I was born at 12:36 pm, in the Swedish hospital in Seattle, Washington , on October 23,1997. When I was born, I weighed in at 7 pounds, and 15 ounces. I was 21 inches tall at the time. My name, Andy is made after Andrew Grove, person of the year in 1997, who invented the transistor. I was born in the same hospital as Bill Gates, and only five days ahead (not counting the years).
I have changed a lot over the years. One major change in personality is that I’m a lot less shy than I was before. I used to be scared of every new person I came across, but now I say hi, or just walk past. Also, I have a better attitude to everything. When I was smaller, I used to never want to try anything new. Now, I try everything that my common sense allows me to. I also changed a lot in terms of looks. I obviously grew taller, and I also grew skinnier. There is a distinct difference when I compare my 6 th grade id-card photo to myself today. I changed a whole lot since 5 th grade.
My days are filled with doing what I like and what I don’t. One thing I really like to do is play with yoyos. In fact, my main hobby is collecting yoyos and playing with them. I really like to yoyo because it doesn’t require much, which allows you to yoyo whenever you want, and it makes me feel really accomplished whenever I land a new trick. It is also really fun to collect yoyos because I get to see and try out all the different kinds. My favorite pastime is surfing the web. I often like to go on Facebook to see what my friends are doing, or check what new yoyos came out. My favorite subject at school is definitely math. Math is a really great subject because there are no ambiguous answers, and because it doesn’t require much memorization. As long as you get a concept, you can solve almost any problem that relies on the concept. I also like to swim and play tennis, but those are more secondary. I really don’t like to learn Chinese at Chinese school. Chinese is a very non- modern language. It takes a long time to type out. It just isn’t very well adapted to the modern world. Also, it is harder to learn Chinese. Every word in Chinese has to be memorized to read or write it. It isn’t like English where you can just sound out a word and immediately be able to read and write it. There isn’t much more that I actually dislike a lot.
Well, these are three of the eight paragraphs I wrote for school.
Brave New World has similar themes to 1984. Think about the book and what Huxley is trying to say. Do you think some version of the book's world already exists today?
ReplyDeleteBy the way, I wrote a prompt for my Creative Nonfiction class similar to your last post. A post on something we love, without using "I." I'm posting it here just so you get an idea of how other people might approach the same topic as you.
ReplyDeleteAirports are the great equalizer. The soccer mom, the downtrodden bloke, the suit and tie – they all have to walk down that great expanse of terminals. A menagerie of people is put on display, dimly lit by the airport’s blue-tinged lighting.
It’s fascinating watching these disparate threads. They’re so close to each other – only inches away – and yet so divorced from each other’s worlds. Heads look stiffly ahead or down, hands are kept occupied with paper or plastic, minds are firmly caught up in their own thoughts. What is the story of that woman over there? Well-dressed but slightly bedraggled, slouching a little in her seat – what brings her to an airport? Is she visiting a friend, a cousin? A no-good dope of a boyfriend? What about the man sitting next to her – yes, that one, the guy with the curly afro and the expensive headphones? What does he do for a living? What’s his favorite type of cereal?
Sitting with a coffee in hand, watching hundreds of people walking by (their individual life baggage towed behind them, always with that one wheel swiveling dementedly, persistently, exasperatingly), it makes for a scene that’s better than theater. Watch, as a harassed-looking businessman tries to tune out the vacationing family next to him. The children chase each other around and around and around before being planted down onto seats by their mother. There, they fidget restlessly, hands wrestling in their lap, sneaking glances over at the man when they think he’s not looking.
Look, as a tattooed, iPod-cocooned youth stands in line behind a fragile old lady. Her luggage falls over, and without a word, he stoops down and gently hands it back to her. The lady smiles a bit, but looks away, and that brief moment is all the interaction they will ever have with each other in their lifetimes.
Each person has a story to tell; each has layers of clockwork threaded through their memories. Favorite scents, unread books, dead pets, tooth brushing methods, dreaded earworms, small scars, wry smiles, broken lawnmowers, forgotten friends – there are a million, billion things that fire up a person’s life and keep it burning. But to see all these people walking by – knowing that each is a self-contained universe in of itself – it’s hard not to wonder at this grand migration, this endless stream of human bodies and textured notes and undiscovered countries.