REVISED ESSAY 3 (FINAL REVISION)

Hamilton Marks, Jr.
Creative Nonfiction
Essay 3
October 29, 2010

Jerry Springer


I’ve long enjoyed the chaotic and demoralized dynamics of Jerry Springer, the television show that airs on channel eleven (11) at 11:00am. The ideas of infidelity, fornication and brute physical bouts magnets my attention. Though a shy character in the public eye, the reverse might portray me similar to entities conveyed on Jerry Springer. A psychologist might say the talk show warrants my inhibition in an outlet which is Jerry Springer, and set room for personal identification, hence my reticent personality suppresses my exhibition. Ten (10) years in the rough, violent city that is Newark has giving me liking to things I normally would shy from. I’ve had many intense arguments, and fists fights; some because of women and some due to gang confrontation or misidentification. Through careful consideration, one might say some aspects of my life exemplify the talk show.

I vividly recalled an episode that centered on women promiscuity, infidelity and outrage. The producers titled it, Jerry Springer’s – Girls Gone Wild. Personally, I thought the title was condescending and unflattering. They are all women, why call them girls? Clearly our behaviors as adults are tantamount to the respect and dignity we receive.
Fran, one of the guests on the show came out telling Jerry she has a secret to reveal to her significant other. Her significant other happened to be her best friend from her college days. Fran disclosed to Jerry that she has been unfaithful to her best friend (Angie) for about a year. In addition, she’d been cheating with Angie’s brother. Angie came on stage with fury, running toward Fran to initiate a brawl. Both Angie and Fran started fighting as the audience cheered on their favorite, who happened to be Angie. Wigs were thrown across the stage, and breasts were exposed as the male audience loudly cheered. To cut long story short, the end of the show presented frustrated, agonized and rebellious women who should instead represent womanhood, motherhood and intelligence. They had all been fighting over men who obviously did not care for them. Pardon me, but I see this as good material for writing, only for the sense of drama. However, why do women give in to men and loose themselves. I was once told “its better to loose a lover then love a looser.”

The shrill and irritating buzzing of my Toshiba alarm clock woke me up at 3:30am in the morning in order to prepare for work. I heard a distinct noise that obstructed my morning ritual of tooth brushing, showering and a glass of cold grapefruit juice. Still experiencing the effect of just waking up, I slowly walked toward the window, yarning and wiping my eyes. I pulled the curtain left, to the side and saw a view unlike no other. Directly across the street in front of the newly constructed house were a group of young women between the ages of 19-27. I estimated about fifteen, all involved in fierce arguments and fists fight.

I ignored the chaos outside my window and ran into the bathroom to prepare for work. Within twenty (20) minutes, I was ready to go to work with almost thirty (30) minutes to spare. Looking back on that day, I assumed it was my interest in the ruckus outside that encouraged me to hasten my preparation for work. With time to spare, I went back to the window and this time cracked it open. I could clearly see and hear what was going on. Amongst the crowd of women I recognized three of the ladies who live across the street in the new house. The few whom I recognized as resident from the new building were partially nude; wearing only panties and bras. As I sat by the window in my bedroom, looking at the scene, I could see, wigs coming out as fists being swung, legs rose in attempt to kick, handbags threw and etc. Honestly these girls around here fight like men! There was one that could throw a fist as good as Mike Tyson. Whomever she attacked seemed to retreat in fear and in a hurry as she was just too fierce and forceful.

While this was going on, the boyfriend of one of the nude girls amongst the three, whom I had befriended sat on the hood of his car as his girlfriend and sister-in-law wrestle and tussle in the middle of the street. He sat there enjoying the spectacle with a smoke in his mouth showing little interest in stopping the fight and vast interest in finding pleasure from it. I must admit, men love to watch women fight, hoping to see a bit of or total nudity. When one of the girls breast was revealed during the fight, I look back at my girlfriend who was sound asleep. Then I checked the time on the Toshiba alarm clock and drank a bit of my grapefruit juice. It was time for me to leave for work as I took my bag pack and Airport ID before heading out of the house.

Outside, in front of the house, before taking my last step off the porch, the police siren alerted the troublesome crowd that quickly disbursed. Still on the scene, I was stopped and questioned by the police about my knowledge and involvement in the incident. I first identified myself before telling them that I was simply on my way to work with my Airport ID at hand.

There are episodes of Jerry Springer that arise on occasions in our lives. Depending on whom we are, the incident can escalate to something harsh or otherwise. Recently, my mother and my girlfriend got into a heated argument whilst I was out running errands with my friend. There has been a building tension between my mother and my girlfriend for the past year. My girlfriend sees my mother as overly nurturing, whilst my mother claims my girlfriend has no respect for me and doesn’t treat me properly. According to my uncle who defused the confrontation, my mother asked after my whereabouts. Apparently, my girlfriend response must have been unpleasant and insolent toward my mother. Mother fire back, after which my girlfriend started yelling and pointing her fingers towards my mother’s face. To cut long story short, names were called as impulses went high over dear Hamilton. Honestly, it rips a man apart to know that his mother and his girlfriend don’t get alone. Who do you side with and what do you say?

We all have experienced our own Jerry Springer. It is that argument you have had with someone that annoyed or wronged you or vice versa. It is your first or tenth fight with a friend or an enemy. It is that moment that you look back on saying, wow I can’t believe I did that. Well you can definitely count me in regard those moments. I’ve lived and seen a few, baring scares and memories as evidence. Ladies and gentlemen: Jerry Springer.

Rhetorical Analysis of Publication Venue

Hamilton Marks, Jr.
Creative Nonfiction
English 4017
Dr. Chandler
December 1, 2010

Rhetorical Analysis of Publication Venue

Purpose: to submit a copy of any of my four creative nonfiction pieces with aspiration of acceptance for publishing.

Publication’s Name: Upstreet: http://www.upstreet-mag.org/guideline_layers.html

About (Upstreet): Upstreet is an award winning annual literary anthology containing the best new fiction, poetry and creative nonfiction. It is located in Berkshires of Western Massachusetts. It is an independently owned and published, nationally distributed magazine. It was founded in 2005 by Vivian Dorsel, formerly Managing Editor of The Berkshire Review for eight years. The magazine is an affiliate of Ledgetop Publishing. http://www.upstreet-mag.org/welcome_layers.html

Contact Info: Upstreet
P. O. Box 105
Richmond, MA 01254-0105
Phone: (413) 441-9702
email: editor@upstreet-mag.org
blog: http://upstreetfanclub.blogspot.com/
distributors: Source Interlink, Ingram Periodicals, Ubiquity, Disticor (Canada)

Submitting to Upstreet: submit your poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction (including prose poems) for the seventh issue.
• No longer take submissions by e-mail or surface mail, but only through the upstreet Submission Manager. http://www.upstreet-mag.org/submissions/
• The submission period for upstreet number seven is from September 1, 2010, to March 1, 2011. The Submission Manager will take work only within that time period.
• Do not include author name and info on the manuscript. Author info will including name, address, phone, email, brief bio and more will be put into the submission manager.
• Do not submit previously published works, or more than three poems, two fiction and two nonfiction pieces (including prose poems) per issue.
• Fiction or Nonfiction pieces should be 5,000 words or less. Notification will be made via e-mail, by mid-May 2011.

Analysis: from glancing at some of the issues published on upstreet and looking at their guidelines and requirements for submission, I can say as long as the submitted piece meets the requirements, it has a chance provided on what is written and how it is written.
Description: The pieces range from pop culture to ethnic, maternal, feminine, to powerful and inspirational.
 http://www.upstreet-mag.org/upstreet_1_pdfs/cardenas.pdf
 http://www.upstreet-mag.org/upstreet_4_pdfs/Abbott.pdf
 http://www.upstreet-mag.org/upstreet_5_pdfs/Amoroso.pdf
 http://www.upstreet-mag.org/upstreet_4_pdfs/Martone.pdf (CNF)
 http://www.upstreet-mag.org/upstreet_3_pdfs/Tempone.pdf (CNF)
 http://www.upstreet-mag.org/upstreet_1_pdfs/rapoza.pdf (CNF)

Subject Matter: Creative Nonfiction, Fiction and poetry (including Prose)

Voice/tone: some of the titles of the published pieces stretched out from humorous to moral, informative/narrative, descriptive general pop culture ideas.

Form: didn’t really say. They only commented on the creative nonfiction piece being 5,000 words or less.
Artistry: the only thing to really focus on is the structure, grammar and potent story idea. Some of the issue I skimmed through weren’t that sophisticated or extremely intense in composition. must be 5,000 words or l
• Fiction and nonfiction pieces must 00 words or
• The author’s name and contact information should not appear anywhere on the manuscript.
• The Submission Manager provides a form to enter the author’s name, address, phone number, e-mail, a brief bio, and other information of the submitte

 y, and creative nonfiction the Berkshires of Western n Co

reflective writing

I’ve made critical assessment regarding my understanding of creative nonfiction and the class (ENG4017) in general arriving at compact and constructive ideas.

I recall attempting to define creative nonfiction during the first day of class. Though not ignorant of the subject at hand, my analysis amounted vague ideas. I remember saying, “Creative Nonfiction is a type of writing that bridges nonfiction (which is factual) with different writing styles. Such writing styles include or could be satire or comedy, memoir, narrative and even sports writing. As long as they are factual, the style which one chooses to write could build up to an end product that is Creative Nonfiction.

More so, Creative Nonfiction creates scenes or pictures that I believe equates and embodies what this type of writing entails. They way events or ideas are described or segmented coins Creative Nonfiction. There are many types of nonfiction writings. However, the STYLE is what sets Creative Nonfiction from the rest, and it is this idea that is key. I must affirm that creativity centers on the idea of style or styling.”

The idea of creating and blog and posting entries came to my liking. Knowing I haven’t had an opportunity to showcase my writing, the blog created an outlet to have my pieces read. Through the blog, I was able to post four pieces of essays categorizing as “I” essay and “eye” essay. The “I” essay were very essay to write. Writing form the first person was something I knew and enjoyed doing long before enrolling in this class. However, the second kind of essays, the “eye” essays proof to be very difficult. It was then that I realized that as a creative nonfictionist, I more susceptible to writing “I” essays then “Eye” essays. The “eye” essay requires the writer to tell a story of another which had either been told to him or her or which him or her witnessed.

Going to the carriage house was a very fascinating part of the class. We all had the opportunity to read our story out loud in front of the class. Unaccustomed and uneasy to public reading, I felt a joyful release. There were many great stories exhibited by classmates whom I admired reading the pieces. Josh’s piece was brilliant. I intend to request a copy to have for myself. I look forward to the next installation.

Going for money. If a student has his or her work publish by any publication venues, that student has an automatic A for the class. Words of Dr. Chandler as she discussed we would be searching for suitable publication to send any one of our writing. Browsing the list of publications, I arrived at upstreet as my desired choice. Upstreet is a very open, free and fair publication that calls out for submissions of prose, poetry, and nonfiction. Upon reading some of their past and current publish pieces; I realized that my story fits well with some of the stories that have been published.
Now I ask myself, what have I gained form this class in regards to writing and creative nonfiction. If I cannot answer this question then my time has been wasted. Therefore, since I believe what I know is a potent response, I can say with affirmation; I feel the class was developmental and instrumental to building me as a writer to look out for.
As of this point in the class, I’ve learned how to write using styling. Styling creates a scene, mood, tone and so forth. Creative nonfiction is a stylistic genre. I learned to write descriptively, painting pictures through descriptive and telling details. I learned to allow my writing to have dynamic and prospective, which in fact can bring sophistication or twist to the piece. I learned to distance myself from the story in order to better see the story; that which I was told is a part of building a character. Building a character is very important. This is how the reader sees the author or protagonist if there is one. Through the use of journal writing, I was able to familiarize myself with my strength and weakness as a writer. Because of the journal, I have many colorful stories and writing exercises that may serve future purpose. As a testament to the class, journal writing has become a healthy practice for.
Creative nonfiction made me fall in love with writing again. My thoughts always seem to be following freely, thanks to the visual or practical exercises we do before writing. Goodbye writers block.
It has indeed been a pleasure and a tremendous learning experience taking creative nonfiction with Dr. Chandler.

publication venue

i venue i chose for publication is upstreet. it is a very open publication to poetry, nonfiction, essay and prose. As i navigated the sight, i realized that half of their publications, past to current issues were nonfiction. this resognates well with me considering that my desire piece is nonfiction, specifically creative nonfiction.



I read some of the nonfiction pieces to weight the magnitude or scale of writing being excepted. from what i gathered, they aren't to literate and sophistaceted or for that matter upscale than what i have written. with some fine touches her and there, i can be able to resourcefully present something that will be read and considered.



they are asking for not less than a thousand words. submission is free entry and im with the deadly for the next publication.



they have many postings, past and present that interested parties can read. listed is a contact info which i tried and succesfully went through but couldn't really talk because i was at work.



for all of those reason i decided to go with upstreet publication as my desired publication venue.

bringing in the new year (essay 2 - revised for submission)

Hamilton Marks, Jr.
Creative Nonfiction
Revised version (Essay # 2)
Dr. Chandler
November 22, 2010

Bringing In The New Year


Last New Year, I spend almost three hundred dollars in singles ($1) putting
money on the bodies of exotic dancers and drinking bottles upon bottles of well
refrigerated Heineken. I was young and unattached with little, almost no care in world,
except for the waves in my hair and being around women. A typical young adult. Though
thinking of those days makes me want to extract the word adult; something which my
behavior completely contrasted. I had my hands in places were I dare not mention in the
presence of my parents. At twelve, confetti came falling from the ceiling while naked
women were yelling HAPPY NEW YEAR! Over the years I made many resolutions to
quit going to such arenas, yet I realized I was too easily distracted and convinced when I
saw myself sitting on a stool drinking Heineken and receiving dollar pleasures.
My best friend, Solomon and I had plans to celebrate the New Year with a bang.
I spent almost the entire day at his house as we were discussing things to do for the night.
We talked about going to the strip club, a bar, then a regular club, before spending the
night at two of his female friends’ house. We had it all figure out for what would become
a fun filled and remembered New Year. As we were discussing, his mother came in
haven overheard our conversation. She began talking about how time and traveling to
America has changed everything.
“On New Year’s Day, we awoke to the dances of the masquerades and the loud beating of Djembes (African tradition drums). We spent time working together, preparing a befitting meal for the family. Later we wine and dine as a family and give thanks to God for the OLD and the NEW”. Before the rise of the moon, we would have celebrated to at least three traditional masquerades. The cultural dances were always a sight to see. Traditional dancers wearing thatch and necklace made of ivory dance along with the masquerade as the Djembe player collects money from the audience. It is said that the dances have meaning, but I’ve never been able to interpret them. Anyway, this is how we celebrate the New Year. Upon her comment, I began to recollect and reflect on what I remember about New Year’s Day in Liberia, and my experience with a masquerade as a child.
“ONCE UPON A TIME. Far away in the forest lived a child who was so ugly that children would run away from him as adults would stare curiously. He bared scars and soars all over his body that brought out a foul smell. He had freakishly large eyeball that size up with a crystal ball. Also, on his repulsive face were two enormous wax filled ear that left dripping remains of ear wax. It was said that the child had no parents. He came to being form the spirits of the land, feeding only on children and drinking only palm oil. He spent many years isolated in the forest to avoid laughter and mockery because of his looks. As time went by, already a man, he decided to get a bit braver by entering the city but things were still the same. Children would still run in fear as adults would stare peculiarly. Thus, he decided to wear a mask to hide his identity, subsequently stopping the running and staring by the town’s people. He would come to the city and dance for any audience to get him some money to feed and clothed. People enjoyed his dancing very much not knowing who he was. Children loved him as they would come to play with him (touching his gourmets so he could run after them). The dancing and the child’s play became quite a familiar scene. Not knowing his name or who he was, he soon became known as The Masquerade, a figure of excitement and festivity, tied down to the tradition of the New Year.
I woke to the smell of the delicious African Style beans and rice. The smell led me directly to the kitchen where I saw my mother preparing our New Year’s Day meal. I was annoyed realizing that I wasn’t the first person awake, but happy because it was New Year’s Day. New Year’s Day has always been one of my favorite times of the year next to Christmas. I wanted to indulge in the pleasure of waking up everyone. Thinking that six (6) was early enough, I was baffled and astonished to meet mother up before then. Looking at how far she’d gone in the meal preparation, she must have been up for hours. I said my good morning before visiting the rooms, waking up everyone in the house. Daddy was the first, then Ephraim, Rufus, Patience, Calvin, Goode, Kpene, and Uncle Mark (who would come over every New Year’s Eve to spend the holiday with us. They all woke with a fierce frown on their faces; exclaiming-“it’s too early”! Awoken with displeasure and exasperation they individually headed to the bathroom to freshen up. After taking their morning showers, the women joined mother in the kitchen as the men sat around watching soccer and drinking beer and soft drinks. I took Goode (my younger brother) outside the house where we went to pick up whipping stick for the masquerade. Goode is the closest to me in age and companionship. I called him my little sidekick.
About nine (9) in the morning, mother was done with the meal which was placed on the dining table. Drenched in sweat from the heat and smoke of the firewood, she went upstairs to freshen up. Shortly after, I began to hear the beating of Djembes which preceded loud singing and chanting. Recognizing the approaching sound, I quickly ran outside with my whipping stick. There I saw the tallest masquerade ever! It was about twelve (12) feet tall, attired in a gourmet made from the thatch of the palm. It wore wooden, rectangular shaped shoes with a chain of fish-bones tied around its mask. As it came even closer, I saw a crowd of about thirty (30) people behind the masquerade. Most of them were children ranging from eight (8) to eighteen (18). In Africa, even a twenty-one (31) years old man is still a child; especially if he is still living with his parents.
I joined the crowd, chasing after the masquerade and whipping it with my stick. Being the only one with a stick, I became the center of its diverse attention. As I approach closer to deliver another hit, amongst the midst of dancers it turned toward me and started running after me. It was relentless in its pursuit, chasing me everywhere I went. It must have followed me for about three (3) minutes around every corner and between every house. When it finally cut up to me, I had stubbed my toe on an old mango tree branch that lied in the middle of the road. There, I lied flat on the ground over crusted leaves and snail-shells. My hands, knees, and eye were bleeding from the impact of the fall and the strong contact to the branch and snail-shells. The masquerade stood over me in a conquest posture, before dancing around me and pouring white dust from his hands on my injured and tired body like a chef seasoning a meal. As I lied helplessly, I could only ponder on what it was going to do to me. Then I recall father telling us the story about the masquerade that was birthed by the spirits of the land and fed only on children and palm oil. I was frightened out of my senses, only thinking that I was going to ferociously killed or devoured. I attempted rising in order to run away but it grabbed me and stood me up. It held me high, walking through the gasped and anticipated crowd before dancing at the performance square with me up high. It was looking for my parents who somehow managed to be at the scene despite all the festivities at home. It found them by their thunderous screaming and calling out. I was gently left before their feet as it continued the masquerade’s dance.
While still frightened, I was astonished that I wasn’t devoured or harmed by the masquerade. Was it a different masquerade from that of the story told by father? Is the story at all true? I began to question the occurrence in conjunction to father’s story. Nevertheless, with my condition being one not to be disregarded, I was Immediately taken to hospital where I was sought after. Later, I returned home to join the New Year’s Day dining and festivities with many questions.
As I had been quite for quite a while and obviously distant, I became alerted by Solomon tapping the right shoulder. It was time to head out to celebrate the New Year.

draft 4

Hamilton Marks, Jr.
Creative Nonfiction
Essay # 4
November 17, 2010

Santa Robbed A Christmas Cheer

The streets were isolated, as the heavy downpour invades the frigid December afternoon. The mood and feeling and of Christmas jingles the air, only indoors, whilst the snow appropriated its timing. Children stray away from their customary ply of making snow-angles and snow-fights but opted to eggnogs and singing along to Christmas carols. The trees and vehicles were cover in snow. The roads were wet and slippery as an effect to the snowing. Newark being a popular and populous city, it became astonishing to see the streets clear with only few automobiles moving here and there. The usual car theft and hustling were halted. The drug dealings and robberies seemed to have been postponed, - or has it?
Minutes before the coming of the snow, I felt urged to spend the Christmas with my friend Matthew. Matthew was the first person I became acquainted with on my first day of high school in America. As Africans, my family way of celebrating Christmas totally contrasted the way American families celebrated. We’d become so uncaring that we do not purchase and exchange gifts. No cards or eggnogs or even a Christmas tree. My parents prefer to feat on a huge goat or foul-chicken and drink the night away to dry gin or herbal roots.
Picking up more of an American way to celebrating the holidays, I found my house dried and boring. Sleep soon invaded the perimeter as full stomachs became feeble to a nap and strong eyes grew weary. The only attention grabber was the 60in Panasonic television that sat by the window in the living room, broadcasting Law and Order: the TNT crime drama. The episode was one I hadn’t seen. However, I needed to be amongst people who enjoyed the festivities of Christmas in an American sense. William my highs school friend and current best friend lived not too far from my house. Thus I thought to give him a ring. Upon his enthusiastically jubilant approval, I headed to his house.
Hanging on the door was a large picture of Jolly ol’ Mr. Cringle and colorful decorated lights of red, blue, green and yellow. I entered the house to the sound of Nat King Cole: “Chestnuts roasting o an open fire, Jack Frost nipping at your nose, Yuletide carols being sung by a choir, And folks dressed up like Eskimos. Everybody knows a turkey and some mistletoe, help to make the season bright, Tiny tots with their eyes all a-glow, will find it hard to sleep tonight. They know that Santa’s on his way, He’s loaded lots of toys and goodies on his sleigh, And every mother’s child is gonna spy, To see if reindeer really know how to fly. And so im offering this simple phrase, to kids from one to ninety-two, Although it’s been said, many times, many ways, merry Christmas to you. ”
Eggnogs and candy canes were at hand and in sight. A huge, luminous Christmas tree with peak ornaments of Christ the infant and Christ the adult radiate by the window. William two younger sisters, Lisa and Winell continuously sang along to the radio all the carols that played. Their singing must have been stimulated by the sugary rush from the candy canes as they weren’t allowed to consume eggnogs which had been induced with a percentage of alcohol.
“William I need you to get me some stuff from the corner store. Here take this – and be careful” his mother said. Saying he will be back in a flash, he left me in the living room with a plate of macaroni salad and a cocktail. As he told everyone in a surprisingly calm tone; “I just got robbed.” On his way back from the corner store, he encountered a burgundy Oldsmobile that at first slowly passed him. The vehicle came back for the second time, this instance asking for direction. With caution, he stood from a far and announced direction to the required destination. The driver left with what William thought was an intention of getting to their destination.
Surprisingly, the Oldsmobile driver came back for the third time asking for detailed direction to their destination. Haven spoken to him twice but only from a far, William felt comfortable enough to approach the vehicle. His bravery soon became unfortunate. Two guys came out of the Oldsmobile baring arms, asking William to give up any money he had. Unresistingly he obliged, fearing that he might be injured or even killed.
They took his money, watch, and groceries he had purchased for his mother. Ruthless and unsatisfied with what they had taken from him, they violently beat him down to the snow while he laid screaming and crying. After inflicting on him immeasurable amount of pain they ran into the car in order to quickly drive away. As the engine revs, one of the robbers yelled to William, MERRY CHRITSMAS NIGGA then drove off laughing.
As he was telling his family the story, I couldn’t help but reflect on a similar incident that occurred with me. I came from the club at 3 in the morning. Attempting to open my door, a man came from behind me holding a gun. He asked for money which I quickly give him. The he walked away as if nothing transpired.
William story is a testament to what living in a city as disturbed and poverty stricken as Newark has in store. One can fall victim anytime, even on a glorious and tranquil holiday such a Christmas. With the drug and crime rate soaring to towering heights, nothing and no one is untouchable. the city has become a horror zone. The politician are corrupted, the school system is infected and the future seem defected.

However, it is important to always try to obtain the good from any or every bad situation. Thus through it all, we give God the Glory. His will shall be done.

Jingle bells - jingle bells, santa robbed a christmas cheer.

pre-draft essay 4

Hamilton Marks, Jr.
Creative Nonfiction
Essay # 4
November 17, 2010

Santa Robbed A Christmas Cheer

The streets were isolated, as the heavy downpour invades the frigid December afternoon. The mood and feeling and of Christmas jingles the air, only indoors, whilst the snow appropriated its timing. Children stray away from their customary ply of making snow-angles and snow-fights but opted to eggnogs and singing along to Christmas carols. The trees and vehicles were cover in snow. The roads were wet and slippery as an effect to the snowing. Newark being a popular and populous city, it became astonishing to see the streets clear with only few automobiles moving here and there. The usual car theft and hustling were halted. The drug dealings and robberies seemed to have been postponed, - or has it?
Minutes before the coming of the snow, I felt urged to spend the Christmas with my friend Matthew. Matthew was the first person I became acquainted with on my first day of high school in America. As Africans, my family way of celebrating Christmas totally contrasted the way American families celebrated. We’d become so uncaring that we do not purchase and exchange gifts. No cards or eggnogs or even a Christmas tree. My parents prefer to feat on a huge goat or foul-chicken and drink the night away to dry gin or herbal roots.
Picking up more of an American way to celebrating the holidays, I found my house dried and boring. Sleep soon invaded the perimeter as full stomachs became feeble to a nap and strong eyes grew weary. The only attention grabber was the 60in Panasonic television that sat by the window in the living room, broadcasting Law and Order: the TNT crime drama. The episode was one I hadn’t seen. However, I needed to be amongst people who enjoyed the festivities of Christmas in an American sense. William my highs school friend and current best friend lived not too far from my house. Thus I thought to give him a ring. Upon his enthusiastically jubilant approval, I headed to his house.
Hanging on the door was a large picture of Jolly ol’ Mr. Cringle and colorful decorated lights of red, blue, green and yellow. I entered the house to the sound of Nat King Cole: “Chestnuts roasting o an open fire, Jack Frost nipping at your nose, Yuletide carols being sung by a choir, And folks dressed up like Eskimos. Everybody knows a turkey and some mistletoe, help to make the season bright, Tiny tots with their eyes all a-glow, will find it hard to sleep tonight. They know that Santa’s on his way, He’s loaded lots of toys and goodies on his sleigh, And every mother’s child is gonna spy, To see if reindeer really know how to fly. And so im offering this simple phrase, to kids from one to ninety-two, Although it’s been said, many times, many ways, merry Christmas to you. ”
Eggnogs and candy canes were at hand and in sight. A huge, luminous Christmas tree with peak ornaments of Christ the infant and Christ the adult radiate by the window. William two younger sisters, Lisa and Winell continuously sang along to the radio all the carols that played. Their singing must have been stimulated by the sugary rush from the candy canes as they weren’t allowed to consume eggnogs which had been induced with a percentage of alcohol.
“William I need you to get me some stuff from the corner store. Here take this – and be careful” his mother said. Saying he will be back in a flash, he left me in the living room with a plate of macaroni salad and a cocktail. As he told everyone in a surprisingly calm tone; “I just got robbed.” On his way back from the corner store, he encountered a burgundy Oldsmobile that at first slowly passed him. The vehicle came back for the second time, this instance asking for direction. With caution, he stood from a far and announced direction to the required destination. The driver left with what William thought was an intention of getting to their destination.
Surprisingly, the Oldsmobile driver came back for the third time asking for detailed direction to their destination. Haven spoken to him twice but only from a far, William felt comfortable enough to approach the vehicle. His bravery soon became unfortunate. Two guys came out of the Oldsmobile baring arms, asking William to give up any money he had. Unresistingly he obliged, fearing that he might be injured or even killed.
They took his money, watch, and groceries he had purchased for his mother. Ruthless and unsatisfied with what they had taken from him, they violently beat him down to the snow while he laid screaming and crying. After inflicting on him immeasurable amount of pain they ran into the car in order to quickly drive away. As the engine revs, one of the robbers yelled to William, MERRY CHRITSMAS NIGGA then drove off laughing.
As he was telling his family the story, I couldn’t help but reflect on a similar incident that occurred with me. I came from the club at 3 in the morning. Attempting to open my door, a man came from behind me holding a gun. He asked for money which I quickly give him. The he walked away as if nothing transpired.
William story is a testament to what living in a city as disturbed and poverty stricken as Newark has in store. One can fall victim anytime, even on a glorious and tranquil holiday such a Christmas. With the drug and crime rate soaring to towering heights, nothing and no one is untouchable. However, it is important to always try to obtain the good from any or every bad situation. Thus through it all, we give God the Glory. His will shall be done.

pre-writing esssay 4

intially i was a bit lost attempting to gather constructive ideas for essay 4. i found myself thinking about possible eye/descriptive story that i can narrate. most of what i recollected were I stories rather than EYE stories. i came to a conclusion that i'm more susceptible to grapg personal stories than stories that doesn't focus on me as a central character. It became difficult, an i sought an advice from nashira who told me, "just get a piece of paper and start puting down anything that comes to mind. Forget about if they are connected. looking at what you have writting should and would set platform for or trigger a story of interest or relevence." After doing just that, i was able to come up with...

story/idea-- a story that dealt with a friend of mine getting robbed on christmas. His i went visting to exeperience a good christmas unlike what i usually experience at home. shortly fater i got there, his mother sent him to the store to get some grocery. i was stop by men in a oldsmobile who required direction. while giving the direction, he was robbed and badly beaten.

style-- i used my personal robbery experience to built the story in full, and also express my understanding of the pain he endured and to simply express sympathy.

the beginning of the story is set to a wintery december afternoon in Newark, NJ. I included what living in Newark amounts to and how christmas is celebrated.

essay # 3

Hamilton Marks, Jr.
Creative Nonfiction
Essay 3
October 29, 2010

Jerry Springer


I’ve long enjoyed the chaotic and demoralized dynamics of Jerry Springer, the television show that airs on channel eleven (11) at 11:00am. The ideas of infidelity, fornication and brute physical bouts magnets my attention. Though a shy character in the public eye, the reverse might portray me similar to entities conveyed on Jerry Springer. A psychologist might say the talk show warrants my inhibition in an outlet which is Jerry Springer, and set room for personal identification, hence my reticent personality suppresses my exhibition. Ten (10) years in the rough, violent city that is Newark has giving me liking to things I normally would shy from. I’ve had many intense arguments, and fists fights; some because of women and some due to gang confrontation or misidentification. Through careful consideration, one might say some aspects of my life exemplify the talk show.

I vividly recalled an episode that that centered on women promiscuity, infidelity and outrage. The producers titled it, Jerry Springer’s – Girls Gone Wild. Personally, I thought the title was condescending and unflattering. They are all women, why call them girls? I believe our behaviors as adults are tantamount to the respect and dignity we receive. To cut long story short, the end of the show presented frustrated, agonized and rebellious women who should instead represent womanhood, motherhood and intelligence. They had all been fighting over men who obviously did not care for them. Pardon me, but I see this as good material for writing, only for the sense of drama. However, why do women give in to men and loose themselves. I was once told “its better to loose a lover then love a looser.”

The shrill and irritating buzzing of my Toshiba alarm clock woke me up at 3:30am in the morning in order to prepare for work. I heard a distinct noise that obstructed my morning ritual of tooth brushing, showering and a glass of cold grapefruit juice. Still experiencing the effect of just waking up, I slowly walked toward the window, yarning and wiping my eyes. I pulled the curtain left, to the side and saw a view unlike no other. Directly across the street in front of the newly constructed house were a group of young women between the ages of 19-27. I estimated about fifteen, all involved in fierce arguments and fists fight.

I ignored the chaos outside my window and ran into the bathroom to prepare for work. Within twenty (20) minutes, I was ready to go to work with almost thirty (30) minutes to spare. Looking back on that day, I assumed it was my interest in the ruckus outside that encouraged me to hasten my preparation for work. With time to spare, I went back to the window and this time cracked it open. I could clearly see and hear what was going on. Amongst the crowd of women I recognized three of the ladies who live across the street in the new house. The few whom I recognized as resident from the new building were partially nude; wearing only panties and bras. As I sat by the window in my bedroom, looking at the scene, I could see, wigs coming out as fists being swung, legs rose in attempt to kick, handbags threw and etc. Honestly these girls around here fight like men. There was one that could throw a fist as good as Mike Tyson. Whomever she attacked seemed to retreat in fear and in a hurry as she was just too fierce.

While this was going on, the boyfriend of one of the nude girls of the three, whom I have befriended sat on the hood of his car as his girlfriend and sister-in-law wrestle and tussle in the middle of the street. He sat there enjoying the spectacle with a smoke in his mouth showing little interest in stopping the fight and vast interest in finding pleasure from it. I must admit, men love to watch women fight, hoping to see a bit of or total nudity. When one of the girls breast was revealed during the fight, I look back at my girlfriend who was sound to sleep. Then I checked the time on the Toshiba alarm clock and drank a bit of my grapefruit juice. It was time for me to leave for work as I took my bag pack and airport id before heading out of the house.

Outside, in front of the house, before taking my last step off the porch, the police siren alerted the troublesome crowd that quickly disbursed. Still on the scene, I was stopped and questioned by the police about my knowledge and involvement in the incident. I first identified myself before telling them that I was simply on my way to work with my airport id at hand.

There are episode of Jerry Springer that arises on occasions in our lives. Depending on whom we are, the incident can escalate to something harsh or otherwise. Recently, my mother and my girlfriend got into a heated argument whilst I was out running errands with my friend. There has been a building tension between my mother and my girlfriend for the past year. My girlfriend sees my mother as overly nurturing, whilst my mother claims my girlfriend has no respect for me and doesn’t treat me properly. To cut long story short, names were called as impulses went high over dear Hamilton. Honestly, it rips a man apart to know that his mother and his girlfriend don’t get alone. Who do you side with and what do you say?

We all have experienced our own Jerry Springer. It is that argument you have had with someone that annoyed or wronged you. It is your first or tenth fight with a friend or an enemy. It is that moment that you look back on saying, wow I can’t believe I did that. Well you can definitely count me in regard those moments. I’ve lived and seen a few, baring scares and memories as evidence. Ladies and gentlemen: Jerry Springer.

brainstorming - essay #3

I've decided to have a correlation of stories. the first one will introduce the main story or idea. the second story, which is the middle story will be what the essay is centered on. the third and last piece will support and conclude the essay.

for the central idea to the essay, i chose to look at a scene which i saw peeking through my bedroom window. it was a group of about fifteen young ladies involved in a fierce brawl because of a man.

I related this story to the television talk show, Jerry Springer. if you have seen Jerry Springer, you will know that it has nothing to do with solving problems as some talk shows do. instead, it showcases, infidelity, promiscuity, and brute physical strength such as my main story (the girl fight).

some themes that will be prevalent are; love, respect for oneself, and how media wants to look at women in contrast to how reality portrays women.

this essay set home, close to my heart. recently my mother and my girlfriend got into a heated argument on the account of me. i was put in a situation were i had to pick between my mother and my girlfriend. i hint a piece of this drama in the essay, as means to identify with those who has went through a so called "Jerry Springer".

essay # 2

What is Love?

Imagine waking up to the sounds of grenades and rapid fire from AK’s, berretta, M16’s, RPG’s and Pistols. The mere recollection or this nightmare shivers my skin and causes me to perspire peculiarly. Frankly, I find it easy to face my fears of height, water and dogs than revert to the days when the vacuousness and misplacement of rights as free citizens amounted to the greatest catastrophe in my nation’s history. The nation in reference is Liberia, a small country on the west coast of Africa, bordering north of the Atlantic Ocean. Once a peaceful nations, she soon became disturbed by multiple of individuals inquisition for power and wealth. The talks of war became an article when a soldier in the Liberian Armed Forces, Samuel K. Doe, marched in the Executive Mansion with commandos and killed the president at the time, William R. Tolbert. From here on things began to shift from good to bad. Security became a massive failure. The economy was in a horrible shape as education dwarfed. With Tolbert dead and Doe now in charge, the country submerged into a state of chaos and unrest. Soon, other entities felt sure and willing to revolt against the government in uncivil manners. Their revolting soon escalates to the bloodiest and most destructive war in Africa’s History.
We had no cause to celebrate that night. We dined our supper the usual time after which we retired to the living room to telling stories and make jokes as we often do. Oh how I loved when the family is together to have moments like this. It is quite jubilant; especially when you’re as stuffed a turkey on Thanksgiving. I was about twelve (12) years old at the time. The boisterousness of that moment drowned the sound of Hardaway’s “What is love”. I wasn’t the dancing type to keep pace with such a fast tempo song, yet my two steps with a snap seemed to satisfy its rhythm. I wasn’t far from the old AM Radio that sat in the corner of the room, on the table which daddy usually leaves his ashtray. The artist’s strong powerful voice - WHAT IS LOVE, caught my attention as I leaned over to increase the volume. For about three (3) seconds, everyone became quiet with only a strong look toward me. Suddenly, my father got up and took my mother by the hand and started to dance with her; not like what you see on dancing with the stars. They are “old school”, don’t expect anything spectacular. Soon everyone began to rise with excitement to dance the night away, as if we could. I’m sure that was my junior brother’s intention as he did just that. After the song ended, I sat back down in the corner and washed my brother dance the night away. He seemed captivated in something beyond the music that persisted his dancing. I thought he was crazy seeing that he still danced when there wasn’t any tune to jam to. Now the only person on the dance floor, he kept dancing till two (2) in the morning. By then he was tired and couldn’t dance anymore. We all went to bed hoping to have good dreams as we sure did have a good reality.
The next morning, around seven, mother began to indecorously knock on our doors, screaming “WAKE UP! WAKE UP! Do your hear that? WAKE UP!” I woke up to the sound of rapid gunfire and heavy grenades. As we sat there thinking of what to do, I became drowned in fear, wondering if we were going to die. I was twelve (12) what do you expect when a child hears gunshots and grenades. Father looking out the window saw people leaving their houses with all the belongings. We quickly joined the crowd, looking to seek refuge at an unknown place. As I walked from one street to the next, I could see people with radio, suitcases, and mothers carrying their babies tied to the back with traditional African cloth. The streets were filled with great number of people. I swear I haven’t seen that much people anywhere at anytime. During this chaos I could see and hear a lady crying for her missing child. She knew not what to do as she sat there in tears. I guess we were heading the wrong direction as we could see rebels hanging from jeeps and pickup trucks with guns waving in the air. They were easily identified by their red t-shirts with red scarves or red bandanas. We got to a checkpoint where I saw people standing in three separate lines. The lines were men, women and children (boys and girls). One of the rebels came toward us beating everyone to get in the lines that belong to them. Proper formation, he said. As I stood in the line, to the left of me was a huge pit full with bodies of people they’d cool heartedly murdered. I could see men with missing genitals, women and men with missing arms and legs and children with bullet or knife wound that ended killing them. Seeing a decapitated body lying feet away from you is something hard to swallow. That alone can bring out the cowardice out of any man.
After standing in the line for a while, one of the rebels recognized by father. As it turned out, my father was his instructor at the police academy. He told his group that he can vouch that my father is a good man. He insisted they let us go. Reluctantly, the group give us passage to the other side of the city.
Recently, out of my busy schedule, I found myself watching television. I’m tuned in to TNT; watching Law and Order while having a box of chicken and taking down a couple of bottles of Heineken. At commercial break, after the Geico commercial came a Pepsi commercial. The Pepsi commercial accompanied a very familiar song. “What is love, baby don’t hurt me. Don’t hurt me; no more”. The moment I heard the song, tear sat in the corner of my eyes as my hand began to shake. If I had looked in the mirror that instant, I’m sure I would have discovered that my eyes were past red. It’s quite funny how as a child I was able to repress those emotions. Now as an adult, those emotions seem to come out easily.
I look back on my life knowing that I’m indeed blessed to have made it this far. There was a good chance of me involuntarily becoming a child soldier or end up lying dead in one of those pits, missing some body parts. What is love? Love is that helping hand that God sends our way when he realizes we need one.

brainstorming (essay #2)

the second installation of the "I Essay"

for essay two i write about my experience during the first day of a 14 years civil war. I give background of where i come from before talking about the war and my feelings about it. the background introduces the story.

I included other characters and voices as they were present for that ordeal. other characters include; mother, my junior brother, and i found a way to present music as a motif and in a way an circling charecter to all that transpired.

Music=hardaway, what is love

i used the the pit scene as a recognition of growth (from child to adult).

when the rebel recognized my father, that became the climax of the story, eventhough it comes at the end.

lesson to be learned, God is always in control, and strange things happens, and somtimes happiness brings sadness.

what went well in the first essay

the first essay was more of an adventure for me. i had the opportunity and time to try out a new and different style of writing contrary to my straight forward approach. my ability to tell a story with the story should create an interesting twist or prospect to the full story.

I try to stay personal, which is required for this essay. more importantly, i think to told the story well. there is no vague area, or area that needs interpretation. i seriously try to avoid that.

i would say i was successful in introducing hamilton the child and adult well.Hamilton the child living the story in africa, and hamilton the adult visualizing the story in America.

As hamilton the adult is reminising, i had to stay on the theme of New Year, making his present-NEW YEAR'S DAY.

My description painted clear pictures that the readers can easily visualize.

It was a exciting experience. something that i would like to work on more.

essay #1 ( i essay)

The Masquerade

My best friend Solomon and I had plans to celebrate the New Year with a bang. I spent almost the entire day at his house as we were discussing things to do for the night. We talked about going to the strip club, a bar, then the club, before spending the night at two of his female friends’ house. We had it all figure out for what would become a fun filled and remembered New Year. As we were discussing, his mother came in haven overheard our conversation. With much distress companying a brief silence, she began talking about how time and traveling to America have changed us. “On New Year’s Day, we were woken up to the dances of the masquerades and the beating of loud congos. We spent time working together as a family, preparing a befitting meal. Later we dined and drank as a family and give thanks to God for the OLD and the NEW, as well as the GOOD and the BAD”. Upon her comment, I began to recollect and reflect on what I remember about New Year’s Day in Liberia, and my experience with a masquerade as a child.

“ONCE UPON A TIME. Far away in the forest lived a child who was so ugly that children would run away from him as adults would stare curiously. He bared scars and soars all over his body that brought out a foul smell. Peculiarly, he had only one large eye and one large ear that sat on his repulsive face. His freakishly large eyeball could size up with a crystal ball. It was said that the child had no parents. He came to being form the spirits of the land, feeding only on children and drinking only palm oil (the red oil produce from the nut of a palm). He spent many years isolated in the forest to avoid laughter and mockery because of his looks. As time went by, already a man, he decided to get a bit braver by entering the city but things were still the same. Children would still run in fear as adults would stare curiously. So he decided to wear a mask to hide his identity, subsequently stopping the running and staring by town’s people. He would come to the city and dance for any audience to get him some money to feed and clothed. People enjoyed his dancing very much not knowing who he was. Children loved him as they would come to play with him (touching his gourmets so he could run after them). The dancing and the child’s play became quite a familiar scene. He soon became known as The Masquerade, a figure of excitement and festivity, tied down to the tradition of the New Year.

I woke to the smell of the delicious African Style beans and rice. The smell led me directly to the kitchen where I saw my mother preparing our New Year’s Day meal. I was annoyed realizing that I wasn’t the first person awake, but happy because it was New Year’s Day. New Year’s Day has always been one of my favorite times of the year next to Christmas. I wanted to indulge in the pleasure of waking up everyone. Thinking that six (6) was early enough, I was baffled and astonished to meet mother up before then. Looking at how far she’d gone in the meal preparation, she must have been up for hours. After saying my good morning, I visited each room, waking up everyone in the house. Daddy was the first, then Ephraim, Rufus, Patience, Calvin, Goode, Kpene, and Uncle Mark (who would come over every New Year’s Eve to spend the holiday with us. They all woke with a fierce frown on their faces; exclaiming-“it’s too early”! Awoken with displeasure and exasperation they individually headed to the bathroom. After taking their morning showers, the women joined mother in the kitchen as the men sat around watching soccer and drinking beer and soft drinks. I took Goode (my younger brother) outside of the house where we went to pick whipping stick for the masquerade. Goode is the closest to me in age and companionship. He’s like my little sidekick.

About nine (9) in the morning, mother was done with the meal which was placed on the dining table. Drenched in sweat from the heat and smoke of the firewood, she went upstairs to freshen up. Shortly after, I began to hear the beating of congos which preceded singing and chanting. Recognizing the approaching sound, I quickly ran outside with my whipping stick. There I saw the tallest masquerade ever! It was about twelve (12) feet tall, attired in a gourmet made from the thatch of the palm. It wore wooden, rectangular shaped shoes with a chain of fish-bones tied around its mask. As it came even closer, I saw a crowd of about thirty (30) people behind the masquerade. Most of them were children ranging from eight (8) to eighteen (18). In Africa, even a twenty-one (21) years old man is still a child; especially if he is still living with his parents.

I joined the crowd, chasing after the masquerade and whipping it with my stick. Being the only one with a stick, I became the center of its diverse attention. As I approach closer to deliver another hit, it turned toward me and started running after me. It was relentless in its pursuit, chasing me everywhere I went. It must have followed me for about three (3) minutes by every corner and between every house. When it finally cut up to me, I had stubbed my toe on a tree branch that lied in the middle of the road. There, I lied flat on the ground over dried, crusted leaves and snail-shells. My hands, knees, and eye were bruised bleeding from the impact of the fall and the contact of the branch and snail-shells. The masquerade stood over me, then started dancing around me pouring dust from his hands on my injured and tired body like a chef seasoning a meal. As I lied helplessly, I could only ponder on what it was going to do to me. Then I recall father telling us the story about the masquerade that was birthed by the spirits of the land and fed only on children and palm oil. I was frightened out of my senses that he was going to devour me. I try to get up and run away but it grabbed me and stood me up. It held me high as it danced through the crowd. I would have never conceived the thought that it was looking for my parents who somehow managed to be at the scene despite all the festivities at home. It found them by their screaming, vigorous hand movement and calling out for me. I was then left before their feet covered in an indescribable colt of powder and sweat that couldn’t stop pouring out of my frightened soul. For one brave second, I looked square at the mask figure with confusion. Yet still, it continued dancing. While still frightened, I was astonished that I wasn’t devoured or harmed by the masquerade. Immediately, I was taken to hospital where I was sought after, later returning home to join the New Year’s Day dining and festivities.

As I had been quiet for quite a while and obviously distant, I became alerted by Solomon tapping my right shoulder. It was time to leave the house. The reminiscing was positive and helped me relive an important childhood memory, but I was not about to pass out on a night like this. We headed out with each man baring a bottle of opened Heineken. My story of a child’s New York and the masquerade had drowned in a bottle of brew.

draft 1

New Year's Day

My best friend Solomon and I had plans to celebrate the New Year with a bang. I spent almost the entire day at his house as we were discussing things to do for the night. We talked about going to the strip club, a bar, then the club, before spending the night at two of his female friends’ house. As we were discussing, his mother came in haven overheard our conversation. She began talking about how time and traveling to America has changed everything. “On New Year’s Day, by waking up to the dances of the masquerades, dined and drink as a family and give thanks to God for the NEW AND THE OLD”. Upon her comment, I began to recollect and reflect on what I remember about New Year’s Day in Liberia, and my experience with a masquerade.
“ONCE UPON A TIME. Far away in the forest lived a child who was so ugly that children would run away from him as adults would stare curiously. It was said that the child had no parents. He came to being form the spirits of the land, feeding on only children and drinking only palm oil. He spent many years isolated in the forest to avoid laughter and mockery because of his looks. As time went by, already a man, he decided to get a bit braver by entering the city but things were still the same. Children would still run in fear as adults would stare curiously. So he decided to wear a mask to hide his identity, subsequently stopping the running and staring by town’s people. He would come to the city and dance for any audience to get him some money to feed and clothed. People enjoyed his dancing very much not knowing who he was. Children loved him as they would come to play with him (touching his gourmets so he could run after them). The dancing and the child’s play became quite a familiar scene. He soon became known as The Masquerade, a figure of excitement and festivity, tied down to our tradition of the New Year.
I woke to the smell of the delicious African Style beans and rice. The smell led me directly to the kitchen where I saw my mother preparing our New Year’s Day meal. I was annoyed realizing that I wasn’t the first person awake, but happy because it was New Year’s Day. New Year’s Day has always been one of my favorite times of the year next to Christmas. I wanted to indulge in the joy of waking up everyone. Thinking that six (6) was early enough, I was baffled and astonished to meet mother up before then. Looking at how far she’d gone in the meal preparation, she must have been up for hours. After saying my good morning, I went ahead, waking up everyone in the house. Daddy was the first, the Ephraim, Rufus, Patience, Calvin, Goode, Kpene, and Uncle Mark (who would come over every New Year’s Eve to spend to holiday with us. They all woke with a fierce frown on their faces; exclaiming-“it’s too early”! After taking their morning showers, the women joined mother in the kitchen as the men sat around watching soccer and drinking beer and soft drinks. I took Goode (my younger brother) outside the house where we went to pick up whipping stick for the masquerade.
Around nine (9) in the morning, mother was done with the meal which was placed on the dining table. Shortly after, I began to hear the beating of congos which preceded singing and chanting. Recognizing the approaching sound, I quickly ran outside with my whipping stick. There I saw the tallest masquerade ever! It was about twelve (12) feet tall, attired in a gourmet made from the thatch of the palm. As I came closer, I saw a crowd of about thirty (30) people behind the masquerade. Most of them were children ranging from eight (8) to eighteen (18). In Africa, even a twenty-one (21) years old man is still a child; especially if he is still living with his parents.
I joined the crowd, chasing after the masquerade and whipping it with my stick. Being the only one with a stick, I became the center of its diverse attention. As I approach closer to deliver another hit, it turned toward me and started running after me. It was relentless in its pursuit, chasing me everywhere I went. It must have followed me for about three (3) minutes by every corner and between every house. When it finally cut up to me, I had stubbed my toe on a tree branch that lied in the middle of the road. There, I lied flat on the ground over crusted leaves and snail-shells. My hands, knees, and eye were bleeding from the impact of the fall and the contact of the branch and snail-shells. The masquerade stood over me, then started dancing around me pouring dust from his hands on my injured and tiered body like a chef seasoning a meal. As I lied helplessly, I could only pounder on what it was going to do to me. Then I recall father telling us the story about the masquerade that was birthed by the spirits of the land and fed only on children and palm oil. I was frightened out of my sense that he was going to devour me. I try to get up and run away but it grabbed me and stood me up. It held me high like a as it danced through the crowd. It was looking for my parents who somehow managed to be at the scene despite all the festivities at home. It found them by their screaming and calling out. I was then left before their feet as it continued dancing. While still frightened, I was astonished that I wasn’t devoured or harmed by the masquerade. Immediately, I was taken to hospital where I was sought after, later returning home to join the New Year’s Day dining and festivities.
As I had been quite for quite a while and obviously distant, I became alerted by tapping Solomon tapping the right shoulder. It was time to leave the house.

brainstorming

Idea – an adult experience and knowledge looking at a child’s fascination. How one’s fascination at times overrides one fear for something.

Definition of Masquerade – A cultural entity dressed in a collage of tradition attire pieces. It is fitted in rags that people wouldn’t normally wear as clothing. It measures from 6-12ft in height and its identity is undisclosed by a mask. It breaks the New Year by dancing in the streets for all to see and celebrate.

Setting – New Year’s Day. The setting rotates between United States and Liberia, West Africa.

Storyline – As children we were told to fear masquerades. They were allegedly wicked, grotesque, and inhuman. However, there had always been a strong tie with kids and masquerades. We would often hit or throw things at it, allowing it to chase it. Whilst doing just that, I feel to the rough, unfinished and unpaved motor road where I scrape the inner part of my palm and the knees. Surprisingly, I was assisted by the masquerade that was described negatively. In parts, in painting a picture of the festivities of New Year’s Day in West Africa.


Character/Point of View – First person point of view. Hamilton the adult is telling the story through the ideas of Hamilton the child.

Juxtaposition – I introduce an African Folk Tale about masquerades to properly be able to transcend my personal ordeal with masquerades. A

Lesson – you get to know people or things better through interaction instead of assuming. Also how one’s fascination at times overrides one fear for something. Not to mention the realization of childhood stories. There are a lot of lessons to be extracted from this piece. These are the three that are the strongest.

I am Hamilton Marks, Jr.
GOOD DAY!

"I" Essay of My Choice

Becoming What We’re Called, “Boy, Man, Fellow, Chap”. This is the story on which I decided to contemplate. It is written by Alice Walker, an African American Author and Poet who uses her works to tackle activism, feminism and identity. A prime example of her work is, “The Color Purple”, a fictional novel that won a Pulitzer Prize for Fiction in 1983.

“Becoming What We’re Called” like many of her works highlights the identity, distinction, and definition of a female; all of which echoes a great deal in the piece. Her issue in this essay was people (men or women) referring to women as “you guys”. Written in the first person, Alice Walker pronounces her dislikeness to the use of the words “you guys” towards women. She becomes aggravated with her best friend and everyone who referred to her as “you guys”. She points out that by calling women “guys” doesn’t do any justice to their personal identity, description, struggle and accomplishments. More so, “guy” as noun means “a boy or man: fellow: chap” and as a verb means “to tease; or to ridicule.” Now are women being ridicule by the use of the words “you guys”, or is it just used out of ignorance?

In the story, Miss Walker, uses her personal experiences and references (denotation) as a structure to build a strong impact and develop ideas to her view. She mention the story of the black man mentioning the word “nigger” while listening to his music, her trip around America and Europe where people would ask question referring to them as “you guys”, and the definition of the word “guy”; all as reasons to becoming what we’re called. I believe she right in that instances, events or certain things can make a word widespread. When a word becomes widespread, it tends to have either a negative or positive impact on a person. If I didn’t know Alice Walker, I would say she strikes me a well cultivated woman. She is someone who is very concern with what she says, and knows very well the power of the spoken word.

The piece is personal and written in the first person as Creative Nonfiction. It becomes personal via the pieces of stories she throw s into it. It is those very stories that shapes and enforces her point of view, creating a potent impact to the reader. By giving you the pieces of stories, she was able to acquire the distance to see herself and her point. Thus she builds herself as a character through personal involvement from the stories. Her voice is informative as it is frustrated. It is informative because she aims to teach women their true identity and how not to be consumed in general connotation and conformity. She is frustrated because “you guys” is something she cannot stop hearing.

I am Hamilton Marks, Jr.
GOOD DAY!

Relationship between meaning and form

The meaning of every piece of writing is equated to the idea, theme or message the piece is trying to convey. Be it explicit or brief, the meaning gives a specific piece of information to the reader. For Example, the meaning of Judith Ortiz Cofer’s “Silent Writing” is about the struggles (family and personal) with cultural assimilation and growth. I personally look for the who, what, where, when, and how then piece them together to obtain the meaning. Contrary from my personal technique, the meaning is obtained through either dialogue, or narration.

The form of a piece is the style in which the piece is drafted. The form often aligns with the meaning, either enforcing or reinforcing it. The form is usually built into scenes that highlight the meaning of a story. In Judith Ortiz Cofer’s “Silent Dancing”, Cofer used personal narration and the idea of a home movie to set the form of the story. As the narration highlights the meaning of the story, the movie supports. Interestingly, parts of the movie blends with the story and became one. In other words, the movie and the actual story will in parts be about the same thing.

The meaning and form of a story are similar in that one helps build the other. The form builds the meaning as the meaning is part of a form.

I am Hamilton Marks, Jr.
GOOD DAY!

Lott, Lopate & Kidder

My initial meaning of Creative Nonfiction displayed a broad view of the genre. The ideas or concepts were visible but lacking detailed and informative analysis. Now my view of this subject has shaped into a distinct, collected and well-formed scope. On this note I regress to how Lott says one can only obtain the definition of Creative Nonfiction via experience. I believe it is that experience (through reading and writing) that enabled me to understand and accurately define Creative Nonfiction. Ideas that resonated amongst the assigned readings were the understanding and use of character, voice, and the subject at hand.

The character is a very important aspect of Creative Nonfiction. It could establish the reader’s interest and build a potent and comprehensible point of view. According to Lopate, to construct a good character, one must mention and build upon the specifics. One must build character on ethnicity, gender, religion, class, geography, politic and so forth. Lopate and Kidder both align with a good character development bringing conflict and interest to the story.

Another aspect is the voice. The voice sets the tone (which could be comedy and tragedy). The tone ignites that believability the reader requires. It is upon that believability that this genre was built. The reader must be amused in other to continue to read or follow.

Every Creative Nonfiction piece needs a story to tell or idea to present. The writer’s ability to be comfortable with the subject rings important. He or she must first know how to create any realistic subject into Creative Nonfiction. The story doesn’t have to be about a great lost or win, nor does it have to be about happiness or sorrow. It can simply be about anything realistic and of interest to the writer. Examining and studying the subject is a positive way to start. Advice form the experts; distant yourself form the character in order to visualize properly. After doing so, both the character and voice with form into par with the subject at hand.

It is only appropriate to sum up by stating in a nutshell what Creative Nonfiction is. Creative Nonfiction is the writer’s created believability through character and voice.

Ideas Of Creative Nonfiction (Lowry, Vowell & Bellow)

Ideas of Creative Nonfiction
(Lowry, Vowell and Bellow)

My initial understanding of Creative Nonfiction was one that just scratches the surface of what Creative Nonfiction is. Yes I knew it is a genre that elements on factuality and numerous styling. However, what I now know about this subject is derivative from my interpretation and correlation to the assigned readings (Lowry, Vowell and Bellow). Via the readings, I was able to accumulate analysis and comparisons that would subsequently sum up to an in-depth definition of Creative Nonfiction.

Creative Nonfiction is a type of writing that bridges the truth (or fact) with different writing styles. In retrospect to my earlier blog entry, “such writing styles include or could be satire or comedy, memoir, narrative and even sports writing”. It serves to create scenes and paint pictures via descriptive or narrative details. In Creative Nonfiction, the author would write in either the first or third person, exposing a situation or an ordeal. Through the perspective of the first person, the piece becomes personal or about self, where the author is personally engaged. The view of the third person serves as an “eye” witness or someone who is simply telling a story from what he or she has been told.

Segmentation, when apply to Creative Nonfiction, aims to create a scene via chronology. It sets the event in a sequential order, out letting a voice and a certain mood to the reader. Writers sometimes use expository styling to make revelation or testimony. Sarah Vowell used outlined and factual information to tell her story. In her piece you can find dates, figures and stats that are tied to events. Beverly Lowry used emotions and reality to portray Karla Faye, a woman on death row who misses out on her wedding; something that is very dear to women. Though a fairly young genre, Creative Nonfiction is eminent in Literature and has the potential to grow immensely.

From the assigned readings, I can clearly say, Creative Nonfiction is a factual and stylistic genre that utilizes its style to tell a story, give revelation, create emotions, or expose the truth, all of which are, and should be based on factuality. It is usually written in the first or third person, segmented or outlined.

I am Hamilton Marks, Jr.
GOOD DAY!

What is Creative NonFiction?

What is Creative Nonfiction?

My overview and assessment of this course leads me to say Creative Nonfiction is a type of writing that bridges nonfiction (which is factual) with different writing styles. Such writing styles include or could be satire or comedy, memoir, narrative and even sports writing. As long as they are factual, the style which one chooses to write could build up to an end product that is Creative Nonfiction.

More so, Creative Nonfiction creates scenes or pictures that I believe equates and embodies what this type of writing entails. They way events or ideas are described or segmented coins Creative Nonfiction. There are many types of nonfiction writings. However, the STYLE is what sets Creative Nonfiction from the rest, and it is this idea that is key. I must affirm that creativity centers on the idea of style or styling.

I am Hamilton Marks, Jr.

GOOD DAY!