Blog #8

I am having trouble deciding which essay to revise. I believe that the Grand canyon essay has more detail and intrigue. I am also personally fond of my second essay and I think it has more meaning. There is so much more I can do with the grand canyon essay. During my conference Dr. Chandler and I spoke about all of the ways I can make it more appealing and how to narrow my focus. I am having trouble figuring out how I would revise this essay because I like the flow of it. I think I would have more of a challenge with revising the grand canyon essay. That might be my best choice. 

Blog #7

You Can't Put a Price on Some Things

     I pulled my scarf up to cover my mouth and tied my coat tighter. The air was frigid as we walked along the street. Ice had formed on the gutter pipes that hung from the building. We walked up to an alley and I hesitated. “Its this way I promise,” my brother explained. I felt that the lack of lighting didn’t help the situation but I followed my brother into the alley. It was dark and I could hear my footsteps echo off of the two buildings on either side of us. We reached a red wooden door and he opened it. Light burst through the doorframe and I was greeted by a young man behind a counter. He asked what he could do for me. I looked around at the art on the walls and the catalogs on the countertop. I looked up at him and said “I am here for a tattoo.”

     This wasn’t my first, but it would be the most meaningful one to date. My brother had told me about this place. He had already gotten two tattoos from here and loved their work. I trusted him as I followed the young man into the well-lit room. We talked about the script I wanted and the area that would be inked and he told me to lay down on the table. I used my folded coat as a pillow and began to talk to my brother about the art that covered the walls. The artist came back in and handed me a piece of paper. I looked at the beautiful script that looped and curled with each letter. The attention to detail on the one capitalized letter and the perfect spacing of all of the words. He asked me to check the spelling but I had stared at this quote long enough to know that he wrote it out perfectly. I told him that I loved it and he explained that it was his personal handwriting. Just knowing that this wasn’t a printed font from Microsoft word made it all that more special.

     He followed the procedure of cleaning the area and putting on gloves. He then removed a small plastic package with a blue backing. As he ripped it open I saw the lone needle that would cut into my flesh. The ink was pulled out of a drawer and he was now ready to begin. I lay my head back and stared up at the ceiling. My brother took my hand because he knew my low tolerance to pain. As the needle touched my skin and I heard the gun turn on I braced myself for the slow burning that would crawl on my skin. The sensation was overwhelming and I cringed from the pain. I measure my breathing by the low buzzing of the gun. Trying to keep my breaths slow and steady while my heart was racing was not so easy. My brother laughed because he knew exactly how it felt. I relaxed my face and closed my eyes. Although the pain was unbearable I knew it would all be worth it.

     The artist took a break between each word. I believed that I needed the break more than he did. I think it was a silent compromise between us. He looked down at the body part that he was tattooing and squinted. He grabbed a tissue and as he wiped the blood from my foot he asked the question I knew he had been holding back behind his lips since he began. “Where did you get that scar?” I looked over at my brother and he nodded his approval. I turned back to the artist and said, “I was born with club foot. It’s a birth defect that I had to have surgery to correct. The scar is from my surgery.” He told me that it was my battle wound and that I should be proud of it. I nodded my agreement and he started on the second word. I went back to cringing and squeezing my brothers hand.

     I grew up a little differently than most children. I was born with a birth defect that affects 1 in every one thousand children. I was born with Club Foot. This is a disease that affects the way the bones are arranged in the foot. My dad noticed right away when I was born that my one foot didn’t look like the other. I was taken away and an hour later when I was brought back to my parents I had a small cast on my foot. This began my treatment. I later learned that I went through is called the Ponseti method. This is classified as having the ligaments, joint capsules, and tendons stretched under gentle manipulations. A plaster cast is applied after each manipulation to retain the degree of correction and soften the ligaments. The displaced bones are thus gradually brought into the correct alignment with their joint surfaces progressively remodeled yet maintaining congruency.

     This was done over the course of a year. Every two weeks my mother brought me to the doctor. They sawed off my cast, stretched my foot, and placed on a new cast. Once I was a year old they realized that the Ponseti method wasn’t working. I went through a 5-hour bone reconstructive surgery to correct the alignment of my foot and ankle. Another cast was placed on my foot for the recovery process. Once I was healed I could then learn how to walk. My father tells a funny story to people when I talk about it. He explains that he was never worried where I was in the house once I started to crawl. He says that because of the hardwood floors my cast would hit the floor and make a banging noise. Like a dog’s collar I always announced my presence.

     As I grew up I had yearly doctors appointments to track the progress of my foot. When I was 12 it was announced that both of my feet were probably done growing. I was going to be left with a size 6 and a size 4. An adult size and a child’s size, this I had to live with. At this time I was in Middle school. 7^th grade is hard enough on a preteen girl, my situation only made it worse. I never wore open toed shoes, at sleepovers I always kept on my socks, and I had certain restrictions when it came to sports. The large scar on my foot always reminded me that I was different and I felt ashamed. Most of my friends never seemed to notice and I made sure that if they did I would defend myself from any ridicule.

     After the second word was complete the artist took a long look at my foot. “The size, is that from the surgery too?” I then explained that my feet were two different sizes. I had a normal size 6 foot and the one he was working on was a size 4. I was used to being looked at with disgust on someone’s face. I was used to feeling like a science experiment and being asked multiple questions. I was also used to feeling different and feeling bad for being different. But his reaction was something I had never seen before. His eyes widened and he smiled. He actually seemed amused by my freakish defect. He looked me straight in the eye and said, “My sister has the same problem.”

     It was my turn to be shocked. I asked him how. “Her one foot just stopped growing at a certain age. She wasn’t born the way you were but she has two different sizes too, a size and a half difference. She finds it very hard to buy shoes.” At this I laughed because I knew that struggle all too well. He went back to his work to finish the last word. I closed my eyes but this time I smiled because I had never met or heard of anyone else like me. He finished up his work and cleaned me up. He looked down at the tattoo and asked if he could take a picture of it. I said yes. He pulled out his phone and snapped a picture. He told me that he was going to send it to his sister. “Take a look,” he said and I glanced down at my now throbbing foot. In perfect script just like on the piece of paper it said “Imperfection is beauty.” My eyes welled up, but stubborn I held back the tears. I held out my hand for him to shake and I sincerely thanked him. We walked over to the counter and he told me that I had made his night. This tattoo meant something to him as well. He gave me a twenty dollar discount. I was already going to tip him twenty dollars so I doubled it. I handed him one hundred dollars and he smiled. I turned towards my brother and we headed to the door

     I bundled up to fight the cold and my brother and I walked back out into the December night. My foot throbbed from the rubbing that was caused by my boot, but I didn’t care. I looked at my brother and a small smile grew on his face. We both knew that the artist gave me a beautiful tattoo that day but he also gave me a gift that I couldn’t put a price on.

Blog #6

Long essay #2 Brainstorm


I have already written my second long essay. I actually wrote two. I deleted the first essay because after I thought about it I realized that maybe it wasn't a story worth telling. Although important to me it might not have been right to tell it. It ruins the reputation of my ex boyfriend. I wrote it because I felt that it would help me to get over my 6 year relationship, that by the end was completely ruined. It did help to get the story out on paper but it wasn't right to post it.

After writing that essay I realized I needed to find a new topic. Getting that story out in writing made me realize that there is a story that has been fighting to get out for 24 years. The story of my birth defect. I was born with Club Foot.  I have been living with this issue my whole life, it is a part of me. I grew up with a large scar on my ankle. I had restrictions from certain activities and minor pain. Living with this always made me aware that although I am luckier than most people who have this defect that I needed to live my life with caution. I knew that I needed to write this story because it is something I have always needed to come to terms with. I believe that it is the perfect story for me to write at this time because I am dealing with a struggle at this very moment.

I have lied to everyone about my current injury. Not out of malice but for the simple fact that it is easier to explain and less embarrassing. My current injury is due to my weak ankle. The bone reconstructive surgery that I had at a year old has allowed me to walk and function properly. Unfortunately due to the lack of Technology in 1991, my surgery was not as affective as they are today. My bones are still weak and my foot is not properly supported. I started noticing pain in the spring of 2013. It wasn't everyday and it wasn't constant. I just believed this was a side effect of my weak ankle. I pushed the pain away and suffered through it because I didn't want to deal with it. Soon I started working in New York city and during my commute the pain would be unbearable. Finally one day in August I was at my second job when I went to pick up a tray of drinks my ankle gave out. I fell to my knee while soda and water drenched me. Thats when I realized that this pain was too much to handle. I went to the doctor the following week. He took X-rays, we made an appointment to get an MRI, and this Monday I got my results. My tendons and nerves are fine, which was great to hear. But as my doctor expected he believes I need surgery. He is working on finding me a bone surgeon that I can meet with and see what can be done. I am to wear the boot and see him every two weeks until we can figure out a game plan. To say that I'm terrified is an understatement. But I know that this is something I need. If I am in pain now what will it be like when I am 40? 50? 60? I need to get this problem fixed right away.

So I got away from what the post is really supposed to be about and that is brain storming. But I guess that is a description of my brain storming. This is something that is going on right now in my life and it is a important component of who I am as a person. So that is why I chose to write my essay on this subject and tonight in class I am going to revise and edit my piece. My focus is to be informational and descriptive because most people have never heard of my situation. But I also want to focus on the part that I am a new person because of swimming. I picked the only sport that doesn't require shoes and although that sounds crazy I found it liberating. I think this is an important experience for me to share.

Blog #5



After my conference with Dr. Chandler I have a better sense of where I want to go with my essays. My first story can be seen as a nice tale about a journey but I want it to be more than that. I made a few edits on my first piece and I am going to work on rewriting it. These are the few things I want to work on:

-Make my focus more obvious.

-Change the beginning and start with a new scene. Make the reader guess what is going on.

-Take my meaning of what the piece is trying to show and give the story a deeper and more obvious meaning.

-Add more to the characters and paint a more vivid picture of myself in the story.

-Lastly condense the journey and elaborate more on the actual time spent at the grand canyon.


I think my story idea is strong, but I just need to narrow my focus and create a more vivid meaning to my piece.

I am also ahead of the game and I have already written my second essay. I am really not crazy about it but I will rewrite it again and see how I feel about it.


*Update:

I decided that the second essay I wrote wasn't a road I wanted to travel down. I wrote a different piece and it is a rough draft. Here is the second long essay rough draft.



Nemo Has Been Found

      I twirl my hair into a tight bun and tie it with a thick brown hair tie. I open my bag and pull out my black cap. As I stretch the rubber over my hair it fits snug on my head. I strap my goggles on and they rest on my forehead. The floor is wet as I walk across it. The drains don’t seem to be working today. The room is loud with cheering and yelling. I pull my goggles over my eyes and I stand in front of the block, waiting for the signal. “Step up,” the announcer shouts. I step up onto the gritty cold block. The sand paper feel on the bottom of my feet prevents me from slipping off. “Swimmers take your marks,” I lean down to grab the front of the block with both hands. A grip that makes my hands red and raw. I lean forward into my hands and straighten my legs as much as I can. My lucky fin also known as my right foot is always in front and my weight is balanced on my left foot, which is in back. I look over to the announcer and see him raise the gun in the air. I take a deep breath as the gun goes off. The sound echoes off of the walls and fills the air. I spring forward and my arms reach out over my head. For a brief moment I am horizontal and hovering over the icy blue water. Then I make a splash.

      I grew up a little differently than most children. I was born with a birth defect that affects 1 in every one thousand children. I was born with Club Foot. This is a disease that affects the bones in the foot. My dad noticed right away when I was born that my one foot didn’t look like the other. I was taken away and an hour later when I was brought back to my parents I had a small cast on my foot. This began my treatment. I later learned that I went through is called the Ponseti method. This is classified as having the ligaments, joint capsules, and tendons stretched under gentle manipulations. A plaster cast is applied after each manipulation to retain the degree of correction and soften the ligaments. The displaced bones are thus gradually brought into the correct alignment with their joint surfaces progressively remodeled yet maintaining congruency.

      This was done over the course of a year. Every two weeks my mother brought me to the doctor. They sawed off my cast, stretched my foot, and placed on a new cast. Once I was a year old they realized that the Ponseti method wasn’t working. I went through a 5-hour bone reconstructive surgery to correct the alignment of my foot and ankle. Another cast was placed on my foot for the recovery process. Once I was healed I could then learn how to walk. My father tells a funny story to people when I talk about it. He explains that he was never worried where I was in the house once I started to crawl. He says that because of the hardwood floors my cast would hit the floor and make a banging noise. Like a dog’s collar I always announced my presence.

      As I grew up I had yearly doctors appointments to track the progress of my foot. When I was 12 it was announced that both of my feet were probably done growing. I was going to be left with a size 6 and a size 4. An adult size and a child’s size, this I had to live with. At this time I was in Middle school. 7^th grade is hard enough on a preteen girl, my situation only made it worse. I never wore open toed shoes, at sleepovers I always kept on my socks, and I had certain restrictions when it came to sports. The large scar on my foot always reminded me that I was different and I felt ashamed. Most of my friends never seemed to notice and I made sure that if they did I would defend myself from any ridicule.

      I started swimming sophomore year of high school. I played softball freshman year and I realized that there was way too much drama with a team made up of 15 girls. There was more competition on our team then there was on the field. It wasn’t fun anymore, I needed a new sport. My friend told me to try swimming. I had never competitively swam before but I did grow up with a pool in my backyard. I had always felt comfortable in the water. I went to the try-outs.

      I pulled on my one-piece suit in the locker room and I grabbed my towel. I had kept my Ugg boots on and walked up to the pool deck. I stepped into the steamy heat of the heated pool area and sat with the other swimmers. The coach explained the try-outs and gave us all lane numbers. I grabbed my swim cap and my goggles and stood up from the bleachers. It was time to remove my shoes. I pulled off my boots one by one and walked to the edge of the pool. Lane 4 was my assigned lane. I dipped my smaller foot in the water to check the temperature and that’s when the senior girl saw it. “Wow, you have baby feet. What size are you.” My face felt hot, sweat began to form on my forehead and it felt like she was staring at me for minutes. I took a deep breath and exclaimed, “a size 6 and a size 4.” She stared at me along with the other swimmers in our lane. Their mouths wide open in astonishment. The coach walked over, put his arm around me and said “looks like we got a Nemo on our hands.” I smiled, he had saved me. I decided right then and there that I was going to swim my hardest to prove to him that Nemo wouldn’t let him down.

      The coach loved me and put me on the team. From then on practices were made up of me perfecting my stroke with my older teammates and having them teach me the other strokes. I had no idea that competitive swimming consisted of four different strokes. Each stroke has its set of standards and rules. How to flip turn and what pace you need to keep up with others. I found out soon enough that I was a distance swimmer. By the end of the season, I had mastered every stroke. My coach said I would become very valuable the next year.

      My nickname stuck. Nemo became my name on the meet sheet, the roll call on the away bus, and how my coach greeted me at school. Finding Nemo is a Disney animated movie about a clown fish who was born with one fin that is smaller than the other. Because of this his isn’t a strong swimmer. By the end of the movie he overcomes his weakness and he is a better swimmer. He calls his defect his lucky fin.

      There is something about swimming that I can’t quite explain. The rush of the water as my body glides through it. The moment my arm slices the surface and as my legs kick the water away I am free. My stress melts off of my body and it is only the water and I. Swimming releases all of my stress. It is one of the hardest forms of exercise to master but to me it has become like a second language. Swimming is a warm blanket I cuddle up with at the end of a long day. Swimming has saved me. Before swimming I second-guessed everything I did. Which sport could I play without causing an injury to my ankle? How could I dress for gym without anyone noticing that my right calf has no muscle tissue? Can I wear flats to my friends sweet sixteen and have no one notice? Will a boy ever ask a girl who can’t wear heels to prom? All of these anxieties were washed away once I hit the water. Everyone has an equal chance in the water, the size of your feet don’t matter when you are swimming. I finally found a place where I belong. 

      Once I hit the water I feel a rush, a rush of energy and excitement. My muscles scream to be challenged. I use my legs and arms to propel me forward. It is the most freeing feeling I have ever felt. I reach the end of the pool and in one swift movement I flip and kick my feet off of the wall. My arms work in sync with my legs to get me back to the other side. Reaching and kicking at the same time, I create a rhythm that my body has memorized.

      I reach my starting point and I surface. I gasp for breath; the sweet taste of air fills my lungs. Stroke after stroke and kick after kick I reach the end of my lap. This time I hold on to the wall and place my feet flat against it. I use the wall for leverage and I release my hands and propel my body behind me. I float on my back and use my arms to carry me across the pool.

      I push off of the wall again. This time I fall into the pace of a slow breast stroke. My legs create a fluid movement to push me across the pool. A sense of calm fills me and I think about the stress as it leaves my body. Everything that happened that day leaves my body with every breath. I focus on my strokes and my breathing. I count my breaths, in and out. I count my strokes and my body moves up and down. The thing about swimming is if you focus hard enough there is no room for any other thoughts in your mind.

      Faster and faster I hit my arms into the water. I push through the water and feel the cool water graze my entire body. The 200 Individual Medley is my most important event and always by the last 2 laps I run out of steam and have to pull my body to the end. The exhaustion is settling in. I am breathing harder and my strokes are slowing. As I flip turn in to the last lap I can hear them. I’m swimming back to the starting block when I hear the chant. “Nemo, Nemo!” My teammates are bent down at the edge of the pool, screaming and smacking the water. Their energy is intoxicating. I get one last good breath and I power through the last 25 meters. I kick so hard it feels as if my heart will burst inside my chest. I am determined to finish strong, like coach always says. I slam my hand against the edge of the pool and I pull myself to the surface. I’m breathing hard but the rush of the race washes over me. I look up at my teammates and I smile. They are all cheering. With our team it isn’t so much about winning but about finishing strong.