English 233 - Oneonta



Comp 100 Instructor: Kay Benjamin

1st Draft due: Thu Sep. 18 Final Draft due: Tue Sep. 30

Narrative/Descriptive Essay

Your first essay assignment is to write a narrative/descriptive essay about someone who is or has been important in your life, someone who has influenced you. It need not be someone you are fond of… The essay must be descriptive in that it presents a vivid picture of the person, and it must be a narrative in that it tells the story of a particular incident involving this person. If we think of description as capturing a subject, object or scene as a snapshot, we can think of narrative as what a movie camera might capture; that is, a series of scenes that may include conversation, background information, material that may help a reader (viewer) understand the story (meaning/point) as it is presented.

Essay requirements:

1. It should be at least 750 words long (It can be longer.)

2. It should follow the basic five-paragraph essay structure: an introduction, support and conclusion, but it may be longer than five paragraphs.

3. It should:

• be full of concrete, specific details that give the reader a vivid picture of this person and the events you choose to narrate to make your point

• use active verbs

• use vivid adjectives and adverbs

• use concrete, specific nouns

• include at least two figures of speech (e.g. simile, metaphor, personification, hyperbole)

• use imagery appealing to senses other than sight: we have five senses, not one or two.

• convey a dominant impression (e.g. affection, repulsion, mystery, coziness, longing, etc.)

• tell a story with a beginning, middle and end

• include setting and characterization

4. It should have a point. The reader should understand how this person has been significant in your life: How were you changed by this person and the event you’re describing? What new realizations did this person bring to you? Did you discover something about yourself?

Sample description of a person:

When I was young, I drew a picture of my mother. It was her standing in a yard with a house in the background.  It wasn’t our house, and my mother looked like anyone but herself.  Dressed entirely in green, with green hair and a green expression on her green face, she stood in front of a green two-story house surrounded by a green landscape.  Green was her favorite color, and I wanted to make a surprise out of the drawing for her.

    My mother was a god to me in those days, and in my eyes she could do no wrong.  I think she understood this, and in turn she lavished attention on me like I was a princess in my own little world whose wishes were to be carried out no matter the cost.  We were close, too, and not a day went by when I did not divulge some sort of secret knowledge to my mom.  

    My mother was a game show contestant also, answering countless questions with the infinite patience that only an experienced mom can possess.  Her prize for a satisfying answer was a flash of comprehension in my tiny, bright eyes and a hesitant “Oh” as I caught on.  It seemed to make my mother just as happy to pass on the age-old knowledge of why the sky is blue as it made me to learn of it.  My undying love for her at that age seemed to motivate her to new heights of mom-hood, as she constantly fought battles of her own with my father (who she divorced when I was four), and with her own shortcomings.  

    I also remember my mother as beautiful.  She had dark hair—the kind you run your fingers through just to feel how soft it is—and it always smelled of conditioner and hair spray.  Her green eyes shone when she looked at me, and when she laughed, her whole body shook with mirth.  Perhaps her beauty had something to do with her animation, as she always seemed most radiant when she was excited or pleased with me somehow.  

 

Josie's Triumph

Even though I am the older brother and she's the younger sister, Josie was always a head taller, and a good 40 pounds heavier than me when we were growing up. I hated that. I was the big brother. I was supposed to be dominant and protective. But while she was the biggest kid in school, I was nearly the smallest.

Josie's size and strength only made my lack of those two qualities more apparent. I was two years ahead of her in school, which meant that by the time she got to middle school I was already an 8th grader. Kids in middle school are not kind or accepting, and over the years they had continually made fun of my puny size and lack of athletic ability. But the teasing reached a whole new level when Josie entered middle school. Now they had a new angle for tormenting me.

They would taunt, "Hey Shrimp! Your sister still beat you up?" Or, they would chant again and again on the bus, "Paul, Paul, he's so small, but his sister's ten feet tall!" I guess that rhyme was hurtful to both of us, but I only felt my own humiliation. It still baffles me that I took no notice of my sister's feelings. The times when the jokes centered around her, like when they called her "Josie the Giant," it was such a relief not to be their target that I did nothing to stop them. Nothing seemed to bother Josie anyway. I never heard her complain or so much as saw her wince. I just assumed that her interior was a steely as her exterior.

That was until the day she snapped.

There was a new girl, Ginny, in Josie's class who wore really thick glasses, and without them, was nearly blind. She, to my relief, had temporarily become the butt of jokes and pranks. The latest chant that the kids had come up with was, "Ginny, Ginny, short and fat, squinty-eyed and blind as a bat!" In all fairness, Ginny wasn't fat at all, but the kids chanted that because it rhymed with bat.

It started as a normal lunch break, with Josie and Ginny standing together in line. Suddenly, Tommy Pederson ran up behind Ginny and snatched her glasses off her face. Everyone began the chant as they carelessly tossed her glasses down the line. I watched Josie's face as it was happening. There seemed to be an anger beyond normal 6th grade capacity brewing behind her eyes. Tommy Pederson had gotten the glasses back and was waving them around in the air. That's when it happened. With one hand Josie grabbed the glasses from him and with the other she punched him in the face. She hit him with such force that he fell over. Everyone froze in shock for a second until Tommy screamed "Get her!" There must have been 15 different students who rushed toward Josie. She held the glasses up as if to protect them and looked panicked until she made eye contact with me. "Josie! Here!" I screamed, gesturing that she throw me the glasses. She tossed the glasses to me, and miraculously, I caught them. She then faced the students who were rushing toward her. She skillfully defended herself by knocking them down one at a time as they approached her. She stopped fighting only when no one else dared move toward her.

I brought the glasses over and handed them to Tommy as he was picking himself up off the floor, humiliated. "Say you're sorry and give Ginny back her glasses," I told him. He said nothing. Josie slowly walked over and punched him in the stomach. He doubled over gasping for breath. "Say you're sorry and give her back her glasses," she repeated as she dragged him over to Ginny. "S-s-sorry," stammered Tommy as he handed her the glasses. Ginny took them, her eyes round with shock.

At that point, someone started clapping. It was quiet at first, then almost everyone joined in. Everyone except the kids that she had beat up. They sat in stunned silence, knowing that this day marked a change for us all.

   

In tenth grade I saw Robbie as a bow-legged, pale-skinned geek with zits who rode to school with me. Robbie was often picked on because of his duck walk, permed hair, and girlish voice. Deep down Robbie developed a complex about these characteristics. On the outside Robbie acted like a perfect gentleman. People would talk about him behind his back, but Robbie never seemed to care. If someone dropped their books Robbie was always the first person there to help pick them up.

Accidents

1 "It usually comes just after a bath when you are settling in for the evening" is what Monica, the only lady in our volunteer fire department, says. That deep tone, followed by the crazy bird-like second tone, which starts the heart racing and puts a spark in every firefighter's eye. After the tone, an old woman comes on the air, "Attention Company Four. You have a 10-50 on interstate 64, just east of the Gumsprings Junction exit in the west-bound lane." A "10-50" is "CB" jargon that the dispatchers use to tell us when we have an accident.

2 We grab our gear and make the mad dash to the firehouse. Within five minutes everybody was at the firehouse. By the time we arrived, the doors were open and the fire trucks were on their way out. When we pulled in, the Tanker, Attack, and the Engine had already left, leaving us with the Salvage van.

3 The police were already there and had blocked off the traffic--and debris was everywhere. Glass from the mirrors and the side windows was all over the road. The gas tank was punctured, which spewed gas everywhere. The battery, which has shot through the hood of the jeep, was found one hundred feet in front of the jeep. The man driving the jeep was found fifty feet away from it. He was the main concern, and the people from the rescue squad went to work to try to save him. They had to call the emergency helicopter to rush him to the hospital.

4 Buddy, Dave, Marty, Ronnie, and Sac put the fire vehicles into a triangle to show the helicopter, "Pegasus," where to land, while Wayne and Johnny are on the firehose in case ignites. Turp is the one at Attack, our mini-pumper, controlling the amount of water being pumped through the hose. Monica and I take brooms and begin to sweep off the road in an attempt to start to get things back to normal.

5 You could see the light off in the distance and before you knew it, it was right on top of you. Approximately 15 minutes after the first tone, it landed. The front half of the helicopter is white with a blue horse, "Pegasus," the winged horse, in the middle with its wings extending to the end of the helicopter. The rescue squad had the patient ready to travel, so they carried him to the helicopter and told the pilot the patient's statistics.

6 You could smell the gas as if you were washing your hands in it. Pegasus' engine started to accelerate, and you could tell it was about to take off. It lifted straight up and hovered a couple of seconds. The light from the helicopter threw a shadow of me to the pavement, and that was when I noticed the gas. It was all over the road. You could see the fumes rushing past my shadow as if it were a hot summer day, looking over a sweltering black-topped road. It then tilted its nose down and accelerated above the highway. The whole scene felt as if it was taken from a "sci-fi" movie, where the alien spacecraft hovered and then took off out of sight.

7 I finished the sweeping, enabling the police officer in charge to open one lane of traffic, which was now backed up for a couple of miles. We had to wait for the tow-truck to come. One hour later he showed up. We helped him hook up the jeep and put the rest of the pieces in the bed of the tow-truck. After all the equipment was packed away, we headed back to the firehouse.

8 After filling up the trucks with gas, we put them back into the building. Three hours had passed in what seemed like a matter of minutes. Marty, the chief, talked about the accident scene. "Ya'll did a great job out there; the police complimented us on our professional attitudes and behaviors." Marty told us that the man was about thirty-five years old. He was an insurance inspector, who took pictures of people in accidents who were not wearing seat belts. It seems to me that a man like that would know the importance of a seat belt and wear it.

9 Four hours later, you can finally crawl into your bed. As you lay awake with your head cuddled against the pillow, you begin to wonder, "Hey! Could this have happened to me?!" The feeling soon passes and is overshadowed by a feeling of contribution, a feeling that you have participated in the event of saving someone's life.

Appreciating the Quality of Writing

Directions: Open a word processor on your computer, re-read the sample essay above to answer the following questions. The answer to the first question has 9 parts (the paragraphs are numbered in this sample for easier reference).

1. What does each paragraph do to advance this narrative?

2. Find appeals to the senses of sight, smell, hearing, and touch.

3. Characterize the other kinds of details contained in this narrative.

4. Find up to five examples of unusually well structured sentences.

Writing Effective Descriptions

 

 

 

Describe people and objects in action. Descriptions of people and objects can become stilted lists of facts. You can bring your subject to life by introducing short narratives or showing people in action. In writing description, follow the creative writer’s advice to “show” and not “tell.”

 

The two paragraphs below illustrate this difference between “telling” and “showing.” Note how the first paragraph lists facts about Mr. Bryant while the second paragraph shows us Mr. Bryant in action, so that we can actually picture him.

 

Original

 

Mr. Bryant was the best boss I ever worked for. He supervised the payroll office. He was smart, generous, and patient. He knew the payroll office like the back of his hand. He had a fantastic eye for detail and a great memory. He appeared to have memorized the most complicated IRS regulations and could master any new accounting software in less than an hour. He was a great teacher and trainer. He was always available if anyone in the office had problems with a complex situation. He had excellent communications skills. I never saw him lose his temper, no matter how mad employees got when the company made mistakes on their paychecks. He would simply and calmly explain policies and do his best to rectify any errors. He always gave his staff and the employees more than anyone expected. People came away from payroll usually wishing the rest of the company could be run the same way.

 

Improved

 

The payroll office came alive the moment Al Bryant stormed in, usually bearing a carton of doughnuts and a bag of carrot sticks for his employees. Unlike the other supervisors, he rarely used his private office but spent his day roving past our cubicles, answering our questions, showing us shortcuts, and tackling problems we couldn’t figure out. Highly patient, he never lost his temper when an employee banged at the door, waving an incorrect check. Instead, he offered the employee a doughnut and grabbed the nearest computer. He punched in data like a speed typist while juggling a telephone receiver, checking pay schedules, consulting IRS guidelines, and asking the employee about his or her family. He worked with the precision of a surgeon and the speed of a race car driver, bobbing and weaving behind the computer as he sliced through a week of paperwork. Glancing at the clock, he would start to hum, going into overdrive, making it his personal mission to cut a new paycheck before the employee’s break was over.

 

From The Sundance Writer (Connelly)

Meeting the Colonel

       I'm a partner in a golf driving range located on Forty-Sixth and South Osage. I usually finish the day by hitting a few golf balls before I lock the doors. On one particular Thursday evening, I ran back inside to check the score of the football game, That is when I first encountered him. I never wanted to meet the Colonel. When he stepped through the doorway, I thought I was going to get robbed. I wish he had robbed me. Instead, with a gun pressed tightly against my back, I was forced to transport him to various points in the city. I was told to call him the Colonel, a nickname with ambiguous roots. The Colonel's appearance sparked terror and his personality was even more horrifying.

       The Colonel looked like a villain from a Hollywood picture. He was in his mid- fifties. His black and gray hair was thin, long, and grungy. His lengthy black overcoat concealed whatever he wished. He wore a cowboy hat with a filthy yellow necktie tied around it, dangling from the back. He told me he was a country-western musician (I think he was lying). It appeared as if he hadn't shaved in at least two weeks, and by the look of his worn jeans and beat-up cowboy boots, I could tell that he'd been through a great deal. He had the eyes of a demon, drowning in the deep black rings that surrounded them, and a sickly smile to match. Above his eyes was a scar that ran across his forehead. He informed me that he'd been beaten with a baseball bat and robbed. He didn't appear to be the type of person carrying anything worthy of being stolen. Then he sat down, and it was clear that he wasn't leaving, at least not without me or something else of value. Though it appears he only needed a ride and someone to talk to, I didn't know that at the time, and I was horrified.

       Along with his horrific appearance, the violent tendencies of the Colonel's personality gave me a lingering fear that knows no equivalent. His ugly, coarse voice shouted phrases such as "wounded in action!" and "hole through the heart!" as we sat outside the Coachlight Inn, waiting for him to finish his forty-ounce beer. He seemed to feed off the fear of others. He told stories of fights he'd been in, murders he'd seen, and those he'd committed. I heard of knife fights and late night runs from the police. I heard of his son and the fights in which he had been involved. Then I heard of the man in California found facedown in a river with a hole through his heart. "People leam not to mess with me," he said in a deep, groggy voice. I hoped that he didn't see me as one of those "messing" with him. The first time I told him I needed to go, I was quickly and harshly threatened. About an hour later, I told him I needed to use the restroom. So we went into the motel. He got a room and walked him to his door. He pleaded with me to stay, but didn't use force or threats when I told him that I couldn't.

       The Colonel effectively terrified everyone with whom he came in contact. I no longer feel completely safe at my driving range. The idle threat of his return remains with me, never entirely slipping from conscious thought. I can't forget his harsh face, his demonic eyes, or his long, black overcoat that could camouflage him in the dark of night. His stories of fights and murders will never elude me, and his coarse voice, though only a whisper at times, will never stop ringing in my ears. The Colonel's presence was a nightmarish hell from which I will never fully awake.

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