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ISI 2009 Inquiry and Reflection

Prior to conducting research and developing a workshop, the 2009 ISI participants explored his or her experiences or current understanding of a teaching of writing practice in a personal, non-research-based, reflective essay.

There is no standard format for this essay; the writer may depict a specific teaching moment, explore a series of experiences related to the practice, discuss what he or she has already read/learned about the subject, or reflect on the questions about the practice.

Wednesday, September 1, 2004

Esmeralda Miranda Howard's Autobiographical Incident

As soon as I got up, I knew something was wrong. The sun was hiding behind the clouds, as if it was embarrassed, frightened or avoiding its inevitable appearance, like it didn't want to witness one more time the spectrum of our darkest selves. The air was so thick you could cut it with a knife. The roosters crowed out of time. The cows gathered restless close to the gate," They don't want to give any milk dad" cried out my brother from the corral."Just let them go" My dad answered helplessly. My brother opened the gate, but they just mooed and huddled closer together. The long, sad, almost agonizing howling of the dogs was so revealing. I felt like an electric charge had run trough my body. It was clear. It had happened again.

"An owl was hooting again last night, I chased him away but he came back after midnight," commented my dad in his serene tone of voice. " the chickens have been clucking at night too. I killed one, but the other ones had chicks." continued my mom. " But the butterfly that was inside the house yesterday wasn't black mom, It was brown." Added my sister in a hopeful voice. " Thank Goodness! At least its not in the family." Sighed my mom with some relief.

At midmorning my sister and I saw my uncle whispering something to my parents. My mom walked into the room. I followed her. She opened that bag in the closet, The same red plastic bag my sister and I did not want to come close to when we were cleaning the room, the one that gave us chills, and dark thoughts. I saw my mom pulling out a white blanket decorated with white embroidered and ruffles. She walked back and gave it to my uncle. My dad handed him a plastic tarp, and my uncle left. There were no more comments the rest of the morning Our bodies moves slowly. I remembered I hadn't showered that morning. I didn't want to be by myself, no even for five minutes in the shower. My body felt sleepy. I wished I could go to sleep for a long, long time without closing my eyes.

I vaguely remember my mother's voice calling me to have some breakfast. The tortillas and cheese were there, even the Gallo Pinto seemed very appetizing, but nobody has touched it. I only had some coffee in a timid intent to get my soul back in my body. At that moment I heard the sound of a truck stopping on the street. My dad opened the front doors. Some neighbors gathered to help. I couldn't understand their whispering. My sight got blurred, I remember six men carrying the heavy object. Four of them were lifting the green tarp by it corners and two other men by it middle edges. I could see my mom's white blanket on top, covering the weight. They all had handkershifts folded in triangles across their noses, and their hands were in plastic bags tied to their wrists with strings. I had already decided I was going to run inside the house and cover my eyes, my nose and my ears, but my body was nailed to the floor. My mind was absent, my eyes were immobile and yet following the effort of the six men carrying the heavy package. I saw a pair of boots sticking out of the blanket, then an arm that slipped heavily out of the tarp. Once again I saw myself running to the bedroom, but I was still there watching a light blue and white stripped, long sleeve shirt, pulled half way to the elbow, showing the light skin and hairy arm, the stretch marks of it swollen flesh, and the crimson spots were his finger nails used to be. They deposited the lifeless body on the side walk of my house, and my uncle pulled the blanket from his face, another young man in his early twenties.

One more time my mother went to the red bag and pulled some candles. People gathered in a circle and prayed for his soul, or probably ours. More neighbors came and whispered a quick prayer for him. A few minutes later he was taken away in my dad's ox cart to the cemetery were a quick grave was dug and his body was buried , without a coffin, without tombstone, without a name. My mother and my sister stayed home to wash the sidewalk with Creolina. My dad said it was effective to kill the worms, and the smell. I was absent, I was there, I was watching.

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