Another AutoBio From Me

Sean Tucker
Professor Mary Boland
English 329
10 February 2009
Empty Words from a Dry Mouth
When I was about thirteen or fourteen years old, I was obligated to get up in front of the congregation of the church my parents made me attend every Sunday and read a sermon. I use the word obligated because this duty was a part of the youth group I belonged to at this particular church. My parents, who were always very active with various church activities, expected me to do this task, and me being fearful of what impositions they might place on me if I refused, accepted this assignment rather half-heartedly. I remember the pastor asking me if I would like to write the sermon or if I would like him to do it. I immediately said, “Could you do it?” I was scared to death. I didn’t want to do it. I felt I had to do it. For some reason, my parents thought I should participate as much as they did in church activities. Maybe my participation was their way of participating more than they already were. It was as if they were in some sort of competition with other members of the congregation: who can be holier than thou, who is closer with the pastor, and who is going to be the most visible and recognizable person in the church aside from the pastor. I am rolling my eyes and gritting my teeth in disgust as I write this.
I remember that day as the time approached for me to get up and speak in front of everyone clearly. As my parents gleamed with anticipation of their proud moment, I sunk low in the pew (the very front pew where they always made us sit) with my eyes drawn to the floor and feeling my throat, eyes, stomach, and cheeks cramp up at the same time. I had the sermon in the slot that held the hymnals and sundry church materials in front of me and turned around so the blank side of the pages faced me. I never read the entire sermon. I only glanced at it once after the pastor gave it to me the week before. It was scrawled with his thick, squashy handwriting with letters that were barely legible. I could not even remember the topic. I just figured I would get and read the stupid thing and be done with it.
When the time came, I felt my dad nudge me with his arm. I my eyes crept up from the floor and I clenched my left hand firmly on the pew in front of me and crumpled the sermon in my hand with my right as I rose up from the pew. I walked up to the pulpit looking straight at it without looking back at the eyes that I could feel poking the back of my neck. I arrived to my station, placed the sheets of paper on top of the pulpit, and tried to smooth them out without looking up. When I finally looked up, faced my (parents’) audience, and saw all of the heads pointed at me, my eyes dashed back down on the slightly rumpled paper before me. I squinted at the words, trying to make the first four or so out clearly in my mind before I spoke. My throat felt dry and cramped. My vision was blurred and I could feel a spot on the back of my neck that felt like someone was slowly pushing a hard, crooked, bony finger into it. When I opened my mouth and began reading the words on the first page, I was afraid I might vomit or that my voiced would crack. I just began reading, and reading, and reading, while the finger boring into my neck kept driving, and driving, and driving. As the pain got worse, I lifted my right hand to the back of my neck and tried to rub away the pain. I rubbed it off and on the entire time I read. I had no idea what I was reading, but I just kept on reading with the knowledge that the more words I read on the page, the sooner my pain would be over.
I don’t remember how it ended. I only remember feeling a release after I returned to my seat and didn’t have to ever read those words again—empty words that I didn’t write and that I didn’t want to speak. What I do remember is that after church we went to the area where all the members were allowed to drink coffee, have a donut, and socialize with one another. During this time, my friend Johnny’s dad came up to me to congratulate me on a fine job and also to point out that I mispronounced a word. The word was pupa and I said papaya. I had no idea what a pupa was or how to pronounce it. So in my state of vague confusion, I must have just said the word that closely resembled it. I remember Johnny’s dad laughing about how what I said made no sense and how funny it was. He also raised his hand to the back of his neck to mock me. I just said, “yeah,” not really know what else to say and I sulked away hating my parents for making me read those words so that they could feel proud.
Today, I still feel some resentment towards my parents for making me do that. I realize that fear is a part of public speaking, but I feel that they had me do this to make themselves feel and look better. I admit that I still do not enjoy this type of formal public speaking very much. I do enjoy just being myself and talking to others about issues that matter to me, but I still hate speaking at a pulpit while everyone remains hushed, seated, quiet, and with a look on their faces that indicates they are listening. I suppose that what I am trying to say here is that I enjoy dialogue and resent (fear) monologue. I want to know what others have to say at the moment, not afterwards while sipping coffee later and eating a donut.

comment on Auto. #3

Ooh so tough AJ :)I have nothing deep or potent to say....just that I can relate to not being the "in" crowd. I was a homeschool misfit and then was out of high school when I ws 16. I had dance to distinguish me from the others (kind of like your music) ....I danced in New York City with the Joffrey Ballet company and Ballet West co. in Salt Lake City. Just doing your own thing and having a skill that sets you apart, puts you in a position of respect...

auto. #4

Rosie Caldwell
Professor M. Boland
English 329
10 February 2009

Autobiography #5
Empowerment of Language

I was 17 or so when I went to Paris with my mother and grandmother. I was old enough to not get swept away by tall, dark and handsome Parisian men, but I was young enough to still be tempted. Paris really is the city of love. If you did not find romance around every corner, you found beauty. The architecture was absolutely breathtaking. The Eiffel Tower at night is something that will be embedded into my memories forever. Watching the lights race down the massive beams and scattered across the metal surface, I gazed with awe at the glittering structure. Everything around me seemed quiet and still. Like everything was focused on that one moment. I wrapped my arms around my shivers and remained speechless, standing beneath the massive Eiffel tower. I heard a voice in the distance, and it took me a while to figure out that it was addressed to me. When I brought my eyes down from the glittering show of lights I found myself looking at two handsome men. One of them was addressed me in French, and seemed excited. At that moment I really wished that I spoke French. Looking from under my lashes I gave him a soft “No Frances.” This brought a broad smile from the man who had been talking to me. With a thick French accent we pushed our way through a conversation. His name was Maurice and his friend was David. With his terrible English he asked who came with and where I was from. Then, with distinct clarity he said, “you are, how you say? A beautiful woman.” Oh, the way he enunciated ‘beautiful’… I can’t describe the feeling it gave me. After telling him I could not go for café with him that night, he looked up at the Eiffel Tower and moved in closer to me. The lights glistened across his grey eyes, and then he turned to face me. “Ah, gooobuuykizzz?” After a few ‘huh’s and gooodbuuykizzz’s’ I then understood what he was getting at. Without consent I felt arms surround me and I was dipped down like a romantic tango move. Nice cologne and a hint of cigarette smoke washed over my uncontrollable smile. His cheeks were rough as he placed a soft kiss on the corner of my mouth. Underneath the light of the Eiffel Tower I found myself wrapped up in the arms of a handsome stranger.
I felt empowered by my quiet “no Frances” and our simple conversation. We were two strangers with different languages still communicating and enjoying a night under the Eiffel Tower together. That night I knew what it was like to be encompassed by an experience, structured by a desire and genuine effort to communicate. I still remember that night, and since then I have taken a French class. But more importantly, I discovered that language does not need to be fluent, eloquent or witty to be effective. Moments can be shared through clouded communication and those moments are no less meaningful or memorable.

Rise

A.J. Pallante
Prof Boland
English 329
10 February 2009
Autobiographical Assignment #4
If it was not for music, I would have never made it through high school. For many reasons that are not relevant to this discussion, I was never a member of the “in” crowd. I spent the majority of those four years in the discipline office, as I literally fought my way through high school. During my time spent in exile, I met others who expressed a similar distaste for mainstream idiocy. We began hanging out, and soon realized that we all shared two main beliefs. We all loved hardcore music, and we all hated the sheep that constituted the “popular” circle. As previously stated, music has been my salvation for quite some time. With this drive, I taught myself how to play every instrument needed to make a band. Taking this to the next level, around tenth grade, me and my collective of miscreants decided to form a band.
Now, I am capable of playing drums, bass and guitar. This made me useful when writing music; however, my each of my friends only knew how to play one instrument. So, after it was decided that what they played was going to be their position in the band. I was left with nothing to play in a band that did not have a vocalist. Before this, I had no experience fronting a band. I would often scream along with my favorite songs when my house was empty, but never had I done this in front of people. When they asked me to do vocals for the band, I will never forget the feeling I got in my stomach. It was as if vertigo mixed with the incessant need to break things had overtaken me all at one. I was stoked. We began practicing, and I found that screaming was such a great way to release all the anger I had been keeping in. After about a week or two of practicing, we landed our first gig. We had the opportunity to play at our high school during lunch. The night before our first show, we decided on a band name. As a slap in the face to every student of the “popular” crew, we called ourselves Elite.
The night before the show, I did not sleep at all. I was so nervous that I began pacing around my house at two thirty in the morning. I did not even bother going to my first four classes, as it was impossible for me to sit still. Finally, the moment of truth had arrived. I can clearly remember the divide in front of the stage, on one side, the outcasts, on the other, the spoiled. It was only a matter of seconds into the first song before one of my other friends ran over to the popular group and began punching this dude in the face, and a fight broke out. Here is where this assignment prompt becomes evident. I could have easily stopped the chaos that was unleashed, as I had the microphone. But, I did not. I began commanding the crowd to fight harder. I will never forget what it felt like being able to take out my frustrations with people at my command. Needless to say, the campus police called in their backup to disperse the melee. I got called into the discipline office, which at this point was like my second home, and got suspended for three days, I believe. I had to meet with the principal once a week and serve Saturday school for the rest of the year, about six months.
But the day I came back, I soon saw that the punishment was well worth it. The comments and remarks made against my crew were replaced with nothing but silence and respect. The people that once made fun of us now began forming “hardcore” bands of their own. They were complete jokes, but it was interesting none the less to see them attempt to mimic what had happened with us, almost as if trying to somehow reclaim their popularity. They would play at lunch with only three people standing in front of the stage. This was over eight years ago, and I am now friends with many of these people that once mocked me, but there is definitely that unsaid understanding between us acknowledging what once was.

Response to Sean Tucker’s “Diagramming Confusion”

I think everyone can relate to the feeling of “looking around and seeing other students’ pencils writing busily” taking this to mean that everyone else had a certain “understanding of the assignment.” As a developing student, the notion of being the “odd man out” is one of the most discouraging feelings one can experience. Not only is it difficult to grasp new concepts, it is even more difficult to speak up and ask questions when it seems that everyone else is seemingly in the know. It is very important for the teacher to make sure the classroom is a “question-friendly environment.” For, if a student becomes too discouraged, staying in the dark too long, he or she will most likely give up, which is the opposite of what education is supposed to do.

My Brilliant Response to Rosie's "Ethnography and Composition"

I MUST take the time to reinforce how pleased I am that someone (and I have a feeling most) shares a recognition of just how detrimental college can be to an intelligent and intellectual mind. First of all, higher learning institutions are simply structural metaphors of control in our society. The simulacra of academia simply does not reflect 90% of real life. To take it back to the allegory of the cave, we go into the classroom (cave) and are taught (shadows on the wall) by a professor (mediator) who simply stands between the hungry mind and the subject matter, whether it be a book etc. We strive to become elites in our fields to add another zero to our paychecks, to comfortably rise over the “starving college kid” stigma financially, and begin raising a family. This family is in turn taught to “stay in school!” and become the most knowledgeable people they possibly can. What I fear the danger is in this cycle is that Colleges will become increasingly packed with students with professors looking to implant their biases into vulnerable minds to make a grade, rather than discussing possible catalyzations of human self-development toward being a free thinking individual. I find it increasingly difficult with each passing year/quarter/week to simply cooperate and graduate. Yet do not assume that I am implying weakness in the individual who embraces this standpoint, quite contrary, I recognize and appreciate the advanced state of self-awareness the individual must embrace and exemplify to break such mind numbing agents of social control, and finish the job with pure self-interest.

Walking Vowels

In the first grade, I had a teacher named Ms. Attaway (sounds farfetched, true nonetheless) and at the time I had already been reading at a relatively advanced level. I was having problems, though, associating words as I perceived them visually, and as I perceived them audibly, creating a disjunction where one word split into two distinct audio and visual forms. As I struggled with this, my mother and father sought to distinguish sounds of grouped vowels with me, telling me that when grouped vowels are used together, the first vowel in the group has the dominant, most pronounced sound. All this did was confuse me further . . .

The very next day (it seems) Ms. Attaway provided a visual demonstration of this concept. She had pictures of numerous things on the walls that were spelled with vowel grouping. There was a man under a net (for caught) beakers and test tubes for science, and a few others that escape my recollection. She asked us to spell them out in our journals. We did so silently.

After realizing that none of her infinitely intelligent first graders could spell the words correctly, she asked a student to come forward. She held the student’s hand and walked around the students seated in their desks chanting this echoing mantra: “When two vowels go walking, the first one does the talking.” Nearly all of the class spelled the words right, or at least identified the major vowel sound of the words and included them in their yet incorrect spelling.

This demonstration was all I needed to make all of my mother and father’s teaching make perfect sense. This showed me, as a first grade student, that 1) learning is not as impossible as most students make it, and 2) it analyzed the diversity of standard English spelling forms and 3) opened an awareness of common vernacular for me that led to my appreciation of style in the English language and the dimensions of single words across communicatory modes. This is significant for me because I effectively identified and understood a concept of literacy that I had henceforth had trouble with, and gave me the courage and confidence to both read out loud and experiment to mastery with the English language.