Task #2: Memoir (first memory)
My first memory is one of ultimate peace. It was the early hours of a Saturday or Sunday morning and I was the only one awake. I was wearing a pink wool nightgown with an embossed image of a wolf on it. It was winter, yet I was warm in the silent house. I grabbed the box of Cheerios from the cupboard, sat on the sofa in front of the not turned on television, and shoveled my favorite snack into my mouth. My legs were blanketed by the warmth of the sunshine pouring through the bay window. There were no other people in the world. Just me, the wonderland flavor of oats, a blank screen and the early morning sun. It would take at least 10 years to find another moment of such peace.
Task #3: Identity (hero)
It was remarkable, really. Me, a small child, not giving in to the weekend morning cartoons. I was completely still, completely patient. I didn’t need the parade of images and stories and colors, my imagination was enough to enthuse me. I sat there, thinking about whatever is important to a toddler. Maybe it had to do with the world, maybe I thought about the beauty of the winter snow outside. Maybe I thought about who I was. Maybe I thought about the problems in the world, although it seems like too early an age to be so pessimistic.
Task #4: Identity cont. (loser)
It was remarkable, really. Me, a small child, not giving in to the weekend morning cartoons. Now that I think back to it, the makes a lot of sense. Even now, I rarely do things the way everyone else does. I stick out like a sore thumb. I’ve never found enjoyment in being like everyone else. I don’t know how to find it, never really knew how to, even as a kid. I like to think that if I had turned on the tv that beautiful morning, I could have learned something. I could have enriched my vocabulary or sparked my creativity or turned on the discovery channel and learned some facts. Instead, I sit there an occupied my own, blank mind, like a prisoner in a cell. Seems odd. Once a loser, always a loser.
Task #5: Henry’s identity
“I felt god about that. I liked being picked out as one of the bad guys. I liked to feel bad. Anybody could be a good guy, that didn’t take guts. Dillinger had guts. Ma Barker was a great woman teaching those guys how to operate a sub-machine gun. I didn’t want to be like my father. He only pretended to be bad. When you;re bed you didn’t pretend, it was just there. I liked being bad. Trying to be good made me sick” (93).
From this passage, it is obviously that Henry is not a bad guy. Any “bad” guy would never give himself such a title and define himself so rigidly. Henry has tons of good in him, but doesn’t know how to channel it in his life. His abusive family has only shown him how to him a violent lifestyle. Since that is all he knows, that is what he tries to follow. But it is evident that he knows this is not his true path. This is evident because he thought about it. Most people who have rigid characters don’t even realize it.
“The class was terribly silent. I was the most unpopular member of the class by far. It was like a knife slicing through all their hearts. …Mrs. Fretag [began to read my essay]. The words filled the room, from blackboard to blackboard, they hit the ceiling and bounced off, they covered Mrs. Fretag’s shoes and piled up on the floor. Some of the prettiest girls in the class began to sneak glances at me. All the tough guys were pissed. Their essays hand’t been worth shit. I drank in my words like a thirsty man. I even began to believe them” (83).
Henry says he feel unpopular, yet he boasts about catching the attention of the pretty girls and the tough guys. He knows he is talented, but tries to play it off like a cool guy. I think he felt fulfilled at that moment. For the fist time, someone is pointing out something good that he’s done instead of reprimanding him.
It was remarkable, really. Me, a small child, not giving in to the cartoons. Just sitting there, completely still, completely patient. I don’t know what went through my mind a the time. The black screen didn’t need to provide any colorful images or stories; I had a vivid and colorful imagination of my own. When I think back to it now, it makes a lot of sense.