PRE WRITING ARTIFACT— SHARING MY SCAR

• So this is my scar. When I was 14, I was rehearsing for the nutcracker and I was en pointe at the time. I wasn't warmed up and I felt something snap in my heel. I didn't know I broke it and I kept dancing on it for like 6 months. And then I went to a different studio for a summer intensive and they told me I should get it checked out. I found out that I broke off a bone in my heel or ankle and the bone fragments tore up my tendons and Achilles. I had to get surgery and get the bone fragments removed, thats what the scar is from, and they tried to repair the tendons. After that I had to spend around a year in physical therapy and had to stop doing ballet because I couldn't do pointe anymore and started competition dance. so yeah. it still hurts sometimes ...

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REVISION ARTIFACT — WRITTEN VERSION OF STORY

• The 1.5 inch long scar on my ankle is something that I never forget. Mainly because of the sensitive scar tissue that never healed quite right and tingles painfully at the slightest movement. That scar was the cause of my ballet career ending (not that it was ever bound to be successful) and the rise of my career in competitive dance (if you could call it that much). When I broke my ankle, I had to stop doing what I had loved for so many years. The idea of no longer having the structure in my life that ballet provided was something that I could not fathom. That scar (more so the process that I had gone through in order to get it) tore down the entire foundation that my life was built on, and in the undertaking that I had to go through in order to rebuild that base has not only changed my perspective on life, but also how I approach unfamiliar tasks. The scar on my ankle has taught me to create opportunities for myself if I cannot find what I am looking for in the present moment.

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PEER RESPONSE ARTIFACT — PEER REVIEWED COMMENTS FOR THE 5 WHERE I AM FROMS

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6 WHERE I AM FROM STORIES

My First Crush

I let out a longing sigh as I got into the car as I said, "I love Reece"

 

I didn't really love him at the time, but my young perception of love equated it to the same thing that I would now consider to be minor infatuation.

 

My mom cut me off quickly with a harsh "Don’t say that Isabel, it's not appropriate"

 

I guess you could say my boy crazy phase began when I was four and lasted longer than I’d like to admit. Reece was in the 5th grade the year I began kindergarten and I was smitten. He was a tall, lanky boy with a bowl-cut and glasses, and every time I saw him I made sure to bat my eyelashes a little too hard and let out a flirty "Hi Reece". If you could even consider that to be flirty. 

 

Reece went to my church, and while everyone was singing their hymns and saying the our father, I would sit on the pew, my legs not even long enough to go over the edge of the seat, and stare at the back of his head. He sat two pews ahead of me with his parents and older brother. As the service approached the communion, I would sit and handcraft the most basic paper airplanes out of the Sunday morning service pamphlet that would be ready to be delivered to him about 10 minutes later.

 

I grew out of this crush after a few years, but throughout my younger years, there was always that hope in the back of my mind that the smart nerdy boy at the 10:30 service would like me.

 

He didn't, but that's okay. I moved on

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Over Easy Eggs

Ever since I was a child, my dad would make eggs. He would beat them together in a bow, ensuring that the yolk was broken and mixed in. He disliked (and still does dislike) runny yolks. Naturally, as a kid who idolized my dad, I took on a strong disliking for runny yolks as well. I would refuse to eat the soft boiled eggs in bowls of ramen and I would never ever request my eggs easy over at any breakfast joint I went to. But as I got a little older, I began to realize that my mom loved her eggs with a runny yolk. I would often scrunch my nose at the sight of it on her plate, without her seeing of course, and wonder what was so good about runny eggs. But as I got older, and wiser if I do say so myself, I began to explore more when it came to food. Needless to say, after the first time I tried a soft boiled egg, I was obsessed. Poached eggs, over easy, soft boiled, or whatever, I have never looked back. 

 

Oh Shit, I Have a Brother

I often forget that I have a brother. I'll typically go about my day and suddenly think "Oh shit, I have a brother".

 

If I had a choice in what kind of relationship we could have, I would like to think that we would be best friends. That maybe he would suddenly realize that the sister that is younger than him by 1,358 days isn't all that bad.

 

I feel as though my longing for a stereotypical love hate sibling relationship is what I have based so many of my friendships upon. I have always hated the very surface level, shallow friendships, and while Im sure most people do as well, its pretty obvious that there are some who dont mind it too much.

 

I think my search for strong bonds with my friends roots from my wishful thinking that some day I will be able to have that same kind of relationship with my brother.

 

But in a way, all this unhappiness that he has caused me from his absence in my life has benefitted me. A lot of who I am today has been influenced by my friends who play such a major role in my life. 

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The Our Father

Anyone ever who has stepped foot into the catholic church will know how cult like the echo is when the congregation says the our father. Regardless of this, I consider it to be one of the best parts of service.

 

The Our Father was the first prayer I ever learned. I knew it word for word by the time I was 6, and it was the most sophisticated sequence of words that I thought could exist.

 

Growing up, I attended church almost every Sunday with my family. My parents felt that the values taught by the church should be the foundation of parenting, and I agree. Of course I only decided I agreed once I created my own relationship with the church, but I strongly believe that those 10:30 services on Sunday have strongly influenced how I perceive the world, and how I choose to go forward each day.

 

The Nutcracker and the Cheetos

In my day, saying ‘fail’ was quite a common joke amongst the third graders at my school. Or so I thought.

 

It was a week before christmas break and I had recently become friends with a trailer park type girl. She had white hair and skin, and buck teeth that reminded me of Abby Mallard from Chicken Run. Her name was Lily.

 

Lily and I had decided to do secret santa, but only with each other. My mom took me shopping for this gift exchange, and helped me pick out a beautiful nutcracker that was covered in glitter.

 

I brought the gift to school, wrapped nicely in a gift bag with tissue paper and a card and proudly presented it to her. In exchange for this gift that I had put so much thought and effort and time into, I was presented with a family size bag of hot cheetos with lime.

 

Later that day, she had done something and I responded with a playful “faiilll”. We never spoke again after that.

 

I would say that she was the first encounter I had where I felt used and discarded (if you know what I mean).

 

I wonder if she ever thinks about me. And if she does, I hope she feels bad. Fuck you Lily.

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MENTOR RESPONSE ARTIFACT — TCU Writing Center

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