Framing Statement:
- Writing as a Recursive process:
To demonstrate my multi-stage recursive writing process I chose my free writing activities as an example. As you can see prior to beginning my Literacy Narrative, I did two different pre-writing strategies to allow myself to brainstorm ideas on what to write. Many other students did a free write, however, I modified those activities to suit my personal learning and organizational patterns. I did a color coded mind map to categorize and collect my thoughts, memories, and ideas. I then did a time line of my literacy memories and milestones to help me choose what part of my story I would want to focus on. These activities helped me greatly in my writing process.
- Active Reading, Critical Reading, and Informal Reading Response:
To show my editing process between my first and second draft I have chosen these two pieces of notes I took as I was revising each draft. I took some parts out of my first and second draft, as well as added new pieces to each. I experimented with different ideas and story lines with each draft. My first and second draft are both significantly shorter (first draft) and longer (second draft) than my final draft. Taking these notes and using them to change my piece helped me greatly in constructing my final draft.
- Control Individual Error Patterns:
My first draft is very weak compared to my final draft. I had no conflict and struggled with writing an interesting story. Peer comments and my teachers review helped me to find something I was passionate abut writing. I was able to create a conflict when I was finally able to write publicly about my life.
Final Draft:
Saving Pages
I don’t remember reading with my parents. I do remember everyone in their own rooms, as if shut away from each other. I grew up in a big house where all the walls were painted blood red and beige. Even with the tall windows that stretched from the floor to the ceiling, the house was always dark. The windows were seemingly glued shut, for my mother feared the dust and dirt would bother my brothers asthma. If I did any reading, it was often alone. I would close my door and open all my blinds and windows. I wanted to smell the fresh air and cleanse my nose of the stinging smell of Clorox and bleach. I wanted to feel the breeze blow against my skin as I sat on the little window sill reading my book. I would often get screamed at by my mother if she caught me doing this. She would slam my windows shut, making the windows rattle, ripping my little moment of happiness from me. I didn’t know it then, but one day reading would save my life.
My mother was often unpredictable and had moments of inexplicable rage toward us. She would scream and yell until her face was blood red like the walls and the blue veins would pop out of her neck and forehead. If things weren’t the way she wanted them when we were forced to clean, she would tear apart the room and throw things into a big pile and make us redo it again. She towered over us with her stringy black hair and pierced lips. My sister, brother and I were terrified of her.
I never saw much of my father since he always worked. He was tall with dark hair and a mustache that tickled your cheeks when he kissed you. He was kind and made me feel safe from the wrath of my mother. Whenever he was home things with my mother were often worse. She always picked fights with him and they often stayed up late nights arguing. I never truly felt at home there.
Every summer my brother, sister and I would all pile into the back of our family’s van with pillows and blankets, ready for the adventure ahead. Growing up my family took a vacation every summer to visit my Aunt Betsy and Uncle Knat in Arrowsic Maine. This is where my memories of reading lived. We always drove at night. My dad always said it was faster at night, but now I know it was probably just quieter. The eight hour drive was usually quiet once my brother and sister fell asleep, but I would always wake up to watch the passing lights of New York City.
Maine was my favorite place to visit. I always looked forward to waking up just as the sun peeked above the trees as we’re driving up the long winding dirt road to the top of meadow lane. Then just as the sun is turning an orange glow you see it. The little pale blue house on top of the hill in the clearing was surrounded by a big plush green grass yard and tons of wildflowers in all vibrant colors growing in all directions. Raspberry and blueberry bushes all growing wildly all the way to the forest edge. Then just in front of the house stood all tall thick white birch tree with a little swing that swung out over a hill.
That house was like a fairy tale to me. It was enchanting and beautiful, with so much to explore and discover. Inside, the whole house was connected and open. No doors closing off people from one another. There were so many windows, so it was always bright and sunny inside. The windows were never closed and so the house smelled of summer and the surrounding forest. In the kitchen window above the sink my aunt had a variety of plants growing. Some hanging and others placed on the window sill. Creating this beautiful little indoor garden. But the library was always my favorite. In the front corner room of the house there were book shelves covering all the walls. With books piled and stacked higher than I could ever reach. There were all kinds of books, from historical books about boats and wondrous places to fiction and novels, and of course my favorite, the many Doctor Seuss stories.
Even with all the wonder the little house on the hill provided, the one thing I looked forward to the most was reading with my Uncle Knat. He’s an older man, but doesn’t look it. Tall and lanky with dark leathered skin from working out in the sun. His clothes always splattered with paint. His dark floppy hair barely grazing his round glasses. He was fit from working and hiking; he had always been adventurous.
In the evenings my uncle would read to us. My sister and I would sit on his lap in the small open living room. The setting sun would shine in through all the open windows setting the room ablaze in orange and red. He would read to us as many Dr. Seuss books as we could carry. I loved Dr. Seuss books, they were always colorful with wild stories and pictures. On every page he would point to the pictures and make each character say something funny in a silly voice. While he was reading to us my sister and I would laugh and laugh until it hurt our sides. My aunt, a kind earthy woman with black hair and a thick white stripe down the side, always wore bright colors and chunky jewelry made from crystals or rocks. She would sit in the corner and play the piano. The sweet summer notes would drift through the air as my mother was in the kitchen cooking. I would always be happy and at peace with the world here. It was the one place I actually felt like a family. The one place I actually felt at home. Reading and Maine became an escape from the darkness and separation that loomed at home. Because of my Uncle I began to associate reading with laughter and happiness.
When I got older my parents got divorced. We couldn’t afford to go on vacation every summer; and so we stopped visiting Maine, and I stopped reading. As I entered my junior year of high school, I became deathly ill with a rare tick borne disease. I missed the first semester of school due to being in and out of the hospital. I spent most of my time at home with my mother. I was trapped in that house again. I wasn’t allowed to leave or go outside, for my mother feared for my quickly declining health. I started to go through a depression. I felt dark and hopeless. Empty with no light. I started to write poetry to express myself and the way I was feeling. I told myself it was to help me cope. But in reality I knew I was writing for people to read when I was dead. So people could understand the way I was feeling after I was gone.
That winter my Aunt Betsy and Uncle Knat surprised me with plane tickets to visit them for Christmas. When I arrived I instantly felt at home and at ease with the world. The house was decorated with different colored Christmas lights and smelled of spiced rum and pine. My aunt played Christmas songs on the piano as my cousin Chris, my uncle Knat and I all decorated the tree with every ornament they had and immense amounts of tinsel. The tree was overwhelming and a little bit crooked, but it was perfect to me. We sat down as a family Christmas eve and read stories and played cards, our cheeks flushed from the warmth of the wood stove. For Christmas they gave me books of all types, mysteries, novels, and even books about college. That day I started to read again. I read the rest of the time I was there, and read on the plane back to Maryland. I realized then that I wasn’t as sad anymore. That reading helped me feel better, and so I began to read more and more. Reading helped me overcome my depression and acted as an escape. I would have never been able to realize that without my aunt and uncle. I came to realize that Maine was the home and family that I had always desired and reading is what held us together. When my parents divorced, I lost that family and I lost reading. My aunt and uncle brought me back to reading, and it eventually saved my life.
