovery. ‘We write to figure things out. We write to discover what we know. We write to uncover what we don’t know.” In Tilly Warnock’s piece Language and Literature as Equipment for Living, Warnock theories that language and literature are tools that help people take on life. She studies different writers and analyzes how they use writing to cope.

In general, what I advocate is a rhetorical approach to writing and living that provides "strategies for coping" and "equipment for living." We live in a world that is filled with doubt and uncertainty. Our languages, identities, relationships, and values are in flux; we must read situations critically and choose among possible actions if we are to identify with and persuade others. Our readings of the world and our choices about writing are social and ethical actions with far-reaching consequences. While we cannot act freely, for we act within the constraints of others and of situations, we can learn to act wisely, so that we use language to get along, and stay alive.

   Language is a survival mechanism. It is only natural that humans have expanded it's use by developing ways to further improve it's usefulness. When we memorize a poem that we love it is because we want to carry it with us wherever we may go. And now we can carry books that have thousands upon thousands of pages in our mobile phones. Humans are continuously expanding language because it is essential.

 Works Cited

Ong, Walter J. "Writing Is a Technology That Restructures Thought." Typological Studies in Language The Linguistics of Literacy (1992): 293. Web

Essay on Emotion

                                  The Hill

        Haide is throwing little pieces of paper at me. It’s lunchtime and I’m starved. My little Styrofoam plate is almost empty; the food, questionable lasagna, isn’t particularly good but I want more of it. The cafeteria is at a low rumble; it isn’t chaotic but it’s far from quite. The lunch aides are walking around, looking for something, I’m not sure what. Today is just like every other school day; it probably wouldn’t be memorable if Haide weren’t throwing pieces of paper on me. Every day of seventh grade has started to blur together. I’m sitting with Bridgette, one of my only friends; she notices the tissue throwing. “Ummmm”, Bridgette likes to start every sentence with a long drawn out um, a habit I’m starting to pick up to the dismay of my parents. “Why is Haide throwing paper at you?” I shrug. I was hoping the little white particles that kept flying my way were a coincidence but Bridgette sees it too so there is no denying it.

       “There’s a garbage can right next to you,” I say to Haide. I turn to look at Bridgette; I can’t believe I just said something so witty and brave.
“I am throwing it at the garbage.” Haide does a little giggle when she says this and turns and looks at the group of girls she’s sitting with. Her facial expression says it all. She is not used to this type of behavior; it is new and exciting for her. I am mortified; my face is hot and I don’t know where to look, how to breathe, embarrassment is like a slow death for me. Did she just call me garbage? I want to 2 2 ask this question out loud but I don’t want to speak the hurt into existence. Keeping it to myself will prevent it from being real.
        I don’t remember having any problems with Haide but lately she’s been craving popularity so bad I can see it in her eyes. I know Haide as the girl who is obsessed with the Jonas Brothers; her style can best be described as a cross between gothic and girly. Her eyes are always lined with black eye shadow, her lashes coated to the extreme with mascara, yet she never fails to wear her bright pink bow. With the constant, non-stop attention she gives Kiana and the rest of them, it’s a wonder she can’t see it. If she were going to be part of their group she would already be in it. Kiana and the rest of the girls have family ties, live around the same block and think the same way. They are four peas in a pod. There is something about them that has always unnerved me. They seemed determined to not be innocent. Haide can’t be in their group with her high-pitched laughter and agreeable disposition. I feel a mixture of rage and sympathy towards her. She’s been laughing at all their jokes lately and all their jokes are at the expense of other people.
       School seems to go on forever. I notice Haide making a great attempt not to look at me. We are split into groups to discuss a reading in social studies. The tables are made of a cheap looking wood; the teacher’s desk is some kind of metal. The chalkboard is a dark green, and the walls are a yellow tinted cream color. The lighting is a bit dim. The teacher Mr.Boyle is always red, as if he were blushing all over his body constantly. Kiana and the rest of them are huddled up and talking— definitely not about the reading. Every ten seconds or so, one of them looks up and eyes me. They are making plans that include me and at that moment I hate them; they are deciding things that have to do with me without my consent. They have all the power, and there is no explanation as to why, it is just that way. It’s 7th grade.
      While the teacher’s back is turned, Kiana walks up to me. I look up at her, expecting the worse. She doesn’t even know how to talk to me. She attempts a smile. “So um, if Haide wanted to fight you, would you fight her?” “Yeah.” I say it quick and confidently, the opposite of what I’m feeling. Kiana practically squeals and runs back to her table. Bridgette laughs, “Are you really going to fight Haide?” I explain that it probably won’t happen. Kiana and the rest of them are just bored. But by the end of the day the seventh grade is simmering with rumors of a fight after school. I’m getting excited myself. This is the most I’ve been talked about in all my years of school but I know, I’m absolutely sure, it won’t happen. I kind of feel bad for getting everyone’s hopes up. Bridgette is amazed by my calm; she keeps breaking out into fits of laughter and I laugh along. She is more nervous than I am. She starts giving me fighting tips. I pretend to listen. In no time, I’ll be on my way to pickup my little sister. Maybe we’ll go to the park and swing for a while. The bell rings, the sound that never fails to make me happy even though there’s not much happening at home.
       School is over and they’ve seized me. Kiana and some other girl are pulling on my arms, moving me forward. “I have to go pick up my sister,” I tell them in a small voice. They reassure me that she’ll be fine. They’re holding onto me tight, afraid I’ll flee. Kiana and the others have arranged all the details for the fight like professionals. I look around hoping an adult will notice what is taking place. They’re pulling me across the street. It’s a nice day, the sky is so blue. I want nothing more than to be on a swing, flying with the sun on my face. Won’t somebody help me? I’m scared. Fighting is wrong, fighting is wrong. I know that. Why don’t they? I cannot imagine that Haide wants to fight, but knowing Kiana, she’s whispered sweet promises of popularity in Haide’s ear. She’s convinced Haide it’ll be an easy fight. I can hear her in my head, It’s Lashanda, come on. There is no saying no to Kiana; I can’t even fathom the idea.
      There is already a sizable crowd gathered at the little space between the buildings on the hill right across from the school. I’m looking around nervously; Haide is in the corner, waiting. She doesn’t look at me. We stand there, unsure of what to do, like actors who have forgotten their lines. We both know the significance of this fight. Someone is shouting at us to fight. I drop my book bag on the pavement. Someone cheers. “Yo, Lashanda’s a G. did you see the way she dropped her bag?” Kiana shouts at Haide to hit me. She comes towards me and I’m suddenly very angry. I’ve been angry for a very long time. I’m pushing Haide into the brick wall suddenly, beating on her face. I’m trying to push her into the street. I’m trying to kill her. At the moment she represents all the times I wanted to do or say something but didn’t because I am a good kid. I was taught not to say mean things but I am stuck in a world where people do. People break rules and are praised for it. Kiana is the meanest girl I know, and the most popular. It’s as if my parents raised me to be a loser.
      Haide is rolling around on the floor, completely curled up in herself. The kids in the crowd are bloodthirsty. They cheer and clap, instruct me on where to hit. “Get her face!” “Beat her down!” Everyone wants a good view. I see my friend out the corner of my eye, Bridgette. She is cheering me on. She is ecstatic, ecstatic that I am fighting. Everyone is really happy, even though what I am doing is wrong. I must be winning. The crowd seems really far away. The sky is still so very blue.
       An adult is heading up the hill; the crowd disperses. Kids scatter every which way. I run up the hill to pick up my sister. I feel exhilarated. It feels so good to be bad; I had really been missing out. Haide should have known better then to mess with me, she got what she deserved. The day is so nice but there is no time for the park now. I need to hurry up and get home. An influx of thoughts overcomes me. Everyone will think of me differently now. Maybe Kiana and the rest of them will treat me with some respect. I have broken out of my mold and I don’t even know who I am anymore. I like it, the change. I’ve been the same boring me my whole life, the victim, and now I am the culprit. Oh my gosh—I’m cool.
       I’m walking faster now. I turn a corner and hear some one call my name. There’s no mistaking that voice, I think about running but there’s an adult calling me and I can’t make my legs move. I turn around. The figure calling me is tall and thin, with an impressive brown red goatee. He’s always reminded me of a cowboy. Right now he looks exactly like one. He gestures at me to come to him. It’s the dean and like the police, he has come way too late.

Chapter 12

I understood this chapter better than the others but I couldn't help but roll my eyes as I read. I don't know if it's the job of schools to teach people how to get in touch with their feelings. I also didn't understand the narrators anecdote in the beginning, he claimed the more academic he became the less in touch he was with his feelings. I feel that the more I'm forced to think about different subjects, the more in touch with my feelings I become. Whenever I learn about something, the first question I ask myself is how I feel about it.


I've been taught to keep family issues and personal problems to myself. When people talk about deeply personal information or family issues I can't help but think they're betraying their family and themselves. No one should know every single thing about you. I've said this in class and I still believe it.