Beloved "Trees"

As I have been reading “Beloved” I have found multiple reappearing ideas, moods, metaphors or “motifs”.  One of these many motifs is Morrison’s use of “trees”.  When Sethe still lived at Sweet Home she was whipped and the after affect of that was a large scar on her back that she says resembles a tree. When Paul D arrives at her house and after they spent the night together in morning as he gazes at her scar he realizes that it is just “a revolting clump of scars”. That it was not a image of life and rebirth as many trees symbolize. It was not inviting it was revolting.  Then Paul D starts to remember his tree. His “brother”.  One of the beautiful trees that he and his fellow Sweet Home men, would sit and lay under.  In Beloved these trees are a mixed symbol of life and death. Because even though Paul D called his tree his “brother”, it was the same trees that would hang his fellow men. The same trees that took life away. And even though Sethe tree was given to her in a time of when she created a new life for herself, it still haunts her, with her memories. Morrison brings back trees with Beloved appears in the story. They found her sitting next to a tree stump. “A life that has stopped.“ Could this stump foreshadow Beloved and her story? 

9/25/12

Write the saddest thing you know about friendship.

In my opinion the saddest thing about friendship, is the unmistakable fact that someday it will end. Throughout your lifetime you will and should have many friendships that fade in and out of your life.  Some that last more then others, and some that mean more then others. But eventually all these friendships will end. At the moment I have a close group of friends, and we have been friends for a very long time.  But soon we will all be choosing our own paths. We will start to be independent, living on our own, and living in a brand new environment. Everything will be changing for us, and most importantly we will be making new friendships. But with those new friendships we all know, that our friendship will start to fade. It may not be quick, but eventually my friends will only be a memory. That is what I believe the saddest thing is about a friendship. But it is undeniable, it will happen, as much as we wish we could stay together. Go to collage together, start our independent lives together, we know that is not the reality. We have accepted this, and live now in the moment, always enjoying each other’s company, and making great memories that we all can keep. 

Beloved Part 1 Section 1 Personal Statement

"124 was spiteful. Full of a baby's venom." The first two sentence of Toni Morrison’s novel “Beloved” I believe state and “set the mood” for the relationships between Sethe and her children and the home and its inhabitants. I believe that Sethe was involved to how her first child died. The way the "baby ghost" reacts to different events in the house reflects anger, and even revenge. I feel that the child must have died in the form of hatred. "Sethe and her daughter Denver were its only victims", the fact that Morrison wrote "its only victims", it seems that this ghost has revenge against Sethe and her youngest daughter. It also seems that if that child, the one that was not even two before she died, still lingers, she has a reason; a task to complete. What reason would a baby return to haunt her own family, and to fill their home with its  "venom"? But being that the ghost is a family member to both of these women, shows another factor, that the child's death, could have been voluntary. Toni Morrison writes "But if she'd come, I could make it clear to her." This is said my Sethe, the dead child's mother. "I could make it clear to her." The question is to make what clear to her, what is it? During the first chapter Sethe seems very distant and full of regret. Memories she doesn't want to face. “the baby’s fury at having its throat cut” Could Sethe have knowingly and voluntarily murdered her two year old daughter? Is that why her child haunts her even after 18 years?  

9/17/12

Memoir Prompt - Write about the things that you enjoy most and are most passionate about. Do you feel that you devote enough time to each?

This has always been a tricky subject for me. What am I passionate about? I remember many conversations I have had with my mother, about me being passionate about something. But I feel that that is always changing. I know my mother would want me to passionate about music. She has always made that very clear. If not singing, playing piano, or cello. I used to love all these things; I used to be passionate about them once. Between the ages of 7-13, you couldn't get me to stop singing. I would belt out the words until my throat hurt. I wanted to be on Broadway, that was my dream. I memorized multiple musicals involving Les Miserables, Rent, The Phantom of the Opera, Evita etc. I don't know what happened, but one day it all stopped. And I didn't sing again. I would sing in choir at school when it was expected of me. But I have never seeked out singing again. The same with piano. I have been taking piano lessons for about 8 years. But I have always been bipolar with that. One year I would love it, practice everyday, really put my time into it. The next year, I would scream and yell, and refuse to go to lessons. I do know that over time, the thought of finally letting go, has corrupted me; and this year I quit. I know my mother was disappointed. She has come from a very musical family, her mother a pianist and her father a bassist. But I don’t feel passionate to music anymore. I know for her it’s hard to hear that. When music used to be ‘my everything’. But I have changed. Now I feel like my passion (in school) is science. I have worked hard to get where I have in my classes. I am a good student, I work hard, and I enjoy it.  Two years ago, would I have ever thought that I would be passionate about science? No. But again things are always changing, I never know what tomorrow will bring, maybe I would be passionate about something entirely knew. Who knows?

9/13/12

Free Writing Prompt - Write for 15 minutes using the following phrase as your first line.

"After the door shuts and the footsteps die..."

After the door shuts and the footsteps die, Marie sat; frozen.  After the footsteps died, the only sound was the swooshing of the ceiling fan. It turned in circles, never slowing down, never ending. Marie sat there, directly in the ray of light from her one small window. The lights reflected off of her face, the tears twinkling as they ran down her cheek. She sat at the end of her twin bed, and was ruffling in the covers through her hands. "How could they?" she repeated her in head. Marie sat there pondering what had just happened. The news her parents had just given her. "Divorce?" She had never thought her parents would separate, she didn't even know they were unhappy. They seemed fine last night at the dinner table. Talking, and even laughing. Nothing was wrong. They seemed like the perfect parents. Marie sat there; frozen, and confused. She sat there trying to find where their marriage went wrong. Where it had fallen, where it had made the turn, where it had died. But she couldn't manage a memory, a thought, or a reason. It had all happened so abruptly, just out of nowhere. How could she face them again. After their betrayl. Would they ever be able to sit around a their table again, talking about school, and laughing together. Everything would be different, everything would change. Nothing would be the same, and nobody would ever feel the same. Everything had now changed. 

9/12/12

What is your obsession?

What is my obsession? It makes you think. What am I crazy about? What do I do all the time. What can I not live without? When I think, and come up with an answer. All I can think about is being with my friends. They are my obsession. I think my parents would agree. I love my friends, I love being with them, and I love the feeling that they want me too. That I am wanted in a community. That is my greatest obsession. I have worked hard to be where I am now. I have played the game, that teenage social ‘ping pong game.’ Social dynamics that are always changing. I have worked hard to get where I am now. When I was younger, especially in middle school. I didn’t have many friends. Possibly 2 or 3 good girl friends. I was not “popular” I was not known. I was passed, ignored, and left in the dark. I would watch my classmates laughing together, talking about the time they had spent together. It made me sad. It made me lonely. It made me want to change. I wanted to have friends, I wanted to go out and do things. Be with people, and have fun. So that’s what I did, and I accomplished that goal.  Now as a junior in high school, I have one of the greatest groups of girl friends. We have all been very close since 7^th grade, and we have stuck together. A couple of have become distant and moved on. But the majority of us have stayed together. We are a strong group, and we are constantly together. If not have a girl’s night, we’re out in the town. Within my group of friends who I have nicked names “My Giggly Group of Girlfriends”, I have smaller groups of friends. I attend a different school, then most of the other girls. I ended up making some other very close friends at Laurel. And within that I have had to navigate several different social scenes and dynamics. Hopping from group to group, splitting my days, spending multiple nights out. It must sometimes drive my parents crazy. But its who I am, I love being social. I love to be out and about. And if I’m home alone, and I know others are together, it makes me go insane. I think because if I know people are together, and I’m not there, it reminds me of when I was lonely. When I wished, and prayed that I could be with them. I believe my parents understand that. Which is why they are so accommodating, they understand where I have been, and then where I am now. It’s my obsession. I am now a social teenager. I have to be with my friends. I’m addicted. It’s the main factor of my happiness. I couldn’t imagine going back to the loneliness. Being stuck in the shadows, unnoticed, unheard. I love my friends, and I know they love me too.  I am now wanted. That is my obsession; to be wanted by others.

9/11/12

In 300 words write about an old wedding dress.


My mother was one of those women who never kept anything for over a year. She was constantly refurnishing the parlor, swapping her wardrobe with the newest fashion, and exchanging expensive jewelry. She liked everything new, and up to date. The newest fad, she had to have. Whenever something new and better came out, she had to have it. I knew it drew my father crazy. They would argue about how she spent another $1000 on a new carpet, when the old one was just fine. But it was how my mother was. And it was what she had. Her job was to keep the house up, and up-to-date. It was how she spent her days, taking care of my little sister maggie, and buying new things online. Thats how she didn’t most of her purchasing online. It even drew me crazy. She kept nothing, and if she did keep something, it wasn’t much more than over a year, until she would return it, or exchange it for something “better”. Even gifts, christmas, birthday, she would return those too. There was only one thing she kept. One thing she cherished. It was hidden in the back of her closet. Stored in a cream clothed bag. It was a wedding dress. Her grandmothers wedding dress, my great-grandma Jean. It was a simple thing. An off white lace gown. I had only seen it once or twice. But i remember it was made of silk, smooth, cool to touch. It was long, had a lace train, that would follow as you wore it. It was cinched at the waist, and then fell on the hips. The neck was tight, and ruffled with floral lace. The arms long, and twisted. It didn’t look like much, a clump of lace. It smelt of old perfume and musk. Yet it was the only possession my mother cherished. The only apparel she kept, yet never wore.  It was something special, something precious to her. It was given to her from her mother, and from her grandmother. I had always expected that she would then give it to me, someday. I don’t know what I would do with it. I had never been attracted to it. Never how my mother is. I would probably store it, never would it be brought out. It would collect dust. After all it was just an old dress.

9/6/12

What element of nature would you choose as an emblem for yourself as a writer. Is this a symbol that you use when writing? Does the tone match your writing? Write using it as a metaphor.



My writing is as if the leaves are falling from their tree. As if the air we breathe starts becoming colder, more crisp. As if the air was full of the sounds of crows, cowering on the wires. Autumn. I do not know why, I do not know how. But as I write. A lot of times I imagine autumn. The time of decaying; death. I feel many of my writings have that tone. A low energy that is given off. A lot of times when I write I am feeling low inside. As if something is wrong. Could be something at school, at home, something going on with a friend. Those feelings are stored deep inside. When I write, they creep out. Slowly. Writing is an escape. A way to say what is needing, without anybody truly hearing. You can write what you are feeling. And simply delete it afterward. Nobody has to see it. Nobody has to read it. Nobody has to know. a secret. I sometimes wish that I could change the tone of my writings. Change the tone from being deep and heavy, to light and airy. I wish that my symbol of writing could be like the spring, rebirth, happiness. Or summer, to the heat and passion. But it is not. Its slow, paused. Its cold, and bitter, like as if winter were approaching. I feel my writing is stuck. Stuck in this sad melody. I want to break free. Write about life, and beauty. Happiness and love. Instead of sadness and death. But its easy for me to write, with autumn being my structure. Its familiar, something I know of well. Something I can relate to. Easily bring memories to paper. I need to find new memories to store. A new picture, thought, or feeling to flood through me. Through me, through my fingertips, through the keys, and onto the paper. A new story, and new story to share. A new story to read. A new story to begin.

9/6/12

“I am who I am”

She studied her face in the mirror. Plain. She was nothing special. Not a gem or a diamond. Not a feature that created harmony. She was no diamond; she did not sparkle. She was simply a rock, a pebble that lay at the bottom of the sea. Her eyes were a muted blue. A tint of gray, and muted with a hint of brown. Her eyelids; swollen, puffy, and red. Thick circles of flesh lay below her eyes. She had not slept in days. A band of bruised flesh surrounded her eyes. Sinking them into her skull.

Her skin was chalky, rough, and course. It was pale, no pigment to bring her to live. A corpse. Part of her skin had been chipped away; indentations in her face. Scars scattered her cheeks and chin. Dark stains of previous wounds.

Her nose was large, too large for her petite structure. It jutted out, and was crooked. It had been broken. Broken, and then broken again.  A large vein followed the break in her nose, created the vision to be drawn to it. It was the center view, the pillar that held the structure.

Her lips were pale. No rosy pink to be seen. The flesh was tight and cracked. Behind those lips lay shaved, chipped and cracked teeth. If she dared to smile you would see gaps of space between yellowed teeth. Those yellow teeth, covered in decaying food.

She was an emblem of ugliness. A definition of hideous. No one would speak to her, no one would listen, and no one would ever dare to look at her. Yet she would stare, and study her features. She would look at herself, and ponder. She was not afraid, she was not scared. She would whisper “I am who I am.” She was strong. She would suffer, yet she would not cry. “I am who I am”. She would stay there, gazing in her mirror; studying her face, her features, her identity. “I am who I am.” She would not leave, she would not be banished. She was strong. She would stay. She was beautiful.