Author Archives: nc102092

Final Cover Letter The Voice

COVER LETTER:

Dear Reader:

During this class I’ve learned quite a lot about myself as a writer. For instance, I never knew that I was so great with dialogue. I never saw it as something I was actually good at until I heard this in class, so that’s pretty awesome to know. But also, I’ve realized that I need to work a bit more on metaphors and similes to make my writing more vivid. I’ve noticed that I barely use figurative language for my essays, so I tend to be very literal in most of the time. This is why the metaphor and simile assignment was one of the most difficult ones for me, but as a result, I’ve been challenging myself to incorporate more symbolic language into my pieces.

Another thing that I’ve learned this semester is something that stuck with me from the beginning of class, which was when we had to read Zinsser. He said that writers should “strip every sentence to its cleanest components” and “simplify.” I’ve always fallen into the trap of being too wordy or trying to sound smart, so this advice definitely resonated with me throughout the semester.

Regarding my final essay, the revision for the third piece was pretty difficult, but it was definitely worthwhile. I really like that I completely changed the format into a semi-play because I originally had a lot of dialogue. The most difficult part was incorporating my brief reflections, but I think that I solved this problem by including a short response at the end of each scene. I changed my title to “The Voice” because I feel like it’s much a more accurate name for my story. It specifically refers to my mom. And I elaborate a bit more, but not too much, on the importance of my mother’s voice—especially in the salon that day.

Hope you enjoy, and thanks for reading!

Sincerely,

Nakeisha Campbell

THE VOICE

By Nakeisha Campbell

CAST

Nakeisha – 8-year-old customer

Ms. Campbell – Nakeisha’s mother

Hairdressers

Maxine (Max)

Jenny

Patty

Customers

Ms. White

Ms. Benson

Ms. Taylor

Latrice

Wanda

SETTING

Brooklyn, New York

TIME

Summer, 2000

 SCENE I:

It’s a hot summer day in August. Ms. Campbell sits peacefully in the waiting area of Dermalax System, also known as “The World’s Finest Hair Care System.” The salon bursts with laughter and loud chatter as the radio plays a Pointer Sisters hit, “He’s So Shy.” The air reeks of hair spray, grease and chemical relaxers, which smells like a mixture of spoiled eggs and dead animals. The talking customers sound like tone-deaf members of a choir, trying to out-sing one another. Ms. Campbell’s daughter, Nakeisha, is seated only a few feet away at one of the beauty stations. Her hair dresser, Max, stands behind her, and carefully glides a steaming hot comb along several strands of hair. Even in the noise, one could hear the strands sizzle like raw meat on a skillet.

Nakeisha sits motionless in her chair and eavesdrops on a nearby conversation between two of the loudest customers, Ms. Benson and Ms. White.

Ms. Benson: Oh, she got GOOD hair!

Ms. White: She sure do! I swear, mixed people have the nicest hair…

Ms. Benson: (animatedly) You’re tellin’ me!! Shoot, I’d take some mixed hair over these naps ANY day.

Ms. White: Ain’t that the truth.

Ms. Benson: …Like Pamela’s, I think she has really pretty hair!

Ms. White: (sucks her teeth) Girl that hair ain’t real. I can tell she got some horse-hair up in there somewhere.

Ms. Benson: (laughs) Well how can you tell?

Ms. White: Gurrrl, if you ever want to know how to spot a weave, all you gotta do is watch the way it blows in the wind. Fake hair barely moves at all.

Ms. Benson: (raises her eyebrow) Say what?!

Jenny: (chimes in) That’s actually true. I mean if you look close, the fake hair blows in a totally different direction.

Ms. White: That’s right. And you know what else? If the hair’s really curly, you can tell it’s fake by the way it falls.

Jenny: (Nods in agreement) So true! If it stays perfectly curly for weeks and doesn’t fall flat, then what does that tell you?

Ms. White: That it’s FAKE!

Ms. Benson: Unbe-weave-able! (The three women burst out in laughter)

I wasn’t aware of it at the time.

Wasn’t aware of the fact that these women were subconsciously feeding my insecurities. I hated everything about my hair. The way it shrunk to less than half its length after being washed. The way it hardened to brick if it wasn’t combed right away. The way it stuck out in awkward, heavy clumps around my head. These curly strands, they were more stubborn than I was.

And the glossy magazine covers of black women with stick-straight hair… And the chattering women who spent hundreds of dollars to conform to society’s idea of what was ‘beautiful.’  These things would eventually mold my own perception of beauty. Like many Black women, I adored straight hair textures and despised any that were remotely like my own. But I was being conditioned to love this ‘good’ hair. I was being taught to hate my hair’s natural state before I even realized it was happening. It irritates me now that I was forced to hear the very things that would soon hinder my self-confidence.

SCENE II:

Over an hour has passed and only a small portion of Nakeisha’s hair has been straightened. Max occasionally laughs and gossips with the customers, pausing briefly after every two minutes. She feels the pressure of Max’s greasy fingertips, which feel less like flesh and more like balls of metal. Nakeisha pouts in annoyance, having a strong desire to break Max’s fingers. However, she is suddenly drawn to yet another conversation. She listens carefully among the chaos.

Patty: Your hair is lookin’ so brittle, Miz Taylor. When last did you do your protein treatment?

Ms. Taylor: Girl, I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, my hair is perfectly fine. I don’t need no protein treatment… You’re just tryna get me to spend all of my money.

Patty: No no no, Miz Taylor, it’s just that I’ve noticed your hair is very dry and it’s breaking. It needs more protein and conditioner—

Ms. Taylor: I don’t want no protein or conditioner! All I came here for is a wash and set.

Patty: Alright, Miz Taylor… If that’s what you want.

Ms. Taylor: And make sure you add that olive oil spray.

Patty: Yes, Miz Taylor, I know. (Patty carefully combs the wet, lanky strands of Ms. Taylor’s hair. After each glide, small clumps of hair are pulled out with the comb).

Ms. Taylor: And go easy on the scalp oil. Last time you put so much I could’ve fried a chicken.

Patty: (sighs) Okay, Miz Taylor.

I have a newfound respect for hairdressers.

For the ones who toil in crowded, smelly salons with no windows. For the ones who are yelled at for mistaking ‘trims’ for ‘cuts’. For the ones who are forced to hear more than they’d like to from that one customer who talks too much. For the ones who almost snapped because a customer was being too picky and irrational. For the ones who put up with bad attitudes from bitter old customers.

For the ones who, despite it all, plaster smiles on their tense faces to maintain professionalism.

I swear you have the patience of saints.

And I salute you.

SCENE III:

Nakeisha’s hair is about halfway done. Once again, Max’s firm fingers press her head downward so that Max can redo the edges of her hair. Nakeisha’s head is bent so low that her chest begins to hurt, but she gazes at the floor in silence. Though her mouth is locked shut, her ears are wide open..

Latrice: Max! You’ll never believe who I saw in church last Sunday!

Max: Who?

Latrice: Nicole!

Wanda: You’re lyin’!

Max: (gasps) Are you sure you weren’t seeing things that day?

Latrice: Girls I swear, I’m telling y’all the truth. Chick had on a blue mini dress with heels she could barely walk in. And don’t even get me started on the ridiculous neckline on her dress. She might as well just let those things hang out in the open.

Max: Oh, dear Lord, that definitely sounds like her.

Wanda: Sounds like she went to church to find herself a new man…

Latrice: And she had the nerve to show off her jewelry in church! Wavin’ around her left hand from the pew so she can show off her new ring!

Wanda: Hmph, I bet you that bling as fake as her weave.

Latrice: And those skimpy legs looked like drum sticks.

Max: (laughs) I can imagine!

To this day, I have never entered a salon without hearing gossip.

There’s always that one intense discussion of a person that I’ve never heard of. And what I hear is never, ever good.

SCENE IV:

Ms. Campbell remains seated quietly in the waiting area. An old lady passes her by and greets her with a smile. Ms. Campbell smiles in return and then looks quickly back at her daughter. She notices that Nakeisha is squirming uncomfortably in her chair. After a few seconds, she makes eye-contact with her daughter and gives her a warm smile. Nakeisha returns it, relaxing just a little. But suddenly her head is turned away and Max shoves a wooden spoon in her hand.

Max: (to Nakeisha) Hold this over your ear. (Nakeisha quickly grips the spoon before it falls and holds it over her left ear.)

Max: Hey Patty, Fiona was here again last week.

Jenny: Oh yeah? What did she ask for this time?

Max: (Grabs the hot comb from a small burner and waves it in midair as she speaks.) She actually showed me this picture of Beyonce from Hype Hair, and she was like, ‘I wanna look like THAT!’, and I was like, ‘Uh, sweetie, I can’t make you look like that. I’m a hairdresser, not a cosmetic surgeon.’

Jenny: (bursts out laughing) What did she say?!

Max:  (Brings the steaming hot comb to Nakeisha’s head) Girrrl, she—

Nakeisha: Owwww!!!! (The choir of voices is silenced by her outcry. All eyes are on her within seconds, curious and judgmental, but Ms. Campbell looks at her daughter with concern.)

Max: (Chuckles to break the silence and addresses Nakeisha) Oh, now I know you don’t have the nerve to be tender-headed with all this thick hair!

(In just seconds, Ms. Campbell’s face hardens and her eyes go from warm concern to cold fury. She glares at Max.)

Ms. Campbell: Excuse me? (Her voice pierces the silence like a searing needle. Someone lets out a low whistle as she pretends to read a copy of Vibe. Nakeisha stares wide-eyed at her mother, then turns around in her seat to see Max’s face.)

Max: Uh… (Everyone in salon looks at Max, who stares back at Ms. Campbell in shock, at a loss for words.)

Ms. Campbell: (She sits upright, glares back at Max and speaks softly, but firmly.) That’s just rude. Don’t assume that my child can handle being burned because her hair is thick; it’s your responsibility to be careful with that hot comb. And if you burn her again, I’m going to the owner. (Her last sentence is spoken through gritted teeth as she tries to hold her composure. She breathes heavily, and her hands now grip her bag tightly.)

Max: (Flinches for a second and then swallows.) Oh, no that won’t be necessary… I’m so sorry, it won’t happen again.

(The continues for a few seconds until Ms. Taylor speaks.)

Ms. Taylor: You know, Ms. Campbell… If I were you, I’d demand a discount.

(Ms. Campbell takes a deep breath and ignores Ms. Taylor’s comment. Instead, she focuses on Max, who continues to work carefully on Nakeisha’s hair in silence. The customers and other stylists begin to talk amongst themselves again, but tentatively.)

Meanwhile, as Nakeisha sits still in her chair and stares at her angry mother, she can’t help but wonder what the ladies will say about Ms. Campbell and her when they’re gone.

Salons are not just safe havens for gossipers. They are also a form of therapy.

For a few moments, these women can forget their personal struggles, imperfections and insecurites, even if it means trash-talking other people in the process. They do this to feel better about themselves, because having someone to scrutinize or judge gives them that sense of power.

But my mother stood out among these women. She never took part in these conversations and she kept her words to a minimum. But there was so much power in her silence. In fact, it made her voice all the more powerful when she spoke up for me that day. It outweighed the voices of all the women put together, just like her encouragement outweighed the judgmental remarks and insults I’ve heard about natural hair.

The voice of my mother was more than enough.

Essay 3 Draft Cover Letter

Nakeisha Lyric Essay

COVER LETTER:

Dear Reader,

For this final project I wanted to focus on the significance of hair. But then as I wrote about my experience I saw that my piece was starting to focus more on the shared insecurities of women who see the salon as a safe haven for secrets and gossip. Looking back, I feel like in some weird way, gossiping with other women at these salons helped them cope with their own faults and insecurities. I think that it gave them comfort to know that there were other women out there who experienced and felt the same things that they did. So unlike my second essay, this piece deals more with the mindset of black women in general—or at least those that I’ve had to listen to in most beauty salons. I tap into what these women perceive as beautiful, and how this affects how they view themselves. Even more importantly, these ideas eventually impacted how I saw myself.

This draft for essay 3 feels like more like a draft of my draft, because so many topics are incorporated here and it was really difficult for me to narrow it down to one specific thing. I feel like I might have included too much, and I actually had to cut out a lot of what I originally wrote, but even in this draft I feel like there’s more that’s not needed. The writing process for this was absolute torture. I found myself writing out all the details of these conversations I had eavesdropped on at the time, and it was all turning out to be way too much. My greatest challenge was finding a way to filter through the unnecessary details without completely eliminating the voices and personalities of the customers and stylists. I also worry that I packed a little too much information into this piece.

For this essay, I took a stab at using more metaphors and similes, because my original goal was to make this piece sound poetic. My favorite is actually my first line, where I compare my original curls getting ironed to raw meat being cooked. But in general, I wouldn’t say that I’ve mastered this craft because I had a pretty hard time trying to create them. I want all of my symbols to be creative and original, but then once I create them, I have no clue if I’m still coming off as cliché.

So this leads me to the first question I’d like to ask you, the reader: Would you say that any part of my essay is cliché, and if so, which part(s)? Also, which part of my essay do you believe is the strongest, or what stood out to you the most?

Thanks for reading my work, and hope you enjoy!

Sincerely,

Nakeisha Campbell

ESSAY 3 DRAFT:

Pressed to Kill

The strands of my hair sizzled like raw meat on a skillet.

The heated comb of iron glided so slowly that I feared my hair would be burned. The steam from my ironed hair, blended with smells of hair sheen, chemical relaxers and hair grease, created the most unpleasant and suffocating odor. But despite the smell, I inhaled deeply.

I could barely breathe. Instead I choked, almost tasting the sour mix of hair spray and grease and relaxer.

My ears were ringing from all the noise. Too many conversations took place at once, and it was impossible to process most of what I heard.

The women were like tone-deaf members of a choir, each of them trying to out-sing one another. Occasionally, the background music of hair dryers would be switched on. Then their voices would burst forth with a new kind of energy as they tried to drown out the machinery.

You’d think that they were trying to call out to God Himself.

“Oh, she got GOOD hair!” yelled old lady from underneath one of the dryers.

“She sure do!” shrieked another woman with a head full of curlers. “I swear, mixed people have the nicest hair…”

“You’re tellin’ me!” said the old lady, looking wide-eyed. “Shoot, I’d take some mixed hair over these naps ANY day.”

The soft-cushioned leather seat started to feel like concrete against my thighs. I could feel the heat of the comb against the back of my neck and I gripped the arms of my chair as if my life depended on it. If I had “good hair,” then I wouldn’t have to endure this torture in the first place.

I caught a glimpse of my mother who sat only a few feet away from me, fanning herself with a wrinkled church bulletin she had pulled from her bag. Of all of the loud voices in the salon, she was the only one who remained completely silent. She occasionally exchanged smiles and “hellos” with the people who sat next to her, but the exchanges never went further than that.

She was gazing at my hair, but seemed to be lost in her own thoughts. As if sensing m eyes on her, she suddenly moved her eyes to my face and she blinked. She gave me a wink and grinned. And I returned a wide smile.

“Turn left.”

My stylist, Maxine, abruptly swung my chair away from my mother and turned my head sideways before I could process her voice or even figure out which way was left. My smile disappeared as quickly. Several strands of my hair were combed into my face while she straightened my hair from the back. But then I peeked through my jungle of hair, careful not to move my head while my stylist fried through a new batch of hair. Sitting across from me was an old woman who looked old enough to be my grandmother. Her stylist, who looked about thirty years old, had a pained expression on her face.

“Your hair is lookin’ so brittle, Miz Taylor. When last did you do your protein treatment?”

“Girl, I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, my hair is perfectly fine. I don’t need no protein treatment… You’re just tryna get me to spend all of my money.”

“No no no, Miz Taylor, it’s just that I’ve noticed your hair is very dry and it’s breaking. It needs more protein and conditioner—“

“I don’t want no protein or conditioner! All I came here for is a wash and set.”

“Alright, Miz Taylor… If that’s what you want.”

‘Mizz Taylor’ looked a lot like a grown child, with her knitted brows and huge pout. I stared at the lanky wet strands of gray hair that hung down to her shoulders. Saw the way her stylist carefully combed through the fine strands with trembling hands. But despite how careful she was, after each glide, small clumps of hair were pulled out with the comb.

“Bend your head.”

Before I could react, I felt her hands grasp my head and tilt in downward, as if controlling a machine. When she let go, I froze, feeling both annoyed at her impatience and afraid that the slightest budge would cause me to get burned. My head was bent so low that my chest began to hurt. I gazed at the tile floor

“Hey Max, you’ll never believe who I saw in church last Sunday!” one voice rang.

“Who?” my stylist answered.

“Nicole!” the woman yelled.

“You’re lyin’!” Another voice chimed in.

“Are you sure you weren’t seeing things that day?” my stylist asked. I felt her pause, her open hand rested on the top of my head as she spoke to her customer.

“Girls I swear, I’m telling y’all the truth. Chick had on a blue mini dress with heels she could barely walk in. And don’t even get me started on the ridiculous neckline on her dress. She might as well just let those things hang out in the open.”

“Oh, dear Lord, that definitely sounds like her.” my stylist said with a sigh.

“Sounds like she went to church to find herself a new man…”

“And she had the nerve to show off her jewelry in church! Wavin’ around her left hand from the pew so she can show off her new ring!”

“Hmph, I bet you that bling as fake as her weave.”

“And those skimpy legs looked like drum sticks.”

“I can imagine!”

Max raised my head slightly and shoved a wooden spoon into my hand, breaking my concentration. “Hold this over your ear.”

I grasped the wooden spoon and held the wider end against my small ear, careful to cover it completely. I tried to sit as still as I could, but I began to fidget uncontrollably. Getting my sides straightened was the worst part.

“Calm down, calm down,” said Max soothingly as she pulled me back to the chair again. “It’s just the steam you’re feeling. You have to stay still.”

But I couldn’t. I was either trembling or cringing each time the hot comb came closer.

I tried to take deep breaths, but the odor made my eyes water. I couldn’t clear my head because the voices were overpowering and it was hard to think. Every muscle in my body stiffened as I tried to sit motionless.

Meanwhile, Max carried on with her conversation, laughing and pausing while she handled my hair.

And suddenly, I felt a hot sting on my temple and jumped so hard that I dropped the spoon. Max also jumped in surprise, causing the hot comb to accidentally touch the tip of my ear.

“Owww!!!”

And just like that, the choir was slowly silenced by my cry of pain. I could already feel their eyes on me, both curious and judgmental.

“Oh, now I know you don’t have the nerve to be tender-headed with all this thick hair!” Max chuckled.

“Excuse me?”

Now everyone’s attention had turned to my mother, who happened to be glaring at Max. The crowd was excited and hungry for drama. A woman who pretended to read a copy of Vibe magazine let out a low whistle.

I took this opportunity to turn around and look at Max’s reaction. She simply stared back at my mother in confusion, shaking her head.

“That’s just rude. Don’t assume that my child can handle being burned because her hair is thick; it’s your responsibility to be careful with that hot comb. And if you burn her again, I’m going to the owner.”

All eyes were back on Max, who looked pale and frightened. It was like witnessing an angry tiger and a baby kitten. “Oh, no that won’t be necessary,” Max said. “I’m so sorry, it won’t happen again.”

And in the awkward silence that ensued, I could hear Ms. Taylor’s voice:

“You know, Ms. Campbell… If I were you, I’d demand a discount.”

My mother, still fuming, did not bother to answer. She only watched Max’s gentle hands in silence.

The rest of the women, still shocked and intimidated by this seemingly quiet woman’s sudden outburst, were reluctant to return to their regular, jovial conversations, for they feared that they might be her victims. But they continued to talk quietly, despite the tension that still hung in the room.

I wondered what they would say about my mother and me when we were gone.

For my final essay, I initially planned to expand on the same story that I covered for my second essay. I thought it would be fun to experiment with the structure and how I told it. But then I thought of a similar experience that might fit better for a lyric essay: My worst experience at the hair salon. It’s also a childhood experience, but this time I will talk about getting my hair pressed (straightened with a hot metal comb) for a party.

For this piece I really want readers to feel what I was feeling. I want them to experience the chaos and confusion of a cluttered salon, to react to the pointless gossip I was forced to hear, and to smell the filthy odor of burnt hair and cheap perfume in a salon with no windows. I want them to see what it’s like to be in a nine-year-old’s shoes, stuck in a high chair with a scalding hot comb against her scalp. I often say that words can’t describe how embarrassing and painful this experience was, but hopefully, this lyric essay will change that.

This fits into a lyric essay category because it will be very poetic, and it will depend a lot on imagery. I intend to use a lot of description for this, so I want the details to be really vivid. I want it to flow like a creative poem because I want it to have rhythm, so I’ll be experimenting a lot more in terms of the structure.

For now, I plan to go through the experience step-by-step and build up to the climax. To signify the shifts between each main point I might use paragraph breaks, but I’m still thinking of other options. And as for the length, I think it will be about 5 pages.

For lack of a better title, so far I’m thinking: Pressed to Kill

Similes

As empty as a cookie jar within a child’s reach

As weak as the delicate silk of spider webs

Gathered together like sewn pieces of thread

As rough as a stubbly beard

Trembling like a racing pulse

Praying like a frightened child

Bouncing like a coin across the water

Smiling like a rich gambler

Metaphors

Heart of sand

Mountains of frozen tears

War is death

The ocean is a blanket of silk

The moon is a beacon of hope

This house of hope

My love is an endless sea

Writing is a battlefield

Poem

I stand by the shore,

Clutching a thin shawl around my shoulders,

Trembling like a racing pulse.

The harsh wind is cold and unforgiving,

Biting at my icy, cold flesh.

I look ahead at the water.

The ocean is a blanket of silk

That ripples with the whistling wind.

I reach into my pocket and pull out a pebble-sized rock.

I roll the smooth pebble between my thumb and forefinger

Before I toss it into the ocean.

It crashes against the silky surface,

Bouncing like a coin across the water

I dig my toes into the wet sand

And enjoy the grainy sensation.

I look down at my feet and I can see the grains of sand

Being pushed and pulled by the water

These tiny specks of sand that are washed away,

Bit by bit, into this endless sea of blue

And I suddenly think

Of how much I’ve changed,

Of how much I’ve lost,

Of the tiny bits of me

That have slowly been washed away

I can feel myself fading,

Like a helpless creature with

A heart of sand.

My Favorite Stories (in order) are:

Act One: Don’t I Know You.

Act Thirteen: More Lies

Act Eight: The Greatest Dog Name in the World.

Act Ten: Two minute play

Shared Qualities

The four stories that I chose either put a smile on my face or made me laugh. I think that’s the key factor that made these stories stick out to me. I especially liked that three of them were original and still had that element of surprise. They’re great examples that prove that humor doesn’t always have to be a performance. The delivery sounded normal and conversational, and I didn’t even have to see the storyteller’s body language or facial expressions. Humor is one thing that I really value in any piece, or any story, because it always draws me in and I enjoy it. It’s like a breath of fresh air for me.

Another quality that I found compelling in these stories was that they were relatable, even though I haven’t actually experienced all of these things directly. However, one thing that I have experienced (several times) was getting into an awkward situation as a guest in someone else’s home. When I was ten, my mom and I were visiting her old friend, Lee. After my mom specifically told me not to touch anything in the house, I wandered off and fiddled with a bobble-head toy that belonged to Lee’s son. I ended up breaking the head off and I panicked, so before anyone could catch me, I laid the broken toy on the carpet to make it look like the toy fell and broke. And a few minutes later, when Lee and my mom asked me about it, I lied and said that the toy somehow fell onto the carpet and broke, even though it was nowhere near the edge of the table… So, an experience like this is pretty similar to act 13, More Lies. I understood the couple’s awkwardness and their quick impulse to lie, even when it was obvious that they weren’t being truthful.

A few things I find hilarious

College Humor: Harshest College Rejection Letters (A collection of fake rejection letters from colleges and universities):

http://www.collegehumor.com/article/6874474/harshest-college-rejections

Here’s a pic of my favorite

John Madden’s Popcorn Popper (One of the best MADTV skits I’ve ever seen. Makes me laugh every single time):

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q1v52f1TrWg

Louis C.K. Hates Twitter – Conan on TBS:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xSSDeesUUsU&list=FLLknhpAdE9uLTQ_Wc0h6wzQ

Essay 2 Cover Letter

Essay 2 Draft

COVER LETTER

Dear Reader,

One thing that I experimented on with this draft was dialogue, because I noticed that with my first essay draft, I tended to show more than tell. I incorporated short exchanges with my mother so that you can see her personality and her mood more vividly. I also wanted the dialogue to make it clear that I was a young child.

My favorite part of this draft is the section where I describe my longing for straight hair while looking in the mirror, which is in the seventh paragraph. For example, part of the paragraph says, “I didn’t want this yucky, brick-hard hair.” I feel like this is something that many girls with natural hair could identify with, and it reminds me of how drastically my mindset has changed, or how I’ve grown out of that state.

One thing that I’d like to work on for the revision is how I’ll end this piece, because it feels a bit rushed and forced. The last few paragraphs were the most difficult for me to write because I had to condense several details of that scene into just a few sentences. I feel like I’ve left out a lot of the pieces, including more of the actual dialogue. If I included every single thing that happened, though, I might have ended up with at least two more pages. I eventually decided that every part wasn’t necessary for this piece. I don’t think that they would add much to the story, but once I start to revise I’ll have the chance to fill in what’s missing and choose which parts are important.

My main concern is, how can I make my scenes clear and vivid without bombarding the reader with too many details? And also, my original intention with this line: “Mom, I wish I was born with straight hair,” was to make it come off as powerful. Did it have that effect? And if not, what can I do to improve the build-up to that point?

 Sincerely,

Nakeisha Campbell

ESSAY DRAFT

Hair Troubles

As I pulled and tugged at the thick mass of dark hair on my head, my comb snapped in two. I lowered my arm in defeat and watched the stem of what remained of my new purple comb. I had only gotten it the day before.

“Mom!” I yelled, “The comb broke again!”

“Which one?”

“The purple one you got yesterday.”

I could hear my mother’s sigh, even from two rooms away. “Take the Vaseline and come here,” she yelled back.

I grabbed the greasy yellow container from my chest of drawers and trudged to my mother’s room. As I stepped inside I could smell the starch from all her ironing, and I could hear Hymns playing in the background. She looked up and saw the state of my coarse, disheveled hair with half a comb stuck in the kinky strands.

She switched off the iron and placed it on the ironing board, billows of steam rising from the flat metal surface. “Take the comb out of your hair.”

I pulled the comb out obediently and waited. “Give me a second,” my mother said as she hung up her ironed clothes in the closet. I nodded and climbed onto her king-sized bed. I sat with my legs folded and caught a glimpse of my reflection in the huge vertical mirror that was attached to my mother’s chest of drawers. I looked up and stared at the little girl sitting in the bed. She sat slouched with a mass of untamable, thick, messy black hair on her head. Two pieces of a broken comb protruded from either side of her small dark hand, while the other hand encased the greasy container of Vaseline.

I hated what I saw.

I desperately wanted my hair to be straight and smooth. I wanted to be able to run my fingers through the strands without feeling tangles and knots. I wanted to let my hair out in public without looking like Mufasa. I wanted the soft curls that gleamed in the sun, blew gracefully with the wind and bounced playfully whenever I moved. I didn’t want this yucky, brick-hard hair.

“Alright,” my mother said, grabbing a small red bench for me to sit on, “Come here, I’m ready.”

She sat on the bed directly in front of the same mirror, and positioned the bench between her feet. She had another comb in hand, but this one was bigger. She also held a bottle of hair-softener, but this gave me no relief. Over a thousand blobs of pink liquid did very little to manage my unruly hair.

As soon as I sat on the bench, my mother squeezed the bottle of hair-softener into my hair. My head jerked awkwardly in random directions as she lathered and rubbed the product into my curly strands.

“Mom, I wish I was born with straight hair.”

At these words, my mother froze. It wasn’t the reaction I was expecting, but I sat there anxiously and I waited. I could hear the soft harmonious voices of the Brooklyn Tabernacle Choir on my mother’s stereo. A handful of my hair was pulled upward in her still hand, damp with softener.

She spoke softly, “Do you know how many young girls are out there now, wishing that they had hair like yours?”

I wasn’t sure how to respond, but I imagined that no girl in her right mind would want hair that was untamable enough to break a comb. I simply shrugged.

“Listen, God gave you a head of healthy, beautiful thick hair. And you should be thankful for it,” she said. “So many kids out there would be more than grateful for even half of the hair you’ve got.”

“But mom… I can’t even comb it properly, it’s so tough and messy…”

Finally releasing my hair, I heard her pat the bed space next to her. “Come sit on the bed.”

I got up, climbed onto the bed once again and sat next to her. I felt a lump forming in my throat, and my eyes began to water.

“Natural hair is nothing to be ashamed of,” my mother said as she looked at me. “Even if it’s thick or hard to manage, it doesn’t make your hair any less beautiful.”

I swallowed and stared at my mother. I had to admit, this little speech made me feel a whole lot better. Deep down, I always thought that my natural hair made me less pretty. In fact, I was beginning to think that this was the real reason why I often had to get it straightened at the salon. At this thought, I asked, “Then why do I always have to go to the salon to make it look different?”

My mother sighed. “Managing your hair takes a lot of time, and since I’m so busy with work, sometimes I don’t have a choice. I don’t do it to hurt you or because you have bad hair. It’s just that I don’t have the time.”

Without a word, I looked from my mother to my reflection once again, trying to see the beauty that she saw in my clunky mess of damp hair. I still couldn’t see it. But my mother’s confidence in its beauty was enough to sustain me in that moment.

“Here, sit on the bench so I can braid it.”

I got down from the bed and returned to the bench. I winced and gritted my teeth and she combed through the strands. I could feel the tooth of her comb glide along my scalp to separate my hair, and I could feel the cool blobs of castor oil on her index finger as she applied it. I sat there for about half an hour as she combed, parted, greased and braided.

“Look in the mirror and tell me what you think,” my mother said after the last braid. I got up quickly, impatient to see what style she created. I sat on the bed and stared at my reflection once more. My untidy afro was replaced with a head of fancy plaits that hung down to my shoulders.

I swayed my head from side to side, watching how the braids moved, and I smirked despite myself. “I really like it!”

My mom smiled. “I do, too. And I bet it wouldn’t look as nice if you had straight hair. Don’t you agree?”

I looked from my reflection to my mom, and I smiled. “I couldn’t agree more.”

Excerpt:

After fifty minutes of spacing out and worrying about this paper, the bell rang and I practically ran straight to my teacher. I wanted to understand why he didn’t like my essay. This one grade was already beginning to make me doubt my talent as a writer. In fact, I was heart-broken.

I was worried that maybe I wasn’t as good a writer as I always thought.

Was I only fooling myself?

***

We sat down to talk after class, and I was relieved to see that his human side was still there. The chalkboard was crammed with notes from that day’s class, and on his desk sat a battered copy of The Fountainhead, his sheet of notes and a messy pile of extra handouts. He gestured for me to hand him my paper and I relaxed a little, but I was still worried. He made space on his desk and then browsed through my essay as if to re-familiarize himself with it. These were his first words: “I could that tell you worked really hard on this. It’s definitely well-written, no punctuation or spelling errors, and that’s great. But, my concern is, when you’re describing humans, you’re not digging deep enough.”

I nodded and allowed him to continue, expecting this to be a one-way conversation. But to my surprise, he said: “Forget about this paper for a minute and tell me, in your own words, what you think it means to be a human being.”

In this example I actually included a section break and three paragraph breaks. The portion above the asterisks were originally one paragraph, and the portion beneath was also one long paragraph. But after playing around with paragraph and section breaks, I think I found something that works. The breaks are definitely effective because I feel like it changes the rhythm of the piece and how it’s read. I went for a section break between the end of my class and the meeting with my teacher, because it would tell the reader that I’m going into a new phase or a new direction.

The one line paragraphs that I made places a lot more emphasis on those simple sentences, and it reads better in my opinion. Readers now have a brief moment to ponder how I’m feeling before they get to the next event. And after I quoted my teacher at the beginning of the meeting, I made another paragraph break for a clear transition to my reaction. I think readers would be less inclined to rush through the paragraph if it’s structured this way.

Essay 1 Cover Letter

Essay 1

Success Through Failure

At 10:00 am sharp, Mr. Kanyuk would burst into room 306 and make his way to the chalkboard in quick strides. He always carried a heap of handouts and, depending on whether or not he owed us graded papers, a big manila folder. As he placed the pile carefully on his oak desk, I’d notice his body relax slightly.

It was almost like watching a robot transform into a human. The tense, blank facial expression that I usually saw in the hallways became somewhat calmer in the classroom. The rigid posture slowly melted away. And his eyes, usually void of emotion, suddenly looked like they were full of life. After taking a quick look around the classroom, he’d sift through the pile until he found his sheet of notes, then turn to write our first assignment on the board. Often times, he would quietly hum too. He’d gaze back at his sheet after writing each sentence and slightly bob his head as if he were listening to a great song rather than reading through his notes. And when he finished, he would put the chalk down, walk around to the front of his desk and sit there in silence with his arms folded, watching us calmly.

We would chatter on like a choir of angry birds, but within a minute, the noise would dwindle to silence and Mr. Kanyuk would have our attention. You could hear a pen click or a chair squeak. His silence was always loud enough to shut us up fairly quickly.

But one morning in February of 2009, I sat among the angry birds in silence. As Mr. Kanyuk waited for the class to quiet down, my eyes darted to the big manila folder that, I was pretty sure, contained our graded papers on what it means to be human.

Mr. Kanyuk finally cleared his throat and announced that he finished grading everyone’s papers. My heart skipped a few beats and my body tensed. He had the class take a vote on when he should return our papers, and not surprisingly, all of us voted to have our papers given back right away.

This was it.

I was the third student to receive my essay. I held my breath as he came to me with my paper in his outstretched hand, looping the sheets in half in order to cover my grade from any onlookers. I took a deep breath and peeked at the grade he’d written on top. “F.”

For a minute I went numb. Then I read what he wrote underneath that grade: Please see me after class.

I could not think straight. My class had to discuss the first few chapters of Ayn Rand’s The Fountainhead that day, but I didn’t pay the slightest attention. All I could think about was that grade.

I couldn’t fathom how he could possibly think that this paper I spent so much time on was bad. Had I completely missed the point of that assignment? Did I make too many mistakes? Did I write too little? Or too much?

After fifty minutes of spacing out and worrying about this paper, I practically ran straight to my teacher. I wanted to understand why he didn’t like my essay. This one grade was already beginning to make me doubt my talent as a writer. In fact, I was heart-broken. I was worried that maybe I wasn’t as good a writer as I always thought. Was I only fooling myself?

We sat down to talk after the class left, and I was relieved to see that his human side was still there. The chalkboard was crammed with notes from that day’s class, and on his desk sat a battered copy of The Fountainhead, his sheet of notes and a messy pile of extra handouts. He gestured for me to hand him my paper and I relaxed a little, but I was still worried. He made space on his desk and then browsed through my essay as if to re-familiarize himself with it. These were his first words: “I could that tell you worked really hard on this. It’s definitely well-written, no punctuation or spelling errors, and that’s great. But, my concern is, when you’re describing humans, you’re not digging deep enough.” I nodded and allowed him to continue, expecting this to be a one-way conversation. But to my surprise, he said: “Forget about this paper for a minute and tell me, in your own words, what you think it means to be a human being. Don’t think in terms of physical attributes, think of human behavior or attitudes. How are they psychologically, or emotionally?” He folded his arms and stared at me, waiting.

“Well,” I mumbled, “Humans are not perfect… They make mistakes. And they feel many emotions…” I paused. “They’re complex… They’re rational people.”

“Okay, great start,” he said. “But let me ask you something. If I didn’t have arms, or hands, or legs, would that mean I’m no longer human?” I answered right away, “Of course not.”

But then he gave me a slight smirk and pointed to my paper. “But your essay seems to argue otherwise. Do you see what I’m getting at?”

“Aahhhh… Right.” And in that moment I looked at my paper with new eyes. I was beginning to understand what I needed to do to improve this piece. He went through my paper in more detail and discussed which parts I should consider keeping or eliminating, and by the end of our meeting, my essay was practically splattered with green ink. He had crossed out about half of the writing on my first page, and small notes were scribbled along the margins with no white space left to spare. He must have seen the look on my face as I noticed this, because before I left, he said, “Don’t be discouraged by the grade, I know you’re a good writer. Just take your time with this re-write and think about what I said. The comments are there to help you.”

For the next two days I worked really hard on that re-write, and I ended up with an A-. Below that grade read the comment: This is a big improvement from your first paper. Very well-written. Keep up the good work. I couldn’t help but smile with pride.

It was actually at that point when I made one of the biggest decisions of my life. I decided that I wanted to become a writer. I was now confident that I could hone my skills and grow as a writer like I did in that class. And I was no longer afraid to look into a book that had enough difficult phrases to sound like a completely different language. But even more importantly, I couldn’t have made this decision without my teacher’s encouragement. Although he made it clear that a failing grade or negative feedback should not discourage me, I found that this one failure motivated me to make that choice.

British poet Carol-Ann Duffy, who also discovered her love for writing in the classroom, was appointed as Britain’s Poet Laureate in 2009. She was the first female to be appointed in 341 years, which is an amazing accomplishment, but her journey to that point was not smooth. Duffy also had to deal with rejection at a young age. In her interview with The Independent, she noted that her father always used to tell her: “get a job, get a proper job.” Her father may have intended to discourage her, but according to Duffy, it did the complete opposite. She told her interviewer, “Part of my vocational sense about poetry is to do with asserting the space that poetry can have. It’s as important as anything else, because it’s the music of being human.” Her father’s words did not faze her, but they pushed her to become even more committed to her craft. She continued to believe that poetry was important, despite the fact that her father didn’t support her career decision.

I identify with her because of the way that she used this discouragement to push herself. It must have been painful to hear that her father was not supportive of her decision, and even though my experience was not exactly the same, I understand that rejection and disappointment can be the biggest motivation to push us forward. It’s interesting, but at times these failures are what we need in order to succeed. I really admire the fact that Duffy followed her heart and used her father’s negative words to fuel her determination, much like my first failure inspired me.

Sources:

Patterson, Christina. “Carol Ann Duffy: ‘I Was Told to Get a Proper Job'” The Independent. Independent Digital News and Media, 10 July 2009. Web. 19 Feb. 2013.

“But the secret of good writing is to strip every sentence to its cleanest components. Every word that serves no function, every long word that could be a short word, every adverb that carries the same meaning that’s already in the verb, every passive construction that leaves the reader unsure of who is doing what–these are the thousand and one adulterants that weaken the strength of a sentence.” (Zinsser, 6-7)

I couldn’t agree more with this statement. It’s one of the best pieces of advice I’ve ever heard, because as Zinsser mentioned, most people love to assume that there is something wrong with a simple sentence. They insist on making it complicated or wordy, and this only confuses the reader or listener. I admit that I used to overuse the thesaurus when writing essays in the past because I had a similar mindset. For some reason, I believed that simple sentences made me sound too dull. I’d right click on random words for synonyms and replace them with terms that I never even heard of. But as long as they sounded fancy enough, I went along with it. It took me a little while to realize that what I was doing actually made my writing sound worse, but I eventually stopped overusing that thesaurus tool and trusted myself to come up with the right words. This doesn’t mean that I never use it at all, but I definitely keep it to a minimum. I now understand that simplicity is always the way to go. Getting the right message across is more important than trying to sound intelligent. It’s the key to writing well, and it’s likely to draw more readers.