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Sample ENG101 Essays Please note that not all the sample essays here reflect the topics we are currently working with. I am often asked by students, "What does it take to get an A on an essay?" I can go on forever describing abstract qualities that all excellent essays possess, but I have found that it is much more effective to share essays written by former students of mine that demonstrate the qualities of excellent writing. These essays are shared with the permission of the writers who created them, and I appreciate their generosity in allowing them to be used as samples. I hope you will enjoy reading these as much as I have. Essay #1
Essay #4
Essay #5
Sample essays for TV or NOT TV unit 
When most people think of scars, they usually think of marks left on the skin as a reminder of a painful incident. Although they may be right, people often fail to see the scars left embedded in the human soul and the meaning behind them. There are losses and gains that can't be seen with the human eye, but the person who has had the experience will always remember it. These "growing pains" give life its meaning, and even though they may hurt at the time, they often turn into personal triumphs. When I was seventeen, I went out to lunch with my cousin Brad. Everything seemed to be going well until we crossed the intersection of Guadalupe and Power Roads. Brad was driving too fast and we cared too much about beating the traffic. When he looked back at the cars behind him, he lost control and we started to skid. When we hit the ditch, we were traveling ninety miles an hour and we started to flip. The Suburban flipped six times in the air, and when it finally hit the ground and started rolling, I remember seeing sparks and feeling I was going to die. Suddenly it wasn't so important to beat the traffic, and all I wanted to do was to go home to my family. Neither of us was wearing seatbelts and Brad flew through the front windshield as the car rolled over the right side of his body. We just kept on rolling. After a few seconds, I was thrown out through the opening where there had been a door only moments before. By the time help arrived, Brad was dead. I gave him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation but it wouldn't work. When I put my hands on his bloody chest, I could feel what the pressure of the car had done to him. I remember feeling dizzy and just wanting to wake up from this bad dream. A few moments later I finally realized there were people all around me, and they were all crying and asking how I was. I didn't know what to do, so I just started to cry. I didn't stop for two hours. I couldn't. I went to the hospital and the doctor gave me seven stitches. They said everything would be okay and that I could go home to my family in a few hours. But Brad wouldn't be going home. His parents came in to see me and to thank me for trying to help. I didn't feel I had done much and I didn't know what to say, so I started crying again. That seemed to be how I dealt with everything for the next few days. At the viewing, or at his house, and even at the funeral, I kept feeling his death was my fault because I was the one who told him to beat the traffic so we could have five extra minutes at lunch. Brad's not here anymore, and there is nothing I wouldn't give just to have those five minutes with him now. Although I still feel the loss of Brad, I've learned how to move past this. It's become permanent in my mind, like a scar left on my heart. There will never again be a time in my life when I forget the value of life and what it means to me. I went to visit him last week, and I finally put it all to rest. I forgave myself, and I forgave him for dying. But it's still hard.
When people discover that I don't have a thumb on my left hand, the first question they ask is, "How did that happen?" After telling my standard hand in the paper cutter joke to other teenagers or too much thumb-sucking to little kids, I tell them the honest reason of a birth defect. The next question is something about how it must be so weird not having a thumb on one hand. When I first realized how weird it was, I was always worrying about how I would operate different objects. It did not take long for me to convince myself that it was not really a big handicap at all. While I have a vanilla plain, four fingers and a thumb right hand, my left hand without a thumb has taught me teamwork, adaptation, and creativity. There are very few activities which I cannot do because of my thumb. I am not supposed to play contact sports because of the other birth defects that went along with my thumb. This didn't bother me because I made myself into a pretty good runner. I cannot play a woodwind instrument because it requires a left thumb to hold it when playing. This didn't bother me either; I learned to play the trombone instead. I have a little more than average difficulty throwing and writing left-handed, but I have no reason to do that anyway. When I played baseball, catching left-handed was easier for me than for a lot of kids who had a thumb. The last thing I have trouble doing is hitchhiking. Not many people will stop for a guy shaking his fist at the road. There is only one small thing wrong with my right hand. I do have four fingers and a thumb, but I am the only person I know who cannot bend my thumb. It doesn't affect me at all. Actually, there is no purpose to bending the thumb. The only use I can think of is the joke parents tell kids about losing their thumb by bending each, putting the hands together and bringing them apart. I always told that joke better than anyone. The great thing about the human mind is the ability to adapt to its surroundings. Losing a part of your body is not as bad as it seems. It just sounds scary because it is so unusual. I have become quite good at doing different tasks without a thumb. There is absolutely no difference with typing this paper because only one thumb is needed to press the space bar. My friends in band were surprised by how easily I adapted to the trombone because it is usually held with the thumb and little finger. I used my index finger and little finger; it was a stretch but worked just the same. I use my left index finger for many tasks that most people use their thumbs for. I can hold a glass of water with my two middle fingers on one side, index finger on one side and my little finger on the bottom. No problem. I have no regrets about not having a thumb on my left hand. I can do all ordinary things. The only things I can't do I make up for by doing something else. The jokes this has given me have been a source of much laughter with many people. In addition, it has been the subject of another A paper for me.
Essay #2: Choose a song that is especially meaningful to you. Think of the times in your life when this song has been connected to your experiences. Focus in on one particular moment, and write an essay in which you describe that moment with enough specific detail that your reader can envision your experience. Include in your essay a couple of analytical paragraphs in which you explain the significance of the song. Why does this memory stand out? What meaning does it have for your life now? Christa Wiemer Panic-stricken, my older sister ran off the stage, losing a lot of tears on her harried, humiliating sprint out of the limelight. Even as I stood there with my mouth gaping open watching the horrible scene before me, the music played on. "Little white duck doing what he otter . . ." My mind suddenly went blank and as I looked out into the audience, I envisioned a million eyes all focused on me. I knew what I had to do: I had to go on! I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and sang in my best four-year-old voice. Finally, a million years later, the music stopped. I could feel my mother's arms lovingly enfold me and the pain and embarrassment quickly came to a halt. I suddenly felt so proud of myself. I had finished what I came here to do; I had finally sung in the talent show. Then I turned and saw my sister with her tear-stained cheeks and bloodshot eyes. Tears came to my eyes now, and I ran over to my sister and squeezed her hand as hard as my little frame would allow. "Don't cry, 'Lisha. I singed for you." My sister Alisha and I have always been pretty close. I remember countless nights we used to stay up until the early hours of the morning talking about our most recent crushes, or giving each other advice on how to run our lives. When we were younger we would take art and poetry classes together, each of us finding that we had individual talents in different areas. That didn't keep us apart, though. If Mom got upset with one of us the other would attempt to make light of the situation to change the atmosphere. Alisha was two years older than me so she always knew what clothes looked good, which teachers were nice, and most importantly, which boys to stay away from. When I got older, I started noticing that she was more of a second mother to me than a sister and at the time this really annoyed me. I was a teenager and I needed my space. We seemed to have different interests by this time and our personalities couldn't have been more opposite if we were from two separate countries. She was always working at her schoolwork and cheerleading activities. I was also in my separate world, staying busy with sports and goofing off. She was always concerned about something and usually worrying and uptight whereas I was generally more relaxed and mellow. One day my Mom told the story of a talent show we had been in when we were young, and it was suddenly evident to me that the symbolism of our life together began with "The Little White Duck." All those years ago, we were huddling close to Mom in our matching red leotards as she rehearsed the words with us one last time. Her final instructions echoed in my head as we climbed the wooden stairs that led to the stage: "Remember, if you forget the words, simply make up some of your own." Soon we were standing in front of everyone, and the music had begun. We began singing, and our off-key childish voices filled the auditorium. I glanced at my Mom who was hiding behind the curtain, ans she just smiled and gestured me to keep singing. I turned back to the audience and sang with more vibrance than I had begun with, now confident in my abilities. All of a sudden, during the peak of our performance, my sister couldn't take anymore. I couldn't tell if the size of the crowd or just the sheer fright of performing overwhelmed her. Soon she was back in my mother's arms sobbing backstage and I was all alone. The music rattled on as I considered fleeing the stage myself, and by then I didn't even remember any of the words. At the last minute of despair, my mother's words flowed into my mind again and I knew I had to go on. I turned cautiously back to the crowd, made up my own words, and finished singing as loudly as I could. This song is symbolic of our lives together because growing up we started
out on the same stage, but as the years have passed our lives have changed.
I still live here in Mesa while she has gone on to bigger and better things
at NAU in Flagstaff. We are still the same kids who sang together
on that stage so many years ago. She has already feld, and the music
plays on.
Jessica Hansen, Fall 1995 Have you ever gotten lost in a moment? Have you ever found yourself caught up in the joy of it all? Have you ever been involved in a piece of time so wonderful that afterwards you think you have a better understanding of what it means to be alive because of it? Moments come in all shapes, sizes, and colors. Some are dark and mysterious. Some are bright and bubbly. A few are grey and sad. But the best moments, the ones to get caught up in, are bejeweled with warmth, love, excitement, and a feeling that has yet to be defined. For me, one of those moments involves a song. It was my junior year of high school, and I was in Symphonic Choir. Symphonic was our largest choir, and the best we had. In fact, it was one of the best choirs in the state of Michigan, which is actually saying a lot. That year was full of good music. For our fall concert we sang a romping Frank Sinatra medley; for Christmas we performed a glorious rendition of Antonio Vivaldi's Gloria; and for our spring concert we pulled off a beautiful Russian ballad called "The Nightingale" and a gorgeous song by Bach. But our highlight for the year was a black spiritual called "Deep River." It was our masterpiece. Our choir director, Mr. Lenz, always brought out the best in his students. He used music, and this song in particular, as a tool to stir the emotions not only of his audience, but also of his choir. I will never forget singing that song in concert. The house lights were dimmed, so that all I could see of the audience was a myriad of grey faces that disappeared into nothingness when I began to sing. My attention was focused on Mr. Lenz. I didn't dare take my eyes off him because he liked to change the volume and speed of a song, and you never quite knew what he was going to do. The audience hushed, and our director raised his hands into the air to signal the beginning. Everyone in the room was tense. It was the tension that occurs one moment before the first note of an a capella piece is to be sung. To describe it, I would compare it to the moment before the verdict was read in the O.J. Simpson trial. In that split second before the words were spoken, we realized that something very important and emotional was about to happen. But it feels like that second is never going to end. It was almost a giddy feeling, as if we suddenly had enough energy to run a marathon, but it was tense because the shot to start the race hadn't been fired yet. That is what that moment before the first note of "Deep River" felt like. Then Mr. Lenz dropped his hands, the verdict was read, the shot fired, and we began to sing. Oh, deep river, my home is over Jordan. Deep river, Lord, I want to cross over into campground. The beauty of the song washed over me, and I was drowning in it, getting lost in it. Harmonizing here, joining in unison there, each individual voice collaborated and a living thing was formed. It was full of heart and soul. It was joy, and it was rapture, and I was happy just to be a part of it. It was like waiting in liune for eternity to ride a new roller coaster. Then suddenly you find yourself standing behind the white line. Finally your train comes, and you get in. The ride takes off, and you discover that it's only beginning and you're excited because the wait is over and you're on your way! Then the momentum builds. Oh, oh, don't you want to go to that gospel feast, that promised land where all is peace? Your car is climbing up the unfathomable hill, and it climbs, and it climbs, and it climbs, and it doesn't feel like you are ever going to get to the top! And all of a sudden you're there. You watch as the first car goes over the edge, and the second, and the third, and you know that in a moment it will be your turn. For that split second you see down the steep hill, and that hill is all that exists in the world. Next thing you know you're rushing down, down and you realize that your stomach is still at the top of the hill. Your heart is pounding, and life is good! Then, without warning, the ride slows. Deep river, Lord, I'll cross over to campground. Ooooh. The train pulls into the station, and you get off. It's over. The song ended. The audience reappeared, and smiled and cheered because we had given them the opportunity to be part of it. Mr. Lenz smiled and nodded his head at us in gratitude for allowing him to be part of it as well. I smiled. Because sometimes when your head is swimming gleefully, and your blood is pumping adrenaline and your heart is so full it will burst, smiling is all you can do. I've been lost in many moments. I've often found myself caught up in the joy of it all. I've discovered life, thanks to a collage of moments like this. Although I've been thrown my share of hard times and rotten tomatoes, getting lost in a moment can make it all worthwhile. And as a matter of fact, it has.
Essay #3: Think
of all the stories that are told over and over again in your family.
Choose one and narrate it, giving the reader a sense of why this story
is important to your family. What values, beliefs, hopes, qualities
does it reveal? You may choose to tell the story as if you are the
main character.
Renee Partello I was born Cheryl Partello, the twin of Ronnie Partello. We shared a modest house with our parents and our six other brothers and sisters. Ronnie and I were inseparable from birth. Our personalities complemented each other so much that when we were apart, I felt as if half of me was missing. My life centered around his, and so when he died, he took me with him. It was June 17, 1976 when I learned that my brother had been found dead in our basement. It was rare for us to argue, but earlier that day we had had a quarrel. After we exchanged some harsh words, he grabbed a bottle from the medicine cabinet and bolted out the front door. I chased after him down our street until I dropped to the ground from exhaustion. My mind raced with anxiety and fear, imagining what he would do. I had to find him. I desperately searched the neighborhood and all of his friends' houses for him for the remainder of the day. Finally I decided to return home, hoping that maybe he had come back. As I turned the corner of our street, my stomach dropped and my mind desperately started to conjure up some other reason for the ambulances and firetrucks outside our house. He had returned home, and I was too late. I knew at that instant my brother was dead, but I refused to believe it. I ran as fast as I could through the carnival of policemen and firemen to the front door, screaming the whole way. I reached my brother's body and fell to my knees in hysterics. I was pulled away against my will by a fireman who then proceeded to cover and take my brother's body away. Although my family were all around me, I couldn't see anyone or anything. My body became completely numb and my mind took me to a distant, secluded spot. I remained there for the next four years. Some uncertainty arose concerning the circumstances leading up to my brother's death. Because his body was found on the basement staircase, there was some speculation that maybe he was trying to get some help. This, along with signs that a struggle had taken place, sparked a three-month investigation of his death. The final determination of the cause of his death was suicide by an overdose of sleeping pills. I couldn't accept that my brother had intentionally taken his own life. Without my brother, my life wasn't worth living. I hated him for the pain he put me through and all of the unanswered questions he left me with. I couldn't understand how he could be so selfish. I turned most of my pain into anger and refused to visit his grave. After four years of intense counseling, I decided it was time finally to take a trip to the cemetery where my brother was buried. It was June 17, 1980, the anniversary of his death. I was now twenty-four years old and living in my own modest apartment. I drove to my parents' house to see if anyone would accompany me to the cemetery. As I walked through the front door, I noticed my sister shoveling through a box of old clothes. I spotted a shirt I used to love as a teenager. Curiously, I grabbed the shirt and looked at the tag. All of a sudden, my heart skipped a beat, and I had to step back. There on the tag was the brand name Ronniedidn'tmeanit by Quote Me, Inc. This couldn't be accidental. Why would anyone name a line of clothing Ronniedidn'tmeanit? There weren't any signs that would make me question the tag's authenticity. The message sent was beautiful, yet the avenue my brother chose to send it gave me chills. Nevertheless, I felt peaceful and whole again. He was with me all along, and he answered my undying question: Why? I used to believe that death was permanent, that I would never again be with those I loved who had passed on. Prior to finding this message from my brother, my life was a lonely, cruel and meaningless journey. Today my world is filled with guardian angels and heavenly thoughts. What a pleasure to be wrong!
Martha Spiva My name is Mimke Saathoff. My family and I recently moved to this blessed country. We left Germany to escape the wars there. We were so happy when we settled in Quihi, Texas. We bought a nice, wide-open farm, and our crops were plentiful. In the distance, the lush, green, rolling hill country of Texas could be seen, and the streams that ran through them were cool and clear. This was the place dreams were made of, and life could not have been any better. But a few years after we moved here, our new country was rocked by civil war. From what I understood, some of the people in the South kept black people as slaves, and the people in the North did not think that slavery was right. We did not have any slaves; we did all of our own work ourselves. As far as I was concerned, the war was not mine to fight; after all, my family and I had just moved here. The war might not have been mine to fight, but apparently the two sides had a different opinion. I could not stay neutral; I was faced with an ugly decision. Should I fight with the Confederates and take the chance of losing my family's farm, or should I join the Union to help them in their cause? My family had worked too hard and come too far to lose their dream now. I made my choice and joined the others who were in the same position I was. We went to work for the Union so our families could keep their farms. The Union had me driving wagon trains filled with weapons and supplies for the troops along the Mexican border. It was a dangerous job; we were constantly on the lookout for Confederate soldiers. The nights were long, and full of memories of my past in Germany. I could not believe I was here fighting for a country I had just become a citizen of. After all, I had come to the United States to avoid war. I longed for the hard work of plowing my fields. I was tired of watching death surround me; one by one I saw large homesteads burned to the ground or taken over by invaders from the North. What was once a grand and happy place to love was now worn down by the war. The people of the South had lost their spirit; some had even lost their pride. The whole situation was depressing. Finally, after years of riding the trail with the wagon train, I got the news that the war was finished. The South had fallen, and I was told that I could return to my family and farm. Since the South had lost their fight, I was assured my farm would still be there. Relief rushed over me. I was exhausted, but I would soon be home where I belonged. I joined my relatives who had made the same decision as I had to help the Union, and we began our trek home. Our spirits were high, even if our bodies were ready to collapse. For the first time in years, we allowed ourselves to talk about what we had missed most back home. Some of us had lovers at home waiting for our return, and others just missed the home cooking or the soft feather beds. We sang the old German victory songs as we made our way across the rough Texas terrain. We were almost home! We had made it to the town of Sabinal, Texas when were we ambushed by Union soldiers and carpetbaggers. Shots were being fired all around us, and a state of mass confusion instantly replaced our joyful hearts and songs. The people we had given years of our lives to help were now attacking and killing us. We were not ready for this; we did not even have much ammunition. Some of us did not have any; I was one of those unlucky people. All I could do was run for cover and hide until the fighting finished. I ran for the nearby mesquite bushes and watched helplessly as my relatives died in this bloody massacre. Why was this happening? What had we done wrong? When the slaughter was done and I was certain that it was safe, I came out from my hiding place. The tears fell down my cheeks as heart-wrenching screams escaped my mouth. In less than two hours, I had witnessed almost half my family die for absolutely nothing. I continued on my journey home, only this time I was alone. There were no more happy thoughts of "coming home" parties. My heart was no longer light and carefree; it was heavy with the task that lay before me. It was up to me to tell whoever was left waiting at home that their Daddies, lovers, brothers, and uncles had been ambushed and killed senselessly by the very people whom they had been supporting during the war. Years have come and gone now. The wounds of watching my people killed have healed, though they will never be forgotten. I want my children, grandchildren, and the little ones who follow to know that the Saathoff family is strong, and we will not be killed off by greed. We were ambushed by the Yankees for the sole purpose of killing us for our land. Since we had fought on their side of the war, they could not just take our land, but if we died, they could buy it for the cost of taxes. They got some of the farms, but the farms they did not get prospered, just as the Saathoff family found the strength to move ahead and claim more land throughout the hill country of Texas.
Essay #4: Think of
a place that has special significance in your life. This can be a
place you have visited once or many times, a place where you have spent
a great deal of time, a place that you have never been but want to go to,
a place that no longer exists, a place that exists only in your imagination
. . . . The only requirement is that the place have special meaning to
you. Describe the place, using enough sensory detail that the reader
can imagine it as clearly as you see it. Then add a couple of introspective
or retrospective paragraphs in which you analyze what this place means
to you or what places like this mean to human beings in general.
Why do we need places like this?
Weldon Rogers, 1997 "It's so nice to be home again," my mother says. My eight-year-old mind ponders what she means. All we have done is walk inside our front door, and that doesn't convey any special sense of peace or satisfaction to me. Our lifeless house is necessary shelter, nothing more, a place where we store our things until we need them again. That was a long time ago. As I stand staring at my family's birthplace now, the poignant meaning of "home" comes flooding back to me. The cracked white paint is blistering from the hundred-year-old clapboards that encircle the framing members of the house like a girdle, preventing embarrassing bulges that appear seemingly in all the wrong places as time whispers by. The old lady still maintains a modicum of vanity even in her advanced years. The masonry work on the chimneys is crumbling; the mortar is bleached light gray by the hot Texas summer sun and is unable to hold itself together any longer. The red fire-bricks litter the swayback roof here and there, some of them broken by their impact with the mossy green shingles where they fell. The chimneys look like broken teeth, their original symmetry broken by the elements and the apathy of time. This is an old house, too old to live in anymore. Were it in the city, building inspectors would have shown pity and condemned it. Sentinel-like it looms, holding its secret stories and stubbornly resisting the ravages of decay. Standing at the arbor portal leading to the ragweed-and-crabgrass-overgrown front yard and sagging porch of the hundred-year-old Victorian ranch house, I marvel at its wrinkled and aged beauty. The lines of time have etched themselves into the face of the house (much like my own), giving it an air of well-deserved character and quiet wisdom. Gravity has skewed the once-rectangular window openings into comical green parallelograms, playfully teasing the viewer to turn his or her head to make sense of the absurd geometry. The movie projector of my mind begins playing an old eight-millimeter black-and-white reel full of boisterous laughter, banging doors, wonderfully mingling aromas of carefully prepared food, and a loving warmth and sense of totality that only great film directors can capture. The film is jumpy and grainy, and the sound is out of sync as I try to remember my grandmother's exact words at Christmas, filtered through thirty years of absence and living. "Home is where all the good things in your life happen," she says, smiling. "You should always take care of your home."
Michelle Branham Fourteen is an awkward age for anyone. It is an age when emotions scramble in every direction. For this very reason, I found my spot. Just off the coast of the border between South Carolina and Georgia exists a small island called Hilton Head. Twice each summer my family and I made a beeline for the island's soft sand and sweet breezes. Weeks of preparation and anticipation flowed into agonizing hours stuffed into the family car. Wedged between two brothers in the backseat, I usually had to referee their fights. Sitting on the "hump" and feeling the family dogs' hot and heavy breath on my neck seemed to be unbearable torture at the time; yet it was a small price to pay for paradise. During our second trip to the beach before my freshman year in high school, I remember walking along the beach just to get away from a difference of opinion I had had with my parents. I must have walked five miles away from the civilized portion of the island before I saw an unusual grouping of trees. The Carolina woodlands are filled with giant pines and oaks whose branches support heaps of Spanish moss; however, this particular group of trees formed a rough circle. The trees' tips bent inwards toward each other to form a ceiling over the ground below. As I entered the cluster of trees, I found myself blocked from any attempt by the sun to find me. The trees hid an old dilapidated gazebo set in the center of the circle. The gazebo was fully intact, except for two of the middle steps that had rotted away from years of decay. The floorboard was engulfed in thich green moss that cushioned each step I took. As I grasped the aged rail, my hand made an imprint on the thin brown fungus that covered it. The air was thick from the humidity and gave off a faint mildew odor. A few times a sudden breeze would blow the hair on the nape of my neck and masquerade the air with the scent of my perfume. It appeared that no one had climbed the steps to the gazebo in years; nor did anyone else know of its whereabouts. Many of the trees' moss-filled branches rested upon the gazebo's roof as if they were old friends. The only sign of life that I could see inhabited the murky waters of the marsh nearby. The golden eyes of two mature alligators silently broke the surface of the still water and scrutinized my every move. Attempting to get a closer look, I cautiously climbed down the ancient steps, and made my way through the thick brush. A safe distance away from the peaceful marsh, I found a large piece of driftwood to perch upon and observe my surroundings. After a few moments, it felt to me as if the spot and its inhabitants welcomed my visit and approved of my presence. It gave me time to reflect and truly contemplate the relationship among friends, family, and religion in my life. It was in this very spot that I formulated my own opinons about human thought and action. After feeling sorry for myself, I realized that I must stop accusing others for my condition and build myself up with strong and noble thoughts. Then I could use these circumstances to discover abilities within myself. People imagine that thought can be kept secret, but I know that it cannt; it crystallizes into habit, and habit solidifies into circumstance. I felt that I needed to become a better person. If I lifted my thoughts, I would have greater success and more enduring achievements. I don't return to the island twice a year as I used to do. I do, however, get the chance to visit occasionally. I would love nothing more than to say that I visit my spot often; however, I do not. The growth in tourism and land development have eliminated the physical aspects of my special place, but personal maturity and spirituality allow me to remember my spot as a place in my heart forever.
Essay #5: Think of a favorite author and recall all of the books you have read by him or her. Consider the influence this author has had on you and the special qualities and strengths of his or her writing that you believe set this author apart from others. Then choose one of the following options for your essay. Option #1: Narrate the history of your relationship with this author. Which of his or her works have you enjoyed? Focus on the most important book by this author that you have read, and analyze the influence this writer has had on your life, your thinking, your imagination, and so on. Option #2: Write an essay in which
you introduce this author to the reader, and describe some of the author's
special writing qualities (style, themes, characterization, plot, research
and scholarship, description, and so on) that the reader would particularly
enjoy. DO NOT retell the plots of this author's books. Instead,
use brief examples from the books to tempt the reader to look up your favorite
author.
Geoffrey Varga, Fall 1995 What can we learn from bears? Get more sleep, you may say. How about be more protective of our young? Well, these are good things to learn, but growing up I learned many valuable lessons from the Berenstain Bears, thanks to Jan and Stan Berenstain, the authors of the famous book series. My parents always read me the stories about Mama and Papa Bear and their little bear cubs, Brother and Sister Bear. Not only did Jan and Stan Berenstain teach us lessons, but they made the lessons real to life. "Many of the Berenstain Bears' stories are drawn from the real-life experiences of their creators, and include such familiar experiences as visiting the doctor, cleaning the house, and buying a Christmas tree." ("Berenstain" 46) The books read to me as a kid were always chosen by my parents to be beneficial to me. That is why the Berenstain Bears were such a part of me as I grew up. Their stories were so influential in my life because of their moral values. I remember situations that Brother and Sister Bear were in because I had many similar situations. When Brother and Sister Bear were caught lying in The Berenstain Bears and the Truth, I was taught a lesson. Not only was I taught a lesson, but I was also told that it is hard always to be good little cubs (or boys and girls) and sometimes we will be naughty. The Berenstains never left me with a guilt trip, though, merely a better understanding of what is right and what is wrong. There was consolation given in such stories as The Berenstain Bears Go to the Doctor and The Berenstain Bears Visit the Dentist. Yes, not only were Brother and Sister afraid to go to the dentist, but Papa was too. Jan and Stan did a wonderful job of showing us that it is all right to be scared because even adults get scared. Still, our parents will not put us in situations that may harm us. Our parents are always looking out for our best interests. This knowledge was comforting to me as a child. In books such as The Berenstain Bears Get in a Fight, The Berenstain Bears Get the Gimmies, The Berenstain Bears and Too Much Birthday, and The Berenstain Bears Forget Their Manners, we are taught that we do indeed need to remember our manners and mind our behavior. Things may not always go our way, but we have to roll with the punches and make the best of difficult situations. We need to learn proper etiquette and manners, something that the Bears had learned and were now teaching us. The book that I understood the best was The Berenstain Bears and the Trouble with Money. I had people in my family who spoiled me by giving me money, just as Gramps Grizzly spoiled Brother and Sister Bear. I was also irresponsible with money. I was the type of person who would run off to the store and spend my dough on candy or toys that would no longer be fun the next day. I learned a good lesson about saving my money and being responsible from those bears. Jan and Stan have a way of relating to kids and making these situations come alive to them. On the back of each book, this phrase is written: "Let the Berenstain Bears help out at your house with these delightful stories about first-time experiences!" And they did. I can't wait to have kids of my own so that I can let them grow up the old-fashioned way: in the wild. Reference "Berenstain, Janice." Contemporary Authors. New Revision Series (1985).
Veronica Brewer, Summer 1996 "The salvation of man is through love and in love." Viktor E. Frankl During World War II, millions of Jews were brutally murdered. They were gassed, shot, tortured, and even used in experimental surgeries. But even worse off were those who lived in the camps. They had to wake up to the awful reality of the camp life everyday in the "hard fight for existence which raged among the prisoners." (Frankl 18) There have been many books written on the subject of Auschwitz, but Viktor Frankl's book Man's Search for Meaning does not concentrate on the actual events of everyday life in a concentration camp, but rather "how it was reflected in the mind of the average prisoner." (Frankl 17) He points out that his books was "not so much concerned with the sufferings of the mighty, but with the sacrifices, the crucifixion, and the deaths of the great army of unknown and unrecorded prisoners." (Frankl 17) Viktor Frankl, a psychotherapist, is a Jew who lived through the experiences of the concentration camp. While he was there, he began to wonder what made one man fight to live while another gave up his will and let himself die. In his book he writes of the answers he received, and he gives answers on how to grow into a stronger person through one's trials. When I was in the twelfth grade, I experienced a car accident that took the life of my cousin. It was an extreme hardship on my family, and I thought I would never get through the ordeal. Two months later, my English teacher asked us to read Frankl's book to learn about existentialism. Although I did get a taste of what existentialism is about, I learned more about the healing of the human soul and the strength it possesses. The book proved to be a source of answers on how to heal the pain that I was feeling at the time. Because Frankl was surrounded by death daily, he knew how it felt to experience the loss of a life. His experiences helped me through my loss and inspired me to become a better person. He summed up what I felt when he stated, "Love goes very far beyond the physical person of the beloved. It finds its deepest meaning in his spiritual being, his inner self. Whether or not he is actually present, whether or not he is still alive at all, ceases somehow to be of importance." (Frankl 49) Frankl, during his imprisonment, discovered that "the body has fewer inhibitions than the mind." (Frankl 96) He realized that after a certain point, the physical point, the rest was all up to the person and how strong the person's will was. His book centers around the human soul. He stated frequently in his book that even when everything has been taken from a person, there is still a challenge. The challenge is to keep one's dignity. We can do this by looking for positive opportunities, never losing hope, and making the inner decision of how to shape our lives, or bear our crosses. "A person's unique opportunity lies in the way in which he bears his burden." (Frankl 48) He felt that the guards in the camp may have had control over the prisoners' physical beings, but the prisoners always had control over their spiritual beings. He stated that "whatever we had gone through could still be an asset to us in the future." (Frankl 89) In his book, Frankl states that "if you know the why for your existence, you can bear almost any how." (Frankl 88) He realized that a man who becomes aware of the responsibility he bears toward something unfinished will never be able to throw away his life. He quoted a poet who wrote, "What you have experienced, no power on earth can take from you . . . . Not only our experiences, but all we have done, whatever great thoughts we may have had, and all we have suffered, all is not lost." (Frankl 90) The daily struggles the prisoners faced were unthinkable to most people. The battles are too hard for some even to comprehend, but one survivor told his story and offered it to others. Most people's daily battles seem quite minor after reading this book. Whatever the trial, the way in which a person fights the battle and whether or not the person's dignity remains intact are the true tests. "The crowning experience of it all, for the homecoming man, is the wonderful feeling that, after all he has suffered, there is nothing he need fear anymore." (Frankl 100) Frankl, Viktor E. Man's Search for Meaning. Fourth
edition. Boston: Beacon Press, 1992.
BANG! BANG! YOU'RE DEAD! by Patti S. Mills Spring 1998 "Bang! Bang! You're dead!" How many times do we hear children say those words in what appears to be innocent play? Why is this such a prevalent form of play among America's children? Is television a contributor to this insidious erosion of children's respect for life? The amount of research that has been done in an attempt to answer the last question is enormous. The majority of the findings are very similar in content, and the results are grim. Television violence has been shown to cause four major changes in children's behavior: "Increasing aggressiveness and anti-socail behavior, increasing their fear of becoming victims, making them less sensitive to violence and to victims of vioence, and increasing their appetite for more violence in entertainment and in real life." (Some Things) Television is causing a change in Anerica's children, and it is not a change for the better. If watching television is increasing children's aggressive behavior, then is it also causing a higher crime rate? Once again, the answer is a resounding yes. "Longitudinal studies tracking viewing habits and behavior patterns of a single individual found that 8-year-old boys who viewed the most violent programs while growing up were the most likely to engage in aggressive and delinquent behavior by age 18 and serious criminal behavior by age 30." (Booth, Mullins, Scott, and Woolston) Not only do our children exhibit an immediate reaction to violence in the media but also a long term effect of a higher propensity toward committing crimes. Another population study stated that the homicide rate doubled within ten to fifteen years after the introduction of television into several different locations where television was introduced at different times. (Facts About Media Violence) We are all affected by what we see, but our children are at the greatest risk for influence because they are less able to distinguish between reality and fantasy. Children are also becoming more fearful of the world around them. Because they are exposed to so much violence on television, they are starting to expect violence to happen to them. Our children are beoming more afraid everyday. This is going to manifest itself in many ways. Children who are fearful are defensive. If they are already expecting a violent act to happen to them, tney they are going to be overly prepared to defend themselves and even more likely to initiate violence so that they can avoid becoming victims. Children who are worried about their safety are going to have less ability to concentrate on the other issues in their lives. Schoolwork, social skills, and developmental playtime will suffer. Children are learning not to care. They are becoming desensitized to acts of violence and to the effects of those acts. These are the parents, teachers, doctors, and law enforcement officers of our future. As each generation becomes more desensitized, violence will continue to increase. Parents are repsonsible for teaching their children what kind of behavior is acceptable, but it will not be possible to teach nonviolence if parents of the future cannot recognize violence itself. The amount of caring in our society will continue to decrease in inverse proportion to the amount of violent behavior we accept as normal. If it is normal to be violent, then it cannot be normal to be nonwiolent. The final effect of watching violence is an increase in the desire to watch more violence and to act out more violently. The more children see, the more they want, and the cycle will just continue to worsen. We have seen violence in this country increase at an alarming rate over the last several decades. Twenty years ago, a drive-by shooting was an unheard of and shocking incident. Now the only time we even pay attention is when an innocent bystander gets caught in the crossfire. I believe that this is directly connected to the fact that by the time an American child reaches the age of 16, he or she will have witnessed 200,000 acts of violence on television, including 33,000 murders. (Juvenile Crime and TV) Apparently we accept what we see over and over again as normal behavior. We are teaching our children that violence is acceptable by inviting it into our homes everyday. They, in turn, are becoming more violent from the playgrounds all the way to the prisons. Works Cited Booth, Vicki, Mullins, Heather, Scott, Erika, and Woolston, Jonathon.
"Juvenile Crime and
"Facts About Media Violence." Online.
"Some Things You Should Know About Media Violence and Media Literacy."
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