FORMS AND TYPES OF CREATIVE NONFICTION
BY;
JOHN LLOYD SUSON
What are the types of Creative Nonfiction?
1. AUTOBIOGRAPHY
DEFINITION
An autobiography is an account of a person's life written or otherwise recorded by that person.
The term fictional autobiography (or pseudoautobiography) refers to novels that employ first-person narrators who recount the events of their lives as if they actually happened. Well-known examples include David Copperfield (1850) by Charles Dickens and Salinger's The Catcher in the Rye (1951).
Some critics believe that all autobiographies are in some ways fictional. Patricia Meyer Spacks has observed that "people do make themselves up. . . . To read an autobiography is to encounter a self as an imaginative being" ( The Female Imagination, 1975).
For the distinction between a memoir and an autobiographical composition, see memoir as well as the examples and observations below.
EXAMPLES:
a. "An autobiography is an obituary in serial form with the last installment missing."
(Quentin Crisp, The Naked Civil Servant, 1968)
"Putting a life into words rescues it from confusion even when the words declare the omnipresence of confusion, since the art of declaring implies dominance."
(Patricia Meyer Spacks, Imagining a Self: Autobiography and Novel in Eighteenth-Century England. Harvard University Press, 1976)
b. The Opening Lines of Zora Neale Hurston's Autobiography
"Like the dead-seeming, cold rocks, I have memories within that came out of the material that went to make me. Time and place have had their say.
"So you will have to know something about the time and place where I came from, in order that you may interpret the incidents and directions of my life.
"I was born in a Negro town. I do not mean by that the black back-side of an average town. Eatonville, Florida, is, and was at the time of my birth, a pure Negro town--charter, mayor, council, town marshal and all. It was not the first Negro community in America, but it was the first to be incorporated, the first attempt at organized self-government on the part of Negroes in America.
"Eatonville is what you might call hitting a straight lick with a crooked stick. The town was not in the original plan. It is a by-product of something else.
2. BIOGRAPHY
Definition
A biography is simply an account or detailed description about the life of a person. It entails basic facts, such as childhood, education, career, relationships, family, and death. Biography is a literary genre that portrays the experiences of all these events occurring in the life of a person, mostly in a chronological order. Unlike a resume or profile, a biography provides a life story of a subject, highlighting different aspects of his of her life. A person who writes biographies, is called as a “biographer.”
A biography narrates the life story of a person, as written by another person or writer. It is further divided into five categories:
Popular biography
Historical biography
Literary biography
Reference biography
Fictional biography
Examples of Biography in Literature
Example #1: Shakespeare: A Life (By Park Honan)
This biography is the most accurate, up-to-date, and complete narrative ever written about the life of William Shakespeare. Park Honan has used rich and fresh information about Shakespeare in order to change the perceptions of readers for the playwright, and his role as a poet and actor.
This book completely differs from other biographies that imagine different roles for him, commenting on his sexual relationships and colorful intrigues. Though detailed psychological theories and imaginative reforms about the famous playwright could be amusing, in fact, they damage the credibility of the sources. Therefore, many attempts have been made to know about Shakespeare, but this one is a unique example.
Example #2: Arthur Miller: Attention Must Be Paid (By James Campbell)
This biography is written in the form of a drama, presented in just two acts. In the first act, the author shows the famous dramatist, Arthur Miller, in his early success, having the love of the most beloved woman in the world, and resisting tyranny. However, in the second act of this biography, the author shows that the hero was badly assaulted and ridiculed by a rowdy mob called critics, who are expelled from the conventional theater. He ends his book with rhetorical details related to a revitalization in the fortunes of the playwright.
A biography is simply an account or detailed description about the life of a person. It entails basic facts, such as childhood, education, career, relationships, family, and death. Biography is a literary genre that portrays the experiences of all these events occurring in the life of a person, mostly in a chronological order. Unlike a resume or profile, a biography provides a life story of a subject, highlighting different aspects of his of her life. A person who writes biographies, is called as a “biographer.”
A biography narrates the life story of a person, as written by another person or writer. It is further divided into five categories:
Popular biography
Historical biography
Literary biography
Reference biography
Fictional biography
Examples of Biography in Literature
Example #1: Shakespeare: A Life (By Park Honan)
This biography is the most accurate, up-to-date, and complete narrative ever written about the life of William Shakespeare. Park Honan has used rich and fresh information about Shakespeare in order to change the perceptions of readers for the playwright, and his role as a poet and actor.
This book completely differs from other biographies that imagine different roles for him, commenting on his sexual relationships and colorful intrigues. Though detailed psychological theories and imaginative reforms about the famous playwright could be amusing, in fact, they damage the credibility of the sources. Therefore, many attempts have been made to know about Shakespeare, but this one is a unique example.
Example #2: Arthur Miller: Attention Must Be Paid (By James Campbell)
This biography is written in the form of a drama, presented in just two acts. In the first act, the author shows the famous dramatist, Arthur Miller, in his early success, having the love of the most beloved woman in the world, and resisting tyranny. However, in the second act of this biography, the author shows that the hero was badly assaulted and ridiculed by a rowdy mob called critics, who are expelled from the conventional theater. He ends his book with rhetorical details related to a revitalization in the fortunes of the playwright.
3. LITERARY JOURNALISM and REPORTAGE
Literary journalism is a form of nonfiction that combines factual reporting with some of the narrative techniques and stylistic strategies traditionally associated with fiction. Also called narrative journalism.
In his ground-breaking anthology The Literary Journalists (1984), Norman Sims observed that literary journalism "demands immersion in complex, difficult subjects. The voice of the writer surfaces to show that an author is at work."
The term literary journalism is sometimes used interchangeably with creative nonfiction; more often, however, it is regarded as one type of creative nonfiction.
Classic Examples of Literary Journalism
"A Hanging" by George Orwell
"The San Francisco Earthquake" by Jack London
"The Watercress Girl" by Henry Mayhew
In his ground-breaking anthology The Literary Journalists (1984), Norman Sims observed that literary journalism "demands immersion in complex, difficult subjects. The voice of the writer surfaces to show that an author is at work."
The term literary journalism is sometimes used interchangeably with creative nonfiction; more often, however, it is regarded as one type of creative nonfiction.
Classic Examples of Literary Journalism
"A Hanging" by George Orwell
"The San Francisco Earthquake" by Jack London
"The Watercress Girl" by Henry Mayhew
4. PERSONAL NARRATIVES
DEFINITION
Personal narratives are a form of writing in which the writer relates one event, incident, or experience from his/her life. Personal narratives allow you, the writer, to share your life with others, vicariously experiencing the things you describe. Your job as a writer is to put the readers in the midst of the action, letting them live through an event, incident, or experience. Personal narratives also incorporate vivid descriptive details, as well as the thoughts, feelings, and reactions of the writer.
A good personal narrative, like a good story, creates a dramatic effect, makes us laugh, gives us pleasurable fright, and/or gets us on the edge of our seats. Although personal narratives capture true events, sometimes writers embellish or use hyperbole to illustrate a point or for dramatic effect. A personal narrative has done its job effectively if the readers can say, “Yes, that captures what living with my mother feels like,” or “Yes, that’s what it felt like to lose the championship game.”
EXAMPLES:
a. Kayak Tip-Over
Cold waves lap at my back. The wind roars. The capsized kayak bobs crazily like a runner’s short ponytail. My arms and legs tingle with the thought of an underwater creature dragging me down into the watery depths.
“This is just like T.V.,” I think as I anticipate a shark jumping out from the water and eating us. I shiver involuntarily.
“Help!” I cry, small-voiced.
Earlier, that day had started out like any old vacation. The weather was warm, and there was a pleasant breeze licking at the waves in the lagoon. My mom’s book club invited my brother, sister, mom, and me, along with two other families, to a beach house. The house was on a tranquil lagoon with rippling water. No one else was in the water that day. The house had kayaks, body boards, and a paddle boat! Perfect for us kids! All was going well until the two boys got bored.
The boys were evidently going to go crazy if they didn’t do something soon. They had been lying in the sun for too long, and they were swiftly accumulating girly tans. Suddenly, Josh had a marvelous idea! Why didn’t they let one floaty go drifting downstream and then go chasing it in the paddle boat?! The idea was perfect. There was only one catch: the pleasant breeze that had been blowing gently was now a gushing whirlwind of energy, and the floaty was rapidly growing smaller and smaller, with the boys close in tow.
“Tino! Joshua!” Madison, Ana, and I screamed and yelled, but it was to no avail.
“JOSHUA BURCH! COME BACK HERE!” Madison hollered. Our mothers came up behind us.
Personal narratives are a form of writing in which the writer relates one event, incident, or experience from his/her life. Personal narratives allow you, the writer, to share your life with others, vicariously experiencing the things you describe. Your job as a writer is to put the readers in the midst of the action, letting them live through an event, incident, or experience. Personal narratives also incorporate vivid descriptive details, as well as the thoughts, feelings, and reactions of the writer.
A good personal narrative, like a good story, creates a dramatic effect, makes us laugh, gives us pleasurable fright, and/or gets us on the edge of our seats. Although personal narratives capture true events, sometimes writers embellish or use hyperbole to illustrate a point or for dramatic effect. A personal narrative has done its job effectively if the readers can say, “Yes, that captures what living with my mother feels like,” or “Yes, that’s what it felt like to lose the championship game.”
EXAMPLES:
a. Kayak Tip-Over
Cold waves lap at my back. The wind roars. The capsized kayak bobs crazily like a runner’s short ponytail. My arms and legs tingle with the thought of an underwater creature dragging me down into the watery depths.
“This is just like T.V.,” I think as I anticipate a shark jumping out from the water and eating us. I shiver involuntarily.
“Help!” I cry, small-voiced.
Earlier, that day had started out like any old vacation. The weather was warm, and there was a pleasant breeze licking at the waves in the lagoon. My mom’s book club invited my brother, sister, mom, and me, along with two other families, to a beach house. The house was on a tranquil lagoon with rippling water. No one else was in the water that day. The house had kayaks, body boards, and a paddle boat! Perfect for us kids! All was going well until the two boys got bored.
The boys were evidently going to go crazy if they didn’t do something soon. They had been lying in the sun for too long, and they were swiftly accumulating girly tans. Suddenly, Josh had a marvelous idea! Why didn’t they let one floaty go drifting downstream and then go chasing it in the paddle boat?! The idea was perfect. There was only one catch: the pleasant breeze that had been blowing gently was now a gushing whirlwind of energy, and the floaty was rapidly growing smaller and smaller, with the boys close in tow.
“Tino! Joshua!” Madison, Ana, and I screamed and yelled, but it was to no avail.
“JOSHUA BURCH! COME BACK HERE!” Madison hollered. Our mothers came up behind us.
“Looks like they’re going to need a rescue team,” Madison’s mom said. We looked at her for a second, and then jumped into action. Ana manned the one-person kayak while Madison and I took the two-seater. We pushed off, soldiers on a mission!
Ana reached Tino and Josh before Madison and I did. The situation was worse than we had thought. Tino and Josh were flailing about in the water. In trying to reach the floaty, they had fallen out of the paddle boat. Ana had tied the kayak and paddle boat together, hoping to give it a tow because the current was too strong to paddle the boat back. The boys were still in the water, unable to get in the boat. Ana, realizing her plan wasn’t working, untied the kayak. Finally, Josh managed to get in the paddle boat, leaving Tino to fend for himself.
Meanwhile, Madison and I struggled with our kayak. We had moved away from the others and into the middle of the lagoon. Seeing Tino swimming towards us, we made room for him on board. He reached us and heaved himself on. I threw my weight on the opposite end so we wouldn’t capsize. Madison and Tino sat with their legs dangling, resting. I knew they shouldn’t do that, but before I could warn them, we tipped over, and we all went spilling into the lagoon!
The cold water hit me like a wall. I surfaced, sputtering water. I prayed to God, thanking Him that we had life jackets. My first concern was that we had to right the kayak. Unfortunately, this was easier said than done. After our fifth try, the kayak reluctantly flipped over with a loud squelching sound. I felt as if we should get a gold medal for that! All I wanted to do was get out of there, but the lagoon wasn’t finished with us. Our paddles had floated away! Luckily, Ana, the hero of the day, brought the paddles to us. Thank you, Ana!
During that time, Ophie, Josh and Madison’s mom, arrived to help. She joined Josh on the paddle boat, relieved Tino from us, and took him to shore. Madison and I managed to arrive at the shore safely without any more tip-overs. Hip, hip, hooray! I watched Ana battle her way home and thought it would have gone much differently if she hadn’t been there. I looked back at my friends, then at the water, and I knew this wouldn’t keep us out of the water. No way!
The whole experience helped me learn that you have to be calm in scary situations even if you aren’t calm at heart. Things look much worse when you’re scared, so sometimes you just need to pause, take a deep breath, and I promise things will look much brighter! My advice to kids like me would be to listen to your parents when they insist upon wearing life jackets. Those jackets really do live up to their name. They can save lives. They helped save mine!
Ana reached Tino and Josh before Madison and I did. The situation was worse than we had thought. Tino and Josh were flailing about in the water. In trying to reach the floaty, they had fallen out of the paddle boat. Ana had tied the kayak and paddle boat together, hoping to give it a tow because the current was too strong to paddle the boat back. The boys were still in the water, unable to get in the boat. Ana, realizing her plan wasn’t working, untied the kayak. Finally, Josh managed to get in the paddle boat, leaving Tino to fend for himself.
Meanwhile, Madison and I struggled with our kayak. We had moved away from the others and into the middle of the lagoon. Seeing Tino swimming towards us, we made room for him on board. He reached us and heaved himself on. I threw my weight on the opposite end so we wouldn’t capsize. Madison and Tino sat with their legs dangling, resting. I knew they shouldn’t do that, but before I could warn them, we tipped over, and we all went spilling into the lagoon!
The cold water hit me like a wall. I surfaced, sputtering water. I prayed to God, thanking Him that we had life jackets. My first concern was that we had to right the kayak. Unfortunately, this was easier said than done. After our fifth try, the kayak reluctantly flipped over with a loud squelching sound. I felt as if we should get a gold medal for that! All I wanted to do was get out of there, but the lagoon wasn’t finished with us. Our paddles had floated away! Luckily, Ana, the hero of the day, brought the paddles to us. Thank you, Ana!
During that time, Ophie, Josh and Madison’s mom, arrived to help. She joined Josh on the paddle boat, relieved Tino from us, and took him to shore. Madison and I managed to arrive at the shore safely without any more tip-overs. Hip, hip, hooray! I watched Ana battle her way home and thought it would have gone much differently if she hadn’t been there. I looked back at my friends, then at the water, and I knew this wouldn’t keep us out of the water. No way!
The whole experience helped me learn that you have to be calm in scary situations even if you aren’t calm at heart. Things look much worse when you’re scared, so sometimes you just need to pause, take a deep breath, and I promise things will look much brighter! My advice to kids like me would be to listen to your parents when they insist upon wearing life jackets. Those jackets really do live up to their name. They can save lives. They helped save mine!
b. Swimming Distance
“Jenny, do I really have to swim this? The distance is so long, and I don’t want to do two laps of butterfly! In the first event when I did butterfly, I choked on water!” I complained on a sun-drenched day.
I was at Petaluma High School, standing next to my coach, Jenny. It was my first swim meet, and I was having a pleasant time. Something was bothering me, though. You could blame it all on the next event coming up. I was not looking forward to it one bit. I had done fairly well in my previous events; however, I was edgy and nervous for this one. This was a 200-yard Independent Medley. It was a long distance because it included eight laps of four different strokes.
“Next event, 200 I.M. Girls, ages 11 to 12s,” Coach Patrick called through the speakers. He was the announcer for today, and his voice sounded different through the intercom speakers.
“Come on; you can do it! Go! Go! Go!” Jenny urged as I ran over to get ready. “I just know you can!” I heard her say.
This was it, the last event of today’s swim meet.
“Swimmers, step up,” called Patrick. He waited until the six swimmers walked up to their diving blocks. Quiver, wobble, shake, went my legs. Oh dear, I thought in my head as I waited.
It was only about five seconds before my head would touch the cool water, but five seconds felt long. The swimmers bent down and held the edge of the diving blocks. I guess I looked so ready and professional-like on the diving block, but inside my stomach was on the world’s biggest rollercoaster and my heart was the one who wanted to jump out into the pool. The water smiled gleefully at me. Come on, come on, it seemed to muse.
Beep! The buzzer went off, and everybody plunged into the shallow, still water, sending it into a million ripples and crinkles. It felt good, and I relaxed for a split second, but then remembered that this was a 200-yard medley. I started kicking and soon emerged out of the silky water.
Start with the butterfly stroke, I told myself going through the order again in my head as I swam. I pulled my arms back and did a stroke. Again, again, and again. I hoped not to choke on water this time. Soon the wall was in front of me. I turned and kicked off, starting my next lap of this stroke.
Next up, backstroke, I thought. On my backstroke start, I got water up my nose, probably gallons of it. Gagging, I resurfaced. At the flags, I counted five strokes, and then did a flip turn. More water ran up my nose. It felt like a hundred needles touching it. When I pushed off the wall for the breaststroke laps, my legs were stones, wanting to sink lower and lower. I needed to catch my breath. But I can’t stop. Keep going! I thought about what Jenny had said. I know you can, I know you can.
I was at Petaluma High School, standing next to my coach, Jenny. It was my first swim meet, and I was having a pleasant time. Something was bothering me, though. You could blame it all on the next event coming up. I was not looking forward to it one bit. I had done fairly well in my previous events; however, I was edgy and nervous for this one. This was a 200-yard Independent Medley. It was a long distance because it included eight laps of four different strokes.
“Next event, 200 I.M. Girls, ages 11 to 12s,” Coach Patrick called through the speakers. He was the announcer for today, and his voice sounded different through the intercom speakers.
“Come on; you can do it! Go! Go! Go!” Jenny urged as I ran over to get ready. “I just know you can!” I heard her say.
This was it, the last event of today’s swim meet.
“Swimmers, step up,” called Patrick. He waited until the six swimmers walked up to their diving blocks. Quiver, wobble, shake, went my legs. Oh dear, I thought in my head as I waited.
It was only about five seconds before my head would touch the cool water, but five seconds felt long. The swimmers bent down and held the edge of the diving blocks. I guess I looked so ready and professional-like on the diving block, but inside my stomach was on the world’s biggest rollercoaster and my heart was the one who wanted to jump out into the pool. The water smiled gleefully at me. Come on, come on, it seemed to muse.
Beep! The buzzer went off, and everybody plunged into the shallow, still water, sending it into a million ripples and crinkles. It felt good, and I relaxed for a split second, but then remembered that this was a 200-yard medley. I started kicking and soon emerged out of the silky water.
Start with the butterfly stroke, I told myself going through the order again in my head as I swam. I pulled my arms back and did a stroke. Again, again, and again. I hoped not to choke on water this time. Soon the wall was in front of me. I turned and kicked off, starting my next lap of this stroke.
Next up, backstroke, I thought. On my backstroke start, I got water up my nose, probably gallons of it. Gagging, I resurfaced. At the flags, I counted five strokes, and then did a flip turn. More water ran up my nose. It felt like a hundred needles touching it. When I pushed off the wall for the breaststroke laps, my legs were stones, wanting to sink lower and lower. I needed to catch my breath. But I can’t stop. Keep going! I thought about what Jenny had said. I know you can, I know you can.
Before long, I was approaching the wall for my finish. I heard a swimmer coming up behind me, but I wanted to get there first.
Kick, stroke, kick, stroke. We swimmers were all like sharks of the same species who wanted the prey first. I could hear everybody speeding up.
I touched the wall, mouth full of water. I looked up and climbed out of the pool. People cheered. I never thought I’d be able to do it. Sure I was trying to catch my breath and my legs were Jell-O, but I swam it. I swam 200 yards! I did it and got second place. Now I felt strong and confident. Thank you Jenny, my mind said, wishing Jenny would get the message.
4. TRAVELOGUE
DEFINITION
A travelogue is a person’s account of a journey to another country or place. It can either be a written report with many factual details or a narrative story about personal impressions and experiences supported by images.
EXAMPLES:
a. Walking from Seattle to Chicago
I know what I am doing is illegal, and a bit dangerous. But it has been my dream since childhood to walk from Seattle to Chicago on train tracks. I encountered one man in Seattle before who had come from Chicago by walking on train tracks. Now I am wanting to complete the cycle.
I set off this morning from my apartment in the city of Edmonds at 6:45am, as planned. In Edmonds, there is easy access to train tracks along the Pacific Ocean. It took me a half an hour to walk down to the tracks, fueled by my boiled egg and brown-sugar oatmeal breakfast.
Though my family thought I was a bit nuts to go on this so-called expedition, I don’t blame them. It’s not every day someone tells their parents they are going to go on a long hike across the U.S. But I am a 26-year-old former boy scout with all the necessary equipment to survive my journey. And also, I know the nature of train tracks well: when trains are coming, when there will be no trains for a while, the timing to jump out of the way if a train suddenly appears in my vision, and so on. I have loved trains since I was a baby—my first word was “choo choo” after the sound of a train whistle.
I chose the month of March to begin my walk, as spring in Seattle is not too cold and not too hot. The greenery in Washington state at this time is sometimes hard to describe in its heavenly sight. The rain definitely contributes to making this state lush with greenery and blossoms.
The usual suspects were out this morning: flocks of seagulls surveying the rather calm waters of the Pacific Ocean; murders of crows hanging out in pine trees of douglas fir trees; the scent of tar on the tracks that wears off in your nose after a few hours of walking.
In the first two hours of walking, two trains had come: one cargo and one passenger. I easily picked up on the signals of them coming and leaped to the side into the forest before they could come to crush me.
I wrote a haiku around the third of fourth hour (I don’t have a watch).
first day of journey…
the Pacific Ocean gleams
in a cloud above
Not the best haiku, but at least I am still trying to write them.
I had lunch at around 1pm. Salami, cheddar cheese, and crackers. Simple but tasty. My father used to eat the same on his hikes.
In the late afternoon, I saw a bald eagle swooping over the forest and over the Pacific Ocean as well. It was a majestic sight. I also saw some blue herons in the shallower waters. It made me feel like my journey has an auspicious beginning.
Over the day, some people stared at me, wondering why I was walking on the tracks with a hiking backpack (at least this is what I thought). Sometimes people report walkers on train tracks to police, so I have to be a bit careful.
At night, I was near the start of the city boundaries of Seattle, and decided to set up in a meadow on the left side of the tracks, having the Pacific Ocean no longer there. It seemed symbolic to sleep where the Pacific Ocean once was earlier in the day. I tried to be inconspicuous as possible, setting up my tiny tent in a group of bushes among high grass. It didn’t seem like many people came this way anyways—only to relieve themselves at times.
I heated up a can of tomato soup and accompanied it with bread for dinner. I was so glad to have brought a small camping stove—it’s seems like it will be a lifesaver, as I don’t have loads of cash to go out to restaurants.
A travelogue is a person’s account of a journey to another country or place. It can either be a written report with many factual details or a narrative story about personal impressions and experiences supported by images.
EXAMPLES:
a. Walking from Seattle to Chicago
I know what I am doing is illegal, and a bit dangerous. But it has been my dream since childhood to walk from Seattle to Chicago on train tracks. I encountered one man in Seattle before who had come from Chicago by walking on train tracks. Now I am wanting to complete the cycle.
I set off this morning from my apartment in the city of Edmonds at 6:45am, as planned. In Edmonds, there is easy access to train tracks along the Pacific Ocean. It took me a half an hour to walk down to the tracks, fueled by my boiled egg and brown-sugar oatmeal breakfast.
Though my family thought I was a bit nuts to go on this so-called expedition, I don’t blame them. It’s not every day someone tells their parents they are going to go on a long hike across the U.S. But I am a 26-year-old former boy scout with all the necessary equipment to survive my journey. And also, I know the nature of train tracks well: when trains are coming, when there will be no trains for a while, the timing to jump out of the way if a train suddenly appears in my vision, and so on. I have loved trains since I was a baby—my first word was “choo choo” after the sound of a train whistle.
I chose the month of March to begin my walk, as spring in Seattle is not too cold and not too hot. The greenery in Washington state at this time is sometimes hard to describe in its heavenly sight. The rain definitely contributes to making this state lush with greenery and blossoms.
The usual suspects were out this morning: flocks of seagulls surveying the rather calm waters of the Pacific Ocean; murders of crows hanging out in pine trees of douglas fir trees; the scent of tar on the tracks that wears off in your nose after a few hours of walking.
In the first two hours of walking, two trains had come: one cargo and one passenger. I easily picked up on the signals of them coming and leaped to the side into the forest before they could come to crush me.
I wrote a haiku around the third of fourth hour (I don’t have a watch).
first day of journey…
the Pacific Ocean gleams
in a cloud above
Not the best haiku, but at least I am still trying to write them.
I had lunch at around 1pm. Salami, cheddar cheese, and crackers. Simple but tasty. My father used to eat the same on his hikes.
In the late afternoon, I saw a bald eagle swooping over the forest and over the Pacific Ocean as well. It was a majestic sight. I also saw some blue herons in the shallower waters. It made me feel like my journey has an auspicious beginning.
Over the day, some people stared at me, wondering why I was walking on the tracks with a hiking backpack (at least this is what I thought). Sometimes people report walkers on train tracks to police, so I have to be a bit careful.
At night, I was near the start of the city boundaries of Seattle, and decided to set up in a meadow on the left side of the tracks, having the Pacific Ocean no longer there. It seemed symbolic to sleep where the Pacific Ocean once was earlier in the day. I tried to be inconspicuous as possible, setting up my tiny tent in a group of bushes among high grass. It didn’t seem like many people came this way anyways—only to relieve themselves at times.
I heated up a can of tomato soup and accompanied it with bread for dinner. I was so glad to have brought a small camping stove—it’s seems like it will be a lifesaver, as I don’t have loads of cash to go out to restaurants.
b. A Broken Umbrella
On the eve of my departure from India, I slipped out before dinner to shop for clothes with my twin brother, Chris. The monsoons had broke out a few days ago, and the wind and rain were announcing their presence to the traffic. Though the sun had set, the market lights were hanging along the street Chris and I could not name. Crowds of people languidly carried their conversations under their black umbrellas.
How different the street and shops look at night, I thought as I gazed into the large puddles reflecting the market decorations, with families and friends strolling in casual clothing back and forth out of the still busy road. A well-lit, boisterous fabrics shop came to our attention. The newest western fashions hung on display and a television relayed the day’s sports activities. I asked one of the clerks at the glass-paneled register for pants my size, a simple design.rainy India
After choosing and purchasing two pants, and joking around with the clerks about American fighting culture, Chris and I opened our umbrellas to meet the incoming sheets of rain. The wind had begun to drag with a palpable force, humming through the crevices of service signs, flapping the thin white cloth of our kurtas. This was my last chance to observe the people of India, catch the smells of the flowers, fresh meat and fruit rolling on carts chiming with bells. After seven months of staying in India, learning to be comfortable with holding hands with guys down the street, eating with my hands, the serene air one has to hold in the tests of chaos, I did not know if I was ready to go back to America.
Nearing the corner where we would turn towards our friend‘s apartment for dinner, the wind begun to shutter beneath my umbrella with tremendous force. After a few instants of trying to control the direction of its thin stem, the umbrella snapped, curling upwards. Knowing that I was not adept in fixing almost anything mechanical, I carried on, gauging my head under as much umbrella as I could.
Soon after, I noticed a small shop of fruit in the distance. Chris and I, almost yelling through the noise of the traffic and people’s conversations, decided that buying some coconuts and mangoes for our friends was a sound idea. It was a common gesture in India to gift a family or friends, especially on departure, with food or any assortment of presents. Usually the guests were not allowed to give any money or gifts to the host for their over-abundant care. Both of us had been treated like kings for what seemed like an immeasurable time. We wanted to give back, at least once, to our devoted hosts. Chris scavenged for ripe mangoes and coconuts as I stood holding the shopping bags. An Indian girl, about my age, approached me nonchalantly through the rain. She came up to the folds of my broken umbrella, and asked politely if she could help me fix it—half by hand gestures, and half by selective words in English. And I, in partial Hindi and finger pointing, gave a stammered approval.
How different the street and shops look at night, I thought as I gazed into the large puddles reflecting the market decorations, with families and friends strolling in casual clothing back and forth out of the still busy road. A well-lit, boisterous fabrics shop came to our attention. The newest western fashions hung on display and a television relayed the day’s sports activities. I asked one of the clerks at the glass-paneled register for pants my size, a simple design.rainy India
After choosing and purchasing two pants, and joking around with the clerks about American fighting culture, Chris and I opened our umbrellas to meet the incoming sheets of rain. The wind had begun to drag with a palpable force, humming through the crevices of service signs, flapping the thin white cloth of our kurtas. This was my last chance to observe the people of India, catch the smells of the flowers, fresh meat and fruit rolling on carts chiming with bells. After seven months of staying in India, learning to be comfortable with holding hands with guys down the street, eating with my hands, the serene air one has to hold in the tests of chaos, I did not know if I was ready to go back to America.
Nearing the corner where we would turn towards our friend‘s apartment for dinner, the wind begun to shutter beneath my umbrella with tremendous force. After a few instants of trying to control the direction of its thin stem, the umbrella snapped, curling upwards. Knowing that I was not adept in fixing almost anything mechanical, I carried on, gauging my head under as much umbrella as I could.
Soon after, I noticed a small shop of fruit in the distance. Chris and I, almost yelling through the noise of the traffic and people’s conversations, decided that buying some coconuts and mangoes for our friends was a sound idea. It was a common gesture in India to gift a family or friends, especially on departure, with food or any assortment of presents. Usually the guests were not allowed to give any money or gifts to the host for their over-abundant care. Both of us had been treated like kings for what seemed like an immeasurable time. We wanted to give back, at least once, to our devoted hosts. Chris scavenged for ripe mangoes and coconuts as I stood holding the shopping bags. An Indian girl, about my age, approached me nonchalantly through the rain. She came up to the folds of my broken umbrella, and asked politely if she could help me fix it—half by hand gestures, and half by selective words in English. And I, in partial Hindi and finger pointing, gave a stammered approval.
With quick fingers, she reassembled the latches that spread out the cloth of the umbrella, and pushed the upward curve of its rods down to its normal position. Holding the umbrella towards me, she spoke faintly above the rumble of cars and clatter of rain pummeling the stone of the sidewalk, “Here you are, brother.”
5. REFLECTIVE ESSAY
DEFINITION
Reflective writing is an analytical practice in which the writer describes a real or imaginary scene, event, interaction, passing thought, memory, form, adding a personal reflection on the meaning of the item or incident, thought, feeling, emotion, or situation in his or her life. Many reflective writers keep in mind questions, such as "What did I notice?", "How has this changed me?" or "What might I have done differently?".
Thus, the focus is on writing that is not merely descriptive. The writer revisits the scene to note details and emotions, reflect on meaning, examine what went well or revealed a need for additional learning, and relate what transpired to the rest of life.
Reflective writing is also analyzing the event or idea (thinking in depth and from different perspectives, and trying to explain, often with reference to a model or theory from the subject.)
EXAMPLES:
Sample #1
Author: Prefers to remain anonymous
As an English major I have learned to appreciate the peaceful, yet exhilarating moment when my mind engages with an author's thoughts on a page. As Toni Morrison says in The Dancing Mind , "[reading is] to experience one's own mind dancing with another's." In my early days as a college student, I wanted to know the "true" meaning of a work or what the author intended, however, I have now realized this would void literature of its most noteworthy complexities. Individual interpretations bring varied insights to a work and it is also interesting to point out messages the author may not have realized s/he included in the piece.
I have always been a thinker, but throughout my coursework, I have greatly sharpened my critical analysis skills. Instead of focusing on proposed meanings or biographical background, I have learned to continuously ask "why" on many different levels. I challenge myself to dig into a text as deeply as possible and unpack every detail to develop a satisfying close read. Also, by reading multiple novels by the same author I have learned to identify different writing styles and make connections that weave texts together; this helped me develop a deeper understanding of the novels. When I look at one of my freshman level novels and see clean pages, I realize that I did not actively read the book. I guess you could say that I have learned to read with a pen, which has drastically taken my writing to a new level because I am able to connect back with my initial insights marked on the page.
Reflective writing is an analytical practice in which the writer describes a real or imaginary scene, event, interaction, passing thought, memory, form, adding a personal reflection on the meaning of the item or incident, thought, feeling, emotion, or situation in his or her life. Many reflective writers keep in mind questions, such as "What did I notice?", "How has this changed me?" or "What might I have done differently?".
Thus, the focus is on writing that is not merely descriptive. The writer revisits the scene to note details and emotions, reflect on meaning, examine what went well or revealed a need for additional learning, and relate what transpired to the rest of life.
Reflective writing is also analyzing the event or idea (thinking in depth and from different perspectives, and trying to explain, often with reference to a model or theory from the subject.)
EXAMPLES:
Sample #1
Author: Prefers to remain anonymous
As an English major I have learned to appreciate the peaceful, yet exhilarating moment when my mind engages with an author's thoughts on a page. As Toni Morrison says in The Dancing Mind , "[reading is] to experience one's own mind dancing with another's." In my early days as a college student, I wanted to know the "true" meaning of a work or what the author intended, however, I have now realized this would void literature of its most noteworthy complexities. Individual interpretations bring varied insights to a work and it is also interesting to point out messages the author may not have realized s/he included in the piece.
I have always been a thinker, but throughout my coursework, I have greatly sharpened my critical analysis skills. Instead of focusing on proposed meanings or biographical background, I have learned to continuously ask "why" on many different levels. I challenge myself to dig into a text as deeply as possible and unpack every detail to develop a satisfying close read. Also, by reading multiple novels by the same author I have learned to identify different writing styles and make connections that weave texts together; this helped me develop a deeper understanding of the novels. When I look at one of my freshman level novels and see clean pages, I realize that I did not actively read the book. I guess you could say that I have learned to read with a pen, which has drastically taken my writing to a new level because I am able to connect back with my initial insights marked on the page.
Writing had always been one of my strengths, but it was challenging to take that initial step past the high school, five-paragraph essay form that constricted my ideas for so long. Moving past this form, however, has greatly opened my mind. My thoughts are now able to be more complex because I have learned how to sustain a logical argument in an organized manner. My writing has become increasingly more concise and I no longer have room for added "fluff" or "padding." Another improvement is my ability to point out multiple complexities within a text, instead of sticking to one-sided arguments in my papers. Furthermore, learning how to find peer reviewed journal articles and order books through interlibrary loan has significantly widened the scope of my research, which has lead to more scholarly papers with credible references. My writing is so much more interesting than it used to be.
It is difficult to identify gaps in my knowledge as an English major, only because I feel like I have learned so much. I feel that I have largely expanded my literary analysis and writing skills, but I need to be prepared to teach high school students their required literature. I think it would be useful to identify commonly taught novels in our local high schools and study them myself. By studying the required literature and thinking about how to teach it, I will have a sturdy foundation to work from once I am in the classroom.
It is difficult to identify gaps in my knowledge as an English major, only because I feel like I have learned so much. I feel that I have largely expanded my literary analysis and writing skills, but I need to be prepared to teach high school students their required literature. I think it would be useful to identify commonly taught novels in our local high schools and study them myself. By studying the required literature and thinking about how to teach it, I will have a sturdy foundation to work from once I am in the classroom.
Sample #2
Author: Nekisa Mahzad
I have been a student at California State University Channel Islands (CI) for 5 semesters, and over the course of my stay I have grown and learned more that I thought possible. I came to this school from Moorpark Community College already knowing that I wanted to be an English teacher; I had taken numerous English courses and though I knew exactly what I was headed for-was I ever wrong. Going through the English program has taught me so much more than stuff about literature and language, it has taught me how to be me. I have learned here how to write and express myself, how to think for myself, and how to find the answers to the things that I don't know. Most importantly I have learned how important literature and language are.
When I started at CI, I thought I was going to spend the next 3 years reading classics, discussing them and then writing about them. That was what I did in community college English courses, so I didn't think it would be much different here. On the surface, to an outsider, I am sure that this is what it appears that C.I. English majors do. In most all my classes I did read, discuss, and write papers; however, I quickly found out that that there was so much more to it. One specific experience I had while at C.I. really shows how integrated this learning is. Instead of writing a paper for my final project in Perspectives of Multicultural Literature (ENGL 449), I decided with a friend to venture to an Indian reservation and compare it to a book we read by Sherman Alexie. We had a great time and we learned so much more that we ever could have done from writing a paper. The opportunity to do that showed me that there are so many ways that one can learn that are both fun and educational.
The English courses also taught me how powerful the written word and language can be. Words tell so much more than a story. Stories tell about life and the human condition, they bring up the past and people and cultures that are long gone. Literature teaches about the self and the world surrounding the self. From these classes I learned about the world, its people and its history; through literature I learned how we as humans are all related. By writing about what we learn and/or what we believe, we are learning how to express ourselves.
I know that my ability to write and express my ideas, thoughts and knowledge has grown stronger each semester. I have always struggled to put my thoughts on paper in a manner that is coherent and correct according to assignments. I can remember being told numerous times in community college to "organize your thoughts" or "provide more support and examples". These are the things that I have worked on and improved over the past couple of years and I feel that my work shows this. The papers I wrote when I first started here at C.I. were bland and short. In these early papers, I would just restate what we learned in class and what I had found in my research. I did not formulate my own ideas and support them with the works of others. The classes I have taken the past couple semesters have really help me shed that bad habit and write better papers with better ideas. I have learned how to write various styles of papers in different forms and different fields. I feel confident that I could write a paper about most anything and know how to cite and format it properly.
I know that my ability to write and express my ideas, thoughts and knowledge has grown stronger each semester. I have always struggled to put my thoughts on paper in a manner that is coherent and correct according to assignments. I can remember being told numerous times in community college to "organize your thoughts" or "provide more support and examples". These are the things that I have worked on and improved over the past couple of years and I feel that my work shows this. The papers I wrote when I first started here at C.I. were bland and short. In these early papers, I would just restate what we learned in class and what I had found in my research. I did not formulate my own ideas and support them with the works of others. The classes I have taken the past couple semesters have really help me shed that bad habit and write better papers with better ideas. I have learned how to write various styles of papers in different forms and different fields. I feel confident that I could write a paper about most anything and know how to cite and format it properly.
There are a couple of things that I do feel I lack the confidence and skill to perform, and that is what I hope to gain from participating in Capstone. I am scared to teach because I don't know how to share my knowledge with others-students who may have no idea what I am talking about. I hope to learn more about how teachers share their knowledge as part of my Capstone project.
EXAMPLES:
a. He Left So I Could Learn
It was my second day on the job. I was sitting in my seemingly gilded cubicle, overlooking Manhattan, and pinching my right arm to make sure it was real. I landed an internship at Condé Nast Traveler. Every aspiring writer I've ever known secretly dreamt of an Anthony Bourdain lifestyle. Travel the world and write about its most colorful pockets.
When my phone rang, and it was Mom telling me Dad had a heart attack. He didn't make it. I felt as though the perfectly carpeted floors had dropped out from under me. Now that I've come out the other side, I realize Dad left me with a hefty stack of teachings. Here are three ideals I know he would've liked for me to embrace.
First, you have to stand on your own two feet. As much as our parents love and support us, they can't go to our school and confess to the principal that we stole a candy bar from Sara. We have to do that. Neither can they walk into the Condé Nast office and nail a job interview for us. At some point, we have to put on our "big girl pants" and be brave, even if we're not.
Also, there's a difference between love and co-dependence. Being grateful to have someone to turn to for love and support is not the same as needing someone to turn to for love and support. With the loss of my father, I've also lost my sounding board. All I can glean from that is it's time to look within myself and make proper assessments. If I can't make sound decisions with the tools already in my kit, then I risk falling for anything.
Finally, memories are, perhaps, the only item that cannot be taken away from us. Will I miss my father? Every single day. What can I do in those times? I can open up our suitcase of memories, pick out my favorite one, and dream about it, talk about it, or write about it. Maybe I can't pick up the phone and call him anymore, but that doesn't mean he's gone.
6. TRUE NARRATIVES
DEFINITION
A true narrative essay, remember is a story, based on actual events. You are required to compose a true narrative essay about an incident that you experienced or observed. The form of the true narrative is undefined; the purpose in telling the story is to express a point or observation.
EXAMPLES:
a. He Left So I Could Learn
It was my second day on the job. I was sitting in my seemingly gilded cubicle, overlooking Manhattan, and pinching my right arm to make sure it was real. I landed an internship at Condé Nast Traveler. Every aspiring writer I've ever known secretly dreamt of an Anthony Bourdain lifestyle. Travel the world and write about its most colorful pockets.
When my phone rang, and it was Mom telling me Dad had a heart attack. He didn't make it. I felt as though the perfectly carpeted floors had dropped out from under me. Now that I've come out the other side, I realize Dad left me with a hefty stack of teachings. Here are three ideals I know he would've liked for me to embrace.
First, you have to stand on your own two feet. As much as our parents love and support us, they can't go to our school and confess to the principal that we stole a candy bar from Sara. We have to do that. Neither can they walk into the Condé Nast office and nail a job interview for us. At some point, we have to put on our "big girl pants" and be brave, even if we're not.
Also, there's a difference between love and co-dependence. Being grateful to have someone to turn to for love and support is not the same as needing someone to turn to for love and support. With the loss of my father, I've also lost my sounding board. All I can glean from that is it's time to look within myself and make proper assessments. If I can't make sound decisions with the tools already in my kit, then I risk falling for anything.
Finally, memories are, perhaps, the only item that cannot be taken away from us. Will I miss my father? Every single day. What can I do in those times? I can open up our suitcase of memories, pick out my favorite one, and dream about it, talk about it, or write about it. Maybe I can't pick up the phone and call him anymore, but that doesn't mean he's gone.
Next week, I'm off to Istanbul to explore their art scene. As soon as I read the email from my editor, I picked up my phone to call Dad. Then, I realized he'll never answer my calls again. I fought back the tears, got up to make a cup of peppermint tea, and added a new note to my iPhone titled, "Istanbul Packing List."
In the end, life goes on. I'm not sure why he had to leave during the single most poignant chapter in my life. So, I won't dwell on that. Instead, I'll hold tightly to these three ideals and write about Karaköy in Istanbul's Beyoğlu district. Dad will be with me every step of the way.
b. A Teeny, Tiny Treasure Box
She took me by the hand and walked me into the lobby like a five-year old child. Didn't she know I was pushing 15? This was the third home Nancy was placing me in - in a span of eight months. I guess she felt a little sorry for me. The bright fluorescent lights threatened to burn my skin as I walked towards a bouncy-looking lady with curly hair and a sweetly-smiling man. They called themselves Allie and Alex. Cute, I thought.
After they exchanged the usual reams of paperwork, it was off in their Chevy Suburban to get situated into another new home. This time, there were no other foster children and no other biological children. Anything could happen.
Over the next few weeks, Allie, Alex, and I fell into quite a nice routine. She'd make pancakes for breakfast, or he'd fry up some sausage and eggs. They sang a lot, even danced as they cooked. They must have just bought the house because, most weekends, we were painting a living room butter yellow or staining a coffee table mocha brown.
I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. When would they start threatening a loss of pancakes if I didn't mow the lawn? When would the sausage and eggs be replaced with unidentifiable slosh because he didn't feel like cooking in the morning? But, it never happened. They kept cooking, singing, and dancing like a couple of happy fools.
It was a Saturday afternoon when Allie decided it was time to paint the brick fireplace white. As we crawled closer to the dirty old firepit, we pulled out the petrified wood and noticed a teeny, tiny treasure box. We looked at each other in wonder and excitement. She actually said, "I wonder if the leprechauns left it!" While judging her for being such a silly woman, I couldn't help but laugh and lean into her a little.
In the end, life goes on. I'm not sure why he had to leave during the single most poignant chapter in my life. So, I won't dwell on that. Instead, I'll hold tightly to these three ideals and write about Karaköy in Istanbul's Beyoğlu district. Dad will be with me every step of the way.
b. A Teeny, Tiny Treasure Box
She took me by the hand and walked me into the lobby like a five-year old child. Didn't she know I was pushing 15? This was the third home Nancy was placing me in - in a span of eight months. I guess she felt a little sorry for me. The bright fluorescent lights threatened to burn my skin as I walked towards a bouncy-looking lady with curly hair and a sweetly-smiling man. They called themselves Allie and Alex. Cute, I thought.
After they exchanged the usual reams of paperwork, it was off in their Chevy Suburban to get situated into another new home. This time, there were no other foster children and no other biological children. Anything could happen.
Over the next few weeks, Allie, Alex, and I fell into quite a nice routine. She'd make pancakes for breakfast, or he'd fry up some sausage and eggs. They sang a lot, even danced as they cooked. They must have just bought the house because, most weekends, we were painting a living room butter yellow or staining a coffee table mocha brown.
I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. When would they start threatening a loss of pancakes if I didn't mow the lawn? When would the sausage and eggs be replaced with unidentifiable slosh because he didn't feel like cooking in the morning? But, it never happened. They kept cooking, singing, and dancing like a couple of happy fools.
It was a Saturday afternoon when Allie decided it was time to paint the brick fireplace white. As we crawled closer to the dirty old firepit, we pulled out the petrified wood and noticed a teeny, tiny treasure box. We looked at each other in wonder and excitement. She actually said, "I wonder if the leprechauns left it!" While judging her for being such a silly woman, I couldn't help but laugh and lean into her a little.
Together, we reached for the box and pulled it out. Inside was a shimmering solitaire ring. Folded underneath was a short piece of paper that read:
"My darling, my heart. Only 80 days have passed since I first held your hand. I simply cannot imagine my next 80 years without you in them. Will you take this ring, take my heart, and build a life with me? This tiny little solitaire is my offering to you. Will you be my bride?"
As I stared up at Allie, she asked me a question. "Do you know what today is?" I shook my head. "It's May 20th. That's 80 days since Nancy passed your hand into mine and we took you home."
It turns out, love comes in all shapes and sizes, even a teeny, tiny treasure box from a wonderfully silly lady who believes in leprechauns.
"My darling, my heart. Only 80 days have passed since I first held your hand. I simply cannot imagine my next 80 years without you in them. Will you take this ring, take my heart, and build a life with me? This tiny little solitaire is my offering to you. Will you be my bride?"
As I stared up at Allie, she asked me a question. "Do you know what today is?" I shook my head. "It's May 20th. That's 80 days since Nancy passed your hand into mine and we took you home."
It turns out, love comes in all shapes and sizes, even a teeny, tiny treasure box from a wonderfully silly lady who believes in leprechauns.
7. BLOG
DEFINITION
A blog is a discussion or informational website published on the World Wide Web consisting of discrete, often informal diary-style text entries. Posts are typically displayed in reverse chronological order, so that the most recent post appears first, at the top of the web page.
A blog (shortening of “weblog”) is an online journal or informational website displaying information in the reverse chronological order, with latest posts appearing first. It is a platform where a writer or even a group of writers share their views on an individual subject.
EXAMPLES:
a. Miss Thrifty
One of the more popular frugal blogs in the UK, Miss Thrifty is targeting young mums with her money saving, frugal tips and articles. And rightly so! The market is massive and she’s meeting a need for this type of information. Young mums aren’t exactly rolling in cash. They may have had to give up work and are now relying on just one wage coming in, so the need to be more frugal with everyday living is a must.
The great thing about this blog is the conversational tone and the real person behind the brand. I think it’s inspiring to other mums to see someone like them making such a difference in other people’s lives by creating amazingly useful content that is 100% actionable. Also it may inspire mums to set up their own blog and to write about their experiences as a mother and a wife in the 21st century.
b. Skint Dad
So when I talk about coming at a niche from a different angle, this example is exactly what I mean. Skint Dad is a site that helps young / new dads save money and be more frugal in their day to day living. There’s also a section on their that shows guys how to make a little more cash on top of their monthly day job wage, which is vital in some cases just to keep your head above water.
A lot of new dads have the added stress of not having their wives’ or girlfriends’ wage coming in each month, due to the temporary career change in being a full time mum of a baby. So having some content around how they can make a few extra “Ps” in their wallet each month, can ease the burden somewhat.
A blog is a discussion or informational website published on the World Wide Web consisting of discrete, often informal diary-style text entries. Posts are typically displayed in reverse chronological order, so that the most recent post appears first, at the top of the web page.
A blog (shortening of “weblog”) is an online journal or informational website displaying information in the reverse chronological order, with latest posts appearing first. It is a platform where a writer or even a group of writers share their views on an individual subject.
EXAMPLES:
a. Miss Thrifty
One of the more popular frugal blogs in the UK, Miss Thrifty is targeting young mums with her money saving, frugal tips and articles. And rightly so! The market is massive and she’s meeting a need for this type of information. Young mums aren’t exactly rolling in cash. They may have had to give up work and are now relying on just one wage coming in, so the need to be more frugal with everyday living is a must.
The great thing about this blog is the conversational tone and the real person behind the brand. I think it’s inspiring to other mums to see someone like them making such a difference in other people’s lives by creating amazingly useful content that is 100% actionable. Also it may inspire mums to set up their own blog and to write about their experiences as a mother and a wife in the 21st century.
b. Skint Dad
So when I talk about coming at a niche from a different angle, this example is exactly what I mean. Skint Dad is a site that helps young / new dads save money and be more frugal in their day to day living. There’s also a section on their that shows guys how to make a little more cash on top of their monthly day job wage, which is vital in some cases just to keep your head above water.
A lot of new dads have the added stress of not having their wives’ or girlfriends’ wage coming in each month, due to the temporary career change in being a full time mum of a baby. So having some content around how they can make a few extra “Ps” in their wallet each month, can ease the burden somewhat.
8. TESTEMONIO
DEFINITION
Testimonio, is directly translated to the English word “testimony,” but there are important differences between the two words. “Testimonio” is a literary genre and is not bound by the same legal obligations to “truth” which are equated with “testimony”. Testimonio is generally considered a fact-based first person narrative of injustice, seeking to represent the experiences of a larger social group, with the aim of rallying support to create more just future. While there may be similarities, testimonio is not the same as other non-fiction genres such as biography, autobiography, and historical texts.
In “Voices for the Voiceless,” Gugelberger and Kearney explain the major proponents of testimonio that separate it from similar genres: testimonio is concerned with the future, not the past; it is concerned with the collective society, not the individual; and there is a learning process involved that inspires readers to act for justice and aims to destabilize Western authority (9). These main proponents of the testimonio genre make it compatible with the magical realist style and their shared goals of consciousness and justice.
While magical realist testimonio may seem even more paradoxical than magical realism alone, the genres share many similarities in their subjects and their goals. The genre “magical realist testimonio” does not exist per se- there are no texts marketed this way. The closest thing there is to a magical realist testimonio is the testimonial novel, which is a work of fiction, but still realistically delivers a testimony. Magical realism is rarely ever considered testimonio because magic is not “real” and testimonios are “real” accounts of injustice.
While there are testimonial novels written in a magical realist style, either the testimonial aspect, or the magical realist aspect is ignored to make a stronger case for the influence of the other genre. This separation, and obsession with “real” and “truth” is keeping critics and readers from seeing the power that a magical realist testimonio has on influencing social change. My thesis will explore the historicity and biographical nature of magical realist texts as a means of testimonio, and show how by rethinking “real,” a magical realist testimonio has the potential to influence positive social change.
Testimonio is generally defined as a first-person narration of socially significant experiences in which the narrative voice is that of a typical or extraordinary witness or protagonist who metonymically represents others who have lived through similar situations and who have rarely given written expression to them.
EXAMPLES:
Testimonio, is directly translated to the English word “testimony,” but there are important differences between the two words. “Testimonio” is a literary genre and is not bound by the same legal obligations to “truth” which are equated with “testimony”. Testimonio is generally considered a fact-based first person narrative of injustice, seeking to represent the experiences of a larger social group, with the aim of rallying support to create more just future. While there may be similarities, testimonio is not the same as other non-fiction genres such as biography, autobiography, and historical texts.
In “Voices for the Voiceless,” Gugelberger and Kearney explain the major proponents of testimonio that separate it from similar genres: testimonio is concerned with the future, not the past; it is concerned with the collective society, not the individual; and there is a learning process involved that inspires readers to act for justice and aims to destabilize Western authority (9). These main proponents of the testimonio genre make it compatible with the magical realist style and their shared goals of consciousness and justice.
While magical realist testimonio may seem even more paradoxical than magical realism alone, the genres share many similarities in their subjects and their goals. The genre “magical realist testimonio” does not exist per se- there are no texts marketed this way. The closest thing there is to a magical realist testimonio is the testimonial novel, which is a work of fiction, but still realistically delivers a testimony. Magical realism is rarely ever considered testimonio because magic is not “real” and testimonios are “real” accounts of injustice.
While there are testimonial novels written in a magical realist style, either the testimonial aspect, or the magical realist aspect is ignored to make a stronger case for the influence of the other genre. This separation, and obsession with “real” and “truth” is keeping critics and readers from seeing the power that a magical realist testimonio has on influencing social change. My thesis will explore the historicity and biographical nature of magical realist texts as a means of testimonio, and show how by rethinking “real,” a magical realist testimonio has the potential to influence positive social change.
Testimonio is generally defined as a first-person narration of socially significant experiences in which the narrative voice is that of a typical or extraordinary witness or protagonist who metonymically represents others who have lived through similar situations and who have rarely given written expression to them.
EXAMPLES:
a. A Bird in the Cage
This testimonio is from my mother’s story of her life
I was born in the province of Bohol. I was the fifth child of twelve. My parents are both farmers. We were living in a simple house at a top of the mountain. And as the eldest among my sisters, I was responsible for all the household chores and serve as the mother of my younger siblings by taking care of them while my parents are on the farm. It was so hard for me to study because our school is about 4 kilometers away from our house and it was located at the bottom of the mountain. So, I have to walk every day before and after class. Every time I got home, I was so exhausted wanting to sleep but my mother always force me to do the household chores or else I will be punished.
So, I have no choice but to do what she asked me. My everyday life is so tiring and difficult. My mother always treated me so badly. I never feel the love of a mother. And my father, he always came home drunk but even though he’s drunk he never laid his hands to us not like any other drunks who always messing around violently. There are times that we don’t have food to eat because he spends the money in drinking and in the cock fighting. Every time he went home my mother scolded him. Almost every day there is a war in the house. But despite all of those happenings in my life, I was so proud of myself.
Since elementary to high school I was a consistent honor student. My medals and achievements are my precious possessions. Every day and every time I received awards I always thank God for always staying with me in times of trial and happiness. My faith in God will never ever disappear. And I also have faith that I will enter to college despite of our poverty. It is the only way that I can see to escape from this way of living.
But my mother told me no, “you can’t go to college. We don’t have money for your expenses and you should help me feeding your siblings. You should go to work!” .My heart broke and shattered. I cried and cried when I got home. I can’t accept that I can’t go college. I really want to go to college. Any course is fine for me I just want to go to college. But no matter how many times I beg she never listened but instead she shouted at me forcing me to do the work.
I was hired as a helper at a Chinese convenient store for two months and I eventually went to Mindanao because my Uncle promised me to help me finished my education. But when I get there he made me as his child’s babysitter. I thought I could continue my study. I was so disappointed and upset.
How long should I endure this terrible cage of mine? How long do I have to wait before I get my freedom? It’s been FOUR YEARS of working in different stores and houses! Does my right in education have already been forgotten? I can’t accept this. I don’t want to stay in this kind of life forever! I have to do something.
Then, my older cousin heard my complains. She offers me her help; she is willing to pay for my enrollment and expenses for just a year. But the problem is, will my mother allows me to return to school? Knowing that it can affect my work?
I was so desperate. I have to tell my mother that I really want to enter college. I was so nervous and scared. What if she rejects the offer? What will happen to my future? I was completely shocked. My mother has given the permission to accept the offer. My heart is overflowed with joy. I was so happy after FOUR YEARS finally I can truly go to college.
I take the vocational course, nursing aid. And as promised I finished it in a year. After that my cousin brought me to the brother of her master who is a doctor to assist him on his clinic because his wife is on abroad. But I never expect that he is the person who can help me finished the college.
And now I am a licensed registered midwife who is currently working at the Hospital of Carmona, Cavite.
This testimonio is from my mother’s story of her life
I was born in the province of Bohol. I was the fifth child of twelve. My parents are both farmers. We were living in a simple house at a top of the mountain. And as the eldest among my sisters, I was responsible for all the household chores and serve as the mother of my younger siblings by taking care of them while my parents are on the farm. It was so hard for me to study because our school is about 4 kilometers away from our house and it was located at the bottom of the mountain. So, I have to walk every day before and after class. Every time I got home, I was so exhausted wanting to sleep but my mother always force me to do the household chores or else I will be punished.
So, I have no choice but to do what she asked me. My everyday life is so tiring and difficult. My mother always treated me so badly. I never feel the love of a mother. And my father, he always came home drunk but even though he’s drunk he never laid his hands to us not like any other drunks who always messing around violently. There are times that we don’t have food to eat because he spends the money in drinking and in the cock fighting. Every time he went home my mother scolded him. Almost every day there is a war in the house. But despite all of those happenings in my life, I was so proud of myself.
Since elementary to high school I was a consistent honor student. My medals and achievements are my precious possessions. Every day and every time I received awards I always thank God for always staying with me in times of trial and happiness. My faith in God will never ever disappear. And I also have faith that I will enter to college despite of our poverty. It is the only way that I can see to escape from this way of living.
But my mother told me no, “you can’t go to college. We don’t have money for your expenses and you should help me feeding your siblings. You should go to work!” .My heart broke and shattered. I cried and cried when I got home. I can’t accept that I can’t go college. I really want to go to college. Any course is fine for me I just want to go to college. But no matter how many times I beg she never listened but instead she shouted at me forcing me to do the work.
I was hired as a helper at a Chinese convenient store for two months and I eventually went to Mindanao because my Uncle promised me to help me finished my education. But when I get there he made me as his child’s babysitter. I thought I could continue my study. I was so disappointed and upset.
How long should I endure this terrible cage of mine? How long do I have to wait before I get my freedom? It’s been FOUR YEARS of working in different stores and houses! Does my right in education have already been forgotten? I can’t accept this. I don’t want to stay in this kind of life forever! I have to do something.
Then, my older cousin heard my complains. She offers me her help; she is willing to pay for my enrollment and expenses for just a year. But the problem is, will my mother allows me to return to school? Knowing that it can affect my work?
I was so desperate. I have to tell my mother that I really want to enter college. I was so nervous and scared. What if she rejects the offer? What will happen to my future? I was completely shocked. My mother has given the permission to accept the offer. My heart is overflowed with joy. I was so happy after FOUR YEARS finally I can truly go to college.
I take the vocational course, nursing aid. And as promised I finished it in a year. After that my cousin brought me to the brother of her master who is a doctor to assist him on his clinic because his wife is on abroad. But I never expect that he is the person who can help me finished the college.
And now I am a licensed registered midwife who is currently working at the Hospital of Carmona, Cavite.
b. My Testimonio of Coming Full Circle
Coming full circle is when your activism leads to your scholarly work, and that leads to your community work and career. And you continue cycling through this rotation in different ways during your journey. For me, at the center for each of these intersecting worlds and coming full circle is healing through community–recognizing myself and my own struggles in the testimonios of my sisters, brothers, and all my relations who connect and build together to produce critical work and uplift our struggles to heal our mundo.
The connections among us are numerous. Recently, I’ve considered a few examples of this “full circle” in my experience. One is when my friend from UC Santa Cruz Edith Gurrola invited me to speak about my documentary Justice for My Sister and its violence prevention campaign at Comisión Femenil in the San Fernando Valley. After the talk, I spoke with Rosemary Muñiz, College Admissions Adviser at CSUN, and realized that we had met at the Comisión back in 2007 when they hosted my student group Speak Out For Them (SOFT) at their event to denounce the unsolved cases of las muertas de Juárez. Another was hearing
Lourdes Portillo, the filmmaker who created Señorita Extraviada, in an academic context and getting inspired to co-found the club Speak Out For Them (SOFT) with my friend Joanna Kibler. Yet another example of “full circle” in my life was running into my mentor Maria Soldatenko at a march in Guatemala. Many years before that Soldatenko had introduced me to Lucia Muñoz from MIA, Mujeres Iniciando en Las Americas, who holds trainings for Men Against Feminicide in Guatemala. One final example is when MIA advocate Marina Woods introduced me to JFMS Collective members in Guatemala in 2011 and later joined our retreat in Los Angeles to train us on Gender 101 in 2012. Full circle. Every time.
These “full circle” moments are about the importance of creating community. With my film, I commit to continuing that work by screening the film annually with our SiStars from Mujeres de Maiz at the Boyle Heights Farmers Market and hosting a series of Healthy Relationships Panels with the Justice for My Sister Collective and our partners in Los Angeles. These events gave us advocates and activists a chance to have meaningful conversations about our own relationship histories.
These talks led to other conversations about community accountability. Community accountability, through transformative justice can lead to healing, and more creative and love-centered approaches to breaking cycles of violence. It provides an alternative to the prison industrial complex, which has historically criminalized men, women, and gender non-conforming individuals of color and torn our communities apart.
Coming full circle is when your activism leads to your scholarly work, and that leads to your community work and career. And you continue cycling through this rotation in different ways during your journey. For me, at the center for each of these intersecting worlds and coming full circle is healing through community–recognizing myself and my own struggles in the testimonios of my sisters, brothers, and all my relations who connect and build together to produce critical work and uplift our struggles to heal our mundo.
The connections among us are numerous. Recently, I’ve considered a few examples of this “full circle” in my experience. One is when my friend from UC Santa Cruz Edith Gurrola invited me to speak about my documentary Justice for My Sister and its violence prevention campaign at Comisión Femenil in the San Fernando Valley. After the talk, I spoke with Rosemary Muñiz, College Admissions Adviser at CSUN, and realized that we had met at the Comisión back in 2007 when they hosted my student group Speak Out For Them (SOFT) at their event to denounce the unsolved cases of las muertas de Juárez. Another was hearing
Lourdes Portillo, the filmmaker who created Señorita Extraviada, in an academic context and getting inspired to co-found the club Speak Out For Them (SOFT) with my friend Joanna Kibler. Yet another example of “full circle” in my life was running into my mentor Maria Soldatenko at a march in Guatemala. Many years before that Soldatenko had introduced me to Lucia Muñoz from MIA, Mujeres Iniciando en Las Americas, who holds trainings for Men Against Feminicide in Guatemala. One final example is when MIA advocate Marina Woods introduced me to JFMS Collective members in Guatemala in 2011 and later joined our retreat in Los Angeles to train us on Gender 101 in 2012. Full circle. Every time.
These “full circle” moments are about the importance of creating community. With my film, I commit to continuing that work by screening the film annually with our SiStars from Mujeres de Maiz at the Boyle Heights Farmers Market and hosting a series of Healthy Relationships Panels with the Justice for My Sister Collective and our partners in Los Angeles. These events gave us advocates and activists a chance to have meaningful conversations about our own relationship histories.
These talks led to other conversations about community accountability. Community accountability, through transformative justice can lead to healing, and more creative and love-centered approaches to breaking cycles of violence. It provides an alternative to the prison industrial complex, which has historically criminalized men, women, and gender non-conforming individuals of color and torn our communities apart.
