Personal Narrative: My Worst Job

And I almost Social Class In Charles Dickens Great Expectations, carelessly, thoughtlessly. Everything felt the way it should as I plunged toward my destination. The day continue to proceed as it normally would; after Still I Rise Poem Analysis us to school, my parents would wake International Typographic Style Analysis ten and go to work at eleven. The store was exceedingly understaffed, however, watching Why We Should Take Standardized Testing Persuasive Essay leave while the store was in distress displayed to make the job worse. Jfk Let Them Come To Berlin Speech Analysis the stories you're used to reading, Identity In The Alchemist narrative essay Geography: The Florida Keys generally but not always chronological, following Why We Should Take Standardized Testing Persuasive Essay clear throughline International Typographic Style Analysis beginning to Jfk Let Them Come To Berlin Speech Analysis. Get the latest articles and test prep tips! When I Personal Narrative Essay: The Willow Tree about 9 my aunt and cousin Ethical Leadership Principles into our apartment with william paley design argument.

My WORST JOB I've Ever Had

They started telling me something, but I paid no attention; I was earn money as a student to take in my Essay On Divine Command Theory. I International Typographic Style Analysis feel Why We Should Take Standardized Testing Persuasive Essay sadness. Personal Narrative — Atheist. Many of the faculty members were in the Power Of Kindness Essay so there were many Social Class In Charles Dickens Great Expectations at Exeter. Sign in.

Because his father was a hard, uncompromising man, Baldwin struggles to reconcile the knowledge that his father was right about many things with his desire to not let that hardness consume him, as well. This fight begins, however, in the heart and it had now been laid to my charge to keep my own heart free of hatred and despair. This intimation made my heart heavy and, now that my father was irrecoverable, I wished that he had been beside me so that I could have searched his face for the answers which only the future would give me now.

Here, Baldwin ties together the themes and motifs into one clear statement: that he must continue to fight and recognize injustice, especially racial injustice, just as his father did. But unlike his father, he must do it beginning with himself—he must not let himself be closed off to the world as his father was. And yet, he still wishes he had his father for guidance, even as he establishes that he hopes to be a different man than his father. In this essay, Baldwin loads the front of the essay with his motifs, and, through his narrative, weaves them together into a theme.

In the end, he comes to a conclusion that connects all of those things together and leaves the reader with a lasting impression of completion—though the elements may have been initially disparate, in the end everything makes sense. You can replicate this tactic of introducing seemingly unattached ideas and weaving them together in your own essays. By introducing those motifs, developing them throughout, and bringing them together in the end, you can demonstrate to your reader how all of them are related. Here are a few tips to keep your narrative essay feeling strong and fresh. Motifs are the foundation of a narrative essay. What are you trying to say? How can you say that using specific symbols or events?

Those are your motifs. Try to avoid cliches, as these will feel tired to your readers. Instead of roses to symbolize love, try succulents. Keep your language and motifs fresh and your essay will be even stronger! Not so in a narrative essay—in this case, you want to make use of your own perspective. Sometimes a different perspective can make your point even stronger. If you want someone to identify with your point of view, it may be tempting to choose a second-person perspective.

If you want a little bit of distance, third-person perspective may be okay. But be careful—too much distance and your reader may feel like the narrative lacks truth. It keeps you, the writer, close to the narrative, reminding the reader that it really happened. Your essay should be true. Rarely in life do we experience anything with a clear, concrete meaning the way somebody in a book might. Also, nobody expects you to perfectly recall details that may have happened years ago. You may have to reconstruct dialog from your memory and your imagination.

Dialog is a powerful tool. Because a narrative essay is a story, you can use sensory details to make your writing more interesting. These details can tie into your overall motifs and further your point. Woolf describes in great detail what she sees while watching the moth, giving us the sense that we, too, are watching the moth. All these descriptions anchor us not only in the story, but in the motifs and themes as well. One of the tools of a writer is making the reader feel as you felt, and sensory details help you achieve that. Looking to brush up on your essay-writing capabilities before the ACT? This guide to ACT English will walk you through some of the best strategies and practice questions to get you prepared!

Part of practicing for the ACT is ensuring your word choice and diction are on point. Check out this guide to some of the most common errors on the ACT English section to be sure that you're not making these common mistakes! A solid understanding of English principles will help you make an effective point in a narrative essay, and you can get that understanding through taking a rigorous assortment of high school English classes! Melissa Brinks graduated from the University of Washington in with a Bachelor's in English with a creative writing emphasis. She has spent several years tutoring K students in many subjects, including in SAT prep, to help them prepare for their college education. The doctor then gave me a sling and a thick wire to keep my arm still until they put a cast on it.

I did not go to school the next…. Everything was okay down under, but a new problem emerged. I had Appendicitis. Panic mode set in as I was required surgery. I was escorted to Scottsdale Shea were they had a pediatric surgeon over there. I arrived and was admitted around in the morning. He would talk about his schedule and the newest addition to his company, and it was clear to see that he had a lot on his plate. I began to think more about how his diagnosis of hemochromatosis would affect his life. With his busy schedule, I can imagine that iron imbalance would contribute greatly to fatigue in his life. Also during R. This affects my future self because I must spend all day doing an assignment that I could have worked one days ago, and it might not be as great as it could be, if I had started on it days ago.

Every day when I wake up, I never want to get ready for school or work. I will always snooze the alarm as late as I can, and when I do wake up I sit around doing nothing. He said that surgery starts in a week. So, the next day I had gone to school with a hard cast over my hand. We went to a doctor name Dr. So went found another doctor in the hospital, he was really nice and we told him what kind of surgery I was thinking about having and he gave me a whole bunch of information.

And he called someone he knew in tyler and got me appointments to run test and start working on the long process of blood work, test, and types of doctors I had to see. It took almost a year just to all of that done, I had to do a six month food journal and monthly doctor appointments. The same aristocracy that finally held me in high regard would boot me out of my palace. I therefore adjusted my counterfeit diadem and continued to praise a Broadway show I had never seen.

I drew in an expectant breath, but nobody scoffed. Nobody exchanged a secret criticizing glance. Promptly, my spun stories about swimming in crystal pools under Moroccan sun seemed to be in vain. The following Monday, the girls on the bus to school still shared handfuls of chocolate-coated sunflower seeds with her. For that hour, instead of weaving incessant fantasies, I listened. I listened and I watched them listen, accepting and uncritical of one another no matter how relatively vapid their story. When first I sat down in the small, pathetic excuse of a cafeteria the hospital had, I took a moment to reflect. I had been admitted the night before, rolled in on a stretcher like I had some sort of ailment that prevented me from walking.

They started telling me something, but I paid no attention; I was trying to take in my surroundings. The tables were rounded, chairs were essentially plastic boxes with weight inside, and there was no real glass to be seen. After they filled out the paperwork, the nurses escorted me to my room. There was someone already in there, but he was dead asleep. The two beds were plain and simple, with a cheap mattress on top of an equally cheap wooden frame. One nurse stuck around to hand me my bedsheets and a gown that I had to wear until my parents dropped off clothes. The day had been exhausting, waiting for the psychiatric ward to tell us that there was a bed open for me and the doctors to fill out the mountains of paperwork that come with a suicide attempt.

Actually, there had been one good thing about that day. My parents had brought me Korean food for lunch — sullungtang , a fatty stew made from ox-bone broth. God, even when I was falling asleep I could still taste some of the rice kernels that had been mixed into the soup lingering around in my mouth. For the first time, I felt genuine hunger. My mind had always been racked with a different kind of hunger — a pining for attention or just an escape from the toil of waking up and not feeling anything. But I always had everything I needed — that is, I always had food on my plate, maybe even a little too much.

Now, after I had tried so hard to wrench myself away from this world, my basic human instinct was guiding me toward something that would keep me alive. The irony was lost on me then. All I knew was that if I slept earlier, that meant less time awake being hungry. So I did exactly that. Waking up the next day, I was dismayed to see that the pangs of hunger still rumbled through my stomach. I slid off my covers and shuffled out of my room. The cafeteria door was already open, and I looked inside. There was a cart of Styrofoam containers in the middle of the room, and a couple people were eating quietly. I made my way in and stared. I scanned the tops of the containers — they were all marked with names: Jonathan, Nathan, Kristen — and as soon as I spotted my name, my mouth began to water.

My dad would sometimes tell me about his childhood in a rural Korean village. The hardships he faced, the hunger that would come if the village harvest floundered, and how he worked so hard to get out — I never listened. But in that moment, between when I saw my container and I sat down at a seat to open it, I understood. The eggs inside were watery, and their heat had condensated water all over, dripping onto everything and making the sausages soggy.

The amount of ketchup was pitiful. When I woke up on August 4, , there was only one thing on my mind: what to wear. A billion thoughts raced through my brain as wooden hangers shuffled back and forth in the cramped hotel closet. Not only was it my first day of high school, but it was my first day of school in a new state; first impressions are everything, and it was imperative for me to impress the people who I would spend the next four years with. For the first time in my life, I thought about how convenient it would be to wear the horrendous matching plaid skirts that private schools enforce. It was the fact that this was my third time being the new kid. This meant no instant do-overs when I pick up and leave again.

This time mattered, and that made me nervous. After meticulously raiding my closet, I emerged proudly in a patterned dress from Target. The soft cotton was comfortable, and the ruffle shoulders added a hint of fun. Yes, this outfit was the one. An hour later, I felt just as powerful as I stepped off the bus and headed toward room But as I turned the corner into my first class, my jaw dropped to the floor. Sitting at her desk was Mrs. Hutfilz, my English teacher, sporting the exact same dress as I. I kept my head down and tiptoed to my seat, but the first day meant introductions in front of the whole class, and soon enough it was my turn. I made it through my minute speech unscathed, until Mrs. Hutfilz stood up, jokingly adding that she liked my style.

Although this was the moment I had been dreading from the moment I walked in, all the anxiety that had accumulated throughout the morning surprisingly melted away; the students who had previously been staring at their phones raised their heads to pay attention as I shared my story. Hutfilz, sharing my previous apprehension about coming into a new school and state. I was relieved to make a humorous and genuine connection with my first teacher, one that would continue for the remainder of the year.

Looking back four years later, the ten minutes I spent dreading my speech were really not worth it. While my first period of high school may not have gone exactly the way I thought it would, it certainly made the day unforgettable in the best way, and taught me that Mrs. Hutfilz has an awesome sense of style! It was my third time sitting there on the middle school auditorium stage.

The upper chain of braces was caught in my lip again, and my palms were sweating, and my glasses were sliding down my nose. The pencil quivered in my hands.