Essay #1 (personal narrive)

Essay #1
The Personal Narrative

Monday, December 13, 2010

What is the personal narrative?

An essay in which you explore a
personal experience for truth, meaning,
or value.
A personal narrative is a reflection of you. It can reveal
your personality, interests, concerns, reactions,
observations,and even your sense of humor. It’s your
story, and it should say more about you than any other
writing you may ever do.


Draw from . . . Scenes from your
Life


Maybe it’s a crazy pet you
have . . .


Maybe it’s a favorite image or
memory . . .


Maybe it’s a trip you’ve taken . . .


Or maybe just a funny, insightful story


Why the personal narrative?


Why the personal narrative?
“You might discover new things about
yourself -- new dimensions to explore. You
might discover thoughts or opinions you
didn’t know you had before you wrote them.
You might create thoughts or opinions you
didn’t have before you wrote them. you
might even discover versions of yourself you
didn’t know were in you until the writing
brought them out.” Mark Christensen, The
Familiar Essay.


It’s not expository writing


It’s not expository writing

“For me as a kid and well into college, one of the
defining characteristics of expository writing was
that it was no fun. You couldn’t be yourself but had
to be someone else, someone deathly serious,
someone formal, someone who shared the moribund
and officious voice of an encyclopedia. A conformist,
in other words, someone who wouldn’t challenge the
overburdened teacher.” Roorbach, Writing Life
Stories.


What might a personal essay look like?


You might start out with a goal.


Then search for the ingredients
you’ll need.


Then search for the ingredients It’s often messy and time
you’ll need. consuming.


Don’t discount organization
and desire.


In the end, you just put it all
together .


Tip #1


Tip #1

Tell a story . . .


! I stood with my father and uncle, Dick Baril, at Myrtleʼs grave. It was Memorial
Day and rain threatened from the swollen clouds. A stiff breeze made a jacket
necessary. I stuffed my ﬁsts deep into the front pockets. Dad and Dick were
engaged in similar tactics to guard against the chill.


! We examined the new plastic flowers we just set beside the headstone. Dad
held last yearʼs faded flowers in his right hand. The new bright yellow, red, and
white Kmart flowers seemed out of place. Mom always picked out the flowers and
arranged them. We were visiting her grave next.


! After making sure the replacements held their ground against the wind, we
broke our silence. Dad said he was taking the old ﬂowers back to the truck. I said
that Iʼd be there in a bit and then reached into my jean jacket and snatched my
journal. Dick turned his back to the breeze, plucked a Camel from the pack in his
breast pocket while he fumbled a lighter out of his khakis. Then he cupped his
hands and struck the lighter several times until I saw a red glow from inside his
palms. He took a small drag and then the breeze snatched it.


! After making sure the replacements held their ground against the wind, we
broke our silence. Dad said he was taking the old flowers back to the truck. I said
that Iʼd be there in a bit and then reached into my jean jacket and snatched my
journal. Dick turned his back to the breeze, plucked a Camel from the pack in his
breast pocket while he fumbled a lighter out of his khakis. Then he cupped his
hands and struck the lighter several times until I saw a red glow from inside his
palms. He took a small drag and then the breeze snatched it.
! I too turned my back to the wind and pried open my journal. I took the pen that
had been crammed between the pages and scrolled, “Myrtle D. Baril (Demann)
Feb 21 1905 - July 30 1988.” Then I peered at her husbandʼs name on the
headstone and wrote, “Theophile J. Baril March 7, 1905 - May 28, 1971.” I was
hoping to fill my journal with the key dates and places to fill in the gaps in my
thesis. I needed to give the narratives a context.


! My dad was great with the stories, but dates and places were not his
strong suit. I was hoping to obtain them from Dick, who was up on his
annual visit from the cities. This might be my last chance, for we feared
Alzheimerʼs was setting in. Dick had been a day late. Normally that
wouldnʼt have worried us, but Dick was well into his seventies. He had
trouble finding his way home. Not only did he get lost on the way up, a
trip that he made hundreds of times before, but he also began
forgetting names and faces. The man who is my momʼs oldest brother,
my godfather, and who even shares my birthday, forgot my name at
Momʼs funeral last summer.
! I tried drilling Dick about the dates when Granny first began
teaching. I watched as he took another drag, noticing his hairy
forearms ending in slender wrists. Forearms and wrists that were the
same as the ones that held my journal and pen.
! Dick took a shallow puff while I waited for an answer. He looked
over at Dad who was now climbing into the cab. He talked about how
Myrtle had to walk two miles to her first teaching job at a small country
school.

! I asked him about when Myrtle and Theophile - “Tuff,” Dick
corrected me - had started dating. He told me they met at the Maple
Lake Pavilion and spent Saturday nights dancing there in the
summer. He never gave any dates. Finally, he pulled the Camel
from the corner of his mouth, kicked up his brown Hush Puppy, and
ground the cigarette out on the sole.
! He exhaled and watched as the wind gave the ﬁnal puff a new
life. “Letʼs get out of here,” he said turning his brown eyes on my
mostly blank journal and poised Bic, “and Iʼll tell you some stories.”
He examined the polished black headstone and its dates one last
time. Then he scanned all of the others lined around it. “These are
just stones.”
! I wrote those four words down and followed him back to the truck.


Tip #2


Tip #2

• Fill it with voice and details . . .


Avoid “Telling”


Avoid “Telling”
My family and I were headed to Tracey, Minnesota to visit my
grandparents for the weekend. Being cramped up in a van for six
hours seemed never ending to me. I passed the time by having my
dad quiz me with trivia, playing horse, drawing, singing, telling stories,
and bugging my brother (John) and sister (Ann). I most deﬁnitely
would not be boring and sleep like those two. That was the last thing
on my list. As I was jabbering, my brother got so irritated with me, that
he yelled “BETH, EVERY TIME YOU OPEN YOUR MOUTH
EVERYONE IN THIS CAR GETS DUMBER!”


Explode Moments
Take this moment and develop it more.

What does this mean?
Show this

Being cramped up in a van for six hours seemed never ending to
me. I passed the time by having my dad quiz me with trivia,
playing horse, drawing, singing, telling stories, and bugging my
brother (John) and sister (Ann).
Glossing over too much. One illustration will speak volumes


Showing
! We were headed to Tracey, Minnesota to visit my grandparents. I sat
in the passenger seat while Dad slouched leisurely behind the wheel and
let the cruise control do the real work. Mom was curled up with a Mary
Higgins Clark novel behind me. Next to her Ann had the hood of her
sweatshirt pulled up and leaned her head against the window, eyes
closed. I could just see Johnʼs Nikeʼs propped up agains the back
windows as he sprawled out across the entire back seat.
! I deﬁntiely didnʼt want to sleep the whole way or read, so I had Dad
quiz me.
! “Whatʼs the state capital of, Alaska?”
! “Uh, Anchorage,” I tried.
! “Nope.”
! “Okay, Juno,” I said.
! “Yep.”
! I sat up even straighter and clapped, pleased with my mastery of the
state capitals.
! “Ask me another one,” I said.

! Dad inhaled a deep breath, thought for a second, and said, “Iʼm
out of states, dear.” !
“Thatʼs okay. I was out of answers, I guess. You know
everyone wants to move to Alaska. Mrs. Mattison talks about it like
itʼs the greatest place in the world. But Iʼd never want to live there.
Why move all the way up there where they get like two hours of
sunlight a day. Iʼd go nuts. I bet the girls up there spend a fortune
on tanning beds. Thereʼs an investment idea for you, John,” I
called back to the backseat. “Yeah, hunting and ﬁshing is okay but
what else can you do all the way up there. And itʼs gotta be cold. I
mean itʼs freezing here, and weʼre a lot farther south than Alaska,” I
was really hitting my stride and ﬂet my mind kicking into overdrive,
when Ann snarled, “Would you PLEASE stop jabbering!”
! “Someone had a late night, “ I said, eyeing Dad for his reaction.
A faint smirk hooked across his lips. “You want me to stop
talking . . . FINE,” I said and reached for the radio dail. I found
XL93 and cranked it.


“Oh, I love this song!” I said. “Oh, sorry Ann. I mean ʻI loooove thisss
soooong,” I began to sing. If I couldnʼt talk, by God Iʼd sing!
! Hanson began to ﬂood through the van.
! “MMMMMBOP. DUWAAPPP,” I began to chime. “Come on Mom, get
into it!” I said. “Oh, sorry Ann. I mean ʻCooomme onnnn
Moommmmmm, geeet intoooo ittttt!”
! I knew instinctivel tthat Mom was smirking from behind her book while
Ann was drilling holes in the back of the seat with an evil glare.
! “Oh, you sssssad sackssss. Johnnnnnn, waaaake up you slssssug
and give me a beat back there. Annnnnnnn you sssssing the verses and
Iʼll take the chrorrrrrus! Come on nowwwwwww!”
! Over my singing, I heard John yell, “BETH, EVERYTIME YOU OPEN
YOUR MOUTH EVERYONE IN THIS CAR GETS DUMBER!”


Tip #3 - voice is vital but not
at the price of failing to edit.


Itʼs eighty degrees out you throw the last ninety pound bundle of
shingles on your shoulder and walk up the ladder. In my mind thatʼs
how Iʼm uniquely me, not to many kids these days actually know what
a hard days work is like.
I love carpentry ever since I was little I remember walking around
no older then four watching my dad build are deck, “This guys a
genius I wanna do that when Iʼm older.” I thought.
My dad started me working young teaching me step by step what
heʼs doing and I picked up quick, quicker than I do in most classes.
Itʼs liek thatʼs what I was meant to do is carpentry.
The feeling you get after working your ass off hours in the sun is
unmatched in my mind every day you get to see your
accomplishment and know your building something people are going
to live in for most of there lifeʼs.
I could pour concrete with my eyes closed and one had tied behind
my back. That stuff and me get along. That is by what what Iʼve done
the most of and I love it. When I get older im going to live in a
concrete home, eat on concrete plates, and have concrete kids.


Sometimes it takes several
drafts to reﬁne a piece.


Itʼs eighty degress out you throw the last ninety pound bundle of shingles on
your shoulder and fight your way up the ladder, and the sun has already burned
itself into your back. In my mind thats how Iʼm uniquely me, no too many kids
these days actually knows what a hard days work is like. The kind of day where
your up by 5 in the morning and I already got half the roof shingled by lunch, just
hauling ass!
I love carpentry ever since I was little. I remember walking around no older
than four watching my dad build our desk and thinking, “This guys a fricken
genius, I want to do that when I get older.” Back in those days I was part of the
clean up crew, walking around in my cowboy hat with my cap gun picking up
garbage. Ever now and again Iʼd get the promotion to go-getter, which is where
dad told me to go get, and I got it.
My dad started me young. Teaching me step-by-step how to hit the nail and
not my finger, although that one I learned the hard way. Heʼs the guy who told me
to work smarter not harder. I picked up on the whole carpentry thing alot quicker
than I do in class. Iʼd never be able to work inside like an office job would be
horrible, Iʼd have to be outside because Iʼm just a hands on person. If something
is broken Iʼm the guy whoʼs like “well lets see what we got here.” Although the
automotive field is not my forte, thats why my truck is out of commission.


The feeling I get after working my ass off for hours in the sun is
unmatched in my mind. I go home tired as all hell but I feel honest and
proud. Every day I get to see my accomplishments, and know Iʼm building
something people are going to live in and raise a family, makes me feel
important.Or like we would build barn and gotta give the farmer quality
barn, my dad told me along time ago that anything your about to put your
name on better do it right because weʼre Johnsonʼs.
I could pour concrete with my eyes closed and one hand tied behind
my back. That stuff and me get along. That is by far what Iʼve done the
most of and I love it. When it comes to concrete its not about knowing
what your doing you have to be an artist with that stuff because theres no
second chances. When I get older Iʼm going to take over my dadʼs
company and work my ass off and make enough money in my life to be
happy. These days it seems like the only way to have a good life is to do
so much schooling and preparation to ﬁt the mold, I just want to live my life
a little simpler and little slower, and just keep the shit to shoe level.


Tip #4 - Use Reﬂection


Don’t just tell a story.


One time when my brother and I . . .



Don’t just analyze a situation.



Shooting my ﬁrst deer taught me several important
lessons: how to be a man, how to make my father proud,
and how to gain the respect of my family.



Shooting my ﬁrst deer taught me several important
lessons: how to be a man, how to make my father proud,
and how to gain the respect of my family.

Combine them into a uniﬁed essay --


And it will all come
together . . .


What Dadʼs Always Wanted

The ground is cold and full of snow as I lay on it. On my stomach Iʼm waiting
for the right moment. Come on You can do it. I canʼt do it. Come on, just do it.
My dad sits behind me still and quiet. I know he is just waiting for me to pull the
trigger. I canʼt keep steady. The cross arms are jerking all over the place. I canʼt
think straight. I wouldnʼt dare bring myself to back out of this now. Not when I
have the cross arms on the deer, ready and aimed. All I have to do is pull the
trigger. You canʼt back out now, not now. Just pull the trigger, dadʼs waiting. this
will be my first time taking a life. Can I do it? I canʼt. This inner battle is tearing
me apart.
Dad isnʼt saying a thing, or indicating that heʼs getting tired of sitting here, but I
feel like heʼs breathing down my neck. Heʼs waiting for me to pull the trigger.
Finally I give in. I close my eyes; I pull the trigger back as hard as I can. BAM!
My dad is patting me on my back congratulating me on my first big kill.
“Great job honey. Great, great job.” We walk up to the dead deer and count the
antlers. Itʼs eight points.
“You did great dear.” He seems more excited than I am. I become a hunter in a
matter of five seconds.
After loading the deer into the back of the pickup, we head over to my dadʼs
friendʼs house to brag about my big kill.
The inner battle is exhausting. All I can think about is now I am finally what my
dad has wanted all along.

Theme #1 - Personal
Essay


Essays --

• Essay 1.1 - Rite of Passage (check today)
• Essay 1.2 - Expertise (check Wednesday)
• Essay 1.3 - Pet Peeve (check Thursday)
• Final draft - due Monday.


Essay #2
The Personal Essay
Now it’s your turn.

GIDDYYYUP!!!!!!


Essay #1 (personal narrive)

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