Revised Persuasive Essay: (I recieved 100%, therefore I did not make any changes)

Katie Hines

10/1/2012

Block 4

Persuasive Paper

Dear Julie,

            Before I say anything, just know that I very much respect your opinion and the care you provide for your mares; in no way do I intend to offend you through this letter. I know that Chris, the man you have hired to train Shady and April, is inexpensive, however is the difference between thirty five and forty five dollars too much for the sake of the horses? Chris’s methods are abusive and horrific to witness, but perhaps unknown to him, there is a completely opposite style of training that builds rather than breaking. Natural Horsemanship is not only communication with your horse in a way they understand, making them much happier and more willing, but also works much better than traditional, scarring methods. Chris does not communicate with the horses; he does not have a partnership with them, he has a turmoil of hatred and fear-which is not respect.

            Chris has time and time again proved that he should not be near a horse, let alone train one. He has no clue what he is doing, and his torturous “training aids” make the horses do things rather than them because they know what the rider wants and they want to please them. A few weeks ago, I saw something truly despicable. He was working with Chance, your friend’s three year old gelding. Frustration was pouring out of them both as if it were sweat as Chris tried to force Chance over a much-too-tall for him, solid fence. Disgusted, I witnessed Chris repeatedly whip the poor horse and punishing him for something he should not even been doing. Chance is only three years old. His joints and muscles have not fully developed yet, therefore he should not have been jumping fences of that height. But doesn’t Chris know everything? Is he not the “great I am”? No. I have forgotten more than he knows, and I am only a teenager. Chris knows nothing about training horses except the sick, twisted old ways.

           

Book Project Option: Epilogue

Katie Hines

10/22/12

Block 4

Book Project Option # 4

Epilogue:

(This novel is written in many different character’s views, therefore I will do each that was written.)

Charlotte:

                It’s been one year that you’ve been gone. When I wake up in the morning, I still expect to hear you calling out for pancakes. I still anxiously wait a phone call in case you’d had a fall at school. I still remember every trivia fact you’d ever told me, like how “a scallop has thirty five eyes, all blue” and how the plastic things on shoe laces are called aglets. But most of all, when I go to sleep, I still see your electric blue eyes, almond shaped and beautiful.

                We finally opened up a little bakery called Syllabub, like the baking sale Amelia and I had with you. We make the delicious cookies and cakes and pies, decorating them with soft green icing that outlines the goodies like branches on a weeping Willow. We even got recognition in the newspaper; “The best slice of cake I’ve ever tasted,” was written by an admiring journalist. Amelia thinks we are officially famous.

                I want you to know something, Willow. I completely regret it, the lawsuit. I take back every lie I uttered in that court room, every stupid word I said. I was trying to protect you, but I realized all I did was hurt you. We needed the money for your medical bills that kept adding, but you needed our love more. I am so sorry. Suing for wrongful birth? You were no mistake, no accident. You were not the diseased child that a family had to deal with; you were the best thing that ever happened to us.

Amelia:

                Do you remember when I dyed my hair dark blue? I know, instead of looking punk, I looked like the cookie monster. You used to ask questions all the time, but you never asked me why I dyed my hair. I did it for you; you’re not the only different one.

                You, and your ocean blue eyes. You, and the tiny wobble in your step. You, and your brilliant remarks that belonged in a decathlon. You, you, you. I love you. I miss you, so much.

                Now, hair brown again and scars healed, you’d barely recognize me. I smile, all the time. My hands have small calluses from mixing all sorts of cake batter at the bakery. Mom and I rarely participate in the vicious battle of words that used to occur on a daily basis. I have friends, real friends. They get me; they accept me, just as I am. Emma and I never repaired our broken friendship, but she no longer tapes “kick me” signs on my back or tries to trip me in the halls. In fact, sometimes she smiles at me.

                I’ve been painting a lot lately. I was painting the Birch trees in the forest that day, the day you left. They are thin as a rail and sway with the wind, but the trees are strong, beautiful. Like you.

                I put up some paintings in an art show. I proudly hung them on white wash walls, my heart pounding each time a curious onlooker paused to study my art work. My painting of the frozen pond outside was sold for fifteen dollars. I know, not much, but it’s a start. I wanted to rid myself of it anyway. But the painting I took most pride ( and not offering up for sale) was one of you. It held your pretty face and gleaming smile, full of joy and strength. It won. You won, Willow.

Sean:

                Not too much has changed, Wills. We still reside in that cute little white cottage in front of an icy pond and miles of evergreens. I am still a cop, I still can’t cook to save my life, and I still leave little notes for your mother before she wakes up. But everything has changed. Our angel is gone.

                Your mother spends her days cooking and baking in her little bakery, and often times Amelia joins her. Her eyes used to shine and could light a room on fire, but now, all one sees is pain, sorrow, and emptiness.

                 We finally got a dog, and I’m sorry we didn’t get one sooner. Her name is Lily, and she is a rescue from the pound. She hobbles on only three legs, injuries resulting from being hit by a car, but she is the happiest, smartest pup I’ve ever met. Lily learns tricks right off the bat, always greets us with a sloppy kiss and wagging tail, and hardly ever jumps on the counter to grab food...hardly. Whenever we say your name, she perks up her ears and listens, as if searching for this missing person. Her missing person.

                 I still can’t believe that when I come home from a tough day at work, you won’t be there to make me smile by cracking a few corny (but witty) jokes. I still expect the TV to have a zillion SpongeBob episodes recorded. I still wish you could come back to us. Not a day goes by that I don’t miss your smile, your laugh.

                Don’t worry about us down here, Wills. We’ll be fine. But every once in a while, could you send down a ray of your light to mom? Every day I have to drag her out of bed, every day I hear her cries muffled by a pillow, I miss you even more.  

                 

               

Alone by Edgar Allan Poe: Poem #6

Alone

    From childhood's hour I have not been
        As others were; I have not seen
        As others saw; I could not bring
        My passions from a common spring.
        From the same source I have not taken
        My sorrow; I could not awaken
        My heart to joy at the same tone;
        And all I loved, I loved alone.
        Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
        Of a most stormy life- was drawn
        From every depth of good and ill
        The mystery which binds me still:
        From the torrent, or the fountain,
        From the red cliff of the mountain,
        From the sun that round me rolled
        In its autumn tint of gold,
        From the lightning in the sky
        As it passed me flying by,
        From the thunder and the storm,
        And the cloud that took the form
        (When the rest of Heaven was blue)
        Of a demon in my view.

By Edgar Allan Poe

Revised Literary Essay

Katie Hines

9/25/2012

Block 4

Essay Test All Quiet on the Western Front

Question: How have the soldiers lost their civilization and become animals?

            Throughout the novel, All Quiet on the Western Front, Paul and the other soldiers are losing touch with civilization and their ethics, becoming barbaric hunters, sometimes being the kill. The pain and struggle of war begins to tear down the fragile grip on humanity the soldiers once had, leaving them stripped of all emotion. Compassion and sympathy must not exist in the men’s heart; they cannot afford to think of such things. Many soldiers are able to cut off their heart all too easily, but for others, it is a constant battle harder than any war.

            It is easy to see how quickly the emotions and humanity begin to deteriorate through the book, and the soldiers begin to be seen as animals, things-not human beings with feelings. They “…have become wild beasts…it is not men that we fling our bombs.” (113) Paul cannot allow himself to consider the fact that the enemy may not be his enemy. “The figure opposite me moves. I shrink together and involuntarily look at it.” (218) The dying human is dehumanized and has become nothing more than an it. Rather than people, individuals, the enemy is a whole, a thing. The soldiers do not see people, they see their prey-and it is time for the hunt.

             Civilization begins to become as foreign to Paul and his comrades as a palace would be to a civilian. When Paul receives a clean bed at the hospital because he is wounded, he feels “…like a pig. Must I get in there?” (246) He feels as though he is nothing more than filth, like he is unworthy. He has become an animal, his actions of those who are a predator.  Although Paul claims that “in many ways we are treated quite like men” (91), the soldiers are man no longer. They are beasts. They are used to killing on the gruesome front, sleeping outside, and eating sawdust like livestock, however they are no longer able to function in society and sleep in a clean bed.

             Through this entire struggle, the one soldier who does not completely transform into a monster is Paul. He desperately attempts to see killing as the others do, as if it means nothing. He struggles internally to try and treat the Russian prisoners as things, but Paul is unable. He seems to switch back and forth, trying his hardest to be a hunter but realizing he is truly a vegetarian. “I go give them out to the Russians,” (198); Paul gives the cakes his own mother made him to the prisoners. It is a small act of kindness, a small difference, but it is the difference that makes the difference. He pities them and compares them to “sick storks” (192), innocent creatures, dead before they die. After Paul kills the French man, however, he claims “…war is war.” (229) He suddenly changes drastically to the robotic man he desires to become, rather than the passionate, sympathetic boy Paul truly is. Paul is a man, with feelings, with a heart-and he knows that simply because men are branded as an enemy and on the other side does not mean they do not feel the same and hurt the same.

             Human nature and civilization are discouraged as the book progresses, and the compassion the soldiers previously possessed is forgotten. If they make it out alive, there is hardly a chance they will truly live. The soldiers are already dead; their hearts are gone. All that is left is a deep hatred for enemies who they have never even met. They will be unable to function in a normal society, or even in a normal home. They have forgotten how to feel, how to love, how to be sympathetic-all emotions a human should have. Paul has all of these traits, although he desperately tries to rid himself of them in combat. The soldiers, including Paul, are left with a gaping hole in their hearts that cannot be filled. They must go through the remainder of their lives putting up a façade, pretending that everything is just fine-but it is not, and never will be. These animalistic traits and horrors will haunt these beasts, once boys, eternally. 

This I Beleive Video Link

Here is a link to a great This I Beleive essay: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rFkFncqovL0&feature=related

It is beautifully and creatively done, and has a great message. You can hear the writer's voice not through the audio, but through her words.

This I Beleive Poem

Katie Hines

10/17/2012         

Block 4

This I Believe Poem

 

I believe in the soft touch of grass on your bare feet during the summertime

I believe in the sound of the ocean crashing together in a symphony of waves

I believe that a canter is the cure for any struggle

This I believe.

I believe in the gentle nicker coming from a young foal

I believe in beat up jeans that envelope my body perfectly

I believe in handwritten cards and crumpled notes

This I believe.

I believe in glowing lights that aluminate houses at Christmas time

I believe in the proud bark of my dog, protecting us from the “intruders”

I believe in sitting down with my family at Thanksgiving with delicacies surrounding us  

This I believe.

This I Beleive

Katie Hines

10/17/2012

Block 4

This I Believe Essay Research

This I Believe

I am considered a disease, part of an epidemic that must be eradicated before more people like me are born. What I have cannot kill me; who I am cannot be cured. What I represent to others is often nothing more than a body without a soul, a changeling to be molded into the image of what others expect that I should be. I am autistic, and I do not want to alter this aspect of myself in any way.

 

I do not mean that autistics are identical to everyone else, or that we never struggle in our daily lives. These two premises are absurd, and I know of no one who believes them. Indeed, it is our difference that is the cause of our problems and of our gifts. Do not think that by gifts I mean high intelligence or the ability to count a box of fallen toothpicks. Most of us have neither. This is not a reason to reject our claim that being autistic is a valuable part of who we are, however, as most non-autistic (also called neurotypical) people cannot do these things either.

 

I do not mean that we never struggle. We struggle very much, in fact, but it is not due to any inherent weakness, nor to the tragedy of the family said to be “inflicted” with autism, as though the child were a malicious intruder. The tragedy of autism is people assuming that our actions mean one thing when they mean entirely another. The tragedy of autism is being beaten by our peers throughout school and, when reporting it, being told that we the victims brought it upon ourselves by standing out. The tragedy of autism is knowing that organizations regarded as autism charities raise thousands of dollars devoted to developing a prenatal test so that autistics will be selectively aborted. My opinions on abortion have not been constant, but whether I supported it or not, I could not justify such selective abortion as anything but eugenics on the verge of genocide.

 

Autism is not to be feared, or to be eliminated, but to be understood, accepted, and accommodated. Each day of our lives, we reach out to a world that little acknowledges our need for such understanding. Surely, the socially skilled neurotypicals can do the same and empathize with our perspective on who we are and what we think. Then maybe one day, Congress won’t spend a billion dollars to screen and eliminate us. Perhaps CAN, instead of standing for Cure Autism Now, will stand for Caring And Neurotypical.

By Melody from Brea, California

Link to essay: http://thisibelieve.org/essay/32221/