Multi genre Reflection

  

     During this semester, we used our class journals for three different activities: journal entries, the life compasses, and as a new addition, a multi genre section. In this section, we had to write about what the professor was giving us in class but in creative and diverse ways. These included letters, essays, short stories, autobiographies, timelines, inner monologues, ads, invitations to events, and many more.

     The first time I began writing in this section was in the classroom. The professor read an article about a woman who went on a long walk in a place where she felt at peace. First, we had to listen to the article and write what came into our minds. Then we had to draw a place that made us feel at peace and then associate it with the article. I draw a beach because it was the first place that came to mind and because, whenever I go, I tend to relax so much that I could fall asleep to sound of waves, people talking, and the rays of sunlight on my skin.

      The next entries in the multi genre section were a list of books I wanted, an invitation to some activity, and  an inner monologue. These two didn't have anything to do with the class but I felt that I had to write them down. But to follow instructions, I wrote a ghost story based on the novel The Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman, a poem based on the novel and the injustices that were lived then and the present, an autobiography (because I liked the idea of expressing how one saw the world and would put it in ink to share with others) and a short story. I wrote The Girl and the Orange Blossom because I love short stories and I wanted to write it in a way that both the main character and the slave became friends (or acquaintances).

  
  I really enjoyed writing this multi genre section since I often write anything worth making a story. Yet, I had difficulty in choosing which writing genres I would use because I had many ideas and I could only write ten entries. Another thing I found difficult in this exercise was the theme of my entries because they had to be related to the material discussed in class and I often thought about writing from unrelated material (ideas that came into my mind).

     While writing, I did feel like I understood literature better. It was kind of like a game in which I would cross off the genres that I wanted and I would create characters based on the voices I envisioned while brainstorming. I found it amazing how my mind settles on a genre and lets my thoughts shape what I want to say. Sometimes it seemed overwhelming thinking about what to write about and how but it was a really good experience for sure.

Journals (not mine but someday mine will be like those)

The Girl and the Orange Blossom (A Short Story)

     I like short stories because they're stories that may or may not be inspired by other stories or events, but they can also be forged from imagination. This short story was inspired by The Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman novel. I wanted to write this story to focus more on the part of history that contained slavery.

***

The Girl and the Orange Blossom

     Girls my age worry about frilly things like the color of their dresses or the bonnets in their hair but not me: I care more about my beautiful garden. Bernard and Lucy help me tend it but I don’t like them doing my work. My favorite days are those spent with soil adorning the hem of my dresses, sweat trickling my skin, and the wonderful aromas of my apple tree, lemon tree, strawberry bushes, and the other colorful flowers. Mama thinks that taking care of the earth is not proper for a young lady and that I must start looking for a suitor (a thought that leaves me ill every time I think about it).

     As I walk toward my garden, I hear the whips and the slaves’ cries from the cotton and tobacco fields. I hate that they must suffer such cruelty and I always try to stay away from the slaves’ barracks but today I feel as if someone were calling me from those fields. As I near, I know why: a new slave has arrived. She’s around my age, with dark scared skin, her afro held back with a rag as a headband, and a dress made from a potato sack. Even thought she was in a poor state, her eyes were the beautiful: golden and almond-shaped, as if two tiny suns were hiding behind the night’s curtains. Master Grant cracked his whip in the air, commanding attention.

     “Hear me. This nigger’ll work them cotton fields. Should she misbehave, come calling to me. Now, back to work”.

     I didn’t understand his harshness but the other slaves didn’t seem to mind and continued gathering cotton, sugar, and tobacco. Two women grabbed the shy girl by her elbows and set her to work immediately. I didn’t feel the huge shadow behind me until he started to speak.

    

     “Miss Elizabeth. This ain’t no place for a sweet little thing like you. Run along now: your mama calling to you”, said Grant with a sneered. He had red hair, an even redder mustache, and he was a terrible man. I glared at him and left. When I arrived to our manor, Mama was waiting for me by the huge, mahogany doors. “Eliza, where have you been, young lady?”.

     “I was tending the gardens, Mama”.

     “Why didn’t you ask Bernard for help? Anyhow, your aunt Mary has left you a gift. It’s in the backyard, but first you must-“.

     I left running for the backyard and I found the most precious, little orange tree in a blue pot. Attached to it was a letter. “My dear Eliza, may this plant be as sweet as you and gives you blessings aplenty. Love, aunt Mary”. My aunt had lived in Florida before settling in the North so she must’ve sent this on her way there. Aunt Mary never liked forcing people into labor, but she had a few slaves (which she paid and treated well, giving them freedom when she left). I took my little orange tree, planted on a special place in the garden, and watered it.

     In the few months that passed, Union and Confederate soldiers battled each other, many slaves from our household died, and Mama was impatient because I wasn’t behaving like a lady. These months, the girl with the golden eyes wept endlessly. My orange tree became taller, spreading branches filled with beautiful orange blossoms. Their aroma was the sweetest and the oranges were the juiciest fruit on the whole garden. But one morning, the white flowers were gone and the fruit was scattered around the trunk. I went to our neighbors, the Williams, to ask if they’d seen what’d happened to my tree but they didn’t know. Next, I went to Mama.

    “Mama, do you know what happened to my orange tree?”.

     “Eliza, honey, I ain’t got time for this. Grant has been bickering ‘cause of that Negro girl whom he says goes out of the barracks and runs hollering at spirits”. I was stunned, for I’ve never heard a girl shouting the night before (or the previous nights). So I made a plan: I would go on the highest branch of the peach tree (which was next to my vandalized orange tree) and would jump on the robber.

     When I was sure everyone was asleep, I ran out of the house into the backyard in my nightgown and climbed into the peach tree. I waited and waited for hours until I heard the rustle of grass. I was in the ready and I almost jumped but then she appeared: the golden-eyed girl. Her dress was in rags, blood adorning the back of her dress, tears streaming down her face. She was chanting something and when she was neared, I heard her words: “Oh mama how I miss you. You my brightest star in the sky. Come to me, come to me”. My branch snapped and I fell, making the girl jump. When she saw me, she turned, ready to spring to the barracks but I grabbed her arm fast. “Are you well?”, I asked. “What’s wrong?”.

     She was shocked and I thought she wouldn’t answer but then she said: “I miss my mama. She gone and now I’m here all alone. Please don’t hurt me. Master Grant has punished me too much and he said he’d kill me next”. I was heartbroken. “I won’t do you harm and I will talk to Mama ‘bout Grant but you must answer me: are you robbing my orange blossoms?”.

     “Yes. My mama loved oranges. Orange was her favorite color and she would smell like the white flowers even when sweatin’”.

     “What do you do to my tree?”.

     “I take them blossoms searching for my mama’s smell and, in them blossoms, I hear her calling me “Lily, Lily, my tiny Lily”. I felt hot tears streaming down my cheeks. This girl, living constant cruelty, missed her mama. I had to do something, to keep her away from here and Grant. I walked to the orange tree and plucked the prettiest orange blossom that was left. “Lily, you suffer greatly and I think we could’ve become friends but the world doesn’t want that. You might die tomorrow by Grant’s hand, but I won’t let that happen. Take this orange blossom and flee to your mama, wherever she is”. Lily smiled cautiously, took the flower, and ran away. The next day, everyone was looking for Lily and Master Grant was redder than his hair, but I felt peace. I knew that she would be reunited with her mama and, even if she didn’t find her, she would have something greater: her freedom.

An Autobiography (or part of one)

     As the picture says, an autobiography is a piece of literature that you write relating your story. I decided to write an excerpt of an autobiography because the novel, The Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman (which I wrote about in an earlier post), is written as one. Even though it is historical fiction, there are many facts and events that are real like the Freedom Riders, Martin Luther King Jr., the segregation laws, and slavery. I like the idea of writing an autobiography because it's my reality.

***

  

 The Dancer

     I've been dancing since I was two years old (probably earlier), so many  say that it's a gift passed down from my mother's side of the family: the Rios part of me. I was put on a dance academy named Dancing Dance Studio and I must say: I was really good. I went to dance camps there and I would shine on all the classes that they had. I remember that, in one recital, I had to go up front on the stage and, from standing position, go down in s split. With this move, came the loud sound of standing ovation.

     Soon, I started taking classes with the older girls, me being the youngest. In my first jazz class with them, the director of the academy saw me dancing and shouted from the doorframe: "Que perris!", meaning that I was dancing really good and maybe a bit sexy. I was also taking pointe class, which is ballet but with ballet slippers that had wood on their points. It was hard at the beginning, but then I was getting the hang of it.

     That's when mom and I got the idea of me auditioning for a school specialized in ballet called Julian Blanco. I was nervous because even though I wanted to stay in my school, I was really looking forward to being admitted. When I was auditioning I felt strong, confident, flexible. I had done it! I did everything perfectly. Then it was time: time to hear that "yes" I knew I would get. As my number got nearer, I grew anxious. And then, in a blink of an eye, they passed my number. Quickly, I gathered my things and, as I exited, a girl looked at me as if asking why was I leaving. Yet, I had to leave the room. I told my mother that I didn't pass the audition and went to the bathroom, where I shed a few tears. A woman entered the bathroom and asked us if I made it. When we replied, she asked annoyed that why not. "You were one of the best ones. You even did it better than the model student". I really wanted to believe her, but I was really sad.

     So after that, I was dancing less and less until I stopped going because I would soon start seventh grade. Now, I didn't hate dancing, but I stopped. Nevertheless, that didn't last because they did Talent Shows at  my school. That year, we would be imitating Ke$ha and do a "Toy Story" themed- dance. While practicing, I went back to my "old ways" and quickly earned the interest of the choreographers. When the competition neared, the choreographers did drastic changes: instead of playing Bo Beep, I would be Barbie (one of the most important roles in the dance) and, instead of doing Ke$ha, we would be doing Jennifer Lopez. But who would imitate JLO? Another girl... and me. While she got the parts in which she would look like she was singing, I got the parts in which there was a lot of dancing. We only won the "Toy Story" dance but I felt really happy and proud with myself for both dances. Needless to say, I kept participating on all the Talent Shows until my Senior Year.

     But I'm getting ahead of myself: in ninth grade, I went to a ballet school called Ballets de San Juan. It was rough adjusting, but I kept practicing until I was back in ballet shape. Pretty soon after, I retook pointe class and contemporary dance, which focused more in the strength. I left that academy because once, the director was substituting my teacher and, after an exercise, she came to me and said: "We do not want girls with fat, ugly legs. We want girls with lean, pretty legs". Yes, she said this to me. Now, one may think that I would give up after this but I didn't. Instead, I was admitted at Escuela de Bellas Artes de Trujillo Alto and I've been attending it ever since. I've been working a lot so I can get to the highest level: company. There are moments in which I feel like giving up and yet, I don't. I look back at the hard path and think that I'm here for a reason.

     All these years, I've become a better dancer and, whenever I dance, I feel like I transform into another person. When I dance, it's like transmitting energy and passion for the audience. To enchant the observers with moves as swift as ripples on a watery surface. Now I can say that I'm making peace with my body, which I blamed for many years. The curves and softness that aren't found in ballerinas but are countless on me. It's the body that lets me move with grace, power, and magic.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pms9PrL67Gw : this is one of the songs from which the imitation was based



https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PFyqHMxWK_Y : the seventh grade Toy Story dance (look for Barbie!)

A girl's dream

Let Our Voices Be Heard

     Injustice, cruelty, and hate have been around for years but it was prominent in the 1950's, 1960's. During these decades, colored-skin people had to face racism due to their skin and many were assassinated, followed, tortured, and enslaved. Even though they won the fight for their rights, they are still fighting for respect, their place in society, and peace, as well as Latinos, the LGBTQIA community, and other groups in society.

***

Hate has always been around

It comes all the way from Cain and Abel

People fight because skin is either white or brown

Fighting for causes like fighting for the last piece of bread on the table

Of course people fight for other reasons

But physical differences are the winners

Like in the 50’s and 60’s, for many seasons

In which Black people were seen as sinners

They fought for their rights and won

But did they win entirely? I think not

For they are still fighting but they’re not alone

Fighting different fights but we’re all in a knot

Raise your voice, loud and clear

Use your words, wisdom, and courage

Let’s all come together and forget the fear

We must let our fire rage

Where's The Love? Music Video- this song is about how people must come together in order to stand up against injustices

Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman

     In my last entry, I wrote a ghost story based on a novel (then turned movie) titled The Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman. The story is set on the Civil War, extending to when the Jim Crow laws were established. Ticey is an eleven year old slave who works in a plantation until a Yankee troop passed by and the man leading them, Colonel Brown named her Jane Brown. Then the slaves received their long-awaited freedom and that's where Jane begins her journey.

  She decided on going to the North looking for Colonel Brown and she left with other slaves. Everything was okay until they were attacked by a group of people opposed to the Proclamation and everyone died except for her and a little boy named Ned. They walked and met many people who helped them (some were kind, some weren't). They stayed together until Ned left because he was being prosecuted for fighting for the rights of black people. Later she married a man named Joe Pittman (who had two daughters of a previous marriage) and she was happy until he died on an accident in which a horse "strangled" him with a rope. She reunites with Ned (who has a family) but he's assassinated for being involved in the fight for their rights. Then, Jimmy joins the story: a boy whom since birth is known as "The One", the leader. He then went to New Orleans so he could study and then returns to the plantation with stories of Reverend King (Martin Luther King Jr.) and his passion for their civil rights. He's killed on his way to a march he was leading and, in the end, Jane Pittman joins the march.

   I liked how this novel combines history with fiction because it's as if the story really happened. The way the author wrote can transport the reader into those hard times. I must admit that sometimes I found it difficult to read because the English used in the novel was written like, for example "We didn't know where we was going, we didn't know what we was go'n eat when the apples and potatoes ran out" (Gaines, 16). But what I really liked was the message it gave, especially how it can connect to the reality we're living: how we are practically returning to those times and how claiming for our rights is seen as a criminal act. Hope is what moves us forward, just like Miss Jane Pittman.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KSDlm2LqAes- This link shows the whole movie (note: it's a bit different from the novel)

A Night with Jane (A Ghost Story)

  * I will use Jane Pittman and The Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman to write the ghost story. I chose these themes  because I wanted to make a connection between the past and the present in a "scary" or perhaps mysterious way. Even if it is "creepy", the goal in this story is to teach the main character the importance of knowing the past and how it affects her time.

                                                                          ***

  "Ugh, I'm FINALLY going to bed", said Cristine. It had been a long day: in school, she learned about segregation, Martin Luther King, Malcolm X, and the Freedom Riders in all her classes (including Math, which was ridiculous but it's true) and students have been fighting about  things like which students were better based on their grades and backgrounds (even her best friends Sandy and Mandy).  While Cristine plugged her phone charger to the wall, se heard a tap on her window. She froze but recovered instantly for it was only the wind. Then, in a blink of an eye, the lights flickered out. "Well, at least I have a candle", she said as she scrambled for the matches and lighted the almond-scented candle. Just as she was setting her candle on her bedside table, she screamed. Next to her was an old lady with a white cloth around her head, dark skin, hollowed eyes full of mysteries, and lines in her face.

  
   "You girl... You woken up?", said the ghost. "Who... Who are you?', Cristine whispered shakily. "Don't be afraid, girl. I seen bad much more than you. I've seen bad since Civil War and has not rested since I died. I was named Ticey but died named Jane Pittman", the ghost replied solemnly. "Who you, girl?". Cristine didn't believe in ghosts but she also didn't believe that an ancient woman could've climbed her stairs or the side of her house as stealthily as a thief. Before she could say her name, she asked the ghost if it would hurt her. "Child, I've seen 'nough suffering: no harm will come to you. Now what's your name?". "I'm Cristine. What will you do then, if you won't hurt me?". "Child, I have come to show the past so it can't repeated. I've seen you had rough day in school for the same things my people suffered. Take my hand so I could show you". Cristine, cautiously, took her hand and was shocked to discover that Jane's hand was warm (as if she were alive). When she looked about, they were standing in a cotton field filled with black workers wearing rags and white people sporting whips and crisp white shirts. "Cristine, this is where I worked for 'leven years. We was enslaved, workin' for hours in the sun 'til one good soldier said we were free. Ah, Colonel Brown gave me Jane as a new name and I've been using it ever since". Cristine couldn't believe the way colored people were treated and how the white people thought of themselves as royalty.

   
     Suddenly, Jane snapped her fingers and then they were floating in the air looking down at two kids. "Oh Ned, my dear Ned. How young he died 'cause segregation and justice. A justice that many thought was impossible... Girl, how's justice in your time?". Cristine looked down at the hungry-looking kids and said: "I wish I could say that justice is better but it hasn't really changed". Jane sighed and took them into a small house with a wooden table, a few windows and a bed. "After my husband, Joe, died, I lived in Samson plantation. While living here, Freedom Riders were attacked, the Klu Klux Klan attacked everyone of color or those against segregation, and Reverend King was seen as the main leader with his speech and his many followers.. I remember clearly that day I walked past Robert Samson and joined those who were to follow Jimmy who've been killed few hours ago. Know why I did that? 'Cause people should learn to stand up to those who think they better. It ain't because it's right or wrong: it's 'cause suffering ain't the key to a good future. The key's to accept differences and help one another survive in a world that's cruel. Child, learn to see the world with kind eyes and help others see like you, understand?". Jane smiled, which made Cristine smile back as she answered: " Yes, Miss Jane".

  With that, Jane touched Cristine's forehead and sent her back to her bedroom. Cristine was happy to be back in bed, but was even happier to know how to solve the situation in her school. She had also come up with an idea: to make a presentation about what she learned with Jane. Sure, she was tired, but it was Jane's kind and wise words that made Cristine get up and grab a pen to show others how to see the world with kindness.

Miss Jane Pittman

About that time when I shared my story

     I  never thought that I would get to talk in a conference in my first year of college so when the professor asked me to participate in one, I was really excited. On class, we had to write about a conflict about an adult inspired by William Carlos Williams' A Use of Force. This short story is about a doctor that must use force against a child that hides a horrible secret about her health: she has diphtheria  and she fears that she could die of it.

     When I had to write about  a conflict between an adult and me I honestly didn't remember anything! But then I remembered a moment that I'll never forget. I was thirteen years old when I moved to an apartment in which the residents share a laundry room. I never had to do laundry so I was getting used to it but after a few months of being there, I was getting the hang of it. That day was a bit crowded, but I took one of the drying machines that were in good condition. Somehow, I lost track of a washing machine I was using and a woman was demanding who was using that machine. Let me help you visualize how this woman looked like: she was skinny with black hair in a "dubi"' glasses, a pink tank shirt, and white shorts... To be even more helpful: she looks like Miss Tweedy from the movie Chicken Run. I moved my clothes while apologizing but she kept fighting about it. The other neighbors were silent and I felt humiliated. But the woman continued her bickering.

Miss Tweedy: a.k.a. my neighbor

     I went home and told my mom, who went to the laundry with me and stayed until all clothes were dried. There was tension in the air but I was feeling better... That was until I heard Miss Tweedy (let's call her that) taking about the incident with another neighbor. I simply lost it and I found myself yelling at her from the elevator's door: " Can you stop? It was an accident and I'm pretty sure she doesn't care now stop!". That was the first time I've yelled at someone that's not close to me and, honestly, I don't regret it.

    I had to read my short story about this encounter in the "Urban Spaces, Media Spaces" conference held in Universidad de Puerto Rico, Recinto de Rio Piedras and, for me, it was a really great experience. My story wasn't something I could feel bad about and it had its funny parts, so it was easygoing. Also, I saw a few faces in the crowd that helped me feeling relaxed and focused (I'm really grateful for them). If there was a part about the conference that I really enjoyed was the questions the audience had. I felt that they wanted to hear more about how we got to read and write our stories, how we felt after our conflicts, how this connected to William Carlos Williams' short story. People laughed and understood the hard parts of our stories.  I will hold that moment close to my heart and, if asked, I would gladly do it again. to more experiences like this!

This quote sums up what writing our short stories about our conflicts was about

This is the inspiration: A Use of Force by William Carlos Williams