Morning glory, purple, smile

        A morning glory does not surpass a rose in beauty or a rosemary in its fragrance, but it possesses this simple beauty that only few can see. The color is purple, an enigmatic, yet warm color. It grows as its vine wraps around a stick, but if you unwind the vine, the morning glory subtly perseveres and wraps itself back up. The world may be full of vileness and hardships, but it constantly looks up at the sun without ever losing its smile.

The Body - Memoir of childhood

Stephen King's The Body begins with a narrative, sometime in the future, that describes how the most important things are the hardest things to say. It’s painfully true. Most of the time, words are just not enough to convey the intensity and value of the emotions felt. As this story is, in essence, a memoir of one of the characters in the story, this introduction is very appropriate. So it’s basically saying, “Okay, listen. I’m going to describe memories that are precious to me beyond compare. But know that the words and sentences you read here aren’t everything, merely a small part of what I felt.” And with that said, 'Gordie', or a fictional representation of Stephen King, begins his story.
           I would like to begin my little memory. I thought about my own childhood when I read this, and what kind of friends I had. There were four of us - me, Na-young, my brother, and Byung-woo. We weren't the same age or gender, me and Na-young being girls and three years older than my brother and Byung-woo, but we managed to grow close just the same. We were pairs of siblings, my brother and I, and Na-young and Byung-Woo. And we had some adventures of our own. We spent our days racing each other on sidewalks, finding a beehive and coming up with plans to throw rocks at it without dying, endeavoring to stay quiet in our rooms so as to not provoke our parents to saying that its time to leave, and when we ran out of things to do there was always the hide-and-go-seek which was usable anytime and anywhere. However, our ultimate dream was to find a clubhouse all to ourselves, kind of like the treehouse in The Body. We always dreamed about what our clubhouse would look like. A place where no parents could find us, a hide-out sort of a place to share secrets and hang out, somewhere where there were lots of trees and that looked both cozy and magical. But, where can you find a place like that in Korea, so our clubhouse prospered in our imagination. We would go to some apartment-property playground and pretend that a random slide was our clubhouse. We would go collect flowers, clovers, grass to match the place to the clubhouse of our imagination until the sun went down and our parents told us that it was time to go.
             It's amazing how much you learn from these childhood friends. Na-young, my brother, and Byung-woo, they opened my eyes to a whole new world, and I hope I opened theirs. I found out that I was brave (perhaps stupid), daring to do things that they would be too timid or scared to do, such as climbing up the swings and attempting to walk on the bar or eating an unknown berry from a tree. Yes, as we grew older, our roles in each others lives became smaller and smaller and we each went on our separate ways. Na-young and Byung-woo became just a memory and my brother became more of just a related being rather than a friend. But, memory is a word that retains great power. It is capable of making one smile, chuckle, laugh, cry, ache, but to all these there's an element of pain, knowing that it's just a memory. In my mind, I still see us as little ten-year-olds and seven-year-olds searching for that clubhouse of our dreams and someday, I hope we find it. 

Encountering Death - a Reflection on Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter, and Spring

           I was in the fifth grade when I saw a living thing die before my eyes. Although I did not exactly cause the death, it was a hard blow just the same.

           “Joyce! Come out quick! There’s a sparrow outside…and…and…I think it’s dying,” I was in the study, tackling some of my assignments, when my brother suddenly came into the house. He was in second grade, and his wide bunny eyes seemed distraught and were shaking, somehow. I stood up as fast as I could, sending a few papers flying down my desk, and I ran out of the door, holding my brother’s hand.

          Looking back, I don’t know why I stood up and sped out of the house so fast, or why I held my brother’s hand. But I think it was my brother’s look that made me feel a sense of urgency and seriousness. He looked so insecure, so distressed, so pained. Anyway, my brother led me to the corner of the parking lot, and there was the bird, and I could see why my brother looked so distraught.

           Its head was set out at a weird angle and there was dark red blood coming out of his neck. The brown feathers had lost their sheen and were caked, in some parts, with blood. Its beak was opening and closing, opening and closing, as if it were trying to catch the last gulps of air of the world before it left. Its small beady eyes were crazed, flailing here and there and filled with pain.

           “Come on, Joyce! Save it! Do something!” My brother was crying now, uncontrollably, and pleading me to do something, anything, to help the bird.

           I didn’t know what to do. I just stood there watching the bird, feeling helpless. Then, I reached out to the bird, which was probably a stupid thing to do but was the only thing I could think of. I lay the dying little bird in my cupped hands, and tried to go to the neighbor, Michael’s house. But just as I put him in my hands, the bird’s eyes stopped flailing and looked straight at me. I never knew that a bird could look at something with such solemnity. But it looked at me, holding me in its cold gaze, and then, its body went limp, and its beak stopped moving, and the light gave out of his eyes. And it died, just like that, right in my hands.

           I could hear my brother screaming somewhere next to me, I could feel tears rolling down my cheeks, and a cold shiver went through me. That gaze. That ice cold gaze. I was the last thing the bird saw before it died, and it made me guilty like crazy.

           It was supposed to be looking at the green trees, the royal blue sky, something other than me. It was supposed to be in its nest, in nature, other than my dirty hands. I felt like I committed a crime. And I never ever forgot that gaze the bird gave me.

           So, I know how that little monk felt when he saw those fish and snake die. It was probably devastating for him and he must have felt so much guilt and shame. Encountering a death is hard, and it leaves a permanent mark in your life, even if you didn’t directly cause it. I remember that bird to this day and how it looked at me. I still feel regret and remorse and keep on thinking that if I hadn’t reached out and just brought the neighbor, Michael, the animal guy, to the bird, it might have lived to see a new day. I could hear the bitterness, shame, sadness, pain, and utter guilt I felt that day and continue to feel whenever I think of the bird in the little monk’s crying. I know he learned his lesson and that he will never harm another creature on purpose again. 

Metafiction - The girl with gray eyes

“Did you write in that notepad I gave you, Roger?”

“Yeah, yeah. Why do you want me to do this anyway?”

“Just do it, will you. It won’t kill you to write a little bit of something every day. Just pour out your emotions, Roger. Really, it’s not that hard.”

People ask me why a guy like me started to write. It was because of her. She told me to write. Every day. She said to relax, to feel, to love. She had gray eyes. Not the stormy kind, but the kind that is transparent and lucid, you know? Kind of like the color of the creek at dawn, only brighter. It was those eyes, I think, that dazzled me into agreeing. Dang.That girl.

I was running, running, and running. I could feel the wind whistling in my ears, the sharp pangs of pain running through my legs like electric shocks, and the stray branches and tall weeds around me whipping at my face. My heart felt like it was going to explode and I was gasping desperately for breath. And yet I kept running without ever looking back.

“What are you running from?”

We were outside by the creek, and I was writing. She was looking over my shoulder, and a cascade of auburn hair shrouded my view. A fragrance of wildflowers filled in the air…or was it the smell of her hair?

“Hey, you told me to write, not to explain.”

She put on a face, making the bridge of her nose crinkle. Then she smiled. A smile that could make your heart shatter into a thousand pieces.

“At least you’re writing something. I like your descriptions.”

Her hair moved from my face and she walked in the direction of the oak tree. Her light, airy figure looked so small and weak in the presence of the great oak. My cheeks were tingling from her hair’s touch and a tint of wildflower lingered in the air.

Its speed grew faster and faster. I tumbled, rolled, and fell flat on my stomach, but I got up and ran faster. The whole place was closing in on me or was it just my imagination?

She was giggling, her gray eyes sparkling all over the place.

“Are you going through some kind of trauma, Roger?”

I started to give her a little punch in the arm, but stopped myself. Her arms were so skinny, so white, so fragile…

“That’s it. I’m never going to show my writing to you again.”

Her eyes widened and she stopped giggling. She reached out and touched my arm, so different from hers – muscular, tanned, and strong.

“I’m sorry.”

My heart skipped a beat. I looked away from her.

It grabbed my heart and tried to pull it apart. The harder I tried to get free, the harder it grabbed me.

We were sitting on top of our favorite tree. She looked at what I wrote, and then looked at me.

“I hope your heart’s okay, Roger.”

Dang it, those eyes again. It was clutching me in its gray gaze. No. I can’t let them mesmerize me… No. This can’t happen. I won’t…but it was such a pretty gray. She was leaning in, closer, and closer. Her eyes were beginning to close. A curtain of auburn lashes was slowly coming down to cover silver gray diamonds. I could see a speck of dust caught in her lashes, the exact contours of that dimple in her chin, all the strands of auburn hair on her pale and smooth forehead, and oh my god, why the hell were my eyes closing as well.

I pulled back.

“No. You’re just a girl who has a weird disease! I know all about it! That’s why your eyes are gray!”

She opened her eyes, and the gray diamonds were drowned in water.

I pushed the thing away…but my heart ripped out with it.

She was moving to Ohio, where there was a specialist doctor to help her get the right treatment for the disease. She knew that she was moving, and was trying to get me to write, so that she could take it with her as a memory of me when she moved. 

"I wanted a piece of your soul, Roger. Your writing. But I saw the soul that was within you, and it's not something I want to take with me." 

My heart hurt. It hurt real bad.

“Yikes!” I shouted. Then it was quiet. Then I realized I had been dreaming. But the pain was real. It was still lingering. I have often encountered this kind of dream since I last spring, when cancer cells were first discovered in my heart.

I've decided to start writing this again. I have been having nightmares about her since she left last spring. It’s already been a year. What if she never forgives me? What if she died during the surgery? Maybe, if I start writing in her notepad again, I might be able to find peace.

Since then, this room in the hospital has been my home and I was hiding from the world outside. From deep inside, I was deeply missing the world outside instead of the world inside the hospital.

I was still hiding from the truth. I was justifying my actions, telling myself that she was only a girl with a disease. Just a girl, just a plain, typical girl. But…there was nothing plain about that smell of wildflower in her hair. There was nothing typical about that clear, gray color.

I decided to sneak out of the hospital. I slowly crept down the stairs and out of the hospital. The outside air was not as cold as I expected it to be. In fact, I noticed that there was no air at all. I was suffocating. The medicine that was injected into me by my various tubes and chords was absent, and my body was feeling it. I could feel a bubbly foam coming out of my gaping mouth searching for air. I was pounding on my heart crazily and then, I died. With no one to help me, with no one that loves me, with no one that cares for me, with no one standing by me.

I wanted be able to smell that tint of wildflower again. I wanted to see that color of clear and untainted gray again. I loved her. I loved her. I loved her! I accepted my emotions, and I finally accepted how important that girl was to me. But…it was too late. She left…not with my soul, but with a scar I have given her. And it just about kills me.

The thing I was running away from was the love I felt for her.

It was overwhelming me, and I pushed it away.

The resulting pain in my heart was a cancer, multiplying uncontrollably.

And now I died because she is gone.

Sometimes, when spring comes, I go back to that creek again, the place where I used to meet her. I sit in our favorite tree, and I write for her. The wind brings memories as well as a hint of wildflower smell and the image of that pure, unclouded gray.

She closed the bestselling novel of Roger Contento, one of the most popular writers in this day. 
The back cover of the book read:
The bestselling author Roger Contento's memoir featuring his very first piece of writing and his remorseful emotions about his first love. An evocative story within a story to please readers of all ages.
"A nice chunk of Contento's soul that anyone would want to have" The New York Times
"Contento evokes emotions like no other" USA Today
"A glowing novel" The Washington Post Book World
She finished reading the book. She smiled ...a smile that could make your heart shatter into a thousand pieces.
And her eyes were gray.

Comparative Analysis of the Novella and Film Adaptation of Shawshank Redemption in Delivering the Themes

            I. Introduction

The Shawshank Redemption was actually the first movie in which I felt that the film adaptation was as good if not better than the novel itself. The film in general was faithful to the original novella, following the general plot and incorporating significant amounts of the diction and narratives from the novella. However, being that novellas and films are two totally different modes of expression, there obviously exist discrepancies between the two. In this essay, I would like to explore the portrayal of important scenes in the movie and how it differed from the book and its role in delivering the theme of the Shawshank Redemption.

II. Brooks and Jake - institutionalism

The movie reorganized the characters to make the story more coherent. In the book, it was not Brooks, mentioned without much gravity as a former librarian, but Sherwood Bolton who owned a pigeon (a crow in the movie) named Jake in his cell. This little scene does not take a large part of the story, but is rather mentioned quite briefly in the beginning of the novel as a kind of digression from the story of Andy’s trial and does not hold a prominent place in the story. The scene starts out with a quote also mentioned in the movie in a similar way, “they give you life, and that’s what they take – all of it that counts, anyway” and describes the process of Sherwood Bolton setting Jake free the day before Sherwood Bolton was to be freed from Shawshank and finding Jake dead a week later in the corner of the exercise yard where Sherwood used to hang out. So, in the book, it is a little scene that delivers the theme of being institutionalized by the death of Jake the bird after Sherwood had been paroled.

The movie further developed this particular scene into a separate little story taking a large part of the movie. It is the story of the librarian Brooks, an insignificant character in the book animated by the movie into one of the main characters. In the movie, it is not the bird that dies, but Brooks. Brooks is shown as a respected friend of Red's and Andy's, portrayed as an old man with a generous heart who has been in the Shank for a long time. This portrayal of Brooks in the movie sets up a very likable character and the viewers warm up to Brooks. However, Brooks is finally paroled after at least 50 years of prison life and he is unable to take it. At first, he tries to kill one of the inmates trying to commit a crime so he won’t have to get out of the Shank, and he eventually commits suicide, unable to adapt to the society. He says in a letter to Andy and Red, “I could shoot the manager while I was at it, sort of like a bonus. I guess I'm too old for that sort of nonsense any more. I don't like it here. I'm tired of being afraid all the time. I've decided not to stay. I doubt they'll kick up any fuss. Not for an old crook like me.” And Jake is the being that is insignificant in the movie. He shows up a few times in the movie and is set free, but the viewers are not informed of his fate. Thus, the theme of institutionalism was delivered more bluntly and straightforwardly in the movie because the movie developed Brooks as a likable character throughout, then after Brooks’ parole, effectively depicted the irony of the whole prison “giving you life and taking it away” in Brooks’ letter to Andy and Red, and showed the scene of Brooks actually committing suicide.

III. Music Scene - freedom

The music scene, the scene where Andy decides to play “Canzonetta sull’aria” (“Letter Duet”) from Mozart’s The Marriage of Figaro on the loudspeakers for everyone in the prison to hear, is completely absent from the book. However, this is a central scene in the movie that exemplifies the auditory technique, usable in only films and not novellas, applied to give deeper meaning into a scenario. It is well established in both the book and the movie that Andy did not want to lose the sense of freedom. In the book, Andy is described as holding himself differently than the other inmates, with a sense of dignity and the making of the rock-sculptures were a pastime of the free life and he continued practicing it behind bars. The movie incorporated this and took the theme of freedom a step further by adding a different subject matter – music. "It was as if a beautiful bird flapped into our drab little cage and made those walls dissolve away, and for the briefest moments everyman at Shawshank felt free.” Music is a widely accepted symbol of therapy of the troubles of life. As such, music symbolizes freedom and hope for Andy and he wishes to share the freedom with his fellow inmates, which is why he put the music on for everyone to hear on the loudspeakers. Therefore, I believed that the movie’s auditory techniques gave a more strong impression of the theme of freedom than the subtlety of the book.

IV. The Reunion of Andy and Red - hope

As the subtitle “Hope Springs Eternal” implies, the central theme in the novella is the theme of hope. Both the book and movie puts emphasis on this theme nearing the end. In the book, Red finds the place in Buxton where he finds a letter from Andy. It reads, “hope is a good thing, red. Maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies.” (also mentioned in the movie) and Red ends his narrative saying, “I hope Andy is down there. I hope I can make it across the border. I hope to see my friend and shake his hand. I hope the Pacific is as blue as it has been in my dreams. I hope.” The book ends there, and leaving the readers to use their imagination to decide the two friends’ fate. However, the movie gives a solid ending by inserting a scene where Red and Andy meet, smiling, on the beach of the Pacific. There are no words between them, they just look at one another, smile from ear to ear, and they run toward each other as the credits begin to show.

 I believe that this final scene in the movie gives weight to the actual fruit of hope – the reunion, and thus gives the movie a happy ending and leaves the viewers satisfied. However, in the book, the act of Red hoping retains great significance in itself. The last sentences “I hope, I hope, I hope…” leaves a trailing note and leaves readers to mull over the idea of hope and its value. So if the movie summed the story up with the insertion of the reward of hope, the book had a more attenuated ending that posed meaningful questions.

V. Conclusion

There are many more scenes with significance, but I wanted to focus on the scenes that portray the main themes of institutionalism, freedom, and hope. In general, the movie delivered the themes in a straightforward manner, while the book delivered the themes subtly, requiring the readers to read between the lines and to formulate their own thoughts.

How I Died - In-Class Chainwriting

     I was running, running, and running. I could feel the wind whistling in my ears, the sharp pangs of pain running through my legs like electric shocks, and the stray branches and tall weeds around me whipping at my face. My heart felt like it was going to explode and I was gasping desperately for breath. And yet I kept running without ever looking back.
     I felt something chasing me and its speed grew faster and faster. I tumbled, rolled, and fell flat on my stomach, but I got up and ran faster. The whole place was closing in on me or was it just my imagination? Now I could feel the thing right next to me, but I didn't dare turn to look at it and just kept running. I was panting like a dog, but nothing seemed to stop my legs. Ouch! It grabbed my right arm and tried to pull it apart. The harder I tried to get free, the harder it grabbed me.
     "Yikes!" I shouted. Then it was quiet. Then I realized I had been dreaming. But the pain was real; it was still lingering on my right arm. I have often encountered this kind of dream since last winter, when cancer cells were first discovered in my limb. Since then, this room in the hospital has been my home and my laptop my best friend. From deep inside, I was deeply missing the world outside instead of the world inside the computer.
     I decided to sneak out of the hospital. I felt like all of the people were waiting for me to die. I was afraid I would disappear someday, having no memories or people to adore. I pulled out all the strings and cords that were attached to my body. I silently went through the half-closed door, and succeeded in reaching the stairs without being spotted by the nurses.
     I slowly crept down the stairs and out of the hospital. The outside air was not as cold as I expected it to be. In fact, I noticed that there was no air at all. I was suffocating. The medicine that was injected into me by my various tubes and chords was absent, and my body was feeling it. I could feel a bubbly foam coming out of my gaping mouth searching for air. I was pounding on my heart and then, I died. With no one to help me, with no one that loves me, with no one that cares for me, with no one standing by me.

My Opinions on the Tiger Mother

             I recently saw my mother reading  Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother by Amy Chau. She told me, "I try to be your friend...and you know how much I try to understand you. I let you make your own decisions and don't intervene much in you life, do I? And I do believe that I brought you up just fine. This woman, Amy Chau, is interesting. Google her in your spare time, will you? And tell me what you think of her education philosophy." So, I googled her up and found an article, "Why et Mothers are Superior" in the Wall Street Journal. Amy Chau provides readers with extreme views on child education in her article. In general, I do not agree that the extreme Asian way of raising children is superior in all cases.

             Amy Chau believes that the parents should have complete control of a child’s life. This, I believe, is actually detrimental to children in the long run. If parents continue to override children’s preferences, children will become overly dependent on their parents and will not be able to make decisions for themselves. For example, my middle school was a dormitory school so students were separated from their parents. Some of my peers’ mothers previously always supervised them and made them study continuously. This was effective in the short-run because my peers received good grades and got accepted into the school. However, in the dormitory school, the mothers who observed every action of their children were not there anymore. As a result, my classmates with parents who controlled their lives reveled in the freedom of choice and chose to play computer games, and sleep in class - indulging themselves to the luxuries they were deprived of. This led to mediocre grades. The shocked mothers made the children drop out of the dormitory school so they could supervise their children again. If this cycle continues, children will not be able to choose the right path when they eventually go to college and then out into society...and parents will be not be able to do anything about it.

             So, in my opinion, controlling children is actually harmful in the long run. If children are to survive without the help of their parents, they should be able to make their own decisions and discover the joy of learning. Of course, I am not saying that parents should make kids do whatever they want. Parents should just be their guides and not their dictators. Parents should not be leading the way of their children's paths to the future, but rather be walking a few steps behind them, always there to give their children a gentle nudge here and there when they stray too far from the pathway. So, thanks, Mom for being my friend and not my dictator...and I must say, you did bring your daughter up just fine.:)