Final Paper / Expansion

Remember My Country

A plane fell from the sky
And all fell with it.
It was then that I entered Hell,
Afraid of never escaping
Waiting
Shaking
Crying…
The stench of bodies,
The loss
The fear.
I will never be able to forget.
My country,
Refrain from hatred.
And you, who reads this,
Remember Rwanda.
Remember
Those who suffered.
Those who killed.
Those who died.
Remember me, my family,
My country.

“On this night of April 6th 1994, my Hutu friends, I have terrible news. Our President Juvénal Habyarimana and the President of Burundi, Cyprien Ntaryamira, were shot down in a plane to Kigali. Today, the peace talks come to an end, and you know as well as I do that we must punish the cockroaches who are responsible for these deaths. It is now that you must cut the tall trees. I repeat, cut the tall trees!” I still remember the moment these words were spoken on the Radio Mille Collines, when the expression on my mother’s face was the most troubled I had ever seen it. I sat in the living room of our small house in Kigali with my mother, father, and sister, all of us crowded around our small radio.

“What does he mean by cut the tall trees, Mama?” I remember my sister saying. My mother did not answer. She only gave my father a worried look. But three violent pounds on our door interrupted any chance to exchange words.

“Military! Open the door!” Pounding again. My mother instantly drew my sister and I closer to her.

“You must get out now!” said my father in a harsh whisper, “Tom, go with your mother and sister. Hide in the bushes out back. Do not make a sound! Go now, take anything of value that you can!” My mother frantically ran to her bedroom to collect her jewelry as the pounding on our door continued. I remember the voice, the sound of the fist banging on the wood, the fear on my father’s face that I had never seen before.

After embracing my father and taking the keys to our car, my mother grabbed us as we escaped through the back door and into the brush that separated our yard from our neighbor’s. We huddled together, shaking, straining our ears to hear what was happening inside. I glanced toward our neighbor’s yard, only to see the house in flames. Bloody, motionless bodies lay on the ground. My mother gasped and shielded my eyes toward her chest as I began to weep.

It was then that we heard the shouting from the house—the muffled yells of my father and the military man. It ended with a gunshot. A gunshot that pierced my heart, and still leaves a gaping wound. My mother clamped her hand to her mouth as the shock paralyzed her. It only took a few minutes for the men to drive away in their military truck. Soon, our own house was enveloped in an angry blaze, and we knew there was no helping him. My mother wept and wept, the tears flowing as a stream, and I wept with her. At the age of thirteen, I did not know of anything I could do but embrace her, even in my own pain.

“You there!” The fear struck me as it rarely has before, “Come out from there!” A member of the Hutu militia had found us. “Come out, you cockroaches!”

I could see that my mother’s lips trembled as she stood up to confront the man, but, despite this, she behaved in a manner of relative calm. “Please sir,” replied my mother as she wiped the tears from her cheeks, “It is only I and my children.” He pointed the gun at us threateningly. “We will leave, I promise, if you only let us take our car. We will go.”

“And what makes you think I will let you do that?” The smirk on his face and the way he looked at my mother disgusted me.

“Because I have all this to give you.” My mother pulled jewelry out of her pocket, and stretched her hand out toward him. She cringed as he touched her hand in his haste to take the jewelry from her, but she willingly gave it to him. “It—it’s real silver and gold. Please, take it. And we will leave.”

His eyes had lit up the way they do when greed takes over. “Alright…I suppose you can go. Just go quickly! And never come back!”

“Thank you. Thank you, sir. Come quickly, children!” My mother hurried us to our car, and I was fearful of the soldier changing his mind. But he did not. We drove toward the center of Kigali, as roadblocks prevented us from leaving the city.

It is still difficult for me to describe what I saw on those death-ridden roads. I can remember the stench, the blood, the upturned cars, the fiery houses. My mother began to speak as tears ran down her pale cheeks, “I am sorry. Please don’t look. We will find a place where we can sleep, and then I will take you to your father’s friend, Paul. He may be able to help us.” My mother stared off down the street, still as a stone, cheeks damp, but no expression. I sat in a daze, holding my sister’s hand, for what must have been about twenty minutes. My mother pulled the car into a seemingly secluded garage where we were to sleep for the remainder of the night. I was restless for hours, but my body eventually drifted off into sleep, my mother and sister lying next to me…
* * *

That night I dreamt of my father. A vision of him came to me, as if he had never left. He told me that this would eventually be over, that I would be able to escape. I asked him how, but he did not give me an answer, saying that it did not matter. Then I dreamt of other things, remembering the days when I was even younger, playing with him, sneaking candy from him so mother wouldn’t see, jumping rope with my sister in our back yard while my father watched and laughed. Those days were over now, but just dreaming of them gave me comfort. They made me forget the terrible night for a moment…

* * *
I thought I heard the pounds of a fist against our wooden door, but I awoke only to remember the happenings of the night before, and to see a young man banging his fist against the window of our car. Without warning, he broke the window and opened the door, waving a bloodstained machete in the air. My screams woke my mother and sister, and my mother frantically got out of the car in her determination to protect us. The colorful shirt the young man wore made it clear that he was a member of the Interhamwe (a Hutu youth group), the one we knew to fear the most.

He grabbed my arm, squeezing it to the point where I thought it would burst, and as I cringed at the thought of his machete coming down upon me, he yelled that we must all follow him onto the street. There were others with him who we could see now, and we knew there was no way of resisting them. We followed him to the street, only to see a large group of armed members of the Interhamwe surrounding other Tutsis who were lined up against a wall. The look of utter fear on their faces was all too familiar, and I could not help but stare at the ground.

My mother, sister, and I were soon thrust upon the wall, causing my sister to cry at the pain of her fall. As I went to comfort her, a member of the Interhamwe pushed my mother up against the wall and brought a machete to her neck, causing my sister to sob even louder. It was then that I closed my eyes, ready for them to take my sister, ready for them to take me.

“Please, no!” cried my mother. Tears were flowing freely yet again, “I will do anything! Here, take this jewelry.” She fussed in her pockets, “It’s all I have left, but it’s worth a lot of money.” As he saw the silver and gold sparkle in the hot sun, the man relaxed his grip and seemed to take interest in her offer. He lowered his machete and examined the necklaces and bracelets, but I did not like the smirk that had taken form on his face. I didn’t trust him.

“This is enough to save the boy,” he replied.

Frantic, my mother asked, “Please, what else can I give you to convince you to let us go?” At hearing this, the man smiled and guided my mother toward the garage, where he could speak to her without us hearing. I strained to try to hear their conversation, or read their lips, but I could make out nothing. After a few minutes, they began to walk toward the garage together.

“Mama, where are you going?” I asked nervously. I did not want to leave her out of my sight.

“Just stay there, Tom. Don’t worry; I will be back in a few minutes. Just take care of your sister while we talk.” I watched the man guiding her further into the garage, his grip firm and his stride brisk. I tried to walk toward them, but another Interhamwe member hit me and told me to stay where I was. All I could do was wait with my sister, holding her hand while we sat on the cold concrete of the sidewalk. We watched and waited as other Interhamwe members drove by in their open trucks. They waved their flags and their bloody machetes in the air, laughing at us Tutsis who awaited our deaths. At this point, I had truly stepped into Hell, where it seemed as though there would be no salvation. The city had gone mad, and I was going mad along with it.

After what I guessed had been about fifteen minutes, my mother and the man finally came back. My mother’s cheeks were flushed and the man was sweaty. She had a look of disgust and shame on her face, and it was only until later on in my life that I realized what she had actually done to keep us alive. When she saw us, she grabbed our hands without hesitation and led us back to our car. The man stood and watched us as we drove away. He must have been a sort of leader, for as I looked through the back window at the figures that steadily grew smaller, he made a command to the others. I watched as the Interhamwe members brutally struck the Tutsis with their blunt machetes. Blood was everywhere, even from a distance, and the screams of those who were dying were audible, even from inside our car. I will never forget that vision.

After a few terrifying and extremely trying days in which roadblocks still kept us from leaving the city, my mother, sister and I finally arrived at the Hotel des Mille Collines. My father’s friend, Paul, had been made manager there, and he had started to give people shelter from the genocide. He took us in as refugees, feeding and protecting us through dealings with those in power and bribery with those who frequently came on missions to kill. For three months we stayed there, waiting for someone to come to Rwanda and stop the madness. But no one ever did. Not even the Americans.

It has been estimated that around one million people were killed during those ninety days. After the Tutsi Rebel Forces were finally able to develop enough strength to resist the Interhamwe, my mother, sister, and I were able to escape Rwanda and find a temporary home in the Democratic Republic of Congo. Out of his kindness and bravery, Paul Rusesabagina helped save 1,260 Hutu and Tutsi refugees during those three months. I will never be as grateful or as indebted to someone as I am to him.

Today, I live in Brussels with my fiancée. Her family also has a story of escaping the genocide. We are truly the lucky ones. My sister lives just outside the city limits, and she studies at a university. I just saw her several hours ago, before my mother’s funeral was over. My mother asked me, before she passed, if I could write a story of our experiences during the genocide. She said, “Tom, it’s the only way that we can help prevent such a thing from happening.” And so, I sit here now, writing this.

In Rwanda today, some Tutsis still live next to the Hutus who killed their families. The country has not healed. For this reason and many others, it is important to remember our story. In my lifetime, I have learned that people can be vulnerable to evil and madness, but they can also be full of valor and great sacrifice for others. I ask you to remember my family’s story. Remember that it could happen to you; it could happen to anybody. And help those who suffer to heal. It is the most I can do for myself and for others who continue to be plagued by the conflicts of our kind.

Writing Assignment 8

Remember My Country

A plane fell from the sky
And all fell with it.
It was then that I entered Hell,
Afraid of never escaping
Waiting
Shaking
Crying…
The stench of bodies,
The loss
The fear.
I will never be able to forget.
My country,
Refrain from hatred.
And you, who reads this,
Remember Rwanda.
Remember
Those who suffered.
Those who killed.
Those who died.
Remember me, my family,
My country.

“On this night of April 6th 1994, my Hutu friends, I have terrible news. Our President Juvénal Habyarimana and the President of Burundi, Cyprien Ntaryamira, were shot down in a plane to Kigali. Today, the peace talks come to an end, and you know as well as I do that we must punish the cockroaches who are responsible for these deaths. It is now that you must cut the tall trees. I repeat, cut the tall trees!” I still remember the moment these words were spoken on the Radio Mille Collines, when the expression on my mother’s face was the most troubled I had ever seen it. I sat in the living room of our small house in Kigali with my mother, father, and sister, all of us crowded around our small radio.

“What does he mean by cut the tall trees, mama?” I remember my sister saying. My mother did not answer. She only gave my father a worried look. But three violent pounds on our door interrupted any chance to exchange words.

“Military! Open the door!” Pounding again. My mother instantly drew my sister and I closer to her.

“You must get out now!” said my father in a harsh whisper, “Tom, go with your mother and sister. Hide in the bushes out back. Do not make a sound! Go now, take anything of value that you can!” My mother frantically ran to her bedroom to collect her jewelry as the pounding on our door continued. I can still remember the voice, the sound of the fist banging on the wood, haunting.

After embracing my father and taking the keys to our car, my mother grabbed my hand and I, my sisters, as we escaped through the back door and into the brush that separated our yard from our neighbor’s. We huddled together, shaking, straining our ears to hear what was happening inside. I glanced toward our neighbor’s yard, only to see the house in flames. Bloody, motionless bodies lay on the ground. My mother gasped and shielded my eyes toward her chest as I began to weep.

It was then that we heard the shouting from the house—the muffled yells of my father and the military man. It ended with a gunshot. A gunshot that pierced my heart, and still leaves a wound. My mother clamped her hand to her mouth as the shock paralyzed her. It only took a few minutes for the men to drive away in their military truck. Soon, our own house was enveloped in an angry blaze, and we knew there was no helping him. My mother wept and wept, the tears flowing as a stream, and I wept with her. At the age of thirteen, I did not know of anything I could do but embrace her, even in my own pain. How do you find comfort when someone so special has been lost?

“You there!” The fear struck me as it rarely has before, “Come out from there!” A member of the Hutu militia had found us. “Come out, you cockroaches!”

“Please sir,” replied my mother as she wiped the tears from her cheeks and stood up, “It is only I and my children.” He pointed the gun at us threateningly. “We will leave, I promise, if you only let us take our car. We will go.”

“And what makes you think I will let you do that?” The smirk on his face and the way he looked at my mother disgusted me.

“Because I have all this to give you.” My mother pulled jewelry out of her pocket, and stretched her hand out toward him. “It is real silver and gold. Please, take it. And we will leave.”

His eyes lit up the way they do when greed takes over. “Alright…I suppose you can go. Just go quickly! And never come back!”

“Thank you. Thank you, sir. Come quickly, children!” My mother hurried us to our car, and I was fearful of the soldier changing his mind. But he did not. We drove toward the center of Kigali, as roadblocks prevented us from leaving the city. It is still difficult for me to describe what I saw on those death-ridden roads. I can remember the stench, the blood, the upturned cars, the fiery houses. My mother began to speak as tears ran down her pale cheeks, “I am sorry. Don’t look and don’t worry. We will find a place where we can sleep, and then I will take you to your father’s friend, Paul. He may be able to help us.” My mother stared off down the street, still as a stone, cheeks damp, but no expression. I sat in a daze, holding my sister’s hand, for what must have been about twenty minutes. My mother pulled the car into a seemingly secluded garage where we were to sleep for the remainder of the night. My sleep was restless for hours, but I eventually drifted off, my mother and sister lying next to me…

I thought I heard the pounds of a fist against our wooden door again, but I awoke only to remember the happenings of the night before, and to see a young man banging against the window of our car. He suddenly broke the window and opened the door, waving a bloodstained machete in the air. My screams woke my mother and sister, and my mother frantically got out of the car in her determination to protect us. The colorful shirt the young man wore made it clear that he was a member of the Interhamwe, the ones that we knew to fear the most.

He grabbed my arm, squeezing it to the point where I thought it would burst, and as I cringed at the thought of his machete coming down upon me, he yelled that we must all follow him onto the street. There were others with him that we could see now, and we knew there was no way of resisting them. We followed him to the street, only to see a large group of armed members of the Interhamwe surrounding other Tutsis that were lined up against a wall. The look of utter fear on their faces was all too familiar, and I could not help but stare at the ground, as I could not bring myself to look into their eyes.

My mother, sister, and I were thrust upon the wall, and my sister began to cry at the pain of her fall. As I went to comfort her, a member of the Interhamwe pushed my mother up against the wall and brought a machete to her neck, causing my sister to sob even louder. It was then that I closed my eyes, ready for them to take my mother and my sister, ready for them to take me.

Writing Assignment 7: Dialogue

Saint Januarius in the Amphitheatre

“Please Timotheus, have mercy on us. We do not wish to anger you, or to condemn all of Paganism because of our beliefs. We have found a faith that can unite us all, and will welcome us all, and we only wish to be free to believe as we may.” I have never seen a man defend his beliefs so nobly! Especially not to the ruler of Campania! How brave Januarius is, for standing up to Timotheus, who is tempted to condemn us to death, I am sure. I need to be brave like Januarius, for all Christians, and for my own life!

“Yes, please, Timotheus…”

“That is alright, Proculus. Let me handle this, as I am in the position to do so.” How rude…I only wish to defend Januarius. I suppose he believes he can do so on his own. Please God, let us be saved!

“I cannot excuse you and your men, Januarius. Through your betrayal of the Gods, and have insulted them and, in turn, you have insulted me. The fiery furnace is the fate that awaits you and your men, and I am sure your God will not be able to save you there!”

“If that is your decision, Timotheus, then so be it. But I do believe that God will save us, for we have our own ways of asking for his help.”

Who is that grabbing my arm? “Januarius, the soldiers are taking us away! Should we fight?!”

“No Proculus, there is no need. We will go without a fight. Pray to God as we leave. Pray that he will save us.”

Please God, help us. Help Januarius, Festus, Socius, Desiderius, Eutyches, Acutius, and me. We follow you and are faithful, and we do not wish to burn in the flames of the fiery furnace. I do not believe it is our time to die quite yet, for we still need to spread your word, and build a family of Christians who will love and follow you. Oh no! We are approaching the furnace. I can see it now! Please God, as quickly as you can, please protect us from these flames.

“I have prayed, Januarius, but I do not know how much good it will do.”

“I prayed too, Proculus. It has done something, I am sure. Just have faith! It is in His hands now.”

“Festus, you heard Januarius. Have faith! Try to look confident. Pray!”

“Oh Proculus, your innocence fools you. I do not see how we will get out of this one. See there—Januarius just entered the furnace. I fear it is your turn.”

My lord the furnace is hot! “Oh Januarius! How can we survive this? I fear that there is nothing we can do now, save die in the good graces of God, for I can feel the fire on my toes now, and they burn!”

“Wait a moment, Proculus. For already, I can no longer feel the flames licking at my feet. Our prayers have been answered.”

“My Lord, You are right! They are no longer hot. This is God’s doing?”

“Of course it is. I told you he would help us. As the others come in, they will also not be harmed. We are saved, at least from this.”

Oh, thank you! I cannot believe this is really happening—that God has truly protected us. He is the mighty power! I am sure of that now! And for as long as I live, I will follow him, for he has blessed me beyond all expectations.

“Proculus, I hear the guards coming now to open the doors of the furnace. Stay near. I am sure they will try something new, and that Timotheus is extremely angry that the furnace did not kill us. He most likely has some other fate for us up his sleeve.”

“Don’t worry, Januarius. I have new confidence now. God will protect us again! No matter what Timotheus tries next. I am sure of it. But where do you think they will be taking us now?”

“You are going to the amphitheatre, you scum! Where you will be fed to the lions and bears! I doubt your God has control over what they do!” This soldier has a demented twinkle in his eye that I do not like. I hope he is not right in his predictions. But oh, how I should hate to be killed in a theatre for all to see. How humiliating it will be to have all the citizens yelling and throwing things at us, like our death is their entertainment. How society welcomes that behavior I will never guess!

“Don’t lose face, Proculus. Just remember to be confident and proud, and don’t listen to anything that the people shout at us. I will see to it that God protects us again. He, after all, created the animals as well, and should be able to control their fates just like He controls ours.” I hope Januarius is right. God has proven his abilities to us once now. Perhaps he will show them to us again.

Walking with these soldiers in the midst of these crowds is too humiliating to bear. Ugh, they are throwing bad fruit at me! How it stinks! Januarius is too great a man to deserve this. Why do people ridicule us like this?

“Ha ha! Let’s see how tasty the bears and lions think you are! Hopefully you will not be to their liking! Here, take this rotten fruit. Perhaps it will ward them off! Ha ha ha!" What scum, they do not deserve my attention. I must hold my head up high like Januarius, and set an example for the others, so that they can have hope, too!

“Proculus, pray again, for we are approaching the theatre. Ask for protection from the lions and bears. I see them now and they look ominous. I will try to tame them, but I need the help of God.”

“Of course, Januarius, I will do what I can. Best of luck to you, and if we are not successful, I will see you in the afterlife!

Dear God, help Januarius tame the animals. They will eat us if he does not, and we need your help in controlling them. Please, give Januarius the authority and power over them that he so desperately needs now!

“Animals, obey me! Be tame before us. We do not with to harm you. Let us be friends, for we were both created by the same hands!”

I cannot believe my eyes! It is working! Januarius raises his hands in blessing and the lions kneel down to lick his feet. Oh thank you God, your mercy has saved us!

Writing Assignment 6: Satire

On This Perfect Day

“It’s a sign!” I woke up to my alarm clock shortly after I realized what song was coming from its speakers, and can you believe it, it was playing “Perfect Day” by Hoku! One of my all-time favorites! I jumped out of bed, ready to start my first day of college, the song giving me new confidence and excitement. On this perfect day, nothing’s standing in my way. On this perfect day, when nothing can go wrong. This is going to be great, I thought, today’s going to be the best day ever!

Being unusually perky at seven in the morning, I grabbed my pink towel and walked down the hallway to the bathroom, dancing a little on the way as I could still hear the song coming from my alarm. I had plenty of time to get ready for my ten o’clock class, thank god, as I wanted to look my absolute best. With curlers still in my hair, I put a shower cap on them as I stepped into the shower, letting the warm water trickle over my skin. I hummed “Perfect Day” as I shaved my legs, making sure not to miss a spot. I had gone tanning the day before and was pleased to see that my skin looked nice today, even darker than it was before. I was excited to take the curlers out of my hair once I was finished showering, as I had found instructions for a new hair-do in Vogue and was anxious to see the results.

As I got out of the shower, one of the other pledges, Cindy, came in to brush her teeth. “Hi Cindy!” I said, “Are you excited for today?”

“Definitely,” she replied, “Especially for tonight! Party at Pi Kappa Sigma! They are so hot. I’m gonna need your advice tonight on an outfit.”

“Sure!” I said, “I’ll see you tonight then!”

“Ok, bye!” said Cindy, as I left the bathroom. I can’t believe Cindy actually expects me to help her choose an outfit, I thought. Hasn’t she gotten the hint that she’s annoying me? Oh well, I’ll just make sure to avoid her tonight so I won’t have to be seen with her at Pi Kappa Sigma. I don’t get why so many guys like her—she isn’t even that pretty if you really look at her.

As I walked into to my room, I grabbed the outfit I had picked out the night before that was folded on my desk-chair. I put on my favorite low-rise jeans, a yellow tank top, and wedge sandals as I took out the curlers in my hair. And let me tell you, I had never seen my hair look so good. Thank you, Vogue! The loose waves definitely complimented the shape of my face. I would for sure be turning heads tonight.

After I carefully applied my make-up and packed up my things for class, I went down to the dining hall to find several girls having breakfast. I had my usual Frosted Flakes for breakfast and grabbed an apple for lunch, as I was on a new diet. The room seemed to be abuzz with excitement, as everyone was a little anxious for their first day.

I then walked to class with a couple girls in the sorority who also had class at ten o’clock. However, it’s not even worth it to tell you about Microeconomics or Accounting that day. If the cute boys weren’t distracting me during class, I was probably spacing out or doodling in my notebook. Those classes are going to be so boring! I can’t drop them, though, as I have to take them for the Business major. I’ll probably just have my dad help me out—he knows everything about everything. The rest of the day on campus was fine though—I can’t believe how many people go to UW! There are so many people to meet and things to do.

But let’s fast-forward to tonight—the only event of the day that really matters! As I restyled my hair, all the girls in the sorority were getting ready for the party. The sound of hair dryers and pre-funk music filled the house. I made sure that Cindy did not see me when I came home, and had my other friend, Maggie, hang out with me as we got ready. After consulting her for advice, I decided to wear my turquoise halter-top with a plunging neckline and a pair of dark-washed jeans with my favorite pair of high-heels. Damn, I looked hot. No denying it! Soon enough, though, it was time to leave, and after taking plenty of group photos we all headed out to Pi Kappa Sigma.

Even though it had been warm that day and Pi Kappa Sigma was only a couple blocks away, it had definitely cooled down for the night and I felt frozen by the time I got there. Better to have that, though, than to have to worry about a coat. I felt kind of silly walking over in my halter-top, but I had had enough pre-funk drinks to not worry about it. Plus, all the other girls were just as scantily clad on the way over as I was!

When we entered the fraternity, we were greeted by bumping music, drinks in plastic red cups, and all the cutest guys I had ever seen in one place. With a big smile on my face, I let all the older sorority girls introduce me to the boys of Pi Kappa Sigma. One guy, in particular, named Kevin, took an interest in me and asked me to dance. He was definitely a hottie and a junior, so I accepted right away. Already buzzed by the drinks I had had, we moved onto the floor and danced to Chris Brown and the Ying Yang twins. After a few songs, he offered to get me a drink and I accepted willingly. He came back with a neon-green glowing drink, explaining that the energy drink, Rock Star, glowed in the black light. The drink was gone pretty fast—it always got easier for me to drink as I had more.

After about ten minutes, though, I was surprised to find my vision blurring, my head pounding. How many drinks did I have, I thought. Did I really have that many? Seeing Kevin smiling at me, I made sure not to give him any hints that I was worried, and continued dancing with him. Soon enough, though, I started to feel even dizzier and finally told Kevin that I needed to take a break and get away from all the people. He understood and told me I could go up to his room and relax. Thinking that lying down sounded very appealing, I let him lead me upstairs and to his bed where he said I could rest for a half hour or so. As I curled up and heard the door close, I instantly felt better. Finally I was away from the crowded dance floor and all the loud music that was making my head pound. However, when I opened my eyes as I changed my position, I was surprised to see the blurry outline of Kevin still in the room. He was sitting in a chair nearby.

“Why aren’t you downstairs with everyone else?” I asked.

“Shhh,” he said, “Just relax and don’t worry about me.” He soon got up to move closer to me, and my heart started pounding as he sat down on the bed and started caressing my leg. What was he doing? Should I call out for help? Before I could think of what to do next, my vision began to slip away from me, and without warning, everything went black.

Writing Assignment 5

Tonight’s Ball

Katherine inhaled the sweet, fresh air as she made her way home after her morning walk. The air was brisk and turned her cheeks a rosy hue, but she adored the feeling it gave her, exalting. She stopped by a pasture where a beautiful horse stood, careful to keep her gown out of the mud, and stroked its long neck. How beautiful, she thought, If only my family could afford such a magnificent horse. She stroked it longingly for a while until the wind almost took her bonnet from her head and she decided it was time to return home. Her mother would soon need assistance with morning chores, and if she did not return home now, she knew her mother would be unpleasantly vexed.

As Katherine walked down the driveway to her home, her mind wandered toward the book she had started this week. She hoped she would have time to read it today, for it was full of intrigue and forbidden love affairs. As Katherine was now of an age, she, too, was to be thinking of someone to marry. Convinced that only the deepest love would induce her into matrimony, Katherine began to dread the ball that was to take place tonight, as she could just imagine her mother pushing her onto the richest men at the party, as she did at every ball. Tonight, a young man named Charles Whittaker with an income of seven thousand pounds a year was hosting the ball, as he had just settled in at Netherfield for a few months, at least. Katherine, however, could care less, as she could just imagine the mundane, tiring talk, and the seemingly never-ending dancing through which she would have to suffer. Besides, with nothing but her charms to recommend her, Katherine was sure no man of seven thousand pounds was going to ask her for her hand in marriage, no matter how well-respected her family was despite their unfortunate circumstances. Perhaps her father could excuse her from attending the night’s festivities.

As the maid, Margaret, opened the door for Katherine and she removed her bonnet, Katherine was greeted by the shouts of her two younger sisters who were arguing over a gown that would be worn to tonight’s ball. They were in such a rage, that Jane nearly knocked a candlestick onto the wooden floor. “Stop your bickering!” yelled Katherine, “Jane, give the gown to Charlotte, for it does not suit you. Wear your blue gown instead. If you do not stop arguing, you will surely start a fire!” Katherine went to move the candlestick away from harm’s way as Jane stormed from the room and Charlotte clutched the gown to her breast in silent victory. “Don’t look so smug, Charlotte. If father had seen this, you would not be so pleased.” Charlotte glared at Katherine as she left the room, her head held high with her hair still in braids. Katherine then went to help her mother with her duties, including preparing for that night’s activities. When she saw her mother in the frantic stress that always accompanied preparations for entering into an event of good society, it was clear that she would have to attend the ball with her family.

That night, Katherine stepped off the carriage in a white gown looking just as handsome as any other girl entering the ball, even if her dress was not quite as grand as some. Margaret had done her hair well, as she adorned Katherine’s golden tendrils with sweet baby’s breath. Katherine, however, was still not pleased to be there, as she could already spot the shallow and boring people filing into the entrance of Mr. Whittaker’s mansion. It is quite a site though, Katherine thought. She couldn’t help but be impressed with the utter grandeur of his home. And this is only a temporary house, she thought, I can’t imagine what his actual home must be like. And to be mistress of all this? But without another thought to be had, Katherine felt her mother pushing her toward the entrance, clearly eager to meet Mr. Whittaker.

As they entered the house, people were already dancing and drinking merrily. Many of the faces were all people with whom Katherine was acquainted, as Netherfield was, after all, a very small town. Her mother, of course, was quick to point out Mr. Whittaker, who was standing in the corner with his sister and her fiancé. Well, he is quite handsome, Katherine thought, I must give him credit for that. Mr. Whittaker was tall and dark-haired. His face possessed strong features and his figure was lean. He was dressed, of course, very handsomely in a blue coat. Katherine’s father guided them toward Mr. Whittaker for an introduction, and as they approached him, Katherine could not help but see how proud he seemed to be. She wondered if he was enjoying himself at all.

As Katherine was introduced, she smiled and curtsied and said everything politely as she should. Her sisters were behaving exceedingly silly, as they giggled and smiled at everything Mr. Whittaker said. Bored and somewhat embarrassed, Katherine’s eyes wandered toward the ceiling to admire the decorations. Suddenly, however, she was surprised to hear Mr. Whittaker address her personally. “Pardon me?” she said. Katherine could not believe it, but he was asking to claim the next dance. With no excuse to come up with, Katherine accepted, even to the displeasure of his sister.

They entered the dance floor and began to dance; men and women wove between each other, the gowns swaying to and fro, the men’s boots stomping on the wooden floors. Mr. Whittaker’s hands were cold, but Katherine much preferred them to warm and clammy hands. He smiled at her as they danced, making Katherine blush, for she had never received such attentions from a man of his stature before. He asked her to dance two more times that night, and they were able to talk of things that Katherine had never talked about at a ball before—literature, politics, and art. At the end of the evening, Mr. Whittaker escorted Katherine and her family to their carriage. She and her family were the last to leave. They said their good-byes and as the carriage drove away, she turned around to look at Mr. Whittaker, who still stood in the middle of the driveway. He soon disappeared as they turned a corner, and a smile crept on Katherine’s face as she settled in for the journey home.

Writing Assignment Four

An Unexpected Adventure

I stepped off the train at the Stazione Santa Maria Novella of Florence at eleven o’clock p.m., accompanied by five of my friends, tired after a busy day spent in Siena. We had come back to Florence to return to Rome, as there were no trains that went directly from Siena to Roma. I led the group to the self-service ticket machines, where we could buy our ticket to Rome on the 11:45 p.m. train that we had seen on the schedule the day before. However, to my dismay and shock, as I looked through the full schedule of trains to Rome that day, there were none that ran after 9:30 p.m., and the next train was not until 6:40 in the morning. “This can’t be right,” I said, “Where is the time that we saw on the schedule yesterday?” No one could answer that question, as a train was obviously not running at 11:45 p.m. to Rome—at least not from this train station. After much discussion about what we should do, we decided that we should ask for the advice of the only person we saw working at the station—the man at the baggage check.

We proceeded to the glass windows of the baggage checkroom, eager to speak to the man. He opened one of the windows with a “Dimmi” and I asked, “Are there any trains going from Florence to Rome tonight?”

He replied, “Not from this station. But there is another in Florence that does. It is called the Stazione di Campo di Marte, and it is in the south. You can get a cab there.”

“The trains run throughout the night?” I asked, skeptical about whether he was telling the truth.

“Sí, sí,” he said, “They always run throughout the night.”

With a “Grazie” we left the baggage check and found a taxi that would take us to the Campo di Marte, and even though it was five euro per person, we decided it was worth the money with our cumbersome and heavy luggage. I confirmed with the taxi driver that the trains ran at night to Rome, and was able to feel reassured that we would make it back to Rome that same night. When we arrived at the Stazione di Campo di Marte that had one train on the tracks already, we started to make our way to the ticket machines, only to be stopped by three Caribinieri. “Passports please,” they said, and with a nervous glance at my friends, I dug it out of my purse and gave it to the officer. They did the same, and we waited anxiously as they looked through our passports and read off information through their walky-talkies.

“Do you guys have your permessos?” I whispered quietly, only to have several people shake their heads with a no. Worried about whether we would be arrested, we waited as they finished talking to whomever they reported to, and eventually they gave us back our passports. When it was clear that we were not going to be thrown into jail, Ryan asked, “Do you know when the train to Rome leaves?”

One of the officers replied, “Yes, I think it leaves in five minutes. Hold on a moment.” Suddenly, he yelled across the platform to the conductor outside the parked train in rapid Italian, and the man answered back incomprehensibly. The officer turned to us, “Yes, it is that train right there. It is leaving now. Run to platform seven!” Without any hesitation, we all picked up our luggage and sprinted to platform seven, approached another conductor, and asked, “Vai a Roma?”

“No,” she said, “Non vado a Roma.”

“What?!” exclaimed Laura, “What is she talking about?”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said. “When does the next train leave for Rome?”

“Next train is not until 5:30 a.m. I do not know why they don’t run,” she replied, “Sorry.”

In complete dismay, we sat down to discuss what we should do as the train rode away. After much debate, we decided that, rather than spend money on a hotel that would probably not check us in this late (by this time it was already past midnight), we would return to the Stazione Santa Maria Novella, where the trains are faster, check our luggage again, and go out all night in Florence. After all, we might as well take advantage of being in Firenze for the night.

After waiting fifteen minutes for a taxi, we caught one that took us to Santa Maria Novella—another five euro. We entered the train station for the third time that day, and when we thought that it couldn’t get any worse, we saw that the baggage check was closed. At that point, we had no choice. A hotel it was. We wandered around the streets near the train station, looking for a place we could regroup, and were utterly rejoiced to find the golden arches of McDonald’s. At least here was a place that was open, had food, was warm, and had a place where we could sit.

Several of us ordered some burgers and fries while Ryan, being the only man in the group, decided to go searching for a hotel that was affordable and would allow us to check in this late. After about fifteen minutes, he returned to tell us that he had found a hotel that had three doubles for twenty-two euro per person, and that even though he had to wake up the owner, he was willing to take us in for the night. We immediately took advantage of the opportunity and gave our passports to Ryan so that he could check us in and get our room keys. After finishing our American meals, we made our way to our hotel rooms where there were warm beds awaiting us. The next morning, we finally returned to Rome, happy and relieved to be home in the Campo di Fiori where we belonged.

Fable: Melinda's Wish

Every morning, Melinda looks at her reflection in the mirror, and every morning, she is disgusted with what she sees. Her hair is stringy and gray, her skin is wrinkled and warted, her lips are thin and cracked, and her body is misshapen and disproportionate. More than anything else, Melinda wishes for beauty; the kind of beauty that the young girls of nearby Atessa possess and that always seems to entice young men. Melinda only sees these girls from afar, for she lives in the isolation of her secluded cottage on top a small hill, where no one comes to visit or befriend her.

This particular morning, however, is not ordinary, for it is Melinda’s eighteenth birthday. Like many of her past birthdays, Melinda plans to enjoy it in solitude, perhaps by tending to her cottage, or reading a book, or listening to the birds sing. After gazing at her hideous reflection for what she thought had been far too long, Melinda left her mirror and walked out to her garden, where some unruly weeds had sprung to life in the past couple weeks. She knelt down to start pulling them out by the roots when a billow of smoke accompanied by a loud pop appeared next to her. Melinda jumped back and shrieked in fear, only to see that a beautiful and majestic cloaked woman stood before her. “Hello, my child,” the women said, “I am the Witch of Wishes, and I have come today to grant you a wish. It is your eighteenth birthday, is it not?”

“Y-y-yes it is,” stammered Melinda, “But I do not understand. Why have you come to see me when no one else has?”

The witch replied, “Well, I always grant wishes on eighteenth birthdays, for those who truly wish for something, which almost all of us do. But I must warn you that I cannot give something to you without taking from another, for I cannot upset the balance in the world, you see. So we must find a way to grant your wish together. What do you desire most, my dear?”

Melinda did not need to think long about what she desired most, “I desire to be beautiful, like the young girls in Atessa, so that I can find myself a husband and not be lonely anymore.”

“Well that is simple,” said the Witch, “Simply find a beautiful girl who you can entice here, and I will make you beautiful. Meet me in three days, and make sure you have the girl with you.”

The Witch disappeared, leaving Melinda confused and perplexed. How am I to entice a young girl to my cottage, thought Melinda, and what does the Witch plan to do to her? But instead of dwelling on these questions that she could not answer, Melinda decided to leave for Atessa at once, for she only had three days to complete her task. Melinda left her cottage for the village that very same afternoon, dreading the moment when she would enter the village for the first time. On her path to the village, Melinda found an orange tree, and she thought it to be the most beautiful orange tree she had ever seen. She took from it an orange and tasted it, only to be amazed by the burst of flavor that tingled her tongue. It was the most delicious orange she had ever had. These will surely entice a young girl, she thought. She picked a couple oranges, stashed them in her knapsack, and made her way into the village that very night. For two days Melinda searched for a girl who she could entice, but all who saw her shunned her, too afraid to look at her hideous face, let alone talk to her.

When Melinda was ready to give up any hopes of achieving her wish, a kind and beautiful young girl named Cynthia took notice of Melinda. She said, “You poor soul, all alone here and being shunned by all. What is it in your hand that you are offering?” But before Melinda could answer, her eyes were drawn to the man that accompanied Cynthia, for he was the most handsome man Melinda had ever seen. She immediately fell for him, and knew that she must entice them both to her cottage in order to fulfill her wish. Melinda replied, “I offer to you the most delicious orange that you have ever tasted. And I have many more at my cottage atop the hill yonder.” Cynthia and her fiancé, who was named John, tried the orange and were immediately hypnotized by its taste. They agreed to follow Melinda to her cottage where they were promised more oranges of its kind.

That night, the third night since Melinda had met with the Witch of Wishes, the Witch returned and was pleased to see that Melinda had fulfilled her task. She performed her spell upon Melinda and Cynthia, turning Melinda into a beautiful version of herself, and Cynthia into an unrecognizable and ugly being. The Witch then cast Cynthia back to the village, and left John to live with Melinda for the rest of his days.

Yet John did not wish to stay, for he knew that he could never love any other woman but Cynthia. Even though Melinda was one of the most beautiful women in Atessa as a result of this spell, he could not fall for her, for his heart would always belong to Cynthia. One night, when Melinda was fast asleep, John escaped the cottage and took off for the village in search of Cynthia. He found her at her home, curled up in her bed and crying. She had broken all the mirrors in her home; glass shards were scattered all across the floor. He came to her, embraced her, and whispered that he wanted to marry her the next day, for he still loved her, and Melinda would not be able to keep them apart if they were married. They arranged for a priest to marry them the next day, and by the time Melinda came to reclaim John as her own, it was done. In her rage, Melinda called for the Witch to return and nullify the marriage, and the Witch did come, but this time, she was angry with Melinda. “You cannot call upon me again, Melinda, for I granted you your wish already. I cannot change things that are a matter of the law, and since you angered me, you will be the way you once were.” It was then that the Witch of Wishes reversed the spell, as if the wish had never been made. Melinda returned to her cottage atop of hill, shunned by all in the village who heard her name thereafter. Cynthia and John returned home to raise a healthy family and live a happy life, never to see Melinda or be reminded of her again.