lolwhatidk

I think that the last three paragraphs were bad because they couldn't really transition well, but I'm not sure. I really like the first 4 paragraphs, but I feel like the middle could use some more work. I feel as if I was too descriptive which made my essay very wordy. I also feel like I put a lot of commas.

Did my essay show emotion? Do you feel like you could see what was happening as if you were right next to me?


 * The middle section when you dove into talking about your grandmother's funeral lacked in the detail and smooth writing that the first few paragraphs had. I don't think you were overly descriptive. The descriptions you did include informed a vivid visual picture in my mind. The way the introduction and conclusion are connected brings a really good closing to your essay. The essay showed emotion through the choice of vocabulary but possibly adding more emotion would be beneficial. I didn't notice an abundance of commas where there shouldn't have been.**

//__ The Evolution of a Twinkie __//
 * I feel like in the middle where you are concerned about you could describe a little more in depth the whole spiritual connection between the ceremony, vietnamese heritage, and your grandmother funeral. Other than that i really like how you opened and closed your essay. Possibly talk more about the hospital and why you told her you ate alot of rice, why is that important to her or the reader? was it the truth?**

I feel my first two fingers slowly beginning to tense up. I have to concentrate, but the constant chattering of adults and laughing kids are getting to me. My fingers soon become jumbled – the movement awkward. The sticks look like they can pinch, but the grip is absent. Nonetheless, I aim for my target.

Slowly, I finally lift my target. “Victory!” I think to myself, but my success is brief. I see the piece rice fall down, like a scene from a stop-action movie. Defeated, my face blushes a tomato red. I look around the table to discover that everyone was watching me the whole time. Soon, my cousins, siblings, even my parents start to laugh at me. “Haha, he can’t even use chopsticks, what a fail Asian! You’re like a Twinkie! Yellow on the outside, but white on the inside!” my brother sneers. “Not all Asians are yellow skinned,” I reminded him, but my counter attack was futile. Although I couldn’t help but think of how delicious the yellow spongy cream-filled delight was, I was ultimately humiliated. Not only was I just verbally attacked by my very own flesh and blood brother, I became known as the family Twinkie.

What more could they expect though? I live in the United States of America, a country where forks and spoons over-ride the use of chopsticks, which is the utensil of choice in our family. It was only natural to become more American like. Growing up, I found myself speaking English a lot more at home, as well as and eating Hamburgers and other edibles that don’t require the use of my long time rival: chopsticks. It’s not that I don’t like my Vietnamese heritage; it’s just that I found it easier to reside in one culture, and not two. I give a great deal of respect to my heritage, but it’s not like I speak Vietnamese to my English speaking teachers. It’s just more efficient to be American like.

April 14, 2009: A short phone call for my mom leaves my entire family rushing to the hospital. Two uncles, one aunt, five cousins, my brother, Mom and Dad were all packed inside a hospital room with my cancer-struck grandmother. The nurse quickly reminded us that only one person should be in the room with my grandmother at a time. We all left, and one by one all of us had our chance to speak with her. My time with her was short. My rough hands were embedded with her soft wrinkly ones. We both stared at each other, tears beginning to form in my eyes. I expected the same of hers, but all she did was smile, and asked if I ate a lot of rice today. Remembering the chopstick incident; as well as the fact that my grandmother could barely communicate in English, I decided that from that point on, I needed to rebuild my Asian heritage. “Yes, I ate a lot.” I plainly replied, possibly due to the fact that my Vietnamese lingo was novice. A few more minutes passed, and we both exchanged our goodbyes as I left the room. The morning after, she passed away. In Vietnamese Buddhist customs, we have a day-long ceremony for the deceased. To us, we believe that death is not the end of someone’s life, but rather the beginning. A few weeks after my grandmother’s death, we would have a ceremony, and the whole point of this ceremony was to wish the departed good luck in their next life.

In the early hours of the day, my family members and I arrived at a funeral home to cremate my grandmother. We all placed something special to be burned with my grandmother’s body, so a part of us will always be a part of her. As we waited for her body to be cremated, everyone but my mother left for a three hour break.

In the afternoon when the sun was at its brightest, our family members left to arrive at a Buddhist temple in Washington D.C. The last time I was at a Buddhist temple was when I was 6 years old, and it was during Vietnam’s mother’s day. Mother’s day in Vietnam is considered to be highly festive. This time, I was 14 years old, and although my body was still child like, my mind was more mature. It seems that my mental transformation wasn’t the only thing that changed: the temple itself also changed. The temple was being prepared for our grandmother’s ceremony. Inside the temple, bright red rugs were placed in the front for immediate family members and monks, while steel silver chairs in the back were for the other people attending the ceremony.

 When everyone was seated, the room quickly became silent, and the prayers soon began. Drums began to beat harmoniously and ringing bells soon followed, which was also pursed by the head monk who was slowly walking down an aisle towards a big Buddhist statue. The dramatic entrance ended, the head monk sat down at the very front, and everyone opened their book of prayers. As soon as I opened the book of prayers, I quickly remembered that I couldn’t read in Vietnamese very well. I turned to my mother, with a worried look on my face looking for verbal assistance, but all I received was a faint smile. She looked at the book, and gave me a reassuring look. That look reminded me that I knew more Vietnamese than I thought I did. The Vietnamese language in terms of writing is very similar to the English language. With the help of my family, I succeeded in completing the prayers, and we finished our day of the ceremony.

Although it was heart-breaking, the death of my grandmother established in me a fresh admiration for my dual culture. I was originally confused at first about what to do for the ceremony, but I realized that it didn’t matter that I wasn’t sure of my actions. What really mattered was that I tried to do everything out of compassion because my grandmother will always be my beloved grandmother. I understood that I should be grateful for my Vietnamese heritage. Not everyone in America has a certain culture they hold on to, and I should be proud of that. I was a new person; even my cousins could see that. However, one thing is for certain: I will never master the usage of chopsticks.