Anita

__S.A.T. Prompt Piece__

"Memory Lane" might be the most commonly walked path in history, no pun intended. But as people walk down this lane, they are unable to travel down the footpaths of “Right Now” or “The Present”. Dwelling on the past keeps a person from living every moment to its full potential as well as preparing for things to come.

For many people, memories offer a refuge for when things get rough. They tempt a person with promises of comfort and safety. But the truth is that after the person pulls away from the allure a memory has, they are only more shaken by the situation on the outside, and this time, less capable of dealing with it. If someone begins to feel overwhelmed with the happenings of today, they must find other ways to cope other than living in the past.

For example, when a mother’s son is kidnapped, she must not loiter on memories of him. Doing so would mean that she has given in to the idea of her son’s death and must begin to mourn. But instead, she must focus on finding her child and bringing him home. If the child is gone, she must then keep him in her heart, cope with her loss, and keep it from happening again to her and all of her community moms. None of this would have been accomplished if she had remained grief stricken at her loss and cradling every moment spent with him.

Memories provide an efficient distraction for the mind as it wanders away from reality. And that cannot be healthy for any being to endure.

__Draft__ :

Friendly faces of mixed races effortlessly smile at me every day I walk into my school. They wave and say hello as I enter my classes. I often smile and wave back. My mother once told me of a time when the white people looked at the faces of our people with eyes filled to the brim with disdain. They wouldn’t allow us to use the same bathrooms as them, the same water fountains as them, the same shops as them or the same schools as them. But how could I fully understand her words when the smiling face of my white teacher always greeted me in the morning? Yet, as I grew older, I watched movies of this era. I read books written by people who lived during this time. My eyes were opened. I understood.

Although I have never taken the privilege of top of the line education for granted, I am well aware that it was not always this way. Black children were often schooled in stuffy school houses far too small to fit the needs of the community. They often studied outdated, worn down textbooks that were deemed unfit for the white kids to use anymore. Some people might have called it victory when we were released from slavery and were free to run around as free men and women. But we refused to stop pushing until we were rest assured that our children and grandchildren were guaranteed a good chance at education and opportunity.

And, looking back at those times through the various books and movies, I feel proud of my people, proud that they stood steadfast and brave, facing the line of fire and meeting it full force. Proud that they sacrificed their belongings, compromised their safety, lost their jobs and sometimes even lost their lives all for the greater good of their people. During this time, black folks all over America became one big family, fighting for a common cause. But the bond between family member and family member went through no greater test than the Brown vs. Board of Education case. That was when every person of black descent was asked to prove their mettle a hundred times over... and a hundred times again.

Who sweated to bring freedom to my people? Who saw life and potential in a race that had been put down and cast aside by over half of America? As a fly on the wall, I would like to see the faces of those lawyers as their mustaches twitched in irritation as the opposing side made an exceptionally good point. Hear the boom of their voices as they extended the rights of the Constitution to include us. To taste the tension in the air as both white lawyers and black lawyers sized each other up, looking back at their people for support. The force of the rebuttals and speeches must have shaken all of America. I want to experience this first hand.

For hundreds of years, my people had been put down, crushed under the white peoples’ thumb. They had been forced to work in fields. They had been forced to let go of their children. They had been forced to endure lower standard education and lower standard of living than the white people. And now, we were so close. We were so close to being free. On September 19, 1957 in Little Rock, Arizona, the freedom bell played sweet music to our peoples’ ears as the NAACP as well as President Eisenhower selected nine students to go to a strictly white high school to set the wheels of integration rolling. I would like to see the rallies that the white people conducted to keep my people out of their precious high school. I would like to hear the synchronized footsteps of the troops of Airborne 101st as they escorted the Little Rock Nine in and out of the school every day.

Although today I am free to enjoy the same privileges as all other people in America, I will never forget the sacrifices of my people. I work extra hard to prove myself in the eyes of the world. Though the struggle for freedom has passed, I, as well as all of black America, have something to prove to the world.

__*Expanded* Place Piece__ : I remember when, on Christmas Eve, my father came home from work with nails and several boards of wood. The mischievous glint in his eye should have told me he was up to something, but I was far too busy subtly trying to search for the presents to notice. The following day, he took his toolbox and traipsed outside. After some time, he called me over. As I walked towards him, I saw the most magnificent tree house sitting in our tall oak tree. From that day on, the tree house was my sanctuary, my castle, and my efficient hiding place from my mother after I nicked a cookie or two from the cookie jar.
 * COMPLETE!!!!* Read over and tell me what you think, any suggestions you might have, and what I might want to add. Thanks!

My mother would often look out of the kitchen window to check on me when she knew I was playing in the tree house. She would see me calling to all the kids of the neighborhood to join me in my quest to fend off the evil ogres and giants threatening my house. I called for Suzie, William and Chanel, my three best friends, to protect me, the queen, from the invaders. I even called on some of the older kids, hoping they would show up to help. Although they never came ( far too busy playing with their fancy dolls and playpens), my army and I turned up our noses to them and fought the evil ogres ourselves and won.

After a few years, the tree house became a make-shift school as I taught my dolls and stuffed animals how to read and write, pleased that I had unlocked that elusive secret myself. I wrote down scraggly ABC's and tilted 123's on a notebook pad and taught the bunch the best I could, but my Beach Barbie did not quite grasp the concept as fast as Bernie the Bear did. Sometimes I peered into my neighbor's house, just to make sure mean old Ms. Johnson was being a " god-fearing christian and a law-abiding citizen". Of course, that clever explanation had no effect on my mother after Ms. Johnson caught me spying and tattled on me. I was forced to write a page long apology to the old bat and deliver it myself. She smiled an insincere smile, filled with only two or three teeth, and slammed the door in my face. I could almost here her cackling behind the wooden door.

Later on in my life, the tree house became a place of study. I invited my friends over to do homework and to read. Sometimes, we would play Four Corners or sneak snacks from our houses to share with everyone. Eventually, I grew too old for the tree house, preferring to watch TV and listen to music rather than to play pretend. But, for reasons unknown to my mother, I never allowed my father to tear down the tree house. Its wooden walls held a special part of my childhood, a time of cherub cheeks and innocence. The tree house still has a special place in my heart.



__Description__: A blind man, clad in a ragged cloak, tapped his cane on the dusty road. His gaunt expression seemed to add years onto his countenance as he solemnly trudged along, looking for a place to spend the night. The rocks seemed against him as he bobbed and weaved between them. He bent into a somewhat menacing crouch with his arm outstretched, his hair falling into his shaded eyes. The steady tapping of his cane announced his presence to the creatures of the night. His ear slowly tipped towards a nearby house. All that could be seen was a smile as he clunked towards his shelter for the night.

Rambling Autobiography:

The mud sloshing between my toes The sun, a relentless force, beat on my back My childhood memories No longer slip through the cracks

I remember the dusty field In which my age mates played ball As I looked on with longing eyes My figure being far too small

I remember the smiles of my neighbors As they waved they waved to my mother and I I remember the smiles of my classmates As we looked up at the clear blue sky

But I also remember that day When my mother announced we were going away The large plains of Africa fading to gray In the distance of the airplane's tail