English 101

Counterstory as a Descriptive Personal Narrative

Kendall Fry posted Jun 25, 2024 4:26 AM

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You are not the Same.

I was moving down the halls of Maine West high school, my freshman year. The school day was over, and I wanted to be out of there asap. My memory fails to serve me on why I was late leaving that day, which caused my rushing. But there I was, moving swiftly through the wide round-about hallways. I moved towards an exit around a corner and looked down at my phone, a Nokia with a sliding mechanism that revealed the phone's dial. I thought it was the most sophisticated piece of technology that could ever be made. Reading the text I had gotten caused me to take my eyes off who could be coming around the corner. The kid coming from the other direction must not have been paying attention either because sure enough, we bumped into each other with a slight thud. Nothing too heavy. Neither of us fell over or were going fast enough to hurt each other.

“My bad,” I said apologizing to the white kid who was about my height but skinnier. He was wearing something like a shirt with a rock band, ripped jeans and DC skateboarding shoes. Typical attire for the predominantly white school. I was wearing black air-force ones, sagging Levi jeans and a plain white tee. Not typical attire for the average Maine West student.

“Thats ok, I wasn't looking either,” the kid said. We gathered ourselves and continued to move along. Then, right after we passed, I heard someone say something that unsettled me.

There was a heavy-set white girl in the hallway who I had passed shortly before bumping into the kid. She had hot pink hair. As I rounded the corner, after the little crash, I heard her say,

“OMG, you need to be careful, or I swear to God one day you're going to get shot!” the thickened girl said jokingly to the kid I ran into. The kid gave a slight chuckle to her joke.

I could hear the amusement in her voice. She meant it jokingly and I got the joke. Black kid wearing urban attire who obviously hadn't grown up in the suburbs. I was the perfect candidate to have a gun that I could potentially use on someone that I felt wronged me, as in bumping into me in the hallway at school.

I got the joke, but I didn't like the joke. If I had the confidence and awareness I have now, I would have gone back around that corner, and informed Ms. Pink hair of her ignorance. I may have said something like,

‘Um, you do know that all not black people have guns, right?” I would imagine she would have been dumbfounded or even would attempt to make a rebuttal. A rebuttal that I would not allow because I would go on to tell her,

“Statistically, you are more likely to get shot by a white kid in school than you are by me. I'm sure, you are not aware of that because you've allowed the media to brainwash you into thinking that all black people, that don't dress or talk like you, have some “criminal” element about them.” With that I would have walked away and left my pink haired assailant with something to think about next time she had the urge to stereotype someone.

But I didn’t say that. I hadn't the confidence or the knowledge to expound on the situation as a 14-year-old kid. But I did feel in my mind that something was very wrong with what that girl had said. I felt uncomfortable, offended, and bothered all at once. From anyone who had witnessed though, they wouldn't have known my feelings. In the midst of figuring out who I was, my relation to the world and to its relation to me, I wasn't very outspoken about my feelings or thoughts. I didn’t have enough of a grasp of them to be so anyway. So, when the assumptions about who I might be came out, I just let them fly. No matter how far from the truth they were.

Both then and now, I loved rap music and everything surrounding rap culture. The clothes, the slang, the music I would blare in my headphones loud enough for those within a few feet to hear. I loved rap and many of my friends and family from Chicago do as well. I never looked at myself or those who looked like me, walked like me, and talked like me, as anything different than normal. But when I made the decision to make my way to Maine West high school, out in Des Plaines, I would find out that the world, driven by a very largely white power structure, did not see me and those that look like me as normal.

The joke Pink Hair made was a microcosm of the way many kids and even teachers at school perceived me. I grew up and went to school in Chicago up until my first year of high school. I was always a good student, and I was at Maine West. I played sports and was well mannered. I just dressed in an urban manner. Nike, Jordan, saggy jeans, ball caps turned in any direction but the front, how its “supposed” to be worn. This was the way I liked to dress. That was more than enough for the stereotypes to fly.

My clothes. My dark complexation. The portrayal of people who looked and dressed like me in the media as villains, criminals, and the scum of our society. That made it an easy decision to believe that I, a kid, could be in a gang, carry a gun, and maybe even use and sale drugs. However, when the nervous stares I got from my teachers and classmates came about, I didn't really say much. When kids would switch directions when they saw me coming down the hall, or look at me nervously when it was time to partner up in class or gym, I just took it as the way things were.

I know now, that wasn’t right. To allow stereotypes to influence one’s actions in dealing with other humans is downright not cool.  I also know now that the world isn’t necessarily right. All over the world people are treated with less respect, compassion, and empathy than they should because of prejudice and stereotypical beliefs. My remedies now are to not take things personally, pray, meditate, and inform people who give in to the stereotypes of their flawed thinking when it was appropriate.  I wish I could have given my 14-year-old self these methods then. They really could have aided me in life.

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Counterstory as a Descriptive Personal Narrative Peer Editing

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Read ONE classmate's counterstory as a descriptive personal narrative essay. Select a classmate who does not have peer feedback yet. If everyone already has peer feedback, then you may choose anyone to give your peer feedback too. Answer the following questions:

1. Write individual reflections detailing how this essay compares and contrasts with your own essay.

2. Address the  Emily Wray RISE Model Peer Feedback Questions : 

1. R - Reflect: Recall, ponder, and articulate (ex: I relate/concur/disagree with X because Y. I liked what you did with X because Y. You could ask yourself "What did you find most compelling about your classmate's essay? What did you relate to or respectfully disagree with and why?" If you disagree with something, perhaps they can use that as a counterargument they disprove later.)

2. I - Inquire: Seek information and provide ideas through questioning (ex: Have you considered looking at X from Y perspective? When you said X, am I understanding you to mean Y? You could ask yourself "Besides what is already in the essay, what can you ask your peer to possibly add as another perspective to their essay that either proves your peer's position or allows your peer to disprove a counterargument from someone who disagrees with them?)

3. S - Suggest: Introduce ideas for improvement of CURRENT iteration (ex: You might consider tweaking X for Y effect. You might want to include supporting information from X resource. You could also ask yourself "What particular areas of your peer's essay need strengthening, clarifying, more evidence, supporting details, anecdotes, etc.?")

4. E - Elevate: Raise to a higher degree or purpose in FUTURE iterations (ex: Perhaps you can expand this in X capacity to further address Y. Perhaps you can re-purpose X as Y for Z. You could also ask yourself "Besides what is already in the essay, how can something be added to the essay to make it seem more innovative/groundbreaking?")

Here is an example of a student voicing peer feedback using the Emily Wray Peer Feedback Model:  Watch "STUDENT EXAMPLE: Using the RISE Model for Peer Feedback" .

Remember to be kind while being a critic. Being a critic will help strengthen your classmate's essay and help them earn higher grades on the final draft. Be sure to watch this video on how to be a thoughtful peer editor critic to your group members:  How to Write a Good Discussion Board Post.

To complete this discussion board:

1. Post your essay as an original post in the discussion board. 

2. Leave feedback for ONE peer's essay. 

Note: To submit your original post, click on the blue button "Start a New Thread." Before posting, be sure to save your work and proofread several times. Your writing should be college level and free from major grammatical errors. To respond to your classmates, click on the person's post and locate the blue button "Reply to Thread" at the bottom of the writing. Ideally, students will post their original  post at least three days before the due date of this discussion board  so that each student has time to respond to their classmates' original posts.

The Secret: A Fairy Tale from Autoethnography (First Draft)

Santi sat on a bench in Lake Shrine Park. He had 22 minutes left on his lunch break, and it would take him 6 minutes to get back to his job as a dog trainer. Leaving who he only knew as “Yogi” less than 16 minutes to bring to the park some merchandise Santi could take with him to begin his Mission.

“Hello young fellow,” a voice with a peculiar accent said from behind Santi.

Santi stood from the bench and turned to see a brown skinned man before him. He was slightly plump and had average height. His hair was flowing and dark. He wore a pinkish orange robe that was clean. He wore brown sandals that were hovering slightly over the grass that Santi stood on. Yogi’s feet were not touching the ground.

Santi looked up from the mans feet to his face in amazement. “Yogi” had a slight smirk on his face as if he was pleased. Though to Santi it didn’t appear that he was pleased at his shock to see him levitating. Just a pleased smirk that seemed would be there no matter what.

“Uh, how are you doing that sir?” Santi hesitantly asked, pointing at the man's feet.

Yogi looked down, “Ha! I didn’t notice! I’d better get down.” With that, Yogi descended, and his feet met the grass. Santi was perplexed.

“Santi please remember, when you are able to ascend above the earth, be sure to only do so in the presence of friends. Not everyone will understand your abilities. Could cause you trouble.”

“So, because you did that in front of me, does that make us friends?”

“Ha! Why of course young Santi! Only friends of the Father are capable to taking on a Mission. I am a close friend of The Father, which makes you a close friend of mine,” Yogi said with a smile.

This man was completely strange to Santi. He wore clothes that were unfamiliar for the times. He had a funny sounding name. He could Levitate!

 Yogi referred to the Mission Santi came to get information on. For the past few months, Santi had been having strange dreams. Dreams about encountering people and having the ability to heal them from various sicknesses, both physical and mental. To give them riches. Help them think in ways that would benefit themselves and their families. The dreams occurred constantly, and they were always different. A different person healed or who he gave advice to. The people were always from distinct cultures, and even from various parts of the world. Sometimes the dream would be in a place where Santi knew the language was different than his own but he and the person he was helping could still communicate easily. It was so strange. Then out of nowhere, he got the email.

Santi got an email from someone named The Father. In the email, The Father told Santi about all of his dreams in detail. He told Santi that he began having these dreams because he needed to go on a Mission. This Mission was deeply important to Santi himself and to the world. The email instructed Santi to go to Lake Shrine Park and meet a man named Yogi. Yogi would give him the tools he needed to embark on his mission. So here Santi was, still slightly skeptical but open and ready for what Yogi had for him.

“Well. Do you have it?”

“Have what young Santi?”

“Uh, the tool. Or tools. I’m not sure. The Father said you would have what I needed for my Mission.”

“Well Santi, have you not checked if you have them this whole time?”

“Huh? No. The email said you would have them,” Santi said confused.

“Ha! Well young Santi, this is so amusing. Are you not aware that you’ve had what you needed this entire time?” Yogi leaned his head in a nod motioning behind Santi. Santi was wearing a book bag that suddenly felt a lot heavier than the moment before. Santi always had a backpack to carry whichever book he was reading at the time as Santi was an avid reader.

Santi reached behind and slung his bag in front of him. He opened it and looked in to find a few heavy printed works. They all had different symbols on the cover. One had a cross on the front. Another had a Crecent moon, with a star near its center. One book had a six pointed star on its cover. Another had a peculiar symbol that Santi did not understand but it said the words “Gita” on the cover. Another volume had a symbol of what appeared to be a wheel.

Santi looked back up to Yogi who was still there with his pleased grin.

“Who are you?” Santi asked. “Who is the Father?”

“Ha! Santi, I am you. I am you and you are me. As is with the Father. We are him and he is us.”

“But I don’t get it. How are we all the same? And what is my mission?”

“Ha! Ha! Ha! Santi, all this time you have had what you needed. I urge you, Read! Read and your Mission will become clear young Santi!” Yogi paused, then squinted looking at Santi’s bag. “I think I may have some works in there.” Santi dug in the bag and retrieved a book with Yogi’s face on its cover.

“Wow, this is you! I’ve seen you bef...” Santi looked back to where Yogi was standing. He had vanished.

Lymon 1

Laura Lymon

Prof. Alexandersson

Eng. 101- WW1

23 June 2024

Counterstory as a Descriptive Personal Narrative

We live in a world where animals are typically seen through the lens of companionship or utility (Wood et al. Pg. 3). Still, my counter-story folded against a strong connection that defies the traditional understanding. It revolves around the misunderstood bond of a person with rescued animals that shapes my understanding of resilience, empathy, and the transformative power of companionship. Growing up, I always felt a deep-rooted affinity for animals. While my friends were drawn toward sports or gadgets, I found solace in the company of the creatures, no matter how small or significant. This passion resulted in me volunteering at various animal shelters during my teenage years, where I discovered dark realities faced by many abused and abundant animals.

Personal Narrative (Counter Story)

Among the souls seeking refuge, one captured my attention when I met an emaciated and timid dog named Luna. Her eyes were wary, her fur matted, and her soul hopeful. Luna went through unspeakable cruelty before she was rescued; her scars were not just physical, but they were emotional, too. The prevailing perception around rescued animals typically painted them as broken or damaged creatures requiring fixing (Fossati, Pg. 3301). Most people believe that boss drama defined these animals, overshadowing their capability for trust and love. The story of Lorna was not an exception, as prospective adopters often overlooked her, directed by her cautious demeanor and scars. But I saw beyond her scars; I saw her spirit yearning to be trusted and healed again; each day, I would quietly sit beside her enclosure, providing patient gestures and gentle words. Slowly, she started to emerge from her shell, tentative at first but growing with confidence. Gradually, our bond strengthened, and the bond navigated through the healing journey, taking smaller steps at a time.

However, the dramatic change of behavior was a day she, out of the blue, moved closer to me, stretching her neck to be touched during a simple walk around the garden of the animal shelter where she lived and wagging her tail. Then, a sea of shock and insight protected me, and inclusion and care were not the only discussion topics. This was a perfect example of triumph against the odds, of affection and kinship between animal and man. It turned the stereotypical concept of broken in its head, solely portraying the benefits of waiting and its kind nature. It is notable that the relationship between Luna and me has demonstrated some lessons related to the idea of looking beneath the surface and compassion. It forced me to face my bigotry within the context of the jury, which in turn inspired me to fight for the rights of the marginalized. Here, Luna's stories have developed into a rather inspiring theme for me: everyone needs second chances, love, and respect no matter their actions.

Since the day she joined my family, she looked at me and everyone with a little fear, but right now, her eyes look so gentle and trusting. I have carried on our journey, and it motivates me and even defines my career trajectory in the fight for the welfare of animals. Through her story, I have discovered a sanctuary within myself, where the bond forged in adversity transcends words and compassion reigns. Luna's impact on my life is more than just my connection with her. Her story has impacted my professional ambition and academic pursuit. I enrolled in courses related to animal psychology and behavior, eager to understand the complications of rehabilitation and trauma in rescued animals like her. In university, there need to be animal research shelters and labs, applying theoretical understanding in real-world scenarios and advocating for understanding animals' needs and better treating them (Gee et al. Pg. 3). Professionally, I want to do something for rescue operations and welfare advocacy. I aim to join agencies committed to improving animal welfare regulations and promoting rescue operations for animals. Luna Journey has become a compelling narrative for my life, illustrating the capacity and resilience for love for all animals regardless of their past experiences. Furthermore, her presence in my life has shaped my relationship and philosophy. Her unconditional forgiveness and trust taught me about the transformative power of empathy and resilience. I have learned to approach challenges with compassion and patience, recognizing that healing in gradual processes requires support and understanding. Through Luna, I discovered my voice for advocating for change. This voice greatly amplifies the stories of animals, such as her advocacy for a more compassionate society and challenging stereotypes.

Conclusion

In conclusion, Luna's counter-story is not just about a rescue dog finding a home. It's creating a world where compassion and empathy can help shatter biases. It is a testament to the transformative power of relationships developed in hardship and a reminder that every creature deserves a chance to feel alive again. Her story is a beacon of hope, ends a call to challenge prevailing narratives and develop a more compassionate world for all beings

Works Cited

Fossati, Paola. “Challenges in Sheltering Seized Animals from Hoarders from a One Welfare Perspective.” Animals, vol. 13, no. 21, 24 Oct. 2023, pp. 3303–3303, https://doi.org/10.3390/ani13213303.

Gee, Nancy R., et al. “Human–Animal Interaction Research in School Settings: Current Knowledge and Future Directions.” AERA Open, vol. 3, no. 3, July 2017, p. 233285841772434, https://doi.org/10.1177/2332858417724346.

Wood, Lisa, et al. “The Pet Factor - Companion Animals as a Conduit for Getting to Know People, Friendship Formation and Social Support.” PLOS ONE, vol. 10, no. 4, 29 Apr. 2015, pp. 1–17, https://doi.org/10.1371/journal.pone.0122085.

Counterstory as a Descriptive Personal Narrative

Kendall Fry posted Jun 25, 2024 4:26 AM

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You are not the Same.

I was moving down the halls of Maine West high school, my freshman year. The school day was over, and I wanted to be out of there asap. My memory fails to serve me on why I was late leaving that day, which caused my rushing. But there I was, moving swiftly through the wide round-about hallways. I moved towards an exit around a corner and looked down at my phone, a Nokia with a sliding mechanism that revealed the phone's dial. I thought it was the most sophisticated piece of technology that could ever be made. Reading the text I had gotten caused me to take my eyes off who could be coming around the corner. The kid coming from the other direction must not have been paying attention either because sure enough, we bumped into each other with a slight thud. Nothing too heavy. Neither of us fell over or were going fast enough to hurt each other.

“My bad,” I said apologizing to the white kid who was about my height but skinnier. He was wearing something like a shirt with a rock band, ripped jeans and DC skateboarding shoes. Typical attire for the predominantly white school. I was wearing black air-force ones, sagging Levi jeans and a plain white tee. Not typical attire for the average Maine West student.

“Thats ok, I wasn't looking either,” the kid said. We gathered ourselves and continued to move along. Then, right after we passed, I heard someone say something that unsettled me.

There was a heavy-set white girl in the hallway who I had passed shortly before bumping into the kid. She had hot pink hair. As I rounded the corner, after the little crash, I heard her say,

“OMG, you need to be careful, or I swear to God one day you're going to get shot!” the thickened girl said jokingly to the kid I ran into. The kid gave a slight chuckle to her joke.

I could hear the amusement in her voice. She meant it jokingly and I got the joke. Black kid wearing urban attire who obviously hadn't grown up in the suburbs. I was the perfect candidate to have a gun that I could potentially use on someone that I felt wronged me, as in bumping into me in the hallway at school.

I got the joke, but I didn't like the joke. If I had the confidence and awareness I have now, I would have gone back around that corner, and informed Ms. Pink hair of her ignorance. I may have said something like,

‘Um, you do know that all not black people have guns, right?” I would imagine she would have been dumbfounded or even would attempt to make a rebuttal. A rebuttal that I would not allow because I would go on to tell her,

“Statistically, you are more likely to get shot by a white kid in school than you are by me. I'm sure, you are not aware of that because you've allowed the media to brainwash you into thinking that all black people, that don't dress or talk like you, have some “criminal” element about them.” With that I would have walked away and left my pink haired assailant with something to think about next time she had the urge to stereotype someone.

But I didn’t say that. I hadn't the confidence or the knowledge to expound on the situation as a 14-year-old kid. But I did feel in my mind that something was very wrong with what that girl had said. I felt uncomfortable, offended, and bothered all at once. From anyone who had witnessed though, they wouldn't have known my feelings. In the midst of figuring out who I was, my relation to the world and to its relation to me, I wasn't very outspoken about my feelings or thoughts. I didn’t have enough of a grasp of them to be so anyway. So, when the assumptions about who I might be came out, I just let them fly. No matter how far from the truth they were.

Both then and now, I loved rap music and everything surrounding rap culture. The clothes, the slang, the music I would blare in my headphones loud enough for those within a few feet to hear. I loved rap and many of my friends and family from Chicago do as well. I never looked at myself or those who looked like me, walked like me, and talked like me, as anything different than normal. But when I made the decision to make my way to Maine West high school, out in Des Plaines, I would find out that the world, driven by a very largely white power structure, did not see me and those that look like me as normal.

The joke Pink Hair made was a microcosm of the way many kids and even teachers at school perceived me. I grew up and went to school in Chicago up until my first year of high school. I was always a good student, and I was at Maine West. I played sports and was well mannered. I just dressed in an urban manner. Nike, Jordan, saggy jeans, ball caps turned in any direction but the front, how its “supposed” to be worn. This was the way I liked to dress. That was more than enough for the stereotypes to fly.

My clothes. My dark complexation. The portrayal of people who looked and dressed like me in the media as villains, criminals, and the scum of our society. That made it an easy decision to believe that I, a kid, could be in a gang, carry a gun, and maybe even use and sale drugs. However, when the nervous stares I got from my teachers and classmates came about, I didn't really say much. When kids would switch directions when they saw me coming down the hall, or look at me nervously when it was time to partner up in class or gym, I just took it as the way things were.

I know now, that wasn’t right. To allow stereotypes to influence one’s actions in dealing with other humans is downright not cool.  I also know now that the world isn’t necessarily right. All over the world people are treated with less respect, compassion, and empathy than they should because of prejudice and stereotypical beliefs. My remedies now are to not take things personally, pray, meditate, and inform people who give in to the stereotypes of their flawed thinking when it was appropriate.  I wish I could have given my 14-year-old self these methods then. They really could have aided me in life.

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