Presentation on "The Twelve"

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Do Your Best On The Test!

In Cry, The Beloved Country, Alan Paton exposes multiple personality traits of Stephen Kumalo.  As the story begins, Kumalo is viewed as a flawless priest and humble man of God living as a middle-class citizen in the modest village Ndotsheni.  The thorough descriptions and in-depth details of Stephen Kumalo’s personality make him a round character.  As the story continues to unfold, Kumalo is confronted with many formidable situations in the metamorphic city of Johannesburg. During his stay in Johannesburg, Kumalo falls victim to the inevitable changed brought on by its’ environment. He loses his most valuable assets, faith and religion. These dramatic changes force him to become a dynamic character.

A major element of this story is the ability to relate to Stephen Kumalo.  Unlike, the picturesque aesthetically appealing hunk with ice blue eyes, flowing blonde hair and perfectly sculpted abs that causes butterflies to emerge when takes steps. He is flawed. No one is above being in his position or experiencing his current emotions.  This is revealed multiple times in this book not only through his actions, but also he openly admits his mistake. While conversing with Father Vincent he says, “The anxiety [became] fear.” Like most people he is turning to the church in his time of need. He is confessing his wrongs, just as any nonfictional character in his position would do.

In the characterization process, Alan Paton did not only highlight Kumalo’s positive attributes, but the negative ones as well. Alan let the reader know that Kumalo is an altruistic, selfless man. Kumalo “bought [Gertrude] a red dress and a white [turban].” He knew his sister’s clothes were shabby and tarnished, so he bought her something new. In addition, he has aware that his funds were running low and he would soon have to dip into his son’s school money. This further elaborates on his altruism by letting the reader know that he is willing to give his bottom dollar to those whom he loves.  On the other hand, Kumalo can be a little naïve. During his transition from the village, he was mesmerized by the foreign lands that were in his own country. He became overwhelmed and continuously, incorrectly assumed the train had arrived in Johannesburg.

Sadly, but as anticipated, Johannesburg has caused Kumalo to have a transformation. Johannesburg was the monster under the bed for Kumalo, because it brought out the most bloodcurdling fear of for a priest, a loss of faith.  When any man of God says, “it’s seems [like] God has turned from me,” there is definitely a problem.  This statement is, essentially, declaring that God is no longer there, and will do nothing else in his current state of need. “There is no prayer left in me,” is also a proclamation that should not be made by Christians. In addition, Kumalo is saying even if God were listening he would have nothing to say to him.  Although he says these things, Father Vincent convinces Kumalo to pull himself together.

In the end, this was just a test of faith for Kumalo. Although his faith was stretched to its’ limit, Kumalo will become a stronger Christian from experience. This lesson goes beyond this book and becomes a message to all Christians; to be steadfast and keep your faith. 

Not a Love Story.

I’ll be there in about 10 minutes,” he said before I hung up the phone.

I sit at the table as I winnow through the box of old pictures, reminiscing. I come across a stereotypical second grade class picture with children grinning blissfully and blithely. Although there are about twenty faces on the picture, my eyes focus on face in particular.

           

I was running out of the car, late as usual. The cold October morning wind whips across my face. Running to Mrs. Henry’s room, my rolling backpack screeches loudly as I turn a sharp corner and my colorful bows and barrettes slap my face as I sprint to the classroom.

I arrive just as the announcements come on. I go to my seat beside my two best friends, Taylor and James. Both of their noses are buried so deep into their books you can see their eyes on the back cover.

After I sit down, I remember I have lunch money. So, I raise my hand. As my palm is flailing in the air to get Mrs. Henry’s attention, there is a slight poke into my back from a small, curly-haired boy, and a note is forced into my hand. I cram it into my pocket as I finally get Mrs. Henry’s attention. She allows me to leave the room to take my money to the office. In the safety of the hallway, I unfold the letter to see illegible 2^nd grade scribbles and two wine glasses with a bed in between. I crumple the note and force it into my pocket to save myself from mortal embarrassment and social suicide.

As all the early bus riders were bustling out of the door of Coach William’s room, Jaron saunters over, sits in the vacant seat beside, and hands me a small sliver of crumpled notebook paper with words written in sloppy seventh grade boy handwriting that say, ‘Meet me in the foyer when the bell rings.

“What does it say,” he pesters.

“It is none of your business, Mr.Nosypants.” I retort.

“I know it’s just a love note from your boyfriend,” he teased.

I roll my eyes and gather my books into my backpack just before the bell rings. Ring! This sound awakens the jittery butterflies and causes them to flutter around in my stomach. I attempt to waste time by hanging back and talking to my best friend, but she knows of my boyfriend’s plan and causes me to walk faster to him. I cannot believe I’m about to have my first kiss with the same icky, creepy boy who wrote me a note in second grade. The tall, curly-haired, overly comical, boy walks over and pulls me into a tight embrace. We walk outside, hand-in-hand, to find a private spot away from the formidable teachers.

When we arrive outside the butterflies in my stomach were going stark raving mad in my stomach. I close my eyes and go in. Next, I open my eyes, we release hands, and I walk to the big yellow limousine that will take me home.

“Come on, let’s go to the library.” My tall, curly-haired, overly comical, sweet best friend says, “Coach Gray said it is okay.”

He grabs my hand and pulls me out of my seat. We walk placidly to the door, but when we reach the hallway, we begin a frantic skip. Everyone in the hallway stop, stare, and begin “Awwing” like we are a newborn baby that just smiling for the first time. They don’t understand how our relationship. We are the only ones who understand us. We arrive to the library with our chests panting heavily and the talkative, suspicious librarian eyes us with a queer stare.

When my little nostalgic moment is over, there is a loud knock on my front door. It is Ishmael, my tall, curly-haired, overly comical, awkward, sweet best friend. The guy who wrote me an extremely creepy note in second grade, gave me my first kiss, and held hands and skipped down a hallway with me.

“Are you ready,” he asks.

I look at him, smile, and give him a colossal bear hug.

“I love you forever and we are always going to be the two best friends that anyone could ever have. Until we meet our third best friend, then we will be the three best friends that anyone could ever have. Then, our lives we finally be complete,” I blurted.

“Okay… but are you ready?”

“Yes, I’m ready,” I say, rolling my eyes.

When we get to the car, he blares a Taylor Swift song, and sings all of the lyrics perfectly. I am reminded once again why I love him.

           

Hi, My Name is Jakyra and I Was Once a Major Bookworm.

Where the Wild Things Are. The Cat in the Hat. If You Give a Mouse a Cookie. Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day. These are all books that I remember from that early snotty nose, Britney Spears lunchbox carrying, part of my life. Now that my cousin is in kindergarten these popular titles tend to come up and cause me to reminisce. I think of a time when words weren't words but were a series of letters put together. Then, I would have take the sounds that the letters made and figure out how to say the word out loud. I also think of the paper books that were given with one sentence per page and four sentences total, and my teacher expected me to come home and read to my mother. Little did my teacher know, I not only read it to my mom, but I read it to my sister, my dad, my grandma, and even my dog! The only thing that I hated was after I read it once or twice I would memorize the four sentences and grow bored with them. Yet I still read them to everyone who would listen, or pretend to listen rather. I also kept the little leaflet books. I put them in a little box at the top of my closet, and I recently threw them away when I moved from my previous house to my current one.

One very predominant memory of reading at an early age was in 2nd grade in Mrs. Henry's room. I remember most of other kids hated AR reading time, but I LOVED it. I wasn't the only kid in my class who loved to read. There were two other kids who loved reading, Taylor Nemenz and James Atwood. These two kids were also unaveragely smart, I would say that we were the smartest kids in our class. We were also the three best friends that anyone could ever have, and we were always battling for the top AR reader. It was usually Taylor, then me, then James, but there were times when the order would change. It was all in competitive fun and never harmed our friendship.

 2nd grade was also the year when I found my love with book series. The very first set of books that I read was Junie B. Jones series. I loved these books because, being only a few years older than her, I could easily relate to her and she was funny. I loved her so much I looked to Junie B. Jones as a best friend. It was such an obsession to the point where whenever I finished the book I would rush to the shelf  to get the next book. Until, sadly, one day I read the last book of the series. I was devastated. I literally broke out in to tears. Luckily, Mrs. Henry came to my rescue with a new book series, the Judy Moody series. After that I was able to find my own series books such as; A Series of Unfortunate Events, The Boxcar Children, Harry Pottter, and eventually my all time favorite, The Twilight Saga.

I used to LOVE reading… It’s not that I hate it now I just never have time to read. Also, I've figured out that it is one of the reasons my perception of love and relationships is so screwed up. Currently movies worsen my idea of the “perfect relationship.” Anyway, I found out my lost love was definitely derived from my mom. It seems she has had the same issue, she just doesn't have the time. I think that is an issue for all teens and adults who once loved reading, but I think if we try hard enough that we can find time to rekindle the old flame.

I AM

I am pulchritudinous and zany.
I wonder why flies fly and elephants don't elephant
I hear giggling tulips and crying cacti
I see zebras dancing in yellow tutus
I want a dollar that will make me holler, Honey BooBoo.
I  am pulchritudinous and zany.

I pretend to be a crumb on the floor when I am home alone.
I feel neopolitan ice cream should die in a hole.
I touch squirmy lizards.
I worry about starving children in foreign countries.
I cry when Marie laughs.
I am pulchritudinous and zany.

I understand that Santas isn't real.
I say "Do what makes you happy"
I dream in color and do the thing I want
I try to make people smile where ever I go.
I hope my mom is proud
I am pulchritudinous and zany.

The Dumbest Village in the World

"Never judge a book by its' cover." People have said this phrase time and time again, but do people really live by it? The villagers in The Handsomest Drowned Man in the World definitely either had never heard the phrase or they just completely disregarded it. Personally, if a person ever floated into my yard, no matter how breathtakingly beautiful, they would be sent to the morgue immidiately. It's only a common courtesy to bury the body. The villagers marveled over his body for who knows how long, which is completely strange in my book.

The villagers were so shallow. Just because he's "the tallest, strongest, most virile, and best built man they had ever seen" didn't mean that he was Mr.Good Deeds. "Esteban" could have been the worst robber/murderer/rapist/pedophile person in the village, which would explain why a nearby village wouldn't want to claim him. The women were the worst. The fact that they "secretly compared him to their own men" showed that they didn't care if their husbands were kind, smart, funny, or whatever they look for in a mate. They only cared that their husbands weren't as strong or beautiful as the drowned man. "Later when they covered his face with a handkerchief so that the light would not bother him, he looked so forever dead, so defenseless, so much like their men." The exact moment when they covered his face he was no longer a magnificiently beautiful face, but just a mere, normal man of the village. After he was covered they "just wanted to get rid of the bother of the newcomer." Later when the handkerchief was removed, they went back to obesssesing over the DEAD man.

People always think that since a person is the slightest bit attractive the MUST have a superb personalties. NOT TRUE. Take Charlie Sheen for example. He is an actor, widely known for the tv show, Two and a Half  Men. He's a very handsome, young man. He had a very respectful, responsible personality until in December 2009 he was arrested for assulting his wife, Brooke Mueller. Not one year later he was arrested for causing $7,000 of damage in alcohol and cocaine fueled-bender and a host of other things. Handsome man, great job... Not such good decisions or reaction. You may not have the prettiest hair, nails, nose, or body shape. You are still just as wonderful as any aesthetically appealing person... unless you're mean.