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spamtams.
how i mix them 26 letters online Hi, I'm spamtams. This is my blog for my English Enriched class! I hope you like whatever (hopefully) lovely banter I post here. ENJOY. |
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Thursday, September 30, 2010,10:05 PM
A First Impressions Paragraph about Elizabeth Bennet's Impressions
In Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice, Elizabeth Bennet faces the challenge of overcoming her own struggles: in order to find romantic happiness. Coping with a distant father, hopeless mother and too many snobby female antagonists, Elizabeth's immediate prejudice against Mr. Darcy's tough pride of self sets an interesting stage for the two main characters. Elizabeth's wit, loveliness and apt to speak are her predominant traits. Her flaw is being quick to judge others, initiating the plot in the novel. The protagonist's flaw allows her to be real, and furthermore, relatable to the audience. Having judged Mr. Darcy too soon, crediting his "proud, unpleasantness" to his status, Elizabeth rejects his marriage proposals (252). This quick judgment of the wealthy, Fitzwilliam Darcy angers Mr. Darcy and only causes him to make certain negative impressions of Elizabeth in return. As Elizabeth develops as a character, I believe she will get past her arrogance and try to find the good in the truly virtuous Mr. Darcy. Eventually realizing her wrong doings, Elizabeth will slowly begin to see that her and Mr. Darcy are well matched in their intelligence, patience and even in their flaw of harsh judgment. 
Sunday, September 19, 2010,7:07 PM
My Take on his Twenty Percent
My father strained his back today, so I encouraged him to indulge in relaxation while I covered his Sunday chores. I washed the dishes, sorted the laundry and even answered the phone without being nagged. If you know me personally, you would have realized by now how uncharacteristic this was of me. But I love my father and I was not going to sit and wait around for a miracle cleaning man by the name of Mr. Clean to appear out of nowhere. After pondering how unusually productive my day was, I began to imagine how strange life would be without my father. I do not mean to bring up such a dismal scenario, but the thought certainly brought me back to a challenging part of my life I had somewhat brought upon myself. A simple flashback sufficed. Let us look back on the summer of 2009, when my extended family from Los Angeles was visiting Richmond. I was lazily reclining in the backseat of our Odyssey van, tired from a long day of hiking. Looking outside, the sky was pitch black and the slight smog of the metropolitan city cast a grey shadow over the landscape. To my left and right were my cousins Alana and Bryant, soundly asleep. Murmurs circled my head as I began to drift into a deep slumber. My parents and my aunt and uncle were quietly discussing something uninteresting, perhaps politics I sleepily presumed, when I heard the word cancer out of nowhere. Perhaps I was wrong. Well, either I had guessed incorrectly or a political figure was sick. Figuring I was more likely in the wrong, I scooted up in the car seat and tried to listen to the conversation. “Well, when I was going through all of the chemotherapy...” someone began. “What chemo?” I interjected, “Who went through chemo, Baba?” My father turned around and looked surprised to see me stare back at him. "Oh, Gwun Gwun, you're still awake? I thought all of you had already fallen asleep." Slightly drowsy, but as determined as ever, I told my father not to change the subject and pressed him to tell me who went through chemotherapy. My father simply replied "Your uncle, obviously". My father’s brother had recently passed away and it was common family knowledge that his poor eating habits and consequential heart problems were the main causes. But my father spoke in such a defensive tone that I accept the fact at face value. No matter, I decided to momentarily back off as sleep took over me... This memory did not return to me until later that year, in October. My father and my older sister, Sylvia, were arguing. I cannot recall the reason why they were yelling, but I do remember my sister screaming, "AT LEAST MOM HAS A JOB, you don't do shit around here!” I can also recall the long, awkward pause following my sister's heated comment. I had been trying to ignore the shouts from the living room, but Jane Austen's lovely banter could only distract me so much. My father's early unemployment at the tender age 42 did make me wonder why I had never stopped to understand the absurdity. Yes, my mother had always been the working gear of my home. Then why, while my mother was selling houses and making business with my friends' parents, was my father playing rounds of golf or table tennis daily? My mother always had time to rest, but most weekdays, she was up and about showing property. After the squabble died down, I approached my dad, who was reading Putting Out of Your Mind at the kitchen table. “Why don’t you have a job, Dad?” Having realized this was the wrong approach to getting an answer out of my mute father, I tried again. “I mean, I guess we don’t need another person to work, and I love having you around all the time, but... all my friends’ dads work, why don’t you?” My father simply glanced at me, as if signalling me to go on. I always had a lot to say. “I don’t remember when you ever worked; it’s always been golf, skiing and Sudoku, hasn’t it?” “And blaring the T.V. during the news, too”, I thought to myself. I expectantly looked up at my father, but all I got in return was an emotionless face. My dad wore the perfect face. What I’m referring to is The Placid Face, of course. The look your parents wear to parent-teacher conferences, the expression your classmates embody when they don’t give two hoots about their social studies lesson. That is the very visage my father gave me after my long spiel. “... Okay, what is it? What did I do wrong?” I got nothing out of him. “Is it some bloody conspiracy, or a long lost, never to be found family secret or something Baba? What is it? Tell me!” I had met the brim and I was about to boil all over this conversation. My father’s lack of a reaction pressed me to greater magnitudes of fury and aggravation. it seemed as if my father was to face not one, but two heated discussions in one night. “Can you at least say something!?” I implored for my father to answer me. Make a noise, even. A grunt at this point would have left me satisfied. “You’re not ready yet”, my father dictated. “...Not ready yet? What does that even mean?” I was truly confused by the five syllables my father had momentarily tossed into the air. “Fine, okay, so you won’t let me in on this sacred secret of yours, but can you at least tell me eventually?” My father was always one for making “deals”. This is how every problem in our household was solved between me and my father. “...Okay fine. What exactly do you propose?” my father unenthusiastically agreed. “Alright, how about Friday?” I offered. “Too soon”, my father shot me down. “January ... January 16th, your birthday.” My father finally nodded in agreement, taking the bait. Looking back, I believe he only agreed because January seemed so far off, when in reality, it was only three months away. Skipping past all the unimportant, boring details that came before my father birthday, the day had almost come. On January 15th, 11:59 PM, I was sitting in my room fighting Gym Leader Roark on my Pokémon-embezzled DS when a knock sounded at my door. I disinterestedly replied, “Come in”, wondering what anyone would want from me this late at night. My father stepped inside, inspecting the piles of clothing scattered across the grey carpet of my bedroom floor. “What do you need?” I nonchalantly questioned my dad. “Did you forget already?” my father replied in question. I looked up from my DS and glanced at my father with curious eyes. “It’s almost my birthday. Remember?” I cocked my head to one side, “What does that mean? I already gave you your present. Do you want me to sing or something?” By this time, the clock had already passed 12:00 AM. “Remember the promise I made, about telling you something you were not ready for?” my father gently reminded me. I abruptly saved and closed my game, fumbling with my fingers. Crossing my legs on my bedspread, I motioned for my father to continue. Speaking slowly and deliberately, my father began. “I stopped working around the time you were born. When you were one year old, we went to Hong Kong to show you off to all of your relatives. During that time, I wasn’t feeling my best. My mouth was constantly dry and I would have problems with my sinuses. At first, I thought it was a simple cold but the irritation persisted. In Canada, I went to lots of doctors but all of them waved me off, saying I was simply going through a tough cold and that I would feel better soon. But I didn’t. So when we went to Hong Kong, I told Yee Bac Bac—you remember Yee Bac Bac, don’t you? Your uncle, the one who’s a doctor?” I nodded in silence. “Yes, well I talked to him about my symptoms and he felt that I should go see one of his specialist-friends. So I did. And after running some tests, it turned out that all the doctors in Canada who rejected me were wrong. I wasn’t ‘going through a tough cold’, but I was very sick. I had mouth cancer.” My father broke off to look at me full on. I wore my very own Placid Face because I didn’t know how to feel at that moment. My father continued. “It was funny in a strange way. Never smoked a single cigarette in my life, but I still managed to get mouth cancer. Do you know much about cancer? There are four stages. I was at the third stage. By that point, the survival rate is very low, like twenty percent or something like that. Anyway, I had to have chemotherapy and that’s why I got the M at the back of my head. You know, where your hair falls out and leaves an M shape? Yan Yan always knew about the cancer thing. She was old enough to remember my temporary balding. The first time, anyway,” my father joked. “So your sister always knew, but Mama and I agreed not to tell you. it would be too much. I’m telling you now because I feel like you are ready to know, that you are mature enough to understand without being angry at me for keeping something as important as this from you. Wouldn’t you agree?” Still shocked, my mouth dried and I remained mute for once. I nodded once. “I stopped working because I was tired all the time. I couldn’t manage Lacoco anymore so that’s why I sold it off. What’s great is that I still get free clothes all the time even though I don’t even own the place!” My father laughed, while I remained still. “So Gwun Gwun, do you understand me now? I’m so glad that I don’t have to hide anything from you anymore. You know how I am. I hate dishonesty.” I opened my mouth, but no proper phrases would form. I made a sort of nonsensical noise and then closed my mouth shut. Undeterred, I tried to say something coherent. “Oh...oh...okay.” I stumbled but I finally got it out of my mouth. “I’ll talk to you later Gwun Gwun, it’s getting late.” As my father closed the French door behind him, I muttered a barely audible “goodbye”. After that incident, I find myself viewing life in a completely different matter. For a short period of time afterwards, I often felt impatient and uneasy; my perception of time had been shrouded. I went straight to my laptop after the conversation with my father and began researching cancer, mouth cancer specifically. I looked at the survival rates, the symptoms and the facts made me angry, of all emotions! “Twenty percent” contained no personal meaning. Its technical state bothered me to no end, because it was just a number. No one could really comprehend the severity of the cancer with simple digits. No one would understand the story behind those eighty percent victims who lost their battle. After the wave of frustration subdued, I felt grateful. Thankful that my father was still alive and healthy, that the cancer had not returned. I know of others who have not been as lucky as I have been and I felt guilty for feeling my happiness, but I simply couldn’t help it. Although I had not endured such a loss, I could understand and sympathize, no, empathize with those who were not as lucky as I. Through this experience, I feel that I have become more knowledgeable about the world, about life. Now, the colours of life appear dingier to me, not as vibrant and colourful as they once seemed. I do not believe I am a sadder person, rather, more realistic in my views. My thoughts are more serious and pragmatic than they used to be, which I do not find to be a downfall on my part. What I endured was mentally and emotionally challenging as all the conflicts I faced were internal. But the most wonderful thing happened at the end of my personal battle. My core value in life, family, is stronger than ever.
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