A Day

 

Ron Howard called,

 

an album of photos composed,

 

                     cropped the books,

featured gargoyles,

 

      umbrellas waltz

 

 



Author's Note and Vignette

Author's Note

Columbine

 

      Fear is my middle name.  In elementary school we had duck and cover drills at least once a month, taking cover under our desks in case of an atomic bomb.  Every week we had to evacuate the school because there were bomb threats. Race riots were the in thing.  Anarchy reigned.  Sixties hope had died and was rotting in everyone’s hearts.  Generation hopeless that’s my generation’s legacy. You would think I would be prepared that beautiful spring morning of April.

     I woke up and put on black slacks and a white blouse.  I slipped in to some black flats and made my way to the bathroom. I kept my boots and mittens on reserve. Colorado weather is bipolar; sunshine and clear blue skies, and five minutes later the snow is falling while the sun shines. We would not be out of the woods until June. 

1.  I was living in Colorado when Columbine happened and my daughter was going school in Denver.  That day has always stuck with me and I wanted to express in to words what that meant to me.

2. The writer I had in mind when I wrote the piece was Truman Capote.  Instead of giving insight to the perpetrators, I wanted to express the grief of the community. I hope my piece does not exploit the situation but gives my reader a sense of the fear and grief of that day.

3. I have written short stories, fiction and non-fiction, poems, and kept a journal since junior high.  I find poems are fun because there are no rules to poems.  Short stories and non- fiction require a beginning middle and end.  Fiction is difficult for me because I have a hard time developing imaginary characters.  But I like the freedom of making up a story. With non- fiction I can tell a story as I see it.  Another benefit to writing fiction is that I don’t have to research my topic. 

4. I found when I shared this piece with my family they reminded me that some parts were missing or that I remembered them differently.  I think when I revise the piece I will include these missing pieces.  I found this piece difficult to write because it is so deep so the next piece I am going to pick a lighter topic.  One rule that I kept thinking about while writing the piece was to show not tell the story.    When I wrote this story I wrote it down on paper, I was just writing anything that came into my head.  Then I typed it on to the computer.  When I revise it, I will print it and read it out loud.  Then I will mark the paper and revise on the computer.  That’s how I usually work on a piece.

 

     Before my adventures my mom would braid my hair so tight it would bring tears to my eyes.  After plaiting them she would adorn them both with a butterfly rubber band.  Then she would send me out into the world.  She would hold open the front screen door and I would make my way to my friends.

     In the front yard of our suburban yard, small box house, cherry trees in the back.  I saw Ricky and the other little rascals of Wolff St.  They were gathered in a circle in the gutter.  They were all looking down into the gutter at a black bird.

     His wings were spread out.  His flat beaded eyes flat peered back into ours.  His chest did not rise and cave with life.  The only girl in the group.

     “We have to bury him.”  I said breaking the silence.

     “Why?”  asked Ricky.

     “So he can go to heaven.”

     The group of boys looked at me and then at each other.  They nodded in agreement and we all went our separate ways to gather the tools of the trade.  Ricky returned with his mother’s gardening spade.  I made a cross of twigs from the cherry tree.  We dug; the bird was placed in the shallow grave and covered with the dirt.  Ricky looked at me and said “now what?”

     “A prayer.  Bless this bird God.  Amen.”

    “Amen.”

   “ Think he went to heaven yet?”

    “ Let’s see.”

     The cross was removed.  The sacred ground violated.  The bird remained.

 

 

Vignette brainstorming

brainstorming for vignette.
would like to write about work.  would like to write about a nurse on the job, from my perspective as a housekeeper.  want to write about when i was five and we discovered a dead bird and wanted to know if it went to heaven after being buried.  have stories from my husband about growing up in Bushwick.  Another one about a cousin who lost her son when he was five years old.  my husbands photo exhibit at the brect and the hisory of the Brect Forum. 

A poem

Rockin’ Robin spinning on the record player,

John’s two stepping it for the class.

Stevie Nicks gurgling soprano,

Casting her spells,

Rocks bleeding of sunlight.

Bonnie Raitt’s blues float on F.M. waves,

Consoling the love sick.

My lover’s lip syncing to Manu Chau.

The savage beat of the Rollin Stones.

Beatles best of,

And the bouncing bubble Cyndi Lauper.

Friends of yore,

Friends of now.
Lorraine Sweger-Perez

Introduction

Hello,
I am currently studying writing and literature at Laguardia.  I am taking Creative non-fiction because I find I enjoy writing essays.  In the past, I have written essays, poetry, and some fiction.  I am interested in documenting my experiences at my job.  I work at a hospital as a enviornmental aide and would have written some short stories about my experience.  I would like to write about the women in my family.  My grandmother came to America as a young girl from Italy and I have not seen too many stories about that experience.  I have been reading Sarah Vowell.  The book of short stories I am reading are about her travels in America. 

Who I am (why I am studying Creative Writing)

 

My young travels were always in a group of five. My father was in charge of the driving, while my mom sat to his immediate right, in charge of the map.  This never ended well.  My mom’s only experience with navigation was the subway maps of New York.  Every trip she got frustrated and crumble the map, throwing it to the floor muttering “fon gool,’ the only  Italian word I learned growing up. 

My younger brother Michael would sit directly behind my mom and would never relinquish reign over his window. My youngest and the  fairest brother Erik ,sat in the middle sleeping most of the trip.  Michael and I would push his sleeping head off our shoulders . A wooden box was attached to the roof carrying what did not fit in the trunk:  tent, down sleeping bags, and sterno stove. The nylon ties would flap the entire eithteen hundred miles from Colorado to New York.

When I was twelve years old, my parents decided to let me travel to New York alone.    My only fear was not the plane crashing but getting lost in the airplane terminal.  Middle school had been traumatic but a foreign airport was a nightmare.  I made my way down the tunnel connecting the airplane and the terminal.  I was guided by roped rails keeping us in line to the exit where my aunt Gloria  was waiting her gold earrings, and her hair dyed just for this occasion.    Many kisses and bear hugs were exchanged. She grabbed my hand and led me to the carousel where we picked up my luggage. I had the back seat to myself. I unrolled the window and inhaled the salty air and watched Shea stadium an the relics of the world fair fly by.

We parked the car in the driveway and entered my grandmother’s compact kitchen. Pots and pans lined walls and the smell of basil and oregano filled the air.  My bags were taken and more hugs and kisses and cheek pinching occurred.  I was surrounded by aunts, uncles and cousins who were fascinated with my growth.  Voices were raised over each other in a competition to be heard.    We sat down to pasta and meatballs and later black coffee and cake.  I knew then I was home.  I pictured myself living in the bowery writing the great American novel and visiting with my grandmother. It took me a lifetime to return.  A marriage, a divorce, a daughter at college, but here I am pursuing my dream of writing.