~English Narrative Work~
For the English Narrative Unit, we were assigned to write a short story from scratch starting with a brainstorming process and then putting the story together.
Character Questionnaire and Plot Map
The brainstorming process included filling out an extensive detailed character questionnaire to dive deep into who our character was going to be and then creating a basic outline for the plot of our story.
The inspiration for my story was arranged marriage and its role in my own family and culture. The concept is something that has always intrigued me and I wanted to shed light on something that isn’t often discussed and create a rebellious love story surrounding the topic.
The Arrangement
You know there’s something wrong when the first thing you think of when your boyfriend is proposing is how you’re going to hide a husband from your parents.
We were standing on the edge of the road, the place we met four years ago where he had parked after his car broke down. It had been a beautiful purple skied night and I stopped when I saw him standing there shivering in his thin navy NorthFace jacket and cargo pants, clearly unaware it was going to snow that day. I gave him a ride to town that night, and now, four years later, here we were here again, and it was snowing still. He was on one knee holding a small black box with a twinkling diamond and gold band and I could feel the snowflakes fall on my face and jacket, as a smile crept onto my face and tears filled my eyes.
I already had enough trouble hiding when we were dating but I said yes, of course, because this is something that I wanted to do. For the first time in my life, I wanted to do something to make myself happy and not worry about others’ happiness. For four years, I’ve managed to hide him from my parents. He somehow understood my hopeless situation and my inability to disappoint them.
A week after he proposed, we were getting coffee from Jitters, the cafe a few blocks from campus that I work at, and practically live at, and I told him the plan.
‘So we drive to Scarborough, and you stay in the car. I go inside to tell them I’m engaged and tell them how you have your own very successful business, and you speak six languages. Then I tell them you’re white. Then you come inside, and then my life falls apart because my very brown parents are not going to approve of this, and they’re going to disown me, but you know what? It’s fine; it’s fine because I will be happy, and there will be no more secrets.’
‘Amira, you’re spiraling again.’
A little less than a month later, Jason and I were on our way to my childhood home to tell my parents. The drive was long and quiet as we listened to the heavy pouring rain outside pattering the car’s exterior. When we arrived, I told him to wait in the car, and that I would text him when I broke the news. He got a bit frustrated at me for using the phrase ‘break the news,’ but I knew that this was going to be a tragedy in my parent’s eyes. The tragedy of their daughter defying societal norms for love. I took my new engagement ring off my ring finger and put it in my pocket, and walked in. Immediately, I was hit with an overpowering smell of sandalwood and spices. The entryway and the ceiling were lined with pink and orange streamers and sparkly fairy lights. There were flower petals everywhere, and I could hear several different voices coming from the living room. This was all extremely strange because I came home all the time and they never made such a spectacle of it in the past.
My mother saw me first and said, ‘Oh good Mira, you’re here.’ She pointed to a man I had never seen before on the couch.
‘This is Aman. He is part of a temple program that finds a suitable husband for girls your age.’
He looked like he was maybe in his early 30s, had thick-rimmed glasses and cropped oily black hair. He was wearing an unusually large tweed jacket and an oversized button-down that drowned his slim figure. He was the opposite of Jason in every aspect, and I hated it.
My father chimed in with ‘Yes, Aman is a corporate lawyer, and he knows how to speak Hindi, Marathi, and Gujurati. Very very impressive, no?’
I did not think it was impressive, Jason spoke six languages. Nothing was really registering in my head, and it felt like I couldn’t speak like my tongue was caught in my throat and wouldn’t budge. That’s typically how I felt around my parents whenever I disagreed with them. I never expressed my feelings to them, and they just assumed I believed whatever they did.
Aman said something I didn’t hear. I looked straight at him with cold dark eyes and said nothing. When he moved to shake my hand, I noticed his grip was loose, and his hand was sweaty. I couldn’t do anything; my nervous system shut down. I tried to remember a conversation in which they mentioned they would be going to the temple to find me a husband. I couldn’t recall. I tried to remember a time recently where they communicated to me that they had wanted me to get married. I couldn’t recall.
It had been an hour by this point, and I met so many new people and touched so many feet (a sign of respect in Hinduism). Every time I looked up from my fidgeting hands in my lap, more and more people were touching my head and cheeks smiling brightly down on me. My mother picked up on my withdrawn demeanor two hours after the circus started and pulled me into the kitchen to scold me. ‘Why aren’t you trying to make Aman’s parents approve of you? This is your future husband and father to your children. Act nicely.’ This was the moment it really hit me. They really set up an arranged marriage for me; without informing me, and they just expected me to go with it without me even meeting the guy. I looked down at my phone, and Jason had called 23 times. That’s when I heard the door swing open, and I saw Jason standing in the entryway, looking very confused.
My mother screamed at him, ‘Who are you? What are you doing in our house? You need to take your shoes OFF!’ Her thick Indian accent came through sharply when she said this, as it always does when she is angry. I walked up to Jason and laced my hand through his, and the room went completely silent.
‘Mira who is this?’, ‘What is going on?’, questions circled the room, and I could feel my whole body start to go numb, but I still found the words to my speech I practiced in the mirror forty times last night.
‘This is Jason. He is my fiance, and we have been together for three years. I am not marrying Aman even though he seems like a lovely man. I am an adult with the ability to make my own decisions and choices without having to worry about your opinion of it. I realize now that the only way to make myself happy is to stop worrying about others’ happiness and be selfish for once.”
My mother started crying, and my father threw his glass on the floor. The guests began rapidly exiting the room, probably off to tell the town of the Parish’s scandalous daughter. Aman touched my forearm and told me he thought I was brave before leaving with his parents, who looked at me as if I was something stuck to the bottom of their shoes.
Throughout it all, Jason squeezed my hand hard; looking at his calm and stoic expression, I knew now more than ever that I had made the right decision. We didn’t look back as we left the house, my mother’s face in her hands, and my father’s back facing me, refusing to look at his only daughter destroying every dream he had for her. I walked outside with Jason and took the engagement ring out of my pocket and slipped it back on my ring finger. The rain was still persistent as ever as the water droplets streamed from the dark skies above, but through a few clouds, the sun’s rays were slightly visible and I knew the rain would clear up eventually.
Honors: Short Story Author or Playwright Study
For Honors, we were challenged to view a list and pick an author to study and analyze the work of. I picked Jhumpa Lahiri, and read her novel, “Interpreter of Maladies” a collection of short stories. We then had to write a short story emulating the style of the novel we read.
We were then challenged, in a project tied to Digital Media, to record our short story performing a dramatic reading, and then editing our audio in Pro Tools and add sound effects.
With creating the audio version of this story, I valued the process of recording my story emphasizing quotes with a little bit of voice acting and fixing the little blips and errors when editing. I also valued finding music and sound effects to fit the theme of my story and seeing the final process put together.
Cement Bundt Cake
The thick, hearty, clap of the large cardboard boxes overflowing with parchment filled binders and 7 inch thick textbooks slamming against the floor as it fell out of the hatchback startled Alessandra. She picked up the box and started moving her things up the stairs of her new house. The house was beautiful and spacious with its wraparound porch, stone walled exterior, and wooden interior. It was winter in Chicago, and her navy wool coat hugged her thin figure tightly. Her thick, wavy brown hair fluttered in the wind behind her as she struggled to keep her coral silk scarf wrapped around her neck rather than in the grey clouds above. Her beige knee-high socks peeked out of her tall, chunky heeled, black boots that clicked with every step up her new hardwood staircase. The house was toasty and comforting, and Alessandra loved every bit of it.
She bought the house furnished because she liked all the furniture that came with it. After putting on a pair of purple fuzzy socks, changing into grey sweatpants that cuffed at the ankles, and an oversized long-sleeved black cotton tee, she went to her new fireplace. She sat on her the light green sofa with her white duvet and read with the vinyl playing soft indie music in the background. Alessandra was grateful more than anything sitting there with the fire crackling softly, almost in tune with the music. She felt fortunate. But she knew she had worked harder than most to achieve what she has. Her new firm, Troutman Sanders, knew of her accomplishments and hired her as soon as they received her application.
After leaving Peru, she started a life for herself from scratch and worked her way up, refusing distraction. She was determined and hardworking, traits that made her life the way it is. Her mama and brother were still in Peru, and she hasn’t really forgiven herself for leaving them behind even if they had refused to go with her when she begged and pleaded. She remembered the day clearly. Her uncle in Rockford sponsored her whole family to come and live in Chicago with him because of the existing conflict with the government in Peru and the communist group, the Shining Path. More and more civilians were dying each day, and this was an incredible opportunity. But they wouldn’t leave. They loved their home no matter what. “Te matarán.” “You will be killed.” Alessandra had told her mother who stared at her, her soft honey-brown eyes turning to water, and said, “Esta es mi casa. Prefiero morir antes que traicionarlo.” “This is my home. I would rather die than betray it”.
An unexpected knock came at the door around 7:30, and Alessandra, confused, went to the upstairs window to look down and see who it could be. It was a middle-aged white woman with short blonde hair that tucked behind her ear, where a crisp diamond earring was pierced through. She was wearing a bright pink cardigan with pearl detailing and a cream cashmere sweater underneath. Her beige trousers were pleated, and she was holding a ceramic plate with a bundt cake on it. Even from far away, the botox in her forehead and frown lines were visible. She looked like every white soccer mom housewife that Alessandra’s coworkers married, and she wasn’t excited to receive this visitor. Alessandra opened the door, and the visible shock on the woman’s face was evident. Her blue eyes bulged, and her crystal smile, likely fake, faltered.
In Peru, Alessandra spent almost all of her time reading in the library in Lima. She remembered running all around the disorganized space finding stacks upon stacks of books on history and literature, curling up in a corner and reading till the sky turned pink and orange. Alessandra soaked up knowledge like it was the reason for her existence. Through reading, she became fluent in English and taught herself to write in English too. Alessandra knew more English words than most English speakers do and knew more about American history than most Americans do. When Alessandra eventually made her way to the states and started attending high school, she knew exactly what classes she wanted to take and how much she wanted her brain to grow. She added all honors and advanced placement history and English classes to her schedule, knowing they would satisfy her intellectual thirst. Her teachers on the first day asked her if she was in the right course, and the white kids in her class were confused by her presence in their class, wondering how the “Mexican girl” got As on every exam, and they didn’t. Alessandra was used to being underestimated based on her race or perceived race. She remembered the looks on parents’ faces, going even paler than they already were and the hushed questions of, “Alexandra? Who’s Alexandra? Where did she come from..?”, after Principal Holt announced her name before her speech as valedictorian. Alessandra knew she looked very Latino. Her skin was honey tan, and her oval-shaped eyes were a deep, dark brown. She worked her way through the world on the basis that people were going to be surprised when they discovered her level of aptitude and how brilliant she was, and she learned to accept it.
The lady with the bundt finally said,
“Hi, I’m Karen. I lived next door and wanted to bring you a bundt. What brings you to this neighborhood?”
“My job. I’m a corporate lawyer at Troutman Sanders on Park Avenue, so the commute is really short from here.”
“You work at Troutman Sanders as a… lawyer?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, my husband does too, interesting. Sorry, what was your name?”
“Alessandra.”
“Alexandra?”
“Sure.”
“Well, nice meeting you, Alexandra.”
“You too, thank you for the bundt.”
Alessandra took the bundt to the kitchen and took a bite; it was harder than cement.
—-
Explanation:
I think what I identify most as writing by Jhumpa Lahiri is how descriptive she writes and how she incorporates culture into her stories. The story doesn’t necessarily include a significant conflict point that completely changes the course of the story but rather a small one that showcases an aspect of the culture represented through the story. In Interpreter of Maladies, Lahiri uses characters that are common people dealing with everyday problems that have ordinary resolutions, resolutions that aren’t a big spectacle but are composed and satisfying for the reader.
I think the first thing that makes Lahiri’s stories so intriguing is her use of culture and how the characters are all from India. I think the fact that the characters are ethnic allows for a more interesting story with more diverse characters in all regards. This was why I tried to make my character Peruvian and include the Peruvian internal conflict as part of her reason for immigration and her story as a whole. In Lahiri’s When Mr. Pirzada Came to Dine, Mr.Pirzada has immigrated while a war is still going on at his home in Pakistan, which is something I used as inspiration for my story. Throughout Lahiri’s story, vernacular from various Indian states is used, which is something I also wanted to incorporate in my own story with Alessandra’s conversation with her mother. “But they wouldn’t leave. They loved their home no matter what. ‘Te matarán.’ ‘You will be killed.’ Alessandra had told her mother who stared at her, her soft honey-brown eyes turning to water, and said, ‘Esta es mi casa. Prefiero morir antes que traicionarlo.’ ‘This is my home. I would rather die than betray it'”.
I think the second thing that makes Lahiri’s stories so alluring to the reader and really captivates their attention is how she uses thorough descriptions of her character’s appearance to enhance and develop the reader’s visual interpretation of her story. For example, in the short story titled Sexy, the quote,” She was thin like her son, with a long face and the same dark circles under her eyes. A rust-colored coat hung heavy on her shoulders. Her black hair, with a few strands of gray at the temples, was pulled back like a ballerina’s”, exemplifies Lahiri’s vivid, and detailed description. Another example of her use of description is in A Temporary Matter when she describes Shoba, “She wore a navy blue poplin raincoat over gray sweatpants and white sneakers, looking, at thirty-three, like the type of woman she’d once claimed she would never resemble.” This description is important because it allows the readers to visualize the characters that develop her story. I attempted to imitate this style with the description of two of my characters. “Her thick, wavy brown hair fluttered in the wind behind her as she struggled to keep her coral silk scarf wrapped around her neck rather than in the grey clouds above. Her beige knee-high socks peeked out of her tall, chunky heeled, black boots that clicked with every step up her new hardwood staircase.” With this quote and other descriptions of Alessandra, I wanted to make sure the reader could picture the character, and I did the same with the character Karen. “It was a middle-aged white woman with short blonde hair that tucked behind her ear, where a crisp diamond earring was pierced through. She was wearing a bright pink cardigan with pearl detailing and a cream cashmere sweater underneath. Her beige trousers were pleated, and she was holding a ceramic plate with a bundt cake on it. Even from far away, the botox in her forehead and frown lines were visible.” I think the use of description really enhanced my writing, and I hope to use it in future creative writing.