We, as a class, read the book "Fahrenheit 451".
Draft 1:
Story Line: Mapping a Plot
Directions: When reading a story it is important to understand how the story develops. Below you will find the various parts of the story. Please 'identify evidence (using quotes and page numbers you found in the text to support your conclusions. Draw out your own
diagram with the information from the text!
1. Exposition: setting, situation/scene climate, mood
2. Conflict- what seems to be the main disagreement or cause of strife?
Art is gone- no books, no music, no creativity
3. Rising Actions events that lead up to a major event
4. CIimax the final major event
When I do something about it, create a mural or...
5. Falling Actions what is happening to bring the story to a resolution?
6. Resolution.- how is the conflict resolved?
7. Protagonist vs. Antagonist -
(Protagonist main character/hero, Antagonist main enemy of the hero)
Me gov’t
8. Peripheral Characters which other characters are involved in the story?
9. Themes that are explored
10. Author’s Intent
11. At what point do you feel like the protagonist Came-of-age?
My heart needed it. That was the way I breathed. It was one of those things you just couldn’t explain, that your life was somehow missing something without it. The thing I didn’t understand was WHY? Why would anyone take this away, Why would anyone do this to us, why, Why, WHY? I couldn’t wrap my brain around it, I just didn’t understand. Why, why, why would someone take ART away?
It was that word, those 3 little letters, that somehow made the biggest difference in my world. I yearned for it each and everyday, it practically made my world go round. See, I always told myself, if, for whatever reason, though I highly, highly doubt it ever would happened if was ever in prison, well, all I’d need was food, a Bible and a bucket of paint and I’d live. Of course, I’d need people to live, my friends and family, but still, I’d live.
It was one of those things that I couldn’t live without, it nearly completed my heart as long as I can remember. Art. Oh, that word, that made my heart flip. I loved it and even more when things changed, when times got tough, but I’ll save that for later. See, art, Art isn’t just how “pretty” something look on a canvas, or how “good” one’s drawing of a face is, or how perfectly realistic it is (I honestly think that part of the amazement of art is that despite the imperfection, it’s still beautiful). No, that’s not all of what art is. It’s when you reach in inside, inside of yourself, inside of your heart and throw into onto a canvas, with true and real meaning behind it. That, my friend, is true ART. It’s what it means and does to you and to the world. It’s a mean and way of expression, individuality and creativity. For me, it didn’t always matter what I was creating, just knowing I had the absolute freedom to do it. Freedom. That itself is so important to me, because what are we without it? and the best way for me to be free, truly free, is through ART.
Draft 2:
Story Line: Mapping a Plot
Directions: When reading a story it is important to understand how the story develops. Below you will find the various parts of the story. Please 'identify evidence (using quotes and page numbers you found in the text to support your conclusions. Draw out your own
diagram with the information from the text!
1. Exposition: setting, situation/scene climate, mood
2. Conflict- what seems to be the main disagreement or cause of strife?
Art is gone- no books, no music, no creativity, character already faces conflict(s), and with ART taken away its even harder
3. Rising Actions events that lead up to a major event
How is this taken away?, goes through stages of grief, anger, frustration
4. CIimax the final major event
When I do something about it, create a mural or...
5. Falling Actions what is happening to bring the story to a resolution?
6. Resolution.- how is the conflict resolved?
7. Protagonist vs. Antagonist -
(Protagonist main character/hero, Antagonist main enemy of the hero)
Me gov’t
8. Peripheral Characters which other characters are involved in the story?
9. Themes that are explored
fight for your freedom
10. Author’s Intent
What do I want the audience to take away? if it’s that important, that meaningful to you, fight for it, “If it’s hard, it’s even more worth it”
11. At what point do you feel like the protagonist Came-of-age?
The “checks”- gov’t comes and raids houses of ART and creativity
ART. It was that word, those 3 little letters, that somehow made the biggest difference in my world. My heart needed it. That was the way I breathed. It was one of those things you just couldn’t explain, that your life was somehow missing something without it. The thing I didn’t understand was WHY? Why would anyone take this away, Why would anyone do this to us, why, Why, WHY? I couldn’t wrap my brain around it, I just didn’t understand. Why, why, why would someone take ART away?
It was that word, those 3 little letters, that somehow made the biggest difference in my world. I yearned for it each and everyday, it practically made my world go round. See, I always told myself, if, for whatever reason, though I highly, highly doubt it ever would happened if was ever in prison, well, all I’d need was food, a Bible and a bucket of paint and I’d live. Of course, I’d need people to live, my friends and family, but still, I’d live.
It was one of those things that I couldn’t live without, it nearly completed my heart as long as I can remember. Art. Oh, that word, that made my heart flip. I loved it and even more when things changed, when times got tough, but I’ll save that for later. See, art, Art isn’t just how “pretty” something look on a canvas, or how “good” one’s drawing of a face is, or how perfectly realistic it is (I honestly think that part of the amazement of art is that despite the imperfection, it’s still beautiful). No, that’s not all of what art is. It’s when you reach in inside, inside of yourself, inside of your heart and throw into onto a canvas, with true and real meaning behind it. That, my friend, is true ART. It’s what it means and does to you and to the world. It’s a mean and way of expression, individuality and creativity. For me, it didn’t always matter what I was creating, just knowing I had the absolute freedom to do it. Freedom. That itself is so important to me, because what are we without it? and the best way for me to be free, truly free, is through ART.
I mean, what would you do, if your freedom got taken away?
I was
Draft 3:
Story Line: Mapping a Plot
Directions: When reading a story it is important to understand how the story develops. Below you will find the various parts of the story. Please 'identify evidence (using quotes and page numbers you found in the text to support your conclusions. Draw out your own
diagram with the information from the text!
1. Exposition: setting, situation/scene climate, mood
2. Conflict- what seems to be the main disagreement or cause of strife?
Art is gone- no books, no music, no creativity, character already faces conflict(s), and with ART taken away its even harder
3. Rising Actions events that lead up to a major event
How is this taken away?, goes through stages of grief, anger, frustration
4. CIimax the final major event
When I do something about it, create a mural or..., drop out of school
5. Falling Actions what is happening to bring the story to a resolution?
6. Resolution.- how is the conflict resolved?
7. Protagonist vs. Antagonist -
(Protagonist main character/hero, Antagonist main enemy of the hero)
Me gov’t
8. Peripheral Characters which other characters are involved in the story?
9. Themes that are explored
fight for your freedom, follow your heart, though the whole world may be against you
10. Author’s Intent
What do I want the audience to take away? if it’s that important, that meaningful to you, fight for it, “If it’s hard, it’s even more worth it”, don’t be afraid to be different and flow our heart no matter what’s against you
11. At what point do you feel like the protagonist Came-of-age?
Ideas:
Questions:
ART. It was that word, those three3 little letters, that somehow made the biggest difference in my world. My heart needed it. That was the way I breathed. It was one of those things you just couldn’t explain, that your life was somehow missing something without it. The thing I didn’t understand was WHY? Why would anyone take this away, Why would anyone do this to us?, why, Why, WHY? I couldn’t wrap my brain around it, I just didn’t understand. Why, why, why would someone take ART away?
I yearned for it each and everyday, it practically made my world go round. See, I always told myself, if, for whatever reason, though I highly, highly doubt it ever would happened if was ever in prison, well, all I’d need was food, a Bible and a bucket of paint and I’d live. Of course, I’d need people to live, my friends and family, but still, I’d live.
It was one of those things that I couldn’t live without, it nearly completed my heart as long as I can remember. Art. Oh, that word, that made my heart flip. I loved it and even more when things changed, when times got tough, but I’ll save that for later. See, art, Art isn’t just how “pretty” something look on a canvas, or how “good” one’s drawing of a face is, or how perfectly realistic it is (I honestly think that part of the amazement of art is that despite the imperfection, it’s still beautiful). No, that’s not all of what art is. It’s when you reach in inside, inside of yourself, inside of your heart and throw into onto a canvas, with true and real meaning behind it. That, my friend, is true ART. It’s what it means and does to you and to the world. It’s a mean and way of expression, individuality and creativity. For me, it didn’t always matter what I was creating, just knowing I had the absolute freedom to do it. Freedom. That itself is so important to me, because what are we without it? Aand the best way for me to be free, truly free, is through ART.
But, a huge piece of me was now lost. And what I most feared was the fact that I may not get it back.
I mean, what would you do, if your freedom got taken away?
Imagine, how was I supposed to go on like this, act as if nothing had changed, like my heart hadn’t been ripped apart. Do you expect me to live the lie of ‘no art’?
There came a part in my life where I just couldn’t go one, no, not living like this, in disgusting emptiness and captivity.
The thought, of no art, creativity or in my case freedom, that alone, made me sick.
“How, HOW can you all stand this? Living in captivity, living in filth and disgrace of no freedom, no creativity?! It’s more than just a painting, a brush and paint, more than notes and the lovely sounds of music, it’s more than pretty colors, more than dancing or singing that I’m fighting for. It’s beauty and expression, to be ourselves, the chance to be free, to LIVE again.”
And with that I ran, knowing I was soon to get arrested, I ran and ran and ran. But, I knew, I know, you can’t run forever, someday you’ll have to face your troubles, but I’m ready, with Art back on my side, what had I to fear? One can take a girl’s brushes and canvas, but one can’t take away one’s soul, her source of art and creativity away.
Art, it gave the freedom to be different, to truly be myself, purely me! (Something I rarely tasted, yet constantly longed for.) It was the way I breathed, and freedom is what I was breathing.
I mean, of course you could be different anywhere, but with Art I was fully and completely accepted, better than hardly anywhere else.
Without Art, I had almost forgotten how to smile.
How could one man be so sick as to take another man’s freedom away? Why would anyone even think of doing something like this? These were thoughts that constantly ran through my mind.
I wanted everyone to see how the world once was, the beauty of it.
Art was always there I could lean on it, whenever I needed it. It helped me when no one else really could. It accepted me, let me be myself, let me be.
That day, I painted a horse, because I oddly considered myself one of them, a horse. Running, that’s why I considered myself a horse. Because when I imagine running, when you just kept going, where there’s no end, there are no limits or boundaries, you are free. And horses, well, they run, run a lot, at least that’s how I imagine them, just them and an open field or pasture, the green, endless around them, trees, strong and beautiful. Can’t you just taste it taste the freedom.
The feel of the brush, ah. So soothing and calm. Letting you use and control it, letting you do whatever you wanted with it.
You know, as I think about, it really wasn’t the brushes or the paint or the canvas, that’s not what Art is really about. If you took those elements away, you’d still have Art. It’s the soul, really, that’s the true source of Art.
Just me and the blank, white page, a pen ready, just have to open my heart and look straight into my soul... pull it out and somehow put it on the empty page.
Why do we want to be free? Because, things like freedom, be understood, being accepted and loved those things, those are important, something everyone wants, something real and true, something we strive for. I'm so abundantly creative, I need to express myself, some how, some way,
I was
Draft
Story Line: Mapping a Plot
Directions: When reading a story it is important to understand how the story develops. Below you will find the various parts of the story. Please 'identify evidence (using quotes and page numbers you found in the text to support your conclusions. Draw out your own
diagram with the information from the text!
1. Exposition: setting, situation/scene climate, mood
2. Conflict- what seems to be the main disagreement or cause of strife?
Art is gone- no books, no music, no creativity, character already faces conflict(s), and with ART taken away its even harder, people and family don’t get her, people/family= technology, shallow/fake, meaningless, structured
3. Rising Actions events that lead up to a major event
How is this taken away?, goes through stages of grief, anger, frustration
4. CIimax the final major event
When I do something about it, create a mural or..., drop out of school
5. Falling Actions what is happening to bring the story to a resolution?
6. Resolution.- how is the conflict resolved?
7. Protagonist vs. Antagonist -
(Protagonist main character/hero, Antagonist main enemy of the hero)
Me (Esperanza Joy) world (family, too) gov’t
8. Peripheral Characters which other characters are involved in the story?
brother, Art
9. Themes that are explored
fight for your freedom, follow your heart, though the whole world may be against you
10. Author’s Intent
What do I want the audience to take away? if it’s that important, that meaningful to you, fight for it, “If it’s hard, it’s even more worth it”, don’t be afraid to be different and flow our heart no matter what’s against you go against the crowd
11. At what point do you feel like the protagonist Came-of-age?
Ideas:
Questions:
ART. It was that word, those three little letters, that somehow made the biggest difference in my world. My heart needed it. That was the way I breathed. It was one of those things you just couldn’t explain, that your life was somehow missing something without it. The thing I didn’t understand was WHY? Why would anyone take this away, Why would anyone do this to us? I couldn’t wrap my brain around it, I just didn’t understand. Why would someone take ART away?
I yearned for it each and everyday, it practically made my world go round. See, I always told myself, if, for whatever reason, though I highly, highly doubt it ever would happened if was ever in prison, well, all I’d need was food, a Bible and a bucket of paint and I’d live. Of course, I’d need people to live, my friends and family, but still, I’d live.
It was one of those things that I couldn’t live without, it nearly completed my heart as long as I can remember. Art. Oh, that word, that made my heart flip. I loved it and even more when things changed, when times got tough. See, art, Art isn’t just how “pretty” something look on a canvas, or how “good” one’s drawing of a face is, or how perfectly realistic it is (I honestly think that part of the amazement of art is that despite the imperfection, it’s still beautiful). No, that’s not all of what art is. It’s when you reach in inside, inside of yourself, inside of your heart and throw into onto a canvas, with true and real meaning behind it. That, my friend, is true ART. It’s what it means and does to you and to the world. It’s a mean and way of expression, individuality and creativity. For me, it didn’t always matter what I was creating, just knowing I had the absolute freedom to do it. Freedom. That itself is so important to me, because what are we without it? And the best way for me to be free, truly free, is through ART.
But, a huge piece of me was now lost. The thought, of no art, creativity or in my case freedom, that alone, made me sick. And what I most feared was the fact that I may not get it back. I mean, what would you do, if your freedom got taken away?
Art, it gave the freedom to be different, to truly be myself, purely me! (Something I rarely tasted, yet constantly longed for.) It was the way I breathed, and freedom is what I was breathing. I mean, of course you could be different anywhere, but with Art I was fully and completely accepted, better than hardly anywhere else. Art was always there I could lean on it, whenever I needed it. It helped me when no one else really could. It accepted me, let me be myself, let me be. I’m so abundantly creative, I need to express myself, some way, somehow... And they took it away.
They took it. Not all at once but over a short time. They shut down the shops, the supply stores, with paint and brushes and canvases, paper, cans... inside them. They took anything creative or art resembling away. They took some much of things you could create art with. They took colors away, in a sense. They took most of the transportation away, so you couldn’t go places to get inspired, so you couldn’t leave. They took away music, dance, singing, books, writing, films, anything at all creative, they took it. They secured off nature, put blinds on our windows. The world was blah and lifeless, meaningless, boring, plain and dark. It was the kind of world I never thought could, much less would, exist. And that’s the world I wake up to, dreading it, everyday.
But, a huge piece of me was now lost. And what I most feared was the fact that I may not get it back. I mean, what would you do, if your freedom got taken away?
Imagine, how was I supposed to go on like this, act as if nothing had changed, like my heart hadn’t been ripped apart. Do you expect me to live the lie of ‘no art’?
There came a part in my life where I just couldn’t go one, no, not living like this, in disgusting emptiness and captivity.
The thought, of no art, creativity or in my case freedom, that alone, made me sick.
What made it even harder was that I was already struggling and going through discomfort. My family, the people around me, the world, it felt like, just didn’t understand me, who I was or why I was the way I was. It was so hard, to face the world, the day, with the burden of unacceptance and not being understand, not even by your family. They were so shallow, only caring of themselves and things that were meaningless with no flavor or taste, and wouldn’t last. I cared of things of value, memory, hope, love, and beauty, things that I felt were lost. I wasn’t like most 17 year-olds, as you can imagine. In fact I wasn’t like most at all, any age. But, some day, I hoped, that would change.
I woke up every morning to the Siren, blaring its loud, obnoxious horn. I dressed in clothes of black, gray and white, my least favorite colors. Down to breakfast I headed, and I never looked forward to meals, for the food was just as flavorless as society. But, somehow, my family enjoyed it. I couldn’t understand it. Enjoying tastelessness, how? All of them that is except, my brother.
My brother, Barnabas. He was different, and special. He understood me, and even when he didn’t he still loved me. It was so rare that I tasted that. He was a brother, not an annoying one, one I could be myself and genuinely cared about me with love and loyalty. We’d mess around and joke, we’d think and push each other. He’d encourage me. And I felt like we were some of the only people that actually lived.
He was one of my few luxuries and pleasures, amongst me black world. And fortunate for me, he was coming home for a little while. Unfortunately, my brother was a legal adult of 23 and served in our army, something that made me proud. When he was gone I missed him terribly, but I had the comfort of him visiting home to bring me hope, which I definitely needed.
After breakfast
“How, HOW can you all stand this? Living in captivity, living in filth and disgrace of no freedom, no creativity?! It’s more than just a painting, a brush and paint, more than notes and the lovely sounds of music, it’s more than pretty colors, more than dancing or singing that I’m fighting for. It’s beauty and expression, to be ourselves, the chance to be free, to LIVE again.”
And with that I ran, knowing I was soon to get arrested, I ran and ran and ran. But, I knew, I know, you can’t run forever, someday you’ll have to face your troubles, but I’m ready, with Art back on my side, what had I to fear? One can take a girl’s brushes and canvas, but one can’t take away one’s soul, her source of art and creativity away.
Art, it gave the freedom to be different, to truly be myself, purely me! (Something I rarely tasted, yet constantly longed for.) It was the way I breathed, and freedom is what I was breathing.
I mean, of course you could be different anywhere, but with Art I was fully and completely accepted, better than hardly anywhere else.
Without Art, I had almost forgotten how to smile.
How could one man be so sick as to take another man’s freedom away? Why would anyone even think of doing something like this? These were thoughts that constantly ran through my mind.
I wanted everyone to see how the world once was, the beauty of it.
Art was always there I could lean on it, whenever I needed it. It helped me when no one else really could. It accepted me, let me be myself, let me be.
That day, I painted a horse, because I oddly considered myself one of them, a horse. Running, that’s why I considered myself a horse. Because when I imagine running, when you just kept going, where there’s no end, there are no limits or boundaries, you are free. And horses, well, they run, run a lot, at least that’s how I imagine them, just them and an open field or pasture, the green, endless around them, trees, strong and beautiful. Can’t you just taste it taste the freedom.
The feel of the brush, ah. So soothing and calm. Letting you use and control it, letting you do whatever you wanted with it.
You know, as I think about, it really wasn’t the brushes or the paint or the canvas, that’s not what Art is really about. If you took those elements away, you’d still have Art. It’s the soul, really, that’s the true source of Art.
Just me and the blank, white page, a pen ready, just have to open my heart and look straight into my soul... pull it out and somehow put it on the empty page. The feel of the brush, ah. So soothing and calm. Letting you use and control it, letting you do whatever you wanted with it.
Why do we want to be free? Because, things like freedom, be understood, being accepted and loved those things, those are important, something everyone wants, something real and true, something we strive for.
I wanted everyone to see how the world once was, the beauty of it.
Imagine, how was I supposed to go on like this, act as if nothing had changed, like my heart hadn’t been ripped apart. Do you expect me to live the lie of ‘no art’?
There came a part in my life where I just couldn’t go one, no, not living like this, in disgusting emptiness and captivity.
The first few days after
At first I was mad, not the kind where I’d let it out, the type that you kept pushing down, not knowing what to do with it.
But, here I am, now, with my anger bubbling up inside me and there’s really no other place for it to go but out.
What made it even harder was that I was already struggling, going through discomfort.
Questions: How could one man be so sick as to take another man’s freedom away? Why would anyone even think of doing something like this? These were thoughts that constantly ran through my mind.
That day, I painted a horse, because I oddly considered myself one of them, a horse. Running, that’s why I considered myself a horse. Because when I imagine running, when you just kept going, where there’s no end, there are no limits or boundaries, you are free. And horses, well, they run, run a lot, at least that’s how I imagine them, just them and an open field or pasture, the green, endless around them, trees, strong and beautiful. Can’t you just taste it, taste the freedom?
Ending:
And now, now, I travel the world, and each place I leave a piece of me, a piece of my heart and story behind me. The world will see and know me. But most importantly they’ll know the my Art, and the message behind it. The message of being true to yourself, the message of being strong enough to face your troubles, the message of not being afraid to be different, no matter the odds of the cost. The message of truly being free and living. Three letters, one word, my world. ART.
I could hear the Checkers at the door, I panicked, knowing they were going to eventually catch me. As they past through the house, their footsteps grew louder, nearing my room. I held my breath, waiting. What would they do with me, arrest me, lock me away? What would I do? I closed my eyes wondering if they knew. Knew about the secret studio and my diary and my Art.
It hadn’t always been this way, there was a time when I was free:
I remember walking through fields, running in the forests, green all around me, the creatures we’d find, the secrets we’d discover. Painting with my brother, smiling. Without Art, I had almost forgotten how to smile. But, still, the fluid paint, the stiff and soft bristles of the brushes, the open and white canvas... Reality woke me in the form of my teacher, staring down at me, waiting for my answer to the question I didn’t know.
“What?” I asked.
“What,” She paused in frustration, “Is the name of our leader in 1976?”
“Crikwell, Kyle Frat Crikwell,” I answered, glad I just slipped out of that situation.
“That’s correct,” Mrs. Cauldrick said. She leaned down at me and whispered coldly, “Don’t let that happen again, don’t give me another reason to dislike you.”
I tried not to let her stinging words bother me. I was sick of her and the pointless we learned. The things we learned irritated me, I didn’t think they had any meaning or real value, but, despite my complaints and pushing back, asking them to reconsider and possibly change, they’d never budge. Another obstacle to face everyday.
“Mr. Stringer,” I questioned, “Why do we need to learn ‘y=mx+b’?”
“Because,” He answered, “You’ll need it in life someday.”
“But.. when will we...?”
He left before I could finish.
“I don’t understand, Ms. Prathia. Why does it matter how cumulonimbus clouds are formed, or when Facebook went out of date, or the gas prices of 2024 or the TV show we watched last night? Why does it matter!?” I tried not to get upset, but I typically wound up it the Principle’s office.
Do you know why you’re here, Esperanza?
I’m so abundantly creative, I needed to express myself, some way, somehow.
Draft 2:
Story Line: Mapping a Plot
Directions: When reading a story it is important to understand how the story develops. Below you will find the various parts of the story. Please identify evidence (using quotes and page numbers you found in the text to support your conclusions. Draw out your own diagram with the information from the text!
1. Exposition: setting, situation/scene climate, mood
2. Conflict- what seems to be the main disagreement or cause of strife?
Art is gone- no books, no music, no creativity, character already faces conflict(s), and with ART taken away its even harder, people and family don’t get her, people/family= technology, shallow/fake, meaningless, structured
3. Rising Actions events that lead up to a major event
How is this taken away?, goes through stages of grief, anger, frustration; brother dies, she feels like giving up
4. CIimax the final major event
When I do something about it, create a mural or..., drop out of school
5. Falling Actions what is happening to bring the story to a resolution?
comes back
6. Resolution.- how is the conflict resolved?
shows art pieces in the shape of a heart to everyone, publicly, it touches everyone, travels the world
7. Protagonist vs. Antagonist -
(Protagonist main character/hero, Antagonist main enemy of the hero)
Me (Esperanza Joy) world (family, too)
8. Peripheral Characters which other characters are involved in the story?
brother, Art
9. Themes that are explored
fight for your freedom, follow your heart, though the whole world may be against you
10. Author’s Intent
What do I want the audience to take away? if it’s that important, that meaningful to you, fight for it, “If it’s hard, it’s even more worth it”, don’t be afraid to be different and flow our heart no matter what’s against you go against the crowd
11. At what point do you feel like the protagonist Came-of-age?
Ideas:
ART. It was that word, those three little letters, that somehow made the biggest difference in my world. My heart needed it. That was the way I breathed. It was one of those things you just couldn’t explain, that your life was somehow missing something without it. The thing I didn’t understand was WHY? Why would anyone take this away, Why would anyone do this to us? I couldn’t wrap my brain around it, I just didn’t understand. Why would someone take ART away?
I yearned for it each and everyday, it practically made my world go round. See, I always told myself, if, for whatever reason, though I highly, highly doubt it ever would happened if was ever in prison, well, all I’d need was food, a Bible and a bucket of paint and I’d live. Of course, I’d need people to live, my friends and family, but still, I’d live.
It was one of those things that I couldn’t live without, it nearly completed my heart as long as I can remember. Art. Oh, that word, that made my heart flip. I loved it and even more when things changed, when times got tough. See, art, Art isn’t just how “pretty” something look on a canvas, or how “good” one’s drawing of a face is, or how perfectly realistic it is (I honestly think that part of the amazement of art is that despite the imperfection, it’s still beautiful). No, that’s not all of what art is. It’s when you reach in inside, inside of yourself, inside of your heart and throw into onto a canvas, with true and real meaning behind it. That, my friend, is true ART. It’s what it means and does to you and to the world. It’s a mean and way of expression, individuality and creativity. For me, it didn’t always matter what I was creating, just knowing I had the absolute freedom to do it. Freedom. That itself is so important to me, because what are we without it? And the best way for me to be free, truly free, is through ART.
But, a huge piece of me was now lost. The thought, of no art, creativity or in my case freedom, that alone, made me sick. And what I most feared was the fact that I may not get it back. I mean, what would you do, if your freedom got taken away?
Art, it gave the freedom to be different, to truly be myself, purely me! (Something I rarely tasted, yet constantly longed for.) It was the way I breathed, and freedom is what I was breathing. I mean, of course you could be different anywhere, but with Art I was fully and completely accepted, better than hardly anywhere else. Art was always there I could lean on it, whenever I needed it. It helped me when no one else really could. It accepted me, let me be myself, let me be. I’m so abundantly creative, I need to express myself, some way, somehow... And they took it away.
They took it. Not all at once but over a short time. They shut down the shops, the supply stores, with paint and brushes and canvases, paper, cans... inside them. They took anything creative or art resembling away. They took some much of things you could create art with. They took colors away, in a sense. They took most of the transportation away, so you couldn’t go places to get inspired, so you couldn’t leave. They took away music, dance, singing, books, writing, films, anything at all creative, they took it. They secured off nature, put blinds on our windows. The world was blah and lifeless, meaningless, boring, plain and dark. It was the kind of world I never thought could, much less would, exist. And that’s the world I wake up to, dreading it, everyday.
What made it even harder was that I was already struggling and going through discomfort. My family, the people around me, the world, it felt like, just didn’t understand me, who I was or why I was the way I was. It was so hard, to face the world, the day, with the burden of unacceptance and not being understand, not even by your family. They were so shallow, only caring of themselves and things that were meaningless with no flavor or taste, and wouldn’t last. I cared of things of value, memory, hope, love, and beauty, things that I felt were lost. I wasn’t like most 17 year-olds, as you can imagine. In fact I wasn’t like most at all, any age. But, some day, I hoped, that would change.
I woke up every morning to the Siren, blaring its loud, obnoxious horn. I dressed in clothes of black, gray and white, my least favorite colors. Down to breakfast I headed, and I never looked forward to meals, for the food was just as flavorless as society. But, somehow, my family enjoyed it. I couldn’t understand it. Enjoying tastelessness, how? All of them that is except, my brother.
My brother, Barnabas. He was different, and special. He understood me, and even when he didn’t he still loved me. It was so rare that I tasted that. He was a brother, not an annoying one, one I could be myself and genuinely cared about me with love and loyalty. We’d mess around and joke, we’d think and push each other. He’d encourage me. And I felt like we were some of the only people that actually lived.
He was one of my few luxuries and pleasures, amongst me black world. And fortunate for me, he was coming home for a little while. Unfortunately, my brother was a legal adult of 23 and served in our army, something that made me proud. When he was gone I missed him terribly, but I had the comfort of him visiting home to bring me hope, which I definitely needed.
After breakfast, I was off on my way to a disgusting idea of a “learning community”, school. I road the public bus that everyone took, because there was really nothing else. The government wanted to control everything. Take away transportation, so a man can’t go any where. Sure, a man can run, but not very far.... at least before they’d catch you...
School, there was really nothing much to say about it, except that I considered it a waste of time, the stuff we as students learned and what people did in their freetime. They were practically glued to their H.A.N.D.s (Handular Accessible Networking Device), a phone computer and ipod, right in the palm of your hand. With this things that were real and true, such as Art, were practically gone, everything was fairly meaningless; Like a conversation I had with a group of girls when I tried to fit it once:
“So, Coper,” Angelina, the head of the group said, “Which shade of pink should I put on my H.A.N.D. case, so it matches my outfit?”
“Pink, really? According to Frenio Balanski pink is really out, every one has violet now.”
“Well, fine. But I still have that date with Bryan Crice and I’m trying to decide if we should iceskate or rollerblade for our Virtu-date. This is a really important decision for me.”
“I don’t know what to do, Hartly Nalebore, my newest boyfriend, only likes to Virtu-ski together.”
“Well, that’s not much of a help.”
“Hey, new girl, Essy,” Angelina asked when no one else spoke up in answer, “Got any ideas?”
“Me?” I asked, wondering why they’d ask me, I wasn’t the prettiest or popular, I was really nobody, actually.
“Yeah.”
“Uh, I don’t know,” I answered bluntly.
“Fine! Anyway, I started watching this new TV series on my H.A.N.D....,” Angelina continued as I walked anyway.
See, see what I mean. This is why I don’t fit in, this is why people make me mad. We don’t just not get each other, but it’s why we don’t. They are so disgustingly shallow. The things they talk about don’t matter, won’t last, are meaningless and unimportant. Uh, it drives me crazy. But, I just stuff it away, there’s nothing I can do, just try to blend in no matter how sick it makes me.
Now, normally, Ha! I hate that word. So, boring and unreal, what does it mean anyway? Why would one want to be ‘normal’ Oh! These were questions I constantly asked myself, but unfortunately... I have to pretend to be ‘normal’. Anyway, usually, I’d have Art to lean on, to paint with but now....
I came home everyday from school angry, angry about my life and what they had done. No one even understood, no one cared about me and my brokenness or about the lost in general of Art. But, the worst part was it, Art, wasn’t even there to lean on, to help me through my troubles. The absence of it sickened me. Made me SO mad! But what could I do, I was only a 17, not even a legal adult, but that didn’t really matter because the government controlled everything anyway. Uh! How was I supposed to go on like this, act as if nothing had changed, like my heart hadn’t been ripped apart. Am I expected to live the lie of ‘no art’?
But, I just had to plaster a fake smile on my face and act as if everything were hunky dory, that my best friend wasn’t gone, that I didn’t have much hope left in me. I was still mad be I just stuffed in down inside me. Not the kind of anger where I’d let it out, the type that you kept pushing down, not knowing what to do with it. “Just wear the smile.”
The only thing that did give me hope, as I said, was my brother. We’d go on walks a lot and talk, just talk, as if nothing had changed. Living like the good old times. I looked forward to those times, that we’d do this. And, thankfully, one of them was right around the corner, two more days and he’d be home for a little while.
Once, I got home, I went to my room, then slid a horizontal board on my wall, unnoticeable to the human eye, across and entered what I called my “Secret Studio”. I, then, moved the board back to it’s place. No one knew it was here that’s the best part, I could be, just be, myself.
Then, I cried. Cried about school and family, people and Art. Where was it, I needed it. I needed to breathe needed to be free. Why do we want to be free? Because, things like freedom, be understood, being accepted and loved those things, those are important, something everyone wants, something real and true, something we strive for. Something, I didn’t have. Oh, it made me mad! I was sick of just putting down my feelings, pushing my anger away. I let the tears run down my face feeling absolutely helpless.
The tears blurred my sight and I closed my eyes. I wept quietly and my mind brought me back to a time.
We were laughing, just the two of us. Like two free horses, we run, ran through the fields, there were no limits. The wind blew my hair, filling my lungs. After a while, Barnabas and I went home. I painted while he talked, talked of his dreams, letting his thoughts float freely throughout the room. I led the brush this way and that. The feel of the brush, ah. So soothing and calm. Letting you use and control it, letting you do whatever you wanted with it. The open page, ready, ready for our to pour yourself into it. We laughed again.
As I opened my eyes, I realized it was late, late because I could hear the blinds going down, meaning going to be was coming soon.
I went to my plain bed, longing just for the touch of a brush, the feel of wet paint, oh... I closed my eyes with the thought of free houses, running, wild, chasing, running....free.
The next day, I awoke to the sirens. The day I went through the usual routine, same boring, cold stuff as usual. Sickening, was no one alive, was nothing real. I hoped and longed for the day when the World woke up.
The next day, though, couldn’t come soon enough. My brother was coming home! That, that I could hold onto for hope.
My brother came into my room, waking my from my sleep. Not in a long time had I wanted to come from dreaming and face my reality, but now, he was here!
I hugged him, overwhelmed with joy. We were so happy to see each other, at first we just stared. Then we laugh, the kind we both hadn’t done in a long while, too long.
He then greeted the rest of the family. I had to go off to school, but I told him I’d see him after.
“I can’t wait,” We both said.
Throughout the day, I could barely pay attention, I had long awaited this time, where we’d be together, together, finally, with someone who really got me. Something I rarely had.
I was so excited after school, on the way home I could barely contain it. One person, on the bus noticed and said,
“You excited for the finale episode of Mario and Susan, I can’t wait.”
“Uh, yeah, sure,” I lied hastily.
When I got off, I ran to the door, and rushed inside. I greeted my brother with a huge hug.
“Hey, Essy, want to hit the path?”
“Yes!” I answered. The path was the path we always took, the one that really connected us, the one we went on since we could walk and talk.
As we walked, he started to explain how his division of the military got sent up to the battlefield.
“The battlefield! What, no, you’ll get killed,” I cried.
“No, I wouldn’t I’ll be fine, don’t you worry. So what’s going on with you?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t lie. You know you can tell me.”
“I know, you’re the only one I can tell. It just hurts, that’s all,” I sadly stated. “It’s just that Art is gone, and no one has any idea how hard it is. I mean Art was and is so much to me, it’s what I always leaned on. And I’d lean more on it when you were gone and when people didn’t understand me, which is always. I just don’t know if I can go on this way. It makes me SO MAD!”
“I know how you feel. In fact, I brought a little gift for you. I think it’ll help.”
Out of the backpack he was carrying he pulled it out. No, Yes! Yes, is this really happening.
He pulled out
“How, HOW can you all stand this? Living in captivity, living in filth and disgrace of no freedom, no creativity?! It’s more than just a painting, a brush and paint, more than notes and the lovely sounds of music, it’s more than pretty colors, more than dancing or singing that I’m fighting for. It’s beauty and expression, to be ourselves, the chance to be free, to LIVE again.”
And with that I ran, knowing I was soon to get arrested, I ran and ran and ran. But, I knew, I know, you can’t run forever, someday you’ll have to face your troubles, but I’m ready, with Art back on my side, what had I to fear? One can take a girl’s brushes and canvas, but one can’t take one’s soul, her source of art and creativity awa
y.
You know, as I think about, it really wasn’t the brushes or the paint or the canvas, that’s not what Art is really about. If you took those elements away, you’d still have Art. It’s the soul, really, that’s the true source of Art. Just me and the blank, white page, a pen ready, just have to open my heart and look straight into my soul... pull it out and somehow put it on the empty page. The feel of the brush, ah. So soothing and calm. Letting you use and control it, letting you do whatever you wanted with it.
I wanted everyone to see how the world once was, the beauty of it.
There came a part in my life where I just couldn’t go one, no, not living like this, in disgusting emptiness and captivity.
But, here I am, now, with my anger bubbling up inside me and there’sImagine, how was I supposed to go on like this, act as if nothing had changed, like my heart hadn’t been ripped apart. Do you expect me to live the lie of ‘no art’?
really no other place for it to go but out.
What made it even harder was that I wasWhy do we want to be free? Because, things like freedom, be understood, being accepted and loved those things, those are important, something everyone wants, something real and true, something we strive for.
already struggling, going through disc
The first few days after
At first I was mad, not the kind where I’d let it out, the type that you kept pushing down, not knowing what to do with it. omfort.
Questions: How could one man be so sick as to take another man’s freedom away? Why would anyone even think of doing something like this? These were thoughts that constantly ran through my mind.
That day, I painted a horse, because I oddly considered myself one of them, a horse. Running, that’s why I considered myself a horse. Because when I imagine running, when you just kept going, where there’s no end, there are no limits or boundaries, you are free. And horses, well, they run, run a lot, at least that’s how I imagine them, just them and an open field or pasture, the green, endless around them, trees, strong and beautiful. Can’t you just taste it, taste the freedom?
Ending:
And now, now, I travel the world, and each place I leave a piece of me, a piece of my heart and story behind me. The world will see and know me. But most importantly they’ll know the my Art, and the message behind it. The message of being true to yourself, the message of being strong enough to face your troubles, the message of not being afraid to be different, no matter the odds of the cost. The message of truly being free and living. Three letters, one word, my world. ART.
I could hear the Checkers at the door, I panicked, knowing they were going to eventually catch me. As they past through the house, their footsteps grew louder, nearing my room. I held my breath, waiting. What would they do with me, arrest me, lock me away? What would I do? I closed my eyes wondering if they knew. Knew about the secret studio and my diary and my Art.
It hadn’t always been this way, there was a time when I was free:
I remember walking through fields, running in the forests, green all around me, the creatures we’d find, the secrets we’d discover. Painting with my brother, smiling. Without Art, I had almost forgotten how to smile. But, still, the fluid paint, the stiff and soft bristles of the brushes, the open and white canvas... Reality woke me in the form of my teacher, staring down at me, waiting for my answer to the question I didn’t know.
“What?” I asked.
“What,” She paused in frustration, “Is the name of our leader in 1976?”
“Crikwell, Kyle Frat Crikwell,” I answered, glad I just slipped out of that situation.
“That’s correct,” Mrs. Cauldrick said. She leaned down at me
and whispered coldly, “Don’t let that happen again, don’t give me another reason to dislike you.”
I tried not to let her stinging words bother me. I was sick of her and the pointless we learned. The things we learned irritated me, I didn’t think they had any meaning or real value, but, despite my complaints and pushing back, asking them to reconsider and possibly change, they’d never budge. Another obstacle to face everyday.
“Mr. Stringer,” I questioned, “Why do we need to learn ‘y=mx+b’?”
“Because,” He answered, “You’ll need it in life someday.”
“But.. when will we...?”
He left before I could finish.
“I don’t understand, Ms. Prathia. Why does it matter how cumulonimbus clouds are formed, or when Facebook went out of date, or the gas prices of 2024 or the TV show we watched last night? Why does it matter!?” I tried not to get upset.
throughout this we see her need and the absence of Art
, but I typically wound up it the Principle’s office.
Do you know why you’re here, Esperanza?
Story Line: Mapping a Plot
Directions: When reading a story it is important to understand how the story develops. Below you will find the various parts of the story. Please 'identify evidence (using quotes and page numbers you found in the text to support your conclusions. Draw out your own
diagram with the information from the text!
1. Exposition: setting, situation/scene climate, mood
2. Conflict- what seems to be the main disagreement or cause of strife?
Art is gone- no books, no music, no creativity, character already faces conflict(s), and with ART taken away its even harder, people and family don’t get her, people/family= technology, shallow/fake, meaningless, structured
3. Rising Actions events that lead up to a major event
How is this taken away?, goes through stages of grief, anger, frustration; brother dies, she feels like giving up
4. CIimax the final major event
When I do something about it, create a mural or..., drop out of school
5. Falling Actions what is happening to bring the story to a resolution?
comes back
6. Resolution.- how is the conflict resolved?
shows art pieces in the shape of a heart to everyone, publicly, it touches everyone, travels the world
7. Protagonist vs. Antagonist -
(Protagonist main character/hero, Antagonist main enemy of the hero)
Me (Esperanza Joy) world (family, too)
8. Peripheral Characters which other characters are involved in the story?
brother, Art
9. Themes that are explored
fight for your freedom, follow your heart, though the whole world may be against you
10. Author’s Intent
What do I want the audience to take away? if it’s that important, that meaningful to you, fight for it, “If it’s hard, it’s even more worth it”, don’t be afraid to be different and flow our heart no matter what’s against you go against the crowd
11. At what point do you feel like the protagonist Came-of-age?
Ideas:
ART. It was that word, those three little letters, that somehow made the biggest difference in my world. My heart needed it. That was the way I breathed. It was one of those things you just couldn’t explain, that your life was somehow missing something without it. The thing I didn’t understand was WHY? Why would anyone take this away, Why would anyone do this to us? I couldn’t wrap my brain around it, I just didn’t understand. Why would someone take ART away?
I yearned for it each and everyday, it practically made my world go round. See, I always told myself, if, for whatever reason, though I highly, highly doubt it ever would happened if was ever in prison, well, all I’d need was food, a Bible and a bucket of paint and I’d live. Of course, I’d need people to live, my friends and family, but still, I’d live.
It was one of those things that I couldn’t live without, it nearly completed my heart as long as I can remember. Art. Oh, that word, that made my heart flip. I loved it and even more when things changed, when times got tough. See, art, Art isn’t just how “pretty” something look on a canvas, or how “good” one’s drawing of a face is, or how perfectly realistic it is (I honestly think that part of the amazement of art is that despite the imperfection, it’s still beautiful). No, that’s not all of what art is. It’s when you reach in inside, inside of yourself, inside of your heart and throw into onto a canvas, with true and real meaning behind it. That, my friend, is true ART. It’s what it means and does to you and to the world. It’s a mean and way of expression, individuality and creativity. For me, it didn’t always matter what I was creating, just knowing I had the absolute freedom to do it. Freedom. That itself is so important to me, because what are we without it? And the best way for me to be free, truly free, is through ART.
But, a huge piece of me was now lost. The thought, of no art, creativity or in my case freedom, that alone, made me sick. And what I most feared was the fact that I may not get it back. I mean, what would you do, if your freedom got taken away?
Art, it gave the freedom to be different, to truly be myself, purely me! (Something I rarely tasted, yet constantly longed for.) It was the way I breathed, and freedom is what I was breathing. I mean, of course you could be different anywhere, but with Art I was fully and completely accepted, better than hardly anywhere else. Art was always there I could lean on it, whenever I needed it. It helped me when no one else really could. It accepted me, let me be myself, let me be. I’m so abundantly creative, I need to express myself, some way, somehow... And they took it away.
They took it. Not all at once but over a short time. They shut down the shops, the supply stores, with paint and brushes and canvases, paper, cans... inside them. They took anything creative or art resembling away. They took some much of things you could create art with. They took colors away, in a sense. They took most of the transportation away, so you couldn’t go places to get inspired, so you couldn’t leave. They took away music, dance, singing, books, writing, films, anything at all creative, they took it. They secured off nature, put blinds on our windows. The world was blah and lifeless, meaningless, boring, plain and dark. It was the kind of world I never thought could, much less would, exist. And that’s the world I wake up to, dreading it, everyday.
What made it even harder was that I was already struggling and going through discomfort. My family, the people around me, the world, it felt like, just didn’t understand me, who I was or why I was the way I was. It was so hard, to face the world, the day, with the burden of unacceptance and not being understand, not even by your family. They were so shallow, only caring of themselves and things that were meaningless with no flavor or taste, and wouldn’t last. I cared of things of value, memory, hope, love, and beauty, things that I felt were lost. I wasn’t like most 17 year-olds, as you can imagine. In fact I wasn’t like most at all, any age. But, some day, I hoped, that would change.
I woke up every morning to the Siren, blaring its loud, obnoxious horn. I dressed in clothes of black, gray and white, my least favorite colors. Down to breakfast I headed, and I never looked forward to meals, for the food was just as flavorless as society. But, somehow, my family enjoyed it. I couldn’t understand it. Enjoying tastelessness, how? All of them that is except, my brother.
My brother, Barnabas. He was different, and special. He understood me, and even when he didn’t he still loved me. It was so rare that I tasted that. He was a brother, not an annoying one, one I could be myself and genuinely cared about me with love and loyalty. We’d mess around and joke, we’d think and push each other. He’d encourage me. And I felt like we were some of the only people that actually lived.
He was one of my few luxuries and pleasures, amongst me black world. And fortunate for me, he was coming home for a little while. Unfortunately, my brother was a legal adult of 23 and served in our army, something that made me proud. When he was gone I missed him terribly, but I had the comfort of him visiting home to bring me hope, which I definitely needed.
After breakfast, I was off on my way to a disgusting idea of a “learning community”, school. I road the public bus that everyone took, because there was really nothing else. The government wanted to control everything. Take away transportation, so a man can’t go any where. Sure, a man can run, but not very far.... at least before they’d catch you...
School, there was really nothing much to say about it, except that I considered it a waste of time, the stuff we as students learned and what people did in their freetime. They were practically glued to their H.A.N.D.s (Handular Accessible Networking Device), a phone computer and ipod, right in the palm of your hand. With this things that were real and true, such as Art, were practically gone, everything was fairly meaningless; Like a conversation I had with a group of girls when I tried to fit it once:
“So, Coper,” Angelina, the head of the group said, “Which shade of pink should I put on my H.A.N.D. case, so it matches my outfit?”
“Pink, really? According to Frenio Balanski pink is really out, every one has violet now.”
“Well, fine. But I still have that date with Bryan Crice and I’m trying to decide if we should iceskate or rollerblade for our Virtu-date. This is a really important decision for me.”
“I don’t know what to do, Hartly Nalebore, my newest boyfriend, only likes to Virtu-ski together.”
“Well, that’s not much of a help.”
“Hey, new girl, Essy,” Angelina asked when no one else spoke up in answer, “Got any ideas?”
“Me?” I asked, wondering why they’d ask me, I wasn’t the prettiest or popular, I was really nobody, actually.
“Yeah.”
“Uh, I don’t know,” I answered bluntly.
“Fine! Anyway, I started watching this new TV series on my H.A.N.D....,” Angelina continued as I walked anyway.
See, see what I mean. This is why I don’t fit in, this is why people make me mad. We don’t just not get each other, but it’s why we don’t. They are so disgustingly shallow. The things they talk about don’t matter, won’t last, are meaningless and unimportant. Uh, it drives me crazy. But, I just stuff it away, there’s nothing I can do, just try to blend in no matter how sick it makes me.
Now, normally, Ha! I hate that word. So, boring and unreal, what does it mean anyway? Why would one want to be ‘normal’ Oh! These were questions I constantly asked myself, but unfortunately... I have to pretend to be ‘normal’. Anyway, usually, I’d have Art to lean on, to paint with but now....
I came home everyday from school angry, angry about my life and what they had done. No one even understood, no one cared about me and my brokenness or about the lost in general of Art. But, the worst part was it, Art, wasn’t even there to lean on, to help me through my troubles. The absence of it sickened me. Made me SO mad! But what could I do, I was only a 17, not even a legal adult, but that didn’t really matter because the government controlled everything anyway. Uh! How was I supposed to go on like this, act as if nothing had changed, like my heart hadn’t been ripped apart. Am I expected to live the lie of ‘no art’?
But, I just had to plaster a fake smile on my face and act as if everything were hunky dory, that my best friend wasn’t gone, that I didn’t have much hope left in me. I was still mad be I just stuffed in down inside me. Not the kind of anger where I’d let it out, the type that you kept pushing down, not knowing what to do with it. “Just wear the smile.”
The only thing that did give me hope, as I said, was my brother. We’d go on walks a lot and talk, just talk, as if nothing had changed. Living like the good old times. I looked forward to those times, that we’d do this. And, thankfully, one of them was right around the corner, two more days and he’d be home for a little while.
Once, I got home, I went to my room, then slid a horizontal board on my wall, unnoticeable to the human eye, across and entered what I called my “Secret Studio”. I, then, moved the board back to it’s place. No one knew it was here that’s the best part, I could be, just be, myself.
Then, I cried. Cried about school and family, people and Art. Where was it, I needed it. I needed to breathe needed to be free. Why do we want to be free? Because, things like freedom, be understood, being accepted and loved those things, those are important, something everyone wants, something real and true, something we strive for. Something, I didn’t have. Oh, it made me mad! I was sick of just putting down my feelings, pushing my anger away. I let the tears run down my face feeling absolutely helpless.
The tears blurred my sight and I closed my eyes. I wept quietly and my mind brought me back to a time.
We were laughing, just the two of us. Like two free horses, we run, ran through the fields, there were no limits. The wind blew my hair, filling my lungs. After a while, Barnabas and I went home. I painted while he talked, talked of his dreams, letting his thoughts float freely throughout the room. I led the brush this way and that. The feel of the brush, ah. So soothing and calm. Letting you use and control it, letting you do whatever you wanted with it. The open page, ready, ready for our to pour yourself into it. We laughed again.
As I opened my eyes, I realized it was late, late because I could hear the blinds going down, meaning going to be was coming soon.
I went to my plain bed, longing just for the touch of a brush, the feel of wet paint, oh... I closed my eyes with the thought of free houses, running, wild, chasing, running....free.
The next day, I awoke to the sirens. The day I went through the usual routine, same boring, cold stuff as usual. Sickening, was no one alive, was nothing real. I hoped and longed for the day when the World woke up.
The next day, though, couldn’t come soon enough. My brother was coming home! That, that I could hold onto for hope.
My brother came into my room, waking my from my sleep. Not in a long time had I wanted to come from dreaming and face my reality, but now, he was here!
I hugged him, overwhelmed with joy. We were so happy to see each other, at first we just stared. Then we laugh, the kind we both hadn’t done in a long while, too long.
He then greeted the rest of the family. I had to go off to school, but I told him I’d see him after.
“I can’t wait,” We both said.
Throughout the day, I could barely pay attention, I had long awaited this time, where we’d be together, together, finally, with someone who really got me. Something I rarely had.
I was so excited after school, on the way home I could barely contain it. One person, on the bus noticed and said,
“You excited for the finale episode of Mario and Susan, I can’t wait.”
“Uh, yeah, sure,” I lied hastily.
When I got off, I ran to the door, and rushed inside. I greeted my brother with a huge hug.
“Hey, Essy, want to hit the path?”
“Yes!” I answered. The path was the path we always took, the one that really connected us, the one we went on since we could walk and talk.
As we walked, he started to explain how his division of the military got sent up to the battlefield.
“The battlefield! What, no, you’ll get killed,” I cried.
“No, I wouldn’t I’ll be fine, don’t you worry. So what’s going on with you?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t lie. You know you can tell me.”
“I know, you’re the only one I can tell. It just hurts, that’s all,” I sadly stated. “It’s just that Art is gone, and no one has any idea how hard it is. I mean Art was and is so much to me, it’s what I always leaned on. And I’d lean more on it when you were gone and when people didn’t understand me, which is always. I just don’t know if I can go on this way. It makes me SO MAD!”
“I know how you feel. In fact, I brought a little gift for you. I think it’ll help.”
Out of the backpack he was carrying he pulled it out. No, Yes! Yes, is this really happening.
He pulled out an art supply kit. It had paint, brushes, a pallet, canvases..... It was, wow. I was speechless. I almost cried. And my brother knew my happiness.
“You don’t have to say anything, I know you love it,” he said with a smile.
“Wow, thank you,” I breathed out.
“I want you to express yourself, to truly be yourself with this, tell the world who you really are. That’s also what I wanted to tell you. Don’t ever, ever be afraid to be yourself. Go out there and face the world, go against the crowd and follow your heart, no matter the challenges.” He leaned down, put his hands on my shoulders, looked me straight in the eye and said, ”Don’t let the world stop you from who you really are.”
We paused, taking everything in, then continued, new, alive, and refreshed. I’ll never forget that moment, it changed my life, forever.
As we walked home, silently, several thoughts ran through my mind: All the paintings I should paint, this is a perfect use for my Secret Studio, and my brother is going to be on the battlefield, he’ll be fine, I comforted myself.
We entered the house, so happy I still couldn’t speak. I went to be that night feeling a joy I hadn’t felt in a while. But, before I went to sleep, I painted a picture of me and my brother in color and going the opposite way of everyone else around us, who was all in black with blindfolds on. The painting read at the bottom, “Don’t let the world stop you from who you really are.”
My brother headed off back to the army, with my best, but my family didn’t even care to say goodbye. Though it strongly bothers me, I had to concern my attention with other things. And, the next few days, weeks consisted of me going through the typical routine, but instead I also tried to be myself. I tried to wear colored clothes that I kept after they took everything away, but I got warned to not do that again. I would ask people the endless amount of questions I had, like being normal, or why was the government doing this, or how to sunsets form or if they could travel anywhere, where would they go? But most of the responses I got went like this: “What are you talking about?” or “Get lost!” or “What wrong with you?!”
I’d then tell my brother, in person or using my H.A.N.D., and he’d say, “It’ll be hard, but you know it’ll be worth it in the end. Don’t forget, you have me around.”
“Thanks, I know.”
I’d even question the teachers:
“Mr. Stringer,” I questioned, “Why do we need to learn ‘y=mx+b’?”
“Because,” He answered, “You’ll need it in life someday.”
“But.. when will we...?”
He left before I could finish.
“I don’t understand, Ms. Prathia. Why does it matter how cumulonimbus clouds are formed, or when Facebook went out of date, or the gas prices of 2024 or the TV show we watched last night? Why does it matter!?” I tried not to get upset. But, she’d typically just keep going, ignoring my questions.
I remember walking through fields, running in the forests, green all around me, the creatures we’d find, the secrets we’d discover. Painting with my brother, smiling. Without Art, I had almost forgotten how to smile. But, still, the fluid paint, the stiff and soft bristles of the brushes, the open and white canvas... Reality woke me in the form of my teacher, staring down at me, waiting for my answer to the question I didn’t know.
“What?” I asked.
“What,” She paused in frustration, “Is the name of our leader in 1976?”
“Crikwell, Kyle Frat Crikwell,” I answered, glad I just slipped out of that situation.
“That’s correct,” Mrs. Cauldrick said. She leaned down at me, “Don’t let that happened again.”
I tried not to let her stinging words bother me. I was sick of her and the pointless we learned. The things we learned irritated me, I didn’t think they had any meaning or real value, but, despite my complaints and pushing back, asking them to reconsider and possibly change, they’d never budge. Another obstacle to face everyday.
Through the challenges, I remained hopeful that someday things would changes things would be different, that I would change the world.
Even though I could paint, life still had it’s challenges. I could paint, which was so amazing, but only my eyes saw it. I wanted my art to reach others, for my art to touch the hearts and souls of many but how.
Each night I’d paint, or write something I learned in my journal: Brushes are like people, some are stiff and hard some are soft and easy. Also like brushes and paint and canvases, things aren’t always as they seem. Many times brushes, paint and canvases are bigger than they seem. I kept my journal hidden in my Secret Studio, I couldn’t ever let the Checkers get to it.
The Checkers. Oh, they were the people that came and raided our houses every month of art, supplies, anything colorful or creative, if they caught me, I’d be arrested for sure. No, I wouldn’t let that happened.
I felt so peaceful with being able to have little snippets of art here and there. My life was starting to look back up.
I’d paint sunsets, and flowers. Things of the past and things forgotten. Nature, I loved that, another breath of freedom taken away. I would also paint my emotions, to let them out. ANd finally, finally, I felt free.
That day, I painted a horse, because I oddly considered myself one of them, a horse. Running, that’s why I considered myself a horse. Because when I imagine running, when you just kept going, where there’s no end, there are no limits or boundaries, you are free. And horses, well, they run, run a lot, at least that’s how I imagine them, just them and an open field or pasture, the green, endless around them, trees, strong and beautiful. Can’t you just taste it, taste the freedom?
For some reason I heard footsteps, getting louder, but I thought nothing of it. It was probably my mom changing my gray sheets to another gray one. I kept painting, adding the last touches to my painting.....
Suddenly, my door to my studio swing, wide open. The Checkers, no, NO, not them!
They immediately saw my painting and took.
“What are you doing with this?” They rudely asked.
“I, I, well..”
“Who cares,” One said, “Just take it, and you.” They pointed at me, “You better not do this ever again, you hear?!”
“Yes.”
They let with that, and thankfully, very thankfully, not checking the Secret Studio for anything.
I could tell my parents were disappointed, but I also knew they could probably cared less, with the way they treated me. I didn’t even feel like I mattered here in my own home.
I called Barnabas and told him the news, now scared and not wanting to take many more risks. I feared that I couldn’t go on if the risks were like this.
“Come on, now. You’re not like that, you’re braver than that. Remember what I said, “Don’t let the world stop you from who you really are.”
“Thanks, I knew I could trust you.’
I went to bed that night, thinking and dreaming of how I could change the world and show them who I really was. Then, it hit me. Art, use Art. Display my painting, somewhere somewhere so everyone can see it, yes that’s what I’ll do. And I did something I hadn’t done it a while, I smiled.
I went to school, the next day, with hope and a lot of it. I thought off and on throughout the day where, where would I display my art. I searched and looked.....
I thought of it on the way home as we passed the Public H.A.N.D. where they showed movies, or the news or the time, it was just a blank space and it was perfect!
Barnabas, I have to tell him! I couldn’t wait to get home, to call and tell him my ideas.
I got home quickly and as I rushed to my room, my parents stopped me.
“Esperanza, we have something we need to tell you.”
I kept smiling, nothing could be so bad as to take my smile away.
“It’s your brother,” they continued, “You know how he was moved to the battlefield, the most dangerous place during a war, and well...”
Their voice trailed off. My expression changed quickly to shock and confusion.
“He’s just hurt, right?” I asked, “That’s all right? Please.”
“The military called and said he’s dead. I’m sorry, dear.”
“What, dead?” I could barely say it, then I started crying “How are you not upset, or crying or...?”
“Well, it happens, you know? The Barnes’ son died two weeks ago, besides now we have one less mouth to feed.”
“How can you say that?” I cried, disgusted. I ran up to my room and flopped on my bed.
“UHHHHH!” I yelled. How, how could this happen?!?!
My anger bubbled up inside me and having really no other place for it to go but out.
It makes me sick, what am I supposed to do. Right now I just want to give up. I just couldn’t go on, no, not living like this, in disgusting emptiness and captivity. I so sick of this, I can’t go on. What am I supposed to do I just wanted to give up.
I went to bed feeling awful, with that awful taste in my mouth. How can I go on?
I woke up, thinking, I can’t give up that’s not what my brother would have wanted and that’s not going to fix anything I have to do something, just what?!
Going to school that day I felt disgusted and empty, confused with lots of questions. I for some reason had the irresistible thought of taking all of my supplies with me, it wasn’t much, so I just kept it in my backpack, hoping no one would ever know.
Throughout the day, I kept getting distracted about my brother, my world, and my life. How could I go on? It was during one of this distractions were I thought of a plan of what to do. I it came to me as I thought of the horse painting the Checkers took away, the horses running.
It was history class, and I didn’t understand why we needed to know the history of Italian leather and the styles of purses in 2003. I went off on a day dream, running, running, through the fields...
“Esperanza!”
“Sorry,” I turned and looked straight forward, trying to avoid eye contact with Mrs. Cauldrick.
“What is name of the purse designer of the style ‘Chicy Chick’?”
“What, why? Why does it matter? What can’t we learn something real, that means something. Can’t we live, again, do something that matters? Don’t you miss being creative, being ourselves, being free?
“How, HOW can you all
stand this? Living in captivity, living in filth and disgrace of no freedom, no creativity?! It’s more than just a painting, a brush and paint, more than notes and the lovely sounds of music, it’s more than pretty colors, more than dancing or singing that I’m fighting for. It’s beauty and expression, to be ourselves, the chance to be free, to LIVE again.”
And with that I ran, knowing I was soon to get arrested, I ran and ran and ran. Just like a horse. But, I know, IyI knew, ou can’t run forever, someday I’d you’ll have to face myyour troubles, but I’m ready, with Art back on my side, what had I to fear? One can take a girl’s brushes and canvas, but one can’t take one’s soul, her source of art and creativity away.
I kept going into the forest, across the river, past all of the civilization. Until I knew I was safe.
I spent two and a half weeks there, in the forest, traveling all around. I was free, truly free. It was just me, Art and Freedom. I painted, the beauty that I saw, sunsets, trees, animals, thought, and ideas. I painted soul equaling the source of art, water/ocean, black and white vs. colors, light shining in the darkness all symbolizing things. I loved the time there, but I knew I had to come back.
You know, as I think about, it really wasn’t the brushes or the paint or the canvas, that’s not what Art is really about. If you took those elements away, you’d still have Art. It’s the soul, really, that’s the true source of Art. Just me and the blank, white page, a pen ready, just have to open my heart and look straight into my soul... pull it out and somehow put it on the empty page. The feel of the brush, ah. So soothing and calm. Letting you use and control it, letting you do whatever you wanted with it.
I wanted everyone to see how the world once was, the beauty of it.
There came a part in my life where I just couldn’t go one, no, not living like this, in disgusting emptiness and captivity.
But, here I am, now, with my anger bubbling up inside me and there’s really no other place for it to go but out.
What made it even harder was that I was already struggling, going through discomfort.
Questions: How could one man be so sick as to take another man’s freedom away? Why would anyone even think of doing something like this? These were thoughts that constantly ran through my mind.
That day, I painted a horse, because I oddly considered myself one of them, a horse. Running, that’s why I considered myself a horse. Because when I imagine running, when you just kept going, where there’s no end, there are no limits or boundaries, you are free. And horses, well, they run, run a lot, at least that’s how I imagine them, just them and an open field or pasture, the green, endless around them, trees, strong and beautiful. Can’t you just taste it, taste the freedom?
Ending:
And now, now, I travel the world, and each place I leave a piece of me, a piece of my heart and story behind me. The world will see and know me. But most importantly they’ll know the my Art, and the message behind it. The message of being true to yourself, the message of being strong enough to face your troubles, the message of not being afraid to be different, no matter the odds of the cost. The message of truly being free and living. Three letters, one word, my world. ART.
I could hear the Checkers at the door, I panicked, knowing they were going to eventually catch me. As they past through the house, their footsteps grew louder, nearing my room. I held my breath, waiting. What would they do with me, arrest me, lock me away? What would I do? I closed my eyes wondering if they knew. Knew about the secret studio and my diary and my Art.
It hadn’t always been this way, there was a time when I was free:
I remember walking through fields, running in the forests, green all around me, the creatures we’d find, the secrets we’d discover. Painting with my brother, smiling. Without Art, I had almost forgotten how to smile. But, still, the fluid paint, the stiff and soft bristles of the brushes, the open and white canvas... Reality woke me in the form of my teacher, staring down at me, waiting for my answer to the question I didn’t know.
“What?” I asked.
“What,” She paused in frustration, “Is the name of our leader in 1976?”
“Crikwell, Kyle Frat Crikwell,” I answered, glad I just slipped out of that situation.
“That’s correct,” Mrs. Cauldrick said. She leaned down at me
I tried not to let her stinging words bother me. I was sick of her and the pointless we learned. The things we learned irritated me, I didn’t think they had any meaning or real value, but, despite my complaints and pushing back, asking them to reconsider and possibly change, they’d never budge. Another obstacle to face everyday.
“Mr. Stringer,” I questioned, “Why do we need to learn ‘y=mx+b’?”
“Because,” He answered, “You’ll need it in life someday.”
“But.. when will we...?”
He left before I could finish.
“I don’t understand, Ms. Prathia. Why does it matter how cumulonimbus clouds are formed, or when Facebook went out of date, or the gas prices of 2024 or the TV show we watched last night? Why does it matter!?” I tried not to get upset.
throughout this we see her need and the absence of Art
Story Line: Mapping a Plot
Directions: When reading a story it is important to understand how the story develops. Below you will find the various parts of the story. Please 'identify evidence (using quotes and page numbers you found in the text to support your conclusions. Draw out your own
diagram with the information from the text!
1. Exposition: setting, situation/scene climate, mood
2. Conflict- what seems to be the main disagreement or cause of strife?
Art is gone- no books, no music, no creativity, character already faces conflict(s), and with ART taken away its even harder, people and family don’t get her, people/family= technology, shallow/fake, meaningless, structured
3. Rising Actions events that lead up to a major event
How is this taken away?, goes through stages of grief, anger, frustration; brother dies, she feels like giving up
4. CIimax the final major event
When I do something about it, create a mural or..., drop out of school
5. Falling Actions what is happening to bring the story to a resolution?
comes back
6. Resolution.- how is the conflict resolved?
shows art pieces in the shape of a heart to everyone, publicly, it touches everyone, travels the world
7. Protagonist vs. Antagonist -
(Protagonist main character/hero, Antagonist main enemy of the hero)
Me (Esperanza Joy) world (family, too)
8. Peripheral Characters which other characters are involved in the story?
brother, Art
9. Themes that are explored
fight for your freedom, follow your heart, though the whole world may be against you
10. Author’s Intent
What do I want the audience to take away? if it’s that important, that meaningful to you, fight for it, “If it’s hard, it’s even more worth it”, don’t be afraid to be different and flow our heart no matter what’s against you go against the crowd
11. At what point do you feel like the protagonist Came-of-age?
Ideas:
throughout this we see her need and the absence of Art
ART. It was that word, those three little letters, that somehow made the biggest difference in my world. My heart needed it. That was the way I breathed. It was one of those things you just couldn’t explain, that your life was somehow missing something without it. The thing I didn’t understand was WHY? Why would anyone take this away, Why would anyone do this to us? I couldn’t wrap my brain around it, I just didn’t understand. Why would someone take ART away?
I yearned for it each and everyday, it practically made my world go round. See, I always told myself, if, for whatever reason, though I highly, highly doubt it ever would happened if was ever in prison, well, all I’d need was food, a Bible and a bucket of paint and I’d live. Of course, I’d need people to live, my friends and family, but still, I’d live.
It was one of those things that I couldn’t live without, it nearly completed my heart as long as I can remember. Art. Oh, that word, that made my heart flip. I loved it and even more when things changed, when times got tough. See, art, Art isn’t just how “pretty” something look on a canvas, or how “good” one’s drawing of a face is, or how perfectly realistic it is (I honestly think that part of the amazement of art is that despite the imperfection, it’s still beautiful). No, that’s not all of what art is. It’s when you reach in inside, inside of yourself, inside of your heart and throw into onto a canvas, with true and real meaning behind it. That, my friend, is true ART. It’s what it means and does to you and to the world. It’s a mean and way of expression, individuality and creativity. For me, it didn’t always matter what I was creating, just knowing I had the absolute freedom to do it. Freedom. That itself is so important to me, because what are we without it? And the best way for me to be free, truly free, is through ART.
But, a huge piece of me was now lost. The thought, of no art, creativity or in my case freedom, that alone, made me sick. And what I most feared was the fact that I may not get it back. I mean, what would you do, if your freedom got taken away?
Art, it gave the freedom to be different, to truly be myself, purely me! (Something I rarely tasted, yet constantly longed for.) It was the way I breathed, and freedom is what I was breathing. I mean, of course you could be different anywhere, but with Art I was fully and completely accepted, better than hardly anywhere else. Art was always there I could lean on it, whenever I needed it. It helped me when no one else really could. It accepted me, let me be myself, let me be. I’m so abundantly creative, I need to express myself, some way, somehow... And they took it away.
They took it. Not all at once but over a short time. They shut down the shops, the supply stores, with paint and brushes and canvases, paper, cans... inside them. They took anything creative or art resembling away. They took some much of things you could create art with. They took colors away, in a sense. They took most of the transportation away, so you couldn’t go places to get inspired, so you couldn’t leave. They took away music, dance, singing, books, writing, films, anything at all creative, they took it. They secured off nature, put blinds on our windows. The world was blah and lifeless, meaningless, boring, plain and dark. It was the kind of world I never thought could, much less would, exist. And that’s the world I wake up to, dreading it, everyday.
What made it even harder was that I was already struggling and going through discomfort. My family, the people around me, the world, it felt like, just didn’t understand me, who I was or why I was the way I was. It was so hard, to face the world, the day, with the burden of unacceptance and not being understand, not even by your family. They were so shallow, only caring of themselves and things that were meaningless with no flavor or taste, and wouldn’t last. I cared of things of value, memory, hope, love, and beauty, things that I felt were lost. I wasn’t like most 17 year-olds, as you can imagine. In fact I wasn’t like most at all, any age. But, some day, I hoped, that would change.
I woke up every morning to the Siren, blaring its loud, obnoxious horn. I dressed in clothes of black, gray and white, my least favorite colors. Down to breakfast I headed, and I never looked forward to meals, for the food was just as flavorless as society. But, somehow, my family enjoyed it. I couldn’t understand it. Enjoying tastelessness, how? All of them that is except, my brother.
My brother, Barnabas. He was different, and special. He understood me, and even when he didn’t he still loved me. It was so rare that I tasted that. He was a brother, not an annoying one, one I could be myself and genuinely cared about me with love and loyalty. We’d mess around and joke, we’d think and push each other. He’d encourage me. And I felt like we were some of the only people that actually lived.
He was one of my few luxuries and pleasures, amongst mye black world. And fortunate for me, he was coming home for a little while. Unfortunately, my brother was a legal adult of 23 and served in our army, something that made me proud. When he was gone I missed him terribly, but I had the comfort of him visiting home to bring me hope, which I definitely needed.
After breakfast, I was off on my way to a disgusting idea of a “learning community”, school. I road the public bus that everyone took, because there was really nothing else. The government wanted to control everything. Take away transportation, so a man can’t go any where. Sure, a man can run, but not very far.... at least before they’d catch you...
School, there was really nothing much to say about it, except that I considered it a waste of time, the stuff we as students learned and what people did in their freetime. They were practically glued to their H.A.N.D.s (Handular Accessible Networking Device), a phone computer and ipod, right in the palm of your hand. With this things that were real and true, such as Art, were practically gone, everything was fairly meaningless; Like a conversation I had with a group of girls when I tried to fit it once:
“So, Coper,” Angelina, the head of the group said, “Which shade of pink should I put on my H.A.N.D. case, so it matches my outfit?”
“Pink, really? According to Frenio Balanski pink is really out, every one has violet now.”
“Well, fine. But I still have that date with Bryan Crice and I’m trying to decide if we should iceskate or rollerblade for our Virtu-date. This is a really important decision for me.”
“I don’t know what to do, Hartly Nalebore, my newest boyfriend, only likes to Virtu-ski together.”
“Well, that’s not much of a help.”
“Hey, new girl, Essy,” Angelina asked when no one else spoke up in answer, “Got any ideas?”
“Me?” I asked, wondering why they’d ask me, I wasn’t the prettiest or popular, I was really nobody, actually.
“Yeah.”
“Uh, I don’t know,” I answered bluntly.
“Fine! Anyway, I started watching this new TV series on my H.A.N.D....,” Angelina continued as I walked anyway.
See, see what I mean. This is why I don’t fit in, this is why people make me mad. We don’t just not get each other, but it’s why we don’t. They are so disgustingly shallow. The things they talk about don’t matter, won’t last, are meaningless and unimportant. Uh, it drives me crazy. But, I just stuff it away, there’s nothing I can do, just try to blend in no matter how sick it makes me.
Now, normally, Ha! I hate that word. So, boring and unreal, what does it mean anyway? Why would one want to be ‘normal’ Oh! These were questions I constantly asked myself, but unfortunately... I have to pretend to be ‘normal’. Anyway, usually, I’d have Art to lean on, to paint with but now....
I came home everyday from school angry, angry about my life and what they had done. No one even understood, no one cared about me and my brokenness or about the lost in general of Art. But, the worst part was it, Art, wasn’t even there to lean on, to help me through my troubles. The absence of it sickened me. Made me SO mad! But what could I do, I was only a 17, not even a legal adult, but that didn’t really matter because the government controlled everything anyway. Uh! How was I supposed to go on like this, act as if nothing had changed, like my heart hadn’t been ripped apart. Am I expected to live the lie of ‘no art’?
But, I just had to plaster a fake smile on my face and act as if everything were hunky dory, that my best friend wasn’t gone, that I didn’t have much hope left in me. I was still mad be I just stuffed in down inside me. Not the kind of anger where I’d let it out, the type that you kept pushing down, not knowing what to do with it. “Just wear the smile.”
The only thing that did give me hope, as I said, was my brother. We’d go on walks a lot and talk, just talk, as if nothing had changed. Living like the good old times. I looked forward to those times, that we’d do this. And, thankfully, one of them was right around the corner, two more days and he’d be home for a little while.
Once, I got home, I went to my room, then slid a horizontal board on my wall, unnoticeable to the human eye, across and entered what I called my “Secret Studio”. I, then, moved the board back to it’s place. No one knew it was here that’s the best part, I could be, just be, myself.
Then, I cried. Cried about school and family, people and Art. Where was it, I needed it. I needed to breathe needed to be free. Why do we want to be free? Because, things like freedom, be understood, being accepted and loved those things, those are important, something everyone wants, something real and true, something we strive for. Something, I didn’t have. Oh, it made me mad! I was sick of just putting down my feelings, pushing my anger away. I let the tears run down my face feeling absolutely helpless.
The tears blurred my sight and I closed my eyes. I wept quietly and my mind brought me back to a time.
We were laughing, just the two of us. Like two free horses, we run, ran through the fields, there were no limits. The wind blew my hair, filling my lungs. After a while, Barnabas and I went home. I painted while he talked, talked of his dreams, letting his thoughts float freely throughout the room. I led the brush this way and that. The feel of the brush, ah. So soothing and calm. Letting you use and control it, letting you do whatever you wanted with it. The open page, ready, ready for our to pour yourself into it. We laughed again.
As I opened my eyes, I realized it was late, late because I could hear the blinds going down, meaning going to be was coming soon.
I went to my plain bed, longing just for the touch of a brush, the feel of wet paint, oh... I closed my eyes with the thought of free houses, running, wild, chasing, running....free.
The next day, I awoke to the sirens. The day I went through the usual routine, same boring, cold stuff as usual. Sickening, was no one alive, was nothing real. I hoped and longed for the day when the World woke up.
The next day, though, couldn’t come soon enough. My brother was coming home! That, that I could hold onto for hope.
My brother came into my room, waking my from my sleep. Not in a long time had I wanted to come from dreaming and face my reality, but now, he was here!
I hugged him, overwhelmed with joy. We were so happy to see each other, at first we just stared. Then we laugh, the kind we both hadn’t done in a long while, too long.
He then greeted the rest of the family. I had to go off to school, but I told him I’d see him after.
“I can’t wait,” We both said.
Throughout the day, I could barely pay attention, I had long awaited this time, where we’d be together, together, finally, with someone who really got me. Something I rarely had.
I was so excited after school, on the way home I could barely contain it. One person, on the bus noticed and said,
“You excited for the finale episode of Mario and Susan, I can’t wait.”
“Uh, yeah, sure,” I lied hastily.
When I got off, I ran to the door, and rushed inside. I greeted my brother with a huge hug.
“Hey, Essy, want to hit the path?”
“Yes!” I answered. The path was the path we always took, the one that really connected us, the one we went on since we could walk and talk.
As we walked, he started to explain how his division of the military got sent up to the battlefield.
“The battlefield! What, no, you’ll get killed,” I cried.
“No, I wouldn’t I’ll be fine, don’t you worry. So what’s going on with you?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t lie. You know you can tell me.”
“I know, you’re the only one I can tell. It just hurts, that’s all,” I sadly stated. “It’s just that Art is gone, and no one has any idea how hard it is. I mean Art was and is so much to me, it’s what I always leaned on. And I’d lean more on it when you were gone and when people didn’t understand me, which is always. I just don’t know if I can go on this way. It makes me SO MAD!”
“I know how you feel. In fact, I brought a little gift for you. I think it’ll help.”
Out of the backpack he was carrying he pulled it out. No, Yes! Yes, is this really happening.
He pulled out an art supply kit. It had paint, brushes, a pallet, canvases..... It was, wow. I was speechless. I almost cried. And my brother knew my happiness.
“You don’t have to say anything, I know you love it,” he said with a smile.
“Wow, thank you,” I breathed out.
“I want you to express yourself, to truly be yourself with this, tell the world who you really are. That’s also what I wanted to tell you. Don’t ever, ever be afraid to be yourself. Go out there and face the world, go against the crowd and follow your heart, no matter the challenges.” He leaned down, put his hands on my shoulders, looked me straight in the eye and said, ”Don’t let the world stop you from who you really are.”
We paused, taking everything in, then continued, new, alive, and refreshed. I’ll never forget that moment, it changed my life, forever.
As we walked home, silently, several thoughts ran through my mind: All the paintings I should paint, this is a perfect use for my Secret Studio, and my brother is going to be on the battlefield, he’ll be fine, I comforted myself.
We entered the house, so happy I still couldn’t speak. I went to be that night feeling a joy I hadn’t felt in a while. But, before I went to sleep, I painted a picture of me and my brother in color and going the opposite way of everyone else around us, who was all in black with blindfolds on. The painting read at the bottom, “Don’t let the world stop you from who you really are.”
My brother headed off back to the army, with my best, but my family didn’t even care to say goodbye. Though it strongly bothers me, I had to concern my attention with other things. And, the next few days, weeks consisted of me going through the typical routine, but instead I also tried to be myself. I tried to wear colored clothes that I kept after they took everything away, but I got warned to not do that again. I would ask people the endless amount of questions I had, like being normal, or why was the government doing this, or how to sunsets form or if they could travel anywhere, where would they go? But most of the responses I got went like this: “What are you talking about?” or “Get lost!” or “What wrong with you?!”
I’d then tell my brother, in person or using my H.A.N.D., and he’d say, “It’ll be hard, but you know it’ll be worth it in the end. Don’t forget, you have me around.”
“Thanks, I know.”
I’d even question the teachers:
“Mr. Stringer,” I questioned, “Why do we need to learn ‘y=mx+b’?”
“Because,” He answered, “You’ll need it in life someday.”
“But.. when will we...?”
He left before I could finish.
“I don’t understand, Ms. Prathia. Why does it matter how cumulonimbus clouds are formed, or when Facebook went out of date, or the gas prices of 2024 or the TV show we watched last night? Why does it matter!?” I tried not to get upset. But, she’d typically just keep going, ignoring my questions.
I remember walking through fields, running in the forests, green all around me, the creatures we’d find, the secrets we’d discover. Painting with my brother, smiling. Without Art, I had almost forgotten how to smile. But, still, the fluid paint, the stiff and soft bristles of the brushes, the open and white canvas... Reality woke me in the form of my teacher, staring down at me, waiting for my answer to the question I didn’t know.
“What?” I asked.
“What,” She paused in frustration, “Is the name of our leader in 1976?”
“Crikwell, Kyle Frat Crikwell,” I answered, glad I just slipped out of that situation.
“That’s correct,” Mrs. Cauldrick said. She leaned down at me, “Don’t let that happened again.”
I tried not to let her stinging words bother me. I was sick of her and the pointless we learned. The things we learned irritated me, I didn’t think they had any meaning or real value, but, despite my complaints and pushing back, asking them to reconsider and possibly change, they’d never budge. Another obstacle to face everyday.
Through the challenges, I remained hopeful that someday things would changes things would be different, that I would change the world.
One day, when I was for whatever reason, walking around town, I found an a piece of paper, old and forgotten. I wondered what it was doing here, but that didn’t matter. I read it:
The Road Not Taken
By Robert Frost
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
“And that made all the difference,” I repeated. Wow, this is awesome, someone else, somewhere who was going through the same situation as me. The Road not taken, yes I’ll take that path, too, though I know it will be hard.
Even though I could paint, life still had it’s challenges. I could paint, which was so amazing, but only my eyes saw it. I wanted my art to reach others, for my art to touch the hearts and souls of many but how.
Each night I’d paint, or write something I learned in my journal: Brushes are like people, some are stiff and hard some are soft and easy. Also like brushes and paint and canvases, things aren’t always as they seem. Many times brushes, paint and canvases are bigger than they seem. I kept my journal hidden in my Secret Studio, I couldn’t ever let the Checkers get to it.
The Checkers. Oh, they were the people that came and raided our houses every month of art, supplies, anything colorful or creative, if they caught me, I’d be arrested for sure. No, I wouldn’t let that happened.
I felt so peaceful with being able to have little snippets of art here and there. My life was starting to look back up.
I’d paint sunsets, and flowers. Things of the past and things forgotten. Nature, I loved that, another breath of freedom taken away. I would also paint my emotions, to let them out. ANd finally, finally, I felt free.
That day, I painted a horse, because I oddly considered myself one of them, a horse. Running, that’s why I considered myself a horse. Because when I imagine running, when you just kept going, where there’s no end, there are no limits or boundaries, you are free. And horses, well, they run, run a lot, at least that’s how I imagine them, just them and an open field or pasture, the green, endless around them, trees, strong and beautiful. Can’t you just taste it, taste the freedom?
For some reason I heard footsteps, getting louder, but I thought nothing of it. It was probably my mom changing my gray sheets to another gray one. I kept painting, adding the last touches to my painting.....
Suddenly, my door to my studio swing, wide open. The Checkers, no, NO, not them!
They immediately saw my painting and took.
“What are you doing with this?” They rudely asked.
“I, I, well..”
“Who cares,” One said, “Just take it, and you.” They pointed at me, “You better not do this ever again, you hear?!”
“Yes.”
They let with that, and thankfully, very thankfully, not checking the Secret Studio for anything.
I could tell my parents were disappointed, but I also knew they could probably cared less, with the way they treated me. I didn’t even feel like I mattered here in my own home.
I called Barnabas and told him the news, now scared and not wanting to take many more risks. I feared that I couldn’t go on if the risks were like this.
“Come on, now. You’re not like that, you’re braver than that. Remember what I said, “Don’t let the world stop you from who you really are.”
“Thanks, I knew I could trust you.’
I went to bed that night, thinking and dreaming of how I could change the world and show them who I really was. Then, it hit me. Art, use Art. Display my painting, somewhere somewhere so everyone can see it, yes that’s what I’ll do. And I did something I hadn’t done it a while, I smiled.
I went to school, the next day, with hope and a lot of it. I thought off and on throughout the day where, where would I display my art. I searched and looked.....
I thought of it on the way home as we passed the Public H.A.N.D. where they showed movies, or the news or the time, it was just a huge blank space, the size of a wall, reaching high, and it was perfect!
Barnabas, I have to tell him! I couldn’t wait to get home, to call and tell him my ideas.
I got home quickly and as I rushed to my room, my parents stopped me.
“Esperanza, we have something we need to tell you.”
I kept smiling, nothing could be so bad as to take my smile away.
“It’s your brother,” they continued, “You know how he was moved to the battlefield, the most dangerous place during a war, and well...”
Their voice trailed off. My expression changed quickly to shock and confusion.
“He’s just hurt, right?” I asked, “That’s all right? Please.”
“The military called and said he’s dead. I’m sorry, dear.”
“What, dead?” I could barely say it, then I started crying “How are you not upset, or crying or...?”
“Well, it happens, you know? The Barnes’ son died two weeks ago, besides now we have one less mouth to feed.”
“How can you say that?” I cried, disgusted. I ran up to my room and flopped on my bed.
“UHHHHH!” I yelled. How, how could this happen?!?!
My anger bubbled up inside me and having really no other place for it to go but out.
It makes me sick, what am I supposed to do. Right now I just want to give up. I just couldn’t go on, no, not living like this, in disgusting emptiness and captivity. I so sick of this, I can’t go on. What am I supposed to do I just wanted to give up.
I went to bed feeling awful, with that awful taste in my mouth. How can I go on?
I woke up, thinking, I can’t give up that’s not what my brother would have wanted and that’s not going to fix anything I have to do something, just what?!
Going to school that day I felt disgusted and empty, confused with lots of questions. I for some reason had the irresistible thought of taking all of my supplies with me, it wasn’t much, so I just kept it in my backpack, hoping no one would ever know.
Throughout the day, I kept getting distracted about my brother, my world, and my life. How could I go on? It was during one of this distractions were I thought of a plan of what to do. I it came to me as I thought of the horse painting the Checkers took away, the horses running.
It was history class, and I didn’t understand why we needed to know the history of Italian leather and the styles of purses in 2003. I went off on a day dream, running, running, through the fields...
“Esperanza!”
“Sorry,” I turned and looked straight forward, trying to avoid eye contact with Mrs. Cauldrick.
“What is name of the purse designer of the style ‘Chicy Chick’?”
“What, why? Why does it matter? What can’t we learn something real, that means something. Can’t we live, again, do something that matters? Don’t you miss being creative, being ourselves, being free?
“How, HOW can you all stand this? Living in captivity, living in filth and disgrace of no freedom, no creativity?! It’s more than just a painting, a brush and paint, more than notes and the lovely sounds of music, it’s more than pretty colors, more than dancing or singing that I’m fighting for. It’s beauty and expression, to be ourselves, the chance to be free, to LIVE again.”
And with that I ran, knowing I was soon to get arrested, I ran and ran and ran. Just like a horse. But, I know, I can’t run forever, someday I’d have to face my troubles, but I’m ready, with Art back on my side, what had I to fear? One can take a girl’s brushes and canvas, but one can’t take one’s soul, her source of art and creativity away.
I kept going into the forest, across the river, past all of the civilization. Until I knew I was safe.
I spent two and a half weeks there, in the forest, traveling all around. I was free, truly free. It was just me, Art and Freedom. I painted, the beauty that I saw, sunsets, trees, animals, thought, and ideas. I painted soul equaling the source of art, water/ocean, black and white vs. colors, light shining in the darkness all symbolizing things. This was my time to be away from the world around me, I needed to leave for a short while.
I saw running horses, and shining stars amongst the black veil of heaven, I saw birds flying, trees sleeping peacefully, the wind blowing branches, green, leaves.... Freedom. And of course I painted, all of it, all that I saw, my emotions, too. I wanted everyone to see how the world once was, the beauty of it.
I’d live on the wild, eating berries, and go fishing, I found a nice cave I could stay in for this while...
I loved the time there, but I knew I had to come back. I had to once again face the world, tell them who I was, and not be afraid to be different, but I didn’t have to do this on my own. Art was by my side.
After the most amazing two and half weeks of my life, I headed back, back to the world I practically hated. I had to show them the beauty of the world, the way it really is, I needed to make a difference, like my brother said, and Art, now would help me.
I went back through the forest, the fields, running waters..... until I reached civilization. As much as I disliked it, there was something I had to do.
It was, nighttime, so I crept to the center of town and to the Public H.A.N.D. THere it was, huge and perfect and... blank. Then, I started, hanging up my paintings one by, one by one, in the shape of a large heart. I hung up my emotions, valleys, fields, woods, animals, all of them. I just finished it all before dawn, when the people started to arrive. Earlier, I had put a notice on everyone’s door to come to the Public H.A.N.D. at 7:00 a.m., order of the government.
As people started to some, I slipped away, I went to a place where no one could see me, but I could see all of them. I watched, on my stomach, from the rooftop of the Public H.A.N.D. I watched them, their faces.
I watched how their expression changed, their frown went away, and slowly, very slowly I could see how my Art had touched everyone of them, how they remembered and fell in love with things, that were lost and forgotten, all over again Some left not long after, but still refreshed and new. Others stayed all day. It was so incredible to watch them, see them and their hearts changed. Even some government officials came, at first wanting to arrest the person how did this, but as they stopped and looked, I could see them start to change. It was a great feeling, that I had finally stepped up and made a difference in the world, and was truly myself, my brother would be proud.
You know, as I think about, it really wasn’t the brushes or the paint or the canvas, that’s not what Art is re ally about. If you took those elements away, you’d still have Art. It’s the soul, really, that’s the true source of Art. Just me and the blank, white page, a pen ready, just have to open my heart and look straight into my soul... pull it out and somehow put it on the empty page.
And though the world, my world didn’t completely change, there was still hope, because my name means hope.
I wanted everyone to see how the world once was, the beauty of it.
There came a part in my life where I just couldn’t go one, no, not living like this, in disgusting emptiness and captivity.
But, here I am, now, with my anger bubbling up inside me and there’s really no other place for it to go but out.
What made it even harder was that I was already struggling, going through discomfort.
Questions: How could one man be so sick as to take another man’s freedom away? Why would anyone even think of doing something like this? These were thoughts that constantly ran through my mind.
That day, I painted a horse, because I oddly considered myself one of them, a horse. Running, that’s why I considered myself a horse. Because when I imagine running, when you just kept going, where there’s no end, there are no limits or boundaries, you are free. And horses, well, they run, run a lot, at least that’s how I imagine them, just them and an open field or pasture, the green, endless around them, trees, strong and beautiful. Can’t you just taste it, taste the freedom?
Ending:
And now, now, I travel the world, and each place I leave a piece of me, a piece of my heart and story behind me. The world will see and know me. But most importantly they’ll know the my Art, and the message behind it. The message of being true to yourself, the meThe feel of the brush, ah. So soothing and calm. Letting you use and control it, letting you do whatever you wanted with it.
ssage of being strong enough to face your troubles, the message of not being afraid to be different, no matter the odds
of the cost. The message of truly being free and living. Three letters, one word, my world. ART.
I could hear the Checkers at the door, I panicked, knowing they were going to eventually catch me. As they past through the house, their footsteps grew louder, nearing my room. I held my breath, waiting. What would they do with me, arrest me, lock me away? What would I do? I closed my eyes wondering if they knew. Knew about the secret studio and my diary and my Art.
throughout this we see her need and the absence of Art
Story Line: Mapping a Plot
Directions: When reading a story it is important to understand how the story develops. Below you will find the various parts of the story. Please 'identify evidence (using quotes and page numbers you found in the text to support your conclusions. Draw out your own
diagram with the information from the text!
1. Exposition: setting, situation/scene climate, mood
2. Conflict- what seems to be the main disagreement or cause of strife?
Art is gone- no books, no music, no creativity, character already faces conflict(s), and with ART taken away its even harder, people and family don’t get her, people/family= technology, shallow/fake, meaningless, structured
3. Rising Actions events that lead up to a major event
How is this taken away?, goes through stages of grief, anger, frustration; brother dies, she feels like giving up
4. CIimax the final major event
When I do something about it, create a mural or..., drop out of school
5. Falling Actions what is happening to bring the story to a resolution?
comes back
6. Resolution.- how is the conflict resolved?
shows art pieces in the shape of a heart to everyone, publicly, it touches everyone, travels the world
7. Protagonist vs. Antagonist -
(Protagonist main character/hero, Antagonist main enemy of the hero)
Me (Esperanza Joy) world (family, too)
8. Peripheral Characters which other characters are involved in the story?
brother, Art
9. Themes that are explored
fight for your freedom, follow your heart, though the whole world may be against you
10. Author’s Intent
What do I want the audience to take away? if it’s that important, that meaningful to you, fight for it, “If it’s hard, it’s even more worth it”, don’t be afraid to be different and flow our heart no matter what’s against you go against the crowd
11. At what point do you feel like the protagonist Came-of-age?
Ideas:
throughout this we see her need and the absence of Art
ART. It was that word, those three little letters, that somehow made the biggest difference in my world. My heart needed it. That was the way I breathed. It was one of those things you just couldn’t explain, that your life was somehow missing something without it. The thing I didn’t understand was WHY? Why would anyone take this away, Why would anyone do this to us? I couldn’t wrap my brain around it, I just didn’t understand. Why would someone take ART away?
I yearned for it each and everyday, it practically made my world go round. See, I always told myself, if, for whatever reason, though I highly, highly doubt it ever would happened if was ever in prison, well, all I’d need was food, a Bible and a bucket of paint and I’d live. Of course, I’d need people to live, my friends and family, but still, I’d live.
It was one of those things that I couldn’t live without, it nearly completed my heart as long as I can remember. Art. Oh, that word, that made my heart flip. I loved it and even more when things changed, when times got tough. See, art, Art isn’t just how “pretty” something look on a canvas, or how “good” one’s drawing of a face is, or how perfectly realistic it is (I honestly think that part of the amazement of art is that despite the imperfection, it’s still beautiful). No, that’s not all of what art is. It’s when you reach in inside, inside of yourself, inside of your heart and throw into onto a canvas, with true and real meaning behind it. That, my friend, is true ART. It’s what it means and does to you and to the world. It’s a mean and way of expression, individuality and creativity. For me, it didn’t always matter what I was creating, just knowing I had the absolute freedom to do it. Freedom. That itself is so important to me, because what are we without it? And the best way for me to be free, truly free, is through ART.
But, a huge piece of me was now lost. The thought, of no art, creativity or in my case freedom, that alone, made me sick. And what I most feared was the fact that I may not get it back. I mean, what would you do, if your freedom got taken away?
Art, it gave the freedom to be different, to truly be myself, purely me! (Something I rarely tasted, yet constantly longed for.) It was the way I breathed, and freedom is what I was breathing. I mean, of course you could be different anywhere, but with Art I was fully and completely accepted, better than hardly anywhere else. Art was always there I could lean on it, whenever I needed it. It helped me when no one else really could. It accepted me, let me be myself, let me be. I’m so abundantly creative, I need to express myself, some way, somehow... And they took it away.
They took it. Not all at once but over a short time. They shut down the shops, the supply stores, with paint and brushes and canvases, paper, cans... inside them. They took anything creative or art resembling away. They took some much of things you could create art with. They took colors away, in a sense. They took most of the transportation away, so you couldn’t go places to get inspired, so you couldn’t leave. They took away music, dance, singing, books, writing, films, anything at all creative, they took it. They secured off nature, put blinds on our windows. The world was blah and lifeless, meaningless, boring, plain and dark. It was the kind of world I never thought could, much less would, exist. And that’s the world I wake up to, dreading it, everyday.
What made it even harder was that I was already struggling and going through discomfort. My family, the people around me, the world, it felt like, just didn’t understand me, who I was or why I was the way I was. It was so hard, to face the world, the day, with the burden of unacceptance and not being understand, not even by your family. They were so shallow, only caring of themselves and things that were meaningless with no flavor or taste, and wouldn’t last. I cared of things of value, memory, hope, love, and beauty, things that I felt were lost. I wasn’t like most 17 year-olds, as you can imagine. In fact I wasn’t like most at all, any age. But, some day, I hoped, that would change.
I woke up every morning to the Siren, blaring its loud, obnoxious horn. I dressed in clothes of black, gray and white, my least favorite colors. Down to breakfast I headed, and I never looked forward to meals, for the food was just as flavorless as society. But, somehow, my family enjoyed it. I couldn’t understand it. Enjoying tastelessness, how? All of them that is except, my brother.
My brother, Barnabas. He was different, and special. He understood me, and even when he didn’t he still loved me. It was so rare that I tasted that. He was a brother, not an annoying one, one I could be myself and genuinely cared about me with love and loyalty. We’d mess around and joke, we’d think and push each other. He’d encourage me. And I felt like we were some of the only people that actually lived.
He was one of my few luxuries and pleasures, amongst my black world. And fortunate for me, he was coming home for a little while. Unfortunately, my brother was a legal adult of 23 and served in our army, something that made me proud. When he was gone I missed him terribly, but I had the comfort of him visiting home to bring me hope, which I definitely needed.
After breakfast, I was off on my way to a disgusting idea of a “learning community”, school. I road the public bus that everyone took, because there was really nothing else. The government wanted to control everything. Take away transportation, so a man can’t go any where. Sure, a man can run, but not very far.... at least before they’d catch you...
School, there was really nothing much to say about it, except that I considered it a waste of time, the stuff we as students learned and what people did in their freetime. They were practically glued to their H.A.N.D.s (Handular Accessible Networking Device), a phone computer and ipod, right in the palm of your hand. With this things that were real and true, such as Art, were practically gone, everything was fairly meaningless; Like a conversation I had with a group of girls when I tried to fit it once:
“So, Coper,” Angelina, the head of the group said, “Which shade of pink should I put on my H.A.N.D. case, so it matches my outfit?”
“Pink, really? According to Frenio Balanski pink is really out, every one has violet now.”
“Well, fine. But I still have that date with Bryan Crice and I’m trying to decide if we should iceskate or rollerblade for our Virtu-date. This is a really important decision for me.”
“I don’t know what to do, Hartly Nalebore, my newest boyfriend, only likes to Virtu-ski together.”
“Well, that’s not much of a help.”
“Hey, new girl, Essy,” Angelina asked when no one else spoke up in answer, “Got any ideas?”
“Me?” I asked, wondering why they’d ask me, I wasn’t the prettiest or popular, I was really nobody, actually.
“Yeah.”
“Uh, I don’t know,” I answered bluntly.
“Fine! Anyway, I started watching this new TV series on my H.A.N.D....,” Angelina continued as I walked anyway.
See, see what I mean. This is why I don’t fit in, this is why people make me mad. We don’t just not get each other, but it’s why we don’t. They are so disgustingly shallow. The things they talk about don’t matter, won’t last, are meaningless and unimportant. Uh, it drives me crazy. But, I just stuff it away, there’s nothing I can do, just try to blend in no matter how sick it makes me.
Now, normally, Ha! I hate that word. So, boring and unreal, what does it mean anyway? Why would one want to be ‘normal’ Oh! These were questions I constantly asked myself, but unfortunately... I have to pretend to be ‘normal’. Anyway, usually, I’d have Art to lean on, to paint with but now....
I came home everyday from school angry, angry about my life and what they had done. No one even understood, no one cared about me and my brokenness or about the lost in general of Art. But, the worst part was it, Art, wasn’t even there to lean on, to help me through my troubles. The absence of it sickened me. Made me SO mad! But what could I do, I was only a 17, not even a legal adult, but that didn’t really matter because the government controlled everything anyway. Uh! How was I supposed to go on like this, act as if nothing had changed, like my heart hadn’t been ripped apart. Am I expected to live the lie of ‘no art’?
But, I just had to plaster a fake smile on my face and act as if everything were hunky dory, that my best friend wasn’t gone, that I didn’t have much hope left in me. I was still mad be I just stuffed in down inside me. Not the kind of anger where I’d let it out, the type that you kept pushing down, not knowing what to do with it. “Just wear the smile.”
The only thing that did give me hope, as I said, was my brother. We’d go on walks a lot and talk, just talk, as if nothing had changed. Living like the good old times. I looked forward to those times, that we’d do this. And, thankfully, one of them was right around the corner, two more days and he’d be home for a little while.
Once, I got home, I went to my room, then slid a horizontal board on my wall, unnoticeable to the human eye, across and entered what I called my “Secret Studio”. I, then, moved the board back to it’s place. No one knew it was here that’s the best part, I could be, just be, myself.
Then, I cried. Cried about school and family, people and Art. Where was it, I needed it. I needed to breathe needed to be free. Why do we want to be free? Because, things like freedom, be understood, being accepted and loved those things, those are important, something everyone wants, something real and true, something we strive for. Something, I didn’t have. Oh, it made me mad! I was sick of just putting down my feelings, pushing my anger away. I let the tears run down my face feeling absolutely helpless.
The tears blurred my sight and I closed my eyes. I wept quietly and my mind brought me back to a time.
We were laughing, just the two of us. Like two free horses, we run, ran through the fields, there were no limits. The wind blew my hair, filling my lungs. After a while, Barnabas and I went home. I painted while he talked, talked of his dreams, letting his thoughts float freely throughout the room. I led the brush this way and that. The feel of the brush, ah. So soothing and calm. Letting you use and control it, letting you do whatever you wanted with it. The open page, ready, ready for our to pour yourself into it. We laughed again.
As I opened my eyes, I realized it was late, late because I could hear the blinds going down, meaning going to be was coming soon.
I went to my plain bed, longing just for the touch of a brush, the feel of wet paint, oh... I closed my eyes with the thought of free horses, running, wild, chasing, running....free.
The next day, I awoke to the sirens. That de ay I went through the usual routine, same boring, cold stuff as usual. Sickening, was no one alive, was nothing real. I hoped and longed for the day when the World woke up.
The next day, though, couldn’t come soon enough. My brother was coming home! That, that I could hold onto for hope.
My brother came into my room, waking my from my sleep. Not in a long time had I wanted to come from dreaming and face my reality, but now, he was here!
I hugged him, overwhelmed with joy. We were so happy to see each other, at first we just stared. Then we laugh, the kind we both hadn’t done in a long while, too long.
He then greeted the rest of the family. I had to go off to school, but I told him I’d see him after.
“I can’t wait,” We both said.
Throughout the day, I could barely pay attention, I had long awaited this time, where we’d be together, together, finally, with someone who really got me. Something I rarely had.
I was so excited after school, on the way home I could barely contain it. One person, on the bus noticed and said,
“You excited for the finale episode of Mario and Susan, I can’t wait.”
“Uh, yeah, sure,” I lied hastily.
When I got off, I ran to the door, and rushed inside. I greeted my brother with a huge hug.
“Hey, Essy, want to hit the path?”
“Yes!” I answered. The path was the path we always took, the one that really connected us, the one we went on since we could walk and talk.
As we walked, he started to explain how his division of the military got sent up to the battlefield.
“The battlefield! What, no, you’ll get killed,” I cried.
“No, I wouldn’t, I’ ll be fine, don’t you worry. So what’s going on with you?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t lie. You know you can tell me.”
“I know, you’re the only one I can tell. It just hurts, that’s all,” I sadly stated. “It’s just that Art is gone, and no one has any idea how hard it is. I mean Art was and is so much to me, it’s what I always leaned on. And I’d lean more on it when you were gone and when people didn’t understand me, which is always. I just don’t know if I can go on this way. It makes me SO MAD!”
“I know how you feel. In fact, I brought a little gift for you. I think it’ll help.”
Out of the backpack he was carrying he pulled it out. No, Yes! Yes, is this really happening.
He pulled out an art supply kit. It had paint, brushes, a pallet, canvases..... It was, wow. I was speechless. I almost cried. And my brother knew my happiness.
“You don’t have to say anything, I know you love it,” he said with a smile.
“Wow, thank you,” I breathed out.
“I want you to express yourself, to truly be yourself with this, tell the world who you really are. That’s also what I wanted to tell you. Don’t ever, ever be afraid to be yourself. Go out there and face the world, go against the crowd and follow your heart, no matter the challenges.” He leaned down, put his hands on my shoulders, looked me straight in the eye and said, ”Don’t let the world stop you from who you really are.”
We paused, taking everything in, then continued, new, alive, and refreshed. I’ll never forget that moment, it changed my life, forever.
As we walked home, silently, several thoughts ran through my mind: All the paintings I should paint, this is a perfect use for my Secret Studio, and my brother is going to be on the battlefield, he’ll be fine, I comforted myself.
We entered the house, so happy I still couldn’t speak. I went to bed that night feeling a joy I hadn’t felt in a while. But, before I went to sleep, I painted a picture of me and my brother in color and going the opposite way of everyone else around us, who was all in black with blindfolds on. The painting read at the bottom, “Don’t let the world stop you from who you really are.”
My brother headed off back to the army, with my best, but my family didn’t even care to say goodbye. Though it strongly bothers me, I had to concern my attention with other things. And, the next few days, weeks consisted of me going through the typical routine, but instead I also tried to be myself. I tried to wear colored clothes that I kept after they took everything away, but I got warned to not do that again. I would ask people the endless amount of questions I had, like being normal, or why was the government doing this, or how dto sunsets form or if they could travel anywhere, where would they go? But most of the responses I got went like this: “What are you talking about?” or “Get lost!” or “What wrong with you?!”
I’d then tell my brother, in person or using my H.A.N.D., and he’d say, “It’ll be hard, but you know it’ll be worth it in the end. Don’t forget, you have me around.”
“Thanks, I know.”
I’d even question the teachers:
“Mr. Stringer,” I questioned, “Why do we need to learn ‘y=mx+b’?”
“Because,” He answered, “You’ll need it in life someday.”
“But.. when will we...?”
He left before I could finish.
“I don’t understand, Ms. Prathia. Why does it matter how cumulonimbus clouds are formed, or when Facebook went out of date, or the gas prices of 2024 or the TV show we watched last night? Why does it matter!?” I tried not to get upset. But, she’d typically just keep going, ignoring my questions.
I remember walking through fields, running in the forests, green all around me, the creatures we’d find, the secrets we’d discover. Painting with my brother, smiling. Without Art, I had almost forgotten how to smile. But, still, the fluid paint, the stiff and soft bristles of the brushes, the open and white canvas... Reality woke me in the form of my teacher, staring down at me, waiting for my answer to the question I didn’t know.
“What?” I asked.
“What,” She paused in frustration, “Is the name of our leader in 1976?”
“Crikwell, Kyle Frat Crikwell,” I answered, glad I just slipped out of that situation.
“That’s correct,” Mrs. Cauldrick said. She leaned down at me, “Don’t let that happened again.”
I tried not to let her stinging words bother me. I was sick of her and the pointless we learned. The things we learned irritated me, I didn’t think they had any meaning or real value, but, despite my complaints and pushing back, asking them to reconsider and possibly change, they’d never budge. Another obstacle to face everyday.
Through the challenges, I remained hopeful that someday things would changes things would be different, that I would change the world.
One day, when I was for whatever reason, walking around town, I found an a piece of paper, old and forgotten. I wondered what it was doing here, but that didn’t matter. I read it:
The Road Not Taken
By Robert Frost
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
“And that made all the difference,” I repeated. Wow, this is awesome, someone else, somewhere who was going through the same situation as me. The Road not taken, yes I’ll take that path, too, though I know it will be hard.
Even though I could paint, life still had it’s challenges. I could paint, which was so amazing, but only my eyes saw it. I wanted my art to reach others, for my art to touch the hearts and souls of many but how.
Each night I’d paint, or write something I learned in my journal: Brushes are like people, some are stiff and hard some are soft and easy. Also like brushes and paint and canvases, things aren’t always as they seem. Many times brushes, paint and canvases are bigger than they seem. I kept my journal hidden in my Secret Studio, I couldn’t ever let the Checkers get to it.
The Checkers. Oh, they were the people that came and raided our houses every month of art, supplies, anything colorful or creative, if they caught me, I’d be arrested for sure. No, I wouldn’t let that happened.
I felt so peaceful with being able to have little snippets of art here and there. My life was starting to look back up.
I’d paint sunsets, and flowers. Things of the past and things forgotten. Nature, I loved that, another breath of freedom taken away. I would also paint my emotions, to let them out. And Nfinally, finally, I felt free.
That day, I painted a horse, because I oddly considered myself one of them, a horse. Running, that’s why I considered myself a horse. Because when I imagine running, when you just kept going, where there’s no end, there are no limits or boundaries, you are free. And horses, well, they run, run a lot, at least that’s how I imagine them, just them and an open field or pasture, the green, endless around them, trees, strong and beautiful. Can’t you just taste it, taste the freedom?
For some reason I heard footsteps, getting louder, but I thought nothing of it. It was probably my mom changing my gray sheets to another gray one. I kept painting, adding the last touches to my painting.....
Suddenly, my door to my studio swing, wide open. The Checkers, no, NO, not them!
They immediately saw my painting and took.
“What are you doing with this?” They rudely asked.
“I, I, well..”
“Who cares,” One said, “Just take it, and you.” They pointed at me, “You better not do this ever again, you hear?!”
“Yes.”
They let with that, and thankfully, very thankfully, not checking the Secret Studio for anything.
I could tell my parents were disappointed, but I also knew they could probably cared less, with the way they treated me. I didn’t even feel like I mattered here in my own home.
I called Barnabas and told him the news, now scared and not wanting to take many more risks. I feared that I couldn’t go on if the risks were like this.
“Come on, now. You’re not like that, you’re braver than that. Remember what I said, “Don’t let the world stop you from who you really are.”
“Thanks, I knew I could trust you.’
I went to bed that night, thinking and dreaming of how I could change the world and show them who I really was. Then, it hit me. Art, use Art. Display my painting, somewhere somewhere so everyone can see it, yes that’s what I’ll do. And I did something I hadn’t done it a while, I smiled.
I went to school, the next day, with hope and a lot of it. I thought off and on throughout the day where, where would I display my art. I searched and looked.....
I thought of it on the way home as we passed the Public H.A.N.D. where they showed movies, or the news or the time, it was just a huge blank space, the size of a wall, reaching high, and it was perfect!
Barnabas, I have to tell him! I couldn’t wait to get home, to call and tell him my ideas.
I got home quickly and as I rushed to my room, my parents stopped me.
“Esperanza, we have something we need to tell you.”
I kept smiling, nothing could be so bad as to take my smile away.
“It’s your brother,” they continued, “You know how he was moved to the battlefield, the most dangerous place during a war, and well...”
Their voice trailed off. My expression changed quickly to shock and confusion.
“He’s just hurt, right?” I asked, “That’s all right? Please.”
“The military called and said he’s dead. I’m sorry, dear.”
“What, dead?” I could barely say it, then I started crying “How are you not upset, or crying or...?”
“Well, it happens, you know? The Barnes’ son died two weeks ago, besides now we have one less mouth to feed.”
“How can you say that?” I cried, disgusted. I ran up to my room and flopped on my bed.
“UHHHHH!” I yelled. How, how could this happen?!?!
My anger bubbled up inside me and having really no other place for it to go but out.
It makes me sick, what am I supposed to do. Right now I just want to give up. I just couldn’t go on, no, not living like this, in disgusting emptiness and captivity. I so sick of this, I can’t go on. What am I supposed to do? I just wanted to give up.
I went to bed feeling awful, with that awful taste in my mouth. How can I go on?
I woke up, thinking, I can’t give up, that’s not what my brother would have wanted and that’s not going to fix anything I have to do something, but wjusthat?!
Going to school that day I felt disgusted and empty, confused with lots of questions. I for some reason had the irresistible thought of taking all of my supplies with me, it wasn’t much, so I just kept it in my backpack, hoping no one would ever know.
Throughout the day, I kept getting distracted about my brother, my world, and my life. How could I go on? It was during one of this distractions were I thought of a plan of what to do. I it came to me as I thought of the horse painting the Checkers took away, the horses running.
It was history class, and I didn’t understand why we needed to know the history of Italian leather and the styles of purses in 2003. I went off on a day dream, running, running, through the fields...
“Esperanza!”
“Sorry,” I turned and looked straight forward, trying to avoid eye contact with Mrs. Cauldrick.
“What is name of the purse designer of the style ‘Chicy Chick’?”
“What, why? Why does it matter? What can’t we learn something real, that means something. Can’t we live, again, do something that matters? Don’t you miss being creative, being ourselves, being free?
“How, HOW can you all stand this? Living in captivity, living in filth and disgrace of no freedom, no creativity?! It’s more than just a painting, a brush and paint, more than notes and the lovely sounds of music, it’s more than pretty colors, more than dancing or singing that I’m fighting for. It’s beauty and expression, to be ourselves, the chance to be free, to LIVE again.”
And with that I ran, knowing I was soon to get arrested, I ran and ran and ran. Just like a horse. But, I know, I can’t run forever, someday I’d have to face my troubles, but I’m ready, with Art back on my side, what had I to fear? One can take a girl’s brushes and canvas, but one can’t take one’s soul, her source of art and creativity away.
I kept going into the forest, across the river, past all of the civilization. Until I knew I was safe.
I spent two and a half weeks there, in the forest, traveling all around. I was free, truly free. It was just me, Art and Freedom. I painted, the beauty that I saw, sunsets, trees, animals, thought, and ideas. I painted soul equaling the source of art, water/ocean, black and white vs. colors, light shining in the darkness all symbolizing things. This was my time to be away from the world around me, I needed to leave for a short while.
I saw running horses, and shining stars amongst the black veil of heaven, I saw birds flying, trees sleeping peacefully, the wind blowing branches, green, leaves.... Freedom. And of course I painted, all of it, all that I saw, my emotions, too. I wanted everyone to see how the world once was, the beauty of it.
I’d live on the wild, eating berries, and go fishing, I found a nice cave I could stay in for this while...
I loved the time there, but I knew I had to come back. I had to once again face the world, tell them who I was, and not be afraid to be different, but I didn’t have to do this on my own. Art was by my side.
After the most amazing two and half weeks of my life, I headed back, back to the world I practically hated. I had to show them the beauty of the world, the way it really is, I needed to make a difference, like my brother said, and Art, now would help me.
I went back through the forest, the fields, running waters..... until I reached civilization. As much as I disliked it, there was something I had to do.
It was, nighttime, so I crept to the center of town and to the Public H.A.N.D. ThHere it was, huge and perfect and... blank. Then, I started, hanging up my paintings one by, one by one, in the shape of a large heart. I hung up my emotions, valleys, fields, woods, animals, all of them. I just finished it all before dawn, when the people started to arrive. Earlier, I had put a notice on everyone’s door to come to the Public H.A.N.D. at 7:00 a.m., order of the government.
As people started to some, I slipped away, I went to a place where no one could see me, but I could see all of them. I watched, on my stomach, from the rooftop of the Public H.A.N.D. I watched them, their faces.
I watched how their expression changed, their frown went away, and slowly, very slowly I could see how my Art had touched everyone of them, how they remembered and fell in love with things, that were lost and forgotten, all over again Some left not long after, but still refreshed and new. Others stayed all day. It was so incredible to watch them, see them and their hearts changed. Even some government officials came, at first wanting to arrest the person how did this, but as they stopped and looked, I could see them start to change. It was a great feeling, that I had finally stepped up and made a difference in the world, and was truly myself, my brother would be proud.
You know, as I think about, it really wasn’t the brushes or the paint or the canvas, that’s not what Art is really about. If you took those elements away, you’d still have Art. It’s the soul, really, that’s the true source of Art. Just me and the blank, white page, a pen ready, just have to open my heart and look straight into my soul... pull it out and somehow put it on the empty page.
And though the world, my world didn’t completely change, there was still hope, because my name means hope.
And now, now, I travel the world, and each place I leave a piece of me, a piece of my heart and story behind me. The world will see and know me. But most importantly they’ll know the my Art, and the message behind it. The message of being true to yourself, the message of being strong enough to face your troubles, the message of not being afraid to be different, no matter the odds of the cost. The message of truly being free and living. Three letters, one word, my world. ART.
Very enjoyable
E and brothers time, then death
Put together amazingly, beautiful
Story Line: Mapping a Plot
Directions: When reading a story it is important to understand how the story develops. Below you will find the various parts of the story. Please 'identify evidence (using quotes and page numbers you found in the text to support your conclusions. Draw out your own
diagram with the information from the text!
1. Exposition: setting, situation/scene climate, mood
2. Conflict- what seems to be the main disagreement or cause of strife?
Art is gone- no books, no music, no creativity, character already faces conflict(s), and with ART taken away its even harder, people and family don’t get her, people/family= technology, shallow/fake, meaningless, structured
3. Rising Actions events that lead up to a major event
How is this taken away?, goes through stages of grief, anger, frustration; brother dies, she feels like giving up
4. CIimax the final major event
When I do something about it, create a mural or..., drop out of school
5. Falling Actions what is happening to bring the story to a resolution?
comes back
6. Resolution.- how is the conflict resolved?
shows art pieces in the shape of a heart to everyone, publicly, it touches everyone, travels the world
7. Protagonist vs. Antagonist -
(Protagonist main character/hero, Antagonist main enemy of the hero)
Me (Esperanza Joy) world (family, too)
8. Peripheral Characters which other characters are involved in the story?
brother, Art
9. Themes that are explored
fight for your freedom, follow your heart, though the whole world may be against you
10. Author’s Intent
What do I want the audience to take away? if it’s that important, that meaningful to you, fight for it, “If it’s hard, it’s even more worth it”, don’t be afraid to be different and flow our heart no matter what’s against you go against the crowd
11. At what point do you feel like the protagonist Came-of-age?
Ideas:
throughout this we see her need and the absence of Art
Questions:
Should I add more characters, specifically a friend for Essy? Should i go more in depth when she’s living in the forest?
ART. It was that word, those three little letters, that somehow made the biggest difference in my world. My heart needed it. It the way I breathed. It was one of those things you just couldn’t explain, that your life was somehow missing something without it. The thing I did not understand was WHY? Why would anyone take this away, Why would anyone do this to us? I could not wrap my brain around it, I just didn’t understand. Why would someone take ART away?
I yearned for it each and everyday, it practically made my world go round. I always told myself, if, for whatever reason, I highly doubt it ever would happened, if I was ever in prison, well, all I’d need was food, a Bible and a bucket of paint and I’d live. Of course, I’d need people to live, my friends and family, but still, I’d live.
Art. Oh, that word, that made my heart flip, it nearly completed my heart as long as I can remember. I loved it and even more when things changed, when times got tough. See, Art isn’t just how “pretty” something looks on a canvas, or how “good” one’s drawing of a face is, or how perfectly realistic it is. I honestly think the amazing part of art is that despite the imperfection, it’s still beautiful. No, that’s not all of what art is. It’s when you reach inside, inside of yourself, inside of your heart and throw it onto a canvas, with true and real meaning behind it. That, is true ART. It’s what it means and does to you and to the world. It’s a means and way of expression, individuality and creativity. For me, it didn’t always matter what I was creating, just knowing I had the absolute freedom to do it. Freedom. That itself is so important to me, because what are we without it? And the best way for me to be free, truly free, is through ART.
But, a huge piece of me was now lost. The thought, of no art, creativity or in my case freedom, that alone, made me sick. And what I most feared was the fact that I may not get it back. I mean, what would you do, if your freedom got taken away?
Art, it gave the freedom to be different, to truly be myself, purely me! Something I rarely tasted, yet constantly longed for. It was the way I breathed, and freedom is what I was breathing. I mean, of course I could be different anywhere, but with Art I was fully and completely accepted, better than hardly anywhere else. Art was always there I could lean on it, whenever I needed it. It helped me when no one else really could. It accepted me, let me be myself, let me be. I’m so creative, I need to express myself, some way, somehow... And they took it away.
They took it. Not all at once but over a short time. They shut down the shops, the supply stores. Everywhere with paint and brushes and canvases, paper, cans... inside them. They took away anything creative or art resembling. They took so much of the things you could create art with. They took colors away, in a sense. They took most of the transportation away, so you couldn’t go places to get inspired, so you couldn’t leave. They took away music, dance, singing, books, writing, films, anything at all creative, they took it. They secured off nature, put blinds on our windows. The world was blah and lifeless, meaningless, boring, plain and dark. It was the kind of world I never thought could, much less would, exist. And that’s the world I wake up to, dreading it, everyday.
What made it even harder was that I was already struggling and going through discomfort. My family, the people around me, the world, it felt like, just didn’t understand me, who I was or why I was the way I was. It was so hard, to face the world, the day, with the burden of being unaccepted and not being understood not even by your family. They were so shallow, only caring of themselves and things that were meaningless with no flavor or taste, and wouldn’t last. I cared of things of value, memory, hope, love, and beauty, things that I felt were lost. I wasn’t like most 17 year-olds, as you can imagine. In fact I wasn’t like most at all, any age. But, some day, I hoped, that would change.
I woke up every morning to the Siren, blaring its loud, obnoxious horn. I dressed in clothes of black, gray and white, my least favorite colors. Down to breakfast I headed, and I never looked forward to meals, for the food was just as flavorless as society. But, somehow, my family enjoyed it. I couldn’t understand it. Enjoying tastelessness, how? All of them that is except, my brother.
My brother, Barnabas. He was different, and special. He understood me, and even when he didn’t he still loved me. It was so rare that I tasted that. He was a brother, not an annoying one, one I could be myself around and genuinely cared about me with love and loyalty. We’d mess around and joke, we’d think and push each other. He’d encourage me. And I felt like we were some of the only people that actually lived.
He was one of my few luxuries and pleasures, amongst my black world. And fortunate for me, he was coming home for a little while. My brother was a legal adult of 23 and served in our army, something that made me proud. When he was gone I missed him terribly, but I had the comfort of him visiting home to bring me hope, which I definitely needed.
After breakfast, I was off on my way to a disgusting idea of a “learning community”, school. I road the public bus that everyone took, because there was really nothing else. The government wanted to control everything. Take away transportation, so a man can’t go anywhere. Sure, a man can run, but not very far.... at least before they’d catch you...
School. There was really nothing much to say about it, except that I considered it a waste of time. The stuff we as students learned and what people did in their freetime. They were practically glued to their H.A.N.D.s (Handular Accessible Networking Device), a phone computer and ipod, right in the palm of your hand. With the things that were real and true, such as Art, that were practically gone, everything else was fairly meaningless; Like a conversation I had with a group of girls when I tried to fit it once:
“So, Coper,” Angelina, the head of the group said, “Which shade of pink should I put on my H.A.N.D. case, so it matches my outfit?”
“Pink, really? According to Frenio Balanski pink is really out, everyone has violet now.”
“Well, fine. But I still have that date with Bryan Crice and I’m trying to decide if we should iceskate or rollerblade for our Virtu-date. This is a really important decision for me.”
“I don’t know what to do, Hartly Nalebore, my newest boyfriend, only likes to Virtu-ski together.”
“Well, that’s not much of a help.”
“Hey, new girl, Essy,” Angelina asked when no one else spoke up in answer, “Got any ideas?”
“Me?” I asked, wondering why they’d ask me, I wasn’t the prettiest or popular, I was really nobody, actually.
“Yeah.”
“Uh, I don’t know,” I answered bluntly.
“Fine! Anyway, I started watching this new TV series on my H.A.N.D....,” Angelina continued as I walked anyway.
See, see what I mean. This is why I don’t fit in, this is why people make me mad. We don’t just not get each other, but it’s why we don’t. They are so disgustingly shallow. The things they talk about don’t matter, won’t last, are meaningless and unimportant. Uh, it drives me crazy. But, I just stuff it away, there’s nothing I can do, just try to blend in no matter how sick it makes me.
Now, normally, Ha! I hate that word. So, boring and unreal, what does it mean anyway? Why would one want to be ‘normal’ Oh! These were questions I constantly asked myself, but unfortunately... I have to pretend to be ‘normal’. Anyway, usually, I’d have Art to lean on, to paint with but now....
I came home everyday from school angry, angry about my life and what they had done. No one even understood, no one cared about me and my brokenness or about the loss in general of Art. But, the worst part was it, Art wasn't even there to lean on, to help me through my troubles. The absence of it sickened me. Made me SO mad! But what could I do, I was only a 17, not even a legal adult, but that didn’t really matter because the government controlled everything anyway. Uh! How was I supposed to go on like this, act as if nothing had changed, like my heart hadn’t been ripped apart. Am I expected to live the lie of ‘no art’?
But, I just had to plaster a fake smile on my face and act as if everything were hunky dory, that my best friend wasn’t gone, that I didn’t have much hope left in me. I was still mad, but I just stuffed it down inside of me. Not the kind where I'd let it out, the type that you kept pushing down, not knowing what to do with it. “Just wear the smile.”
The only thing that did give me hope, as I said, was my brother. We’d go on walks a lot and talk, just talk, as if nothing had changed. Living like the good old times. I looked forward to those times, that we’d do this. And, thankfully, one of them was right around the corner, two more days and he’d be home for a little while.
Once, I got home, I went to my room, then slid a horizontal board on my wall, unnoticeable to the human eye, across and entered what I called my “Secret Studio”. I, then, moved the board back to it’s place. No one knew it was here that’s the best part, I could be, just be, myself.
Then, I cried. Cried about school and family, people and Art. Where was it, I needed it. I needed to breathe needed to be free. Why do we want to be free? Because, things like freedom, be understood, being accepted and loved those things, those are important, something everyone wants, something real and true, something we strive for. Something, I didn’t have. Oh, it made me mad! I was sick of just putting down my feelings, pushing my anger away. I let the tears run down my face feeling absolutely helpless.
The tears blurred my sight and I closed my eyes. I wept quietly and my mind brought me back to a time.
We were laughing, just the two of us. Like two free horses, we run, ran through the fields, there were no limits. The wind blew my crazy mane of curly red hair, filling my lungs. After a while, Barnabas and I went home. I painted while he talked, talked of his dreams, letting his thoughts float freely throughout the room. I led the brush this way and that. The feel of the brush, ah. So soothing and calm. Letting you use and control it, letting you do whatever you wanted with it. The open page, ready, ready for our to pour yourself into it. We laughed again.
As I opened my eyes, I realized it was late, late because I could hear the blinds going down, meaning going to be was coming soon.
I went to my plain bed, longing just for the touch of a brush, the feel of wet paint, oh... I closed my eyes with the thought of free horses, running, wild, chasing, running....free.
The next day, I awoke to the sirens. That day I went through the usual routine, same boring, cold stuff as usual. Sickening, was no one alive, was nothing real. I hoped and longed for the day when the World woke up.
The next day, though, couldn’t come soon enough. My brother was coming home! That, that I could hold onto for hope.
My brother came into my room, waking my from my sleep. Not in a long time had I wanted to come from dreaming and face my reality, but now, he was here!
I hugged him, overwhelmed with joy. We were so happy to see each other, at first we just stared. Looking at his deep brown eyes and dark brown hair, I smiled again. Then we laugh, the kind we both hadn’t done in a long while, too long.
He then greeted the rest of the family. I had to go off to school, but I told him I’d see him after.
“I can’t wait,” We both said.
Throughout the day, I could barely pay attention, I had long awaited this time, where we’d be together, together, finally, with someone who really got me. Something I rarely had.
I was so excited after school, on the way home I could barely contain it. One person, on the bus noticed and said,
“You excited for the finale episode of Mario and Susan, I can’t wait.”
“Uh, yeah, sure,” I lied hastily.
When I got off, I ran to the door, and rushed inside. I greeted my brother with a huge hug.
“Hey, Essy, want to hit the path?”
“Yes!” I answered. The path was the path we always took, the one that really connected us, the one we went on since we could walk and talk.
As we walked, he started to explain how his division of the military got sent up to the battlefield.
“The battlefield! What, no, you’ll get killed,” I cried.
“No, I won’t, I’ll be fine, don’t you worry. So what’s going on with you?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t lie. You know you can tell me.”
“I know, you’re the only one I can tell. It just hurts, that’s all,” I sadly stated. “It’s just that Art is gone, and no one has any idea how hard it is. I mean Art was and is so much to me, it’s what I always leaned on. And I’d lean more on it when you were gone and when people didn’t understand me, which is always. I just don’t know if I can go on this way. It makes me SO MAD!”
“I know how you feel. In fact, I brought a little gift for you. I think it’ll help.”
Out of the backpack he was carrying he pulled it out. No, Yes! Yes, is this really happening.
He pulled out an art supply kit. It had paint, brushes, a pallet, canvases..... It was, wow. I was speechless. I almost cried. And my brother knew my happiness.
“You don’t have to say anything, I know you love it,” he said with a smile.
“Wow, thank you,” I breathed out.
“I want you to express yourself, to truly be yourself with this, tell the world who you really are. That’s also what I wanted to tell you. Don’t ever, ever be afraid to be yourself. Go out there and face the world, go against the crowd and follow your heart, no matter the challenges.” He leaned down, put his hands on my shoulders, looked me straight in the eye and said, ”Don’t let the world stop you from who you really are.”
We paused, taking everything in, then continued, new, alive, and refreshed. I’ll never forget that moment, it changed my life, forever.
As we walked home, silently, several thoughts ran through my mind: All the paintings I should paint, this is a perfect use for my Secret Studio, and my brother is going to be on the battlefield, he’ll be fine, I comforted myself.
We entered the house, so happy I still couldn’t speak. I went to bed that night feeling a joy I hadn’t felt in a while. But, before I went to sleep, I painted a picture of me and my brother in color and going the opposite way of everyone else around us, who was all in black with blindfolds on. The painting read at the bottom, “Don’t let the world stop you from who you really are.”
My brother headed off back to the army, with my best, but my family didn’t even care to say goodbye. Though it strongly bothers me, I had to concern my attention with other things. And, the next few days, weeks consisted of me going through the typical routine, but instead I also tried to be myself. I tried to wear colored clothes that I kept after they took everything away, but I got warned to not do that again. I would ask people the endless amount of questions I had, like being normal, or why was the government doing this, or how do sunsets form or if they could travel anywhere, where would they go? But most of the responses I got went like this: “What are you talking about?” or “Get lost!” or “What wrong with you?!”
I’d then tell my brother, in person or using my H.A.N.D., and he’d say, “It’ll be hard, but you know it’ll be worth it in the end. Don’t forget, you have me around.”
“Thanks, I know.”
I’d even question the teachers:
“Mr. Stringer,” I questioned, “Why do we need to learn ‘y=mx+b’?”
“Because,” He answered, “You’ll need it in life someday.”
“But.. when will we...?”
He left before I could finish.
“I don’t understand, Ms. Prathia. Why does it matter how cumulonimbus clouds are formed, or when Facebook went out of date, or the gas prices of 2024 or the TV show we watched last night? Why does it matter!?” I tried not to get upset. But, she’d typically just keep going, ignoring my questions.
I remember walking through fields, running in the forests, green all around me, the creatures we’d find, the secrets we’d discover. Painting with my brother, smiling. Without Art, I had almost forgotten how to smile. But, still, the fluid paint, the stiff and soft bristles of the brushes, the open and white canvas... Reality woke me in the form of my teacher, staring down at me, waiting for my answer to the question I didn’t know.
“What?” I asked.
“What,” She paused in frustration, “Is the name of our leader in 1976?”
“Crikwell, Kyle Frat Crikwell,” I answered, glad I just slipped out of that situation.
“That’s correct,” Mrs. Cauldrick said. She leaned down at me, “Don’t let that happened again.”
I tried not to let her stinging words bother me. I was sick of her and the pointless things we learned. The things we learned irritated me, I didn’t think they had any meaning or real value, but, despite my complaints and pushing back, asking them to reconsider and possibly change, they’d never budge. Another obstacle to face everyday.
Through the challenges, I remained hopeful that someday things would changes things would be different, that I would change the world.
One day, when I was for whatever reason, walking around town, I found an a piece of paper, old and forgotten. I wondered what it was doing here, but that didn’t matter. I read it:
The Road Not Taken
By Robert Frost
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
“And that made all the difference,” I repeated. Wow, this is awesome, someone else, somewhere who was going through the same situation as me. The Road not taken, yes I’ll take that path, too, though I know it will be hard.
Even though I could paint, life still had it’s challenges. I could paint, which was so amazing, but only my eyes saw it. I wanted my art to reach others, for my art to touch the hearts and souls of many but how.
Each night I’d paint, or write something I learned in my journal: Brushes are like people, some are stiff and hard some are soft and easy. Also like brushes and paint and canvases, things aren’t always as they seem. Many times brushes, paint and canvases are bigger than they seem. I kept my journal hidden in my Secret Studio, I couldn’t ever let the Checkers get to it.
The Checkers. Oh, they were the people that came and raided our houses every month of art, supplies, anything colorful or creative. They were hired by the government, forced more like it, into this horrid job of, particularly, taking our freedom, making sure there was, for certain, no Art. If they caught me, I’d be arrested for sure. No, I wouldn’t let that happened.
I felt so peaceful with being able to have little snippets of art here and there. My life was starting to look back up.
I’d paint sunsets, and flowers. Things of the past and things forgotten. Nature, I loved that, another breath of freedom taken away. I would also paint my emotions, to let them out. And finally, finally, I felt free.
That day, I painted a horse, because I oddly considered myself one of them, a horse. Running, that’s why I considered myself a horse. Because when I imagine running, when you just kept going, where there’s no end, there are no limits or boundaries, you are free. And horses, well, they run, run a lot, at least that’s how I imagine them, just them and an open field or pasture, the green, endless around them, trees, strong and beautiful. Can’t you just taste it, taste the freedom?
For some reason I heard footsteps, getting louder, but I thought nothing of it. It was probably my mom changing my gray sheets to another gray one. I kept painting, adding the last touches to my painting.....
Suddenly, my door to my studio swing, wide open. The Checkers, no, NO, not them!
They immediately saw my painting and took it.
“What are you doing with this?” They rudely asked.
“I, I, well..”
“Who cares,” One said, “Just take it, and you.” They pointed at me, “You better not do this ever again, you hear?!”
“Yes.”
They left with that, and thankfully, very thankfully, not checking the Secret Studio for anything.
I could tell my parents were disappointed, but I also knew they could probably cared less, with the way they treated me. I didn’t even feel like I mattered here in my own home.
I called Barnabas and told him the news, now scared and not wanting to take many more risks. I feared that I couldn’t go on if the risks were like this.
“Come on, now. You’re not like that, you’re braver than that. Remember what I said, “Don’t let the world stop you from who you really are.”
“Thanks, I knew I could trust you.’
I went to bed that night, thinking and dreaming of how I could change the world and show them who I really was. Then, it hit me. Art, use Art. Display my painting, somewhere somewhere so everyone can see it, yes that’s what I’ll do. And I did something I hadn’t done it a while, I smiled.
I went to school, the next day, with hope and a lot of it. I thought off and on throughout the day where, where would I display my art. I searched and looked.....
I thought of it on the way home as we passed the Public H.A.N.D. where they showed movies, or the news or the time, it was just a huge blank space, the size of a wall, reaching high, and it was perfect!
Barnabas, I have to tell him! I couldn’t wait to get home, to call and tell him my ideas.
I got home quickly and as I rushed to my room, my parents stopped me.
“Esperanza, we have something we need to tell you.”
I kept smiling, nothing could be so bad as to take my smile away.
“It’s your brother,” they continued, “You know how he was moved to the battlefield, the most dangerous place during a war, and well...”
Their voice trailed off. My expression changed quickly to shock and confusion.
“He’s just hurt, right?” I asked, “That’s all right? Please.”
“The military called and said he’s dead. I’m sorry, dear.”
“What, dead?” I could barely say it, then I started crying “How are you not upset, or crying or...?”
“Well, it happens, you know? The Barnes’ son died two weeks ago, besides now we have one less mouth to feed.”
“How can you say that?” I cried, disgusted. I ran up to my room and flopped on my bed.
“UHHHHH!” I yelled. How, how could this happen?!?!
My anger bubbled up inside me and having really no other place for it to go but out.
It makes me sick, what am I supposed to do. Right now I just want to give up. I just couldn’t go on, no, not living like this, in disgusting emptiness and captivity. I was so sick of this, I can’t go on. What am I supposed to do? I just wanted to give up.
I went to bed feeling awful, with that awful taste in my mouth. How can I go on?
I woke up, thinking, I can’t give up, that’s not what my brother would have wanted and that’s not going to fix anything I have to do something, but what?!
Going to school that day I felt disgusted and empty, confused with lots of questions. I for some reason had the irresistible thought of taking all of my supplies with me, it wasn’t much, so I just kept it in my backpack, hoping no one would ever know.
Throughout the day, I kept getting distracted about my brother, my world, and my life. How could I go on? It was during one of this distractions were I thought of a plan of what to do. I it came to me as I thought of the horse painting the Checkers took away, the horses running.
It was history class, and I didn’t understand why we needed to know the history of Italian leather and the styles of purses in 2003. I went off on a day dream, running, running, through the fields...
“Esperanza!”
“Sorry,” I turned and looked straight forward, trying to avoid eye contact with Mrs. Cauldrick.
“What is name of the purse designer of the style ‘Chicy Chick’?”
“What, why? Why does it matter? What can’t we learn something real, that means something. Can’t we live, again, do something that matters? Don’t you miss being creative, being ourselves, being free?
“How, HOW can you all stand this? Living in captivity, living in filth and disgrace of no freedom, no creativity?! It’s more than just a painting, a brush and paint, more than notes and the lovely sounds of music, it’s more than pretty colors, more than dancing or singing that I’m fighting for. It’s beauty and expression, to be ourselves, the chance to be free, to LIVE again.”
And with that I ran, knowing I was soon to get arrested, I ran and ran and ran. Just like a horse. But, I know, I can’t run forever, someday I’d have to face my troubles, but I’m ready, with Art back on my side, what had I to fear? One can take a girl’s brushes and canvas, but one can’t take one’s soul, her source of art and creativity away.
I kept going into the forest, across the river, past all of the civilization. Until I knew I was safe.
I spent two and a half weeks there, in the forest, traveling all around. I was free, truly free. It was just me, Art and Freedom. I painted, the beauty that I saw, sunsets, trees, animals, thought, and ideas. I painted a soul equaling the source of art, water/ocean, black and white vs. colors, light shining in the darkness all symbolizing things. This was my time to be away from the world around me, I needed to leave for a short while.
I saw running horses, and shining stars amongst the black veil of heaven, I saw birds flying, trees sleeping peacefully, the wind blowing branches, green, leaves.... Freedom. My bright blue eyes took it all in. And of course I painted, all of it, all that I saw, my emotions, too. I wanted everyone to see how the world once was, the beauty of it.
I’d live in the wild, eating berries, and go fishing, I found a nice cave I could stay in for this while...
I loved the time there, but I knew I had to come back. I had to once again face the world, tell them who I was, and not be afraid to be different, but I didn’t have to do this on my own. Art was by my side.
After the most amazing two and half weeks of my life, I headed back, back to the world I practically hated. I had to show them the beauty of the world, the way it really is, I needed to make a difference, like my brother said, and Art, now would help me.
I went back through the forest, the fields, running waters..... until I reached civilization. As much as I disliked it, there was something I had to do.
It was nighttime, so I crept to the center of town and to the Public H.A.N.D. There it was, huge and perfect and... blank. Then, I started, hanging up my paintings one by, one by one, in the shape of a large heart. I hung up my emotions, valleys, fields, woods, animals, all of them. I just finished it all before dawn, when the people started to arrive. Earlier, I had put a notice on everyone’s door to come to the Public H.A.N.D. at 7:00 a.m., order of the government.
As people started to come, I slipped away, I went to a place where no one could see me, but I could see all of them. I watched, on my stomach, from the rooftop of the Public H.A.N.D. I watched them, their faces.
I watched how their expression changed, their frown went away, and slowly, very slowly I could see how my Art had touched everyone of them, how they remembered and fell in love with things, that were lost and forgotten, all over again Some left not long after, but still refreshed and new. Others stayed all day. It was so incredible to watch them, see them and their hearts changed. Even some government officials came, at first wanting to arrest the person how did this, but as they stopped and looked, I could see them start to change. It was a great feeling, that I had finally stepped up and made a difference in the world, and was truly myself, my brother would be proud.
You know, as I think about, it really wasn’t the brushes or the paint or the canvas, that’s not what Art is really about. If you took those elements away, you’d still have Art. It’s the soul, really, that’s the true source of Art. Just me and the blank, white page, a pen ready, just have to open my heart and look straight into my soul... pull it out and somehow put it on the empty page.
And though the world, my world didn’t completely change, there was still hope, because my name means hope.
And now, now, I travel the world, and each place I leave a piece of me, a piece of my heart and story behind me. The world will see and know me. But most importantly they’ll know my Art and the message behind it. The message of being true to yourself, the message of being strong enough to face your troubles, the message of not being afraid to be different, no matter the odds or the cost. The message of truly being free and living. Three letters, one word, my world. ART.
Mikayla
Very enjoyable
E and brothers time, then death
Put together amazingly, beautiful
Should I add more characters, specifically a friend for Essy? Should i go more in depth when she’s living in the forest?
Cookie
Explain the checkers, describe physically what they look like
very good
Draft 1:
Story Line: Mapping a Plot
Directions: When reading a story it is important to understand how the story develops. Below you will find the various parts of the story. Please 'identify evidence (using quotes and page numbers you found in the text to support your conclusions. Draw out your own
diagram with the information from the text!
1. Exposition: setting, situation/scene climate, mood
2. Conflict- what seems to be the main disagreement or cause of strife?
Art is gone- no books, no music, no creativity
3. Rising Actions events that lead up to a major event
4. CIimax the final major event
When I do something about it, create a mural or...
5. Falling Actions what is happening to bring the story to a resolution?
6. Resolution.- how is the conflict resolved?
7. Protagonist vs. Antagonist -
(Protagonist main character/hero, Antagonist main enemy of the hero)
Me gov’t
8. Peripheral Characters which other characters are involved in the story?
9. Themes that are explored
10. Author’s Intent
11. At what point do you feel like the protagonist Came-of-age?
My heart needed it. That was the way I breathed. It was one of those things you just couldn’t explain, that your life was somehow missing something without it. The thing I didn’t understand was WHY? Why would anyone take this away, Why would anyone do this to us, why, Why, WHY? I couldn’t wrap my brain around it, I just didn’t understand. Why, why, why would someone take ART away?
It was that word, those 3 little letters, that somehow made the biggest difference in my world. I yearned for it each and everyday, it practically made my world go round. See, I always told myself, if, for whatever reason, though I highly, highly doubt it ever would happened if was ever in prison, well, all I’d need was food, a Bible and a bucket of paint and I’d live. Of course, I’d need people to live, my friends and family, but still, I’d live.
It was one of those things that I couldn’t live without, it nearly completed my heart as long as I can remember. Art. Oh, that word, that made my heart flip. I loved it and even more when things changed, when times got tough, but I’ll save that for later. See, art, Art isn’t just how “pretty” something look on a canvas, or how “good” one’s drawing of a face is, or how perfectly realistic it is (I honestly think that part of the amazement of art is that despite the imperfection, it’s still beautiful). No, that’s not all of what art is. It’s when you reach in inside, inside of yourself, inside of your heart and throw into onto a canvas, with true and real meaning behind it. That, my friend, is true ART. It’s what it means and does to you and to the world. It’s a mean and way of expression, individuality and creativity. For me, it didn’t always matter what I was creating, just knowing I had the absolute freedom to do it. Freedom. That itself is so important to me, because what are we without it? and the best way for me to be free, truly free, is through ART.
Draft 2:
Story Line: Mapping a Plot
Directions: When reading a story it is important to understand how the story develops. Below you will find the various parts of the story. Please 'identify evidence (using quotes and page numbers you found in the text to support your conclusions. Draw out your own
diagram with the information from the text!
1. Exposition: setting, situation/scene climate, mood
2. Conflict- what seems to be the main disagreement or cause of strife?
Art is gone- no books, no music, no creativity, character already faces conflict(s), and with ART taken away its even harder
3. Rising Actions events that lead up to a major event
How is this taken away?, goes through stages of grief, anger, frustration
4. CIimax the final major event
When I do something about it, create a mural or...
5. Falling Actions what is happening to bring the story to a resolution?
6. Resolution.- how is the conflict resolved?
7. Protagonist vs. Antagonist -
(Protagonist main character/hero, Antagonist main enemy of the hero)
Me gov’t
8. Peripheral Characters which other characters are involved in the story?
9. Themes that are explored
fight for your freedom
10. Author’s Intent
What do I want the audience to take away? if it’s that important, that meaningful to you, fight for it, “If it’s hard, it’s even more worth it”
11. At what point do you feel like the protagonist Came-of-age?
The “checks”- gov’t comes and raids houses of ART and creativity
ART. It was that word, those 3 little letters, that somehow made the biggest difference in my world. My heart needed it. That was the way I breathed. It was one of those things you just couldn’t explain, that your life was somehow missing something without it. The thing I didn’t understand was WHY? Why would anyone take this away, Why would anyone do this to us, why, Why, WHY? I couldn’t wrap my brain around it, I just didn’t understand. Why, why, why would someone take ART away?
It was that word, those 3 little letters, that somehow made the biggest difference in my world. I yearned for it each and everyday, it practically made my world go round. See, I always told myself, if, for whatever reason, though I highly, highly doubt it ever would happened if was ever in prison, well, all I’d need was food, a Bible and a bucket of paint and I’d live. Of course, I’d need people to live, my friends and family, but still, I’d live.
It was one of those things that I couldn’t live without, it nearly completed my heart as long as I can remember. Art. Oh, that word, that made my heart flip. I loved it and even more when things changed, when times got tough, but I’ll save that for later. See, art, Art isn’t just how “pretty” something look on a canvas, or how “good” one’s drawing of a face is, or how perfectly realistic it is (I honestly think that part of the amazement of art is that despite the imperfection, it’s still beautiful). No, that’s not all of what art is. It’s when you reach in inside, inside of yourself, inside of your heart and throw into onto a canvas, with true and real meaning behind it. That, my friend, is true ART. It’s what it means and does to you and to the world. It’s a mean and way of expression, individuality and creativity. For me, it didn’t always matter what I was creating, just knowing I had the absolute freedom to do it. Freedom. That itself is so important to me, because what are we without it? and the best way for me to be free, truly free, is through ART.
I mean, what would you do, if your freedom got taken away?
I was
Draft 3:
Story Line: Mapping a Plot
Directions: When reading a story it is important to understand how the story develops. Below you will find the various parts of the story. Please 'identify evidence (using quotes and page numbers you found in the text to support your conclusions. Draw out your own
diagram with the information from the text!
1. Exposition: setting, situation/scene climate, mood
2. Conflict- what seems to be the main disagreement or cause of strife?
Art is gone- no books, no music, no creativity, character already faces conflict(s), and with ART taken away its even harder
3. Rising Actions events that lead up to a major event
How is this taken away?, goes through stages of grief, anger, frustration
4. CIimax the final major event
When I do something about it, create a mural or..., drop out of school
5. Falling Actions what is happening to bring the story to a resolution?
6. Resolution.- how is the conflict resolved?
7. Protagonist vs. Antagonist -
(Protagonist main character/hero, Antagonist main enemy of the hero)
Me gov’t
8. Peripheral Characters which other characters are involved in the story?
9. Themes that are explored
fight for your freedom, follow your heart, though the whole world may be against you
10. Author’s Intent
What do I want the audience to take away? if it’s that important, that meaningful to you, fight for it, “If it’s hard, it’s even more worth it”, don’t be afraid to be different and flow our heart no matter what’s against you
11. At what point do you feel like the protagonist Came-of-age?
Ideas:
- The “checks”- gov’t comes and raids houses of ART and creativity
- character has an older brother (symbolic), old and wise
- black windows or shades, can’t see outside
- few natural colors, shades of gray, white, black
- constantly ask questions: What does ‘normal’ mean? Why would you even want to be normal?
- “I want the world to see, to hear my voice, to open their hearts and live.”
- has a dairy/journal, end of each day, create a symbolic art piece, writes what she’s learned from art: Not everything is as it seems, People are like brushes- some are soft some are hard, all have different purposes
Questions:
- Who is she going against?
- What does she already struggle with? nothing physical/medical, not family related?
ART. It was that word, those three3 little letters, that somehow made the biggest difference in my world. My heart needed it. That was the way I breathed. It was one of those things you just couldn’t explain, that your life was somehow missing something without it. The thing I didn’t understand was WHY? Why would anyone take this away, Why would anyone do this to us?, why, Why, WHY? I couldn’t wrap my brain around it, I just didn’t understand. Why, why, why would someone take ART away?
I yearned for it each and everyday, it practically made my world go round. See, I always told myself, if, for whatever reason, though I highly, highly doubt it ever would happened if was ever in prison, well, all I’d need was food, a Bible and a bucket of paint and I’d live. Of course, I’d need people to live, my friends and family, but still, I’d live.
It was one of those things that I couldn’t live without, it nearly completed my heart as long as I can remember. Art. Oh, that word, that made my heart flip. I loved it and even more when things changed, when times got tough, but I’ll save that for later. See, art, Art isn’t just how “pretty” something look on a canvas, or how “good” one’s drawing of a face is, or how perfectly realistic it is (I honestly think that part of the amazement of art is that despite the imperfection, it’s still beautiful). No, that’s not all of what art is. It’s when you reach in inside, inside of yourself, inside of your heart and throw into onto a canvas, with true and real meaning behind it. That, my friend, is true ART. It’s what it means and does to you and to the world. It’s a mean and way of expression, individuality and creativity. For me, it didn’t always matter what I was creating, just knowing I had the absolute freedom to do it. Freedom. That itself is so important to me, because what are we without it? Aand the best way for me to be free, truly free, is through ART.
But, a huge piece of me was now lost. And what I most feared was the fact that I may not get it back.
I mean, what would you do, if your freedom got taken away?
Imagine, how was I supposed to go on like this, act as if nothing had changed, like my heart hadn’t been ripped apart. Do you expect me to live the lie of ‘no art’?
There came a part in my life where I just couldn’t go one, no, not living like this, in disgusting emptiness and captivity.
The thought, of no art, creativity or in my case freedom, that alone, made me sick.
“How, HOW can you all stand this? Living in captivity, living in filth and disgrace of no freedom, no creativity?! It’s more than just a painting, a brush and paint, more than notes and the lovely sounds of music, it’s more than pretty colors, more than dancing or singing that I’m fighting for. It’s beauty and expression, to be ourselves, the chance to be free, to LIVE again.”
And with that I ran, knowing I was soon to get arrested, I ran and ran and ran. But, I knew, I know, you can’t run forever, someday you’ll have to face your troubles, but I’m ready, with Art back on my side, what had I to fear? One can take a girl’s brushes and canvas, but one can’t take away one’s soul, her source of art and creativity away.
Art, it gave the freedom to be different, to truly be myself, purely me! (Something I rarely tasted, yet constantly longed for.) It was the way I breathed, and freedom is what I was breathing.
I mean, of course you could be different anywhere, but with Art I was fully and completely accepted, better than hardly anywhere else.
Without Art, I had almost forgotten how to smile.
How could one man be so sick as to take another man’s freedom away? Why would anyone even think of doing something like this? These were thoughts that constantly ran through my mind.
I wanted everyone to see how the world once was, the beauty of it.
Art was always there I could lean on it, whenever I needed it. It helped me when no one else really could. It accepted me, let me be myself, let me be.
That day, I painted a horse, because I oddly considered myself one of them, a horse. Running, that’s why I considered myself a horse. Because when I imagine running, when you just kept going, where there’s no end, there are no limits or boundaries, you are free. And horses, well, they run, run a lot, at least that’s how I imagine them, just them and an open field or pasture, the green, endless around them, trees, strong and beautiful. Can’t you just taste it taste the freedom.
The feel of the brush, ah. So soothing and calm. Letting you use and control it, letting you do whatever you wanted with it.
You know, as I think about, it really wasn’t the brushes or the paint or the canvas, that’s not what Art is really about. If you took those elements away, you’d still have Art. It’s the soul, really, that’s the true source of Art.
Just me and the blank, white page, a pen ready, just have to open my heart and look straight into my soul... pull it out and somehow put it on the empty page.
Why do we want to be free? Because, things like freedom, be understood, being accepted and loved those things, those are important, something everyone wants, something real and true, something we strive for. I'm so abundantly creative, I need to express myself, some how, some way,
I was
Draft
Story Line: Mapping a Plot
Directions: When reading a story it is important to understand how the story develops. Below you will find the various parts of the story. Please 'identify evidence (using quotes and page numbers you found in the text to support your conclusions. Draw out your own
diagram with the information from the text!
1. Exposition: setting, situation/scene climate, mood
2. Conflict- what seems to be the main disagreement or cause of strife?
Art is gone- no books, no music, no creativity, character already faces conflict(s), and with ART taken away its even harder, people and family don’t get her, people/family= technology, shallow/fake, meaningless, structured
3. Rising Actions events that lead up to a major event
How is this taken away?, goes through stages of grief, anger, frustration
4. CIimax the final major event
When I do something about it, create a mural or..., drop out of school
5. Falling Actions what is happening to bring the story to a resolution?
6. Resolution.- how is the conflict resolved?
7. Protagonist vs. Antagonist -
(Protagonist main character/hero, Antagonist main enemy of the hero)
Me (Esperanza Joy) world (family, too) gov’t
8. Peripheral Characters which other characters are involved in the story?
brother, Art
9. Themes that are explored
fight for your freedom, follow your heart, though the whole world may be against you
10. Author’s Intent
What do I want the audience to take away? if it’s that important, that meaningful to you, fight for it, “If it’s hard, it’s even more worth it”, don’t be afraid to be different and flow our heart no matter what’s against you go against the crowd
11. At what point do you feel like the protagonist Came-of-age?
Ideas:
- The “checks”- gov’t comes and raids houses of ART and creativity
- character has an older brother (symbolic), old and wise
- black windows or shades, can’t see outside
- few natural colors, shades of gray, white, black
- constantly ask questions: What does ‘normal’ mean? Why would you even want to be normal?
- “I want the world to see, to hear my voice, to open their hearts and live.”
- Reads/finds poem, road less traveled
- has a dairy/journal, end of each day, create a symbolic art piece, writes what she’s learned from art: Not everything is as it seems, People are like brushes- some are soft some are hard, all have different purposes
- creates art pieces of the things she saw when/while she was running away, comes back, displays art in the shape of a heart, and slowly it starts to touch people’s hearts, and though life is all hunky dory, there’s hope and that’s what really mattered
Questions:
- Who is she going against?
- What does she already struggle with? nothing physical/medical, not family related?
ART. It was that word, those three little letters, that somehow made the biggest difference in my world. My heart needed it. That was the way I breathed. It was one of those things you just couldn’t explain, that your life was somehow missing something without it. The thing I didn’t understand was WHY? Why would anyone take this away, Why would anyone do this to us? I couldn’t wrap my brain around it, I just didn’t understand. Why would someone take ART away?
I yearned for it each and everyday, it practically made my world go round. See, I always told myself, if, for whatever reason, though I highly, highly doubt it ever would happened if was ever in prison, well, all I’d need was food, a Bible and a bucket of paint and I’d live. Of course, I’d need people to live, my friends and family, but still, I’d live.
It was one of those things that I couldn’t live without, it nearly completed my heart as long as I can remember. Art. Oh, that word, that made my heart flip. I loved it and even more when things changed, when times got tough. See, art, Art isn’t just how “pretty” something look on a canvas, or how “good” one’s drawing of a face is, or how perfectly realistic it is (I honestly think that part of the amazement of art is that despite the imperfection, it’s still beautiful). No, that’s not all of what art is. It’s when you reach in inside, inside of yourself, inside of your heart and throw into onto a canvas, with true and real meaning behind it. That, my friend, is true ART. It’s what it means and does to you and to the world. It’s a mean and way of expression, individuality and creativity. For me, it didn’t always matter what I was creating, just knowing I had the absolute freedom to do it. Freedom. That itself is so important to me, because what are we without it? And the best way for me to be free, truly free, is through ART.
But, a huge piece of me was now lost. The thought, of no art, creativity or in my case freedom, that alone, made me sick. And what I most feared was the fact that I may not get it back. I mean, what would you do, if your freedom got taken away?
Art, it gave the freedom to be different, to truly be myself, purely me! (Something I rarely tasted, yet constantly longed for.) It was the way I breathed, and freedom is what I was breathing. I mean, of course you could be different anywhere, but with Art I was fully and completely accepted, better than hardly anywhere else. Art was always there I could lean on it, whenever I needed it. It helped me when no one else really could. It accepted me, let me be myself, let me be. I’m so abundantly creative, I need to express myself, some way, somehow... And they took it away.
They took it. Not all at once but over a short time. They shut down the shops, the supply stores, with paint and brushes and canvases, paper, cans... inside them. They took anything creative or art resembling away. They took some much of things you could create art with. They took colors away, in a sense. They took most of the transportation away, so you couldn’t go places to get inspired, so you couldn’t leave. They took away music, dance, singing, books, writing, films, anything at all creative, they took it. They secured off nature, put blinds on our windows. The world was blah and lifeless, meaningless, boring, plain and dark. It was the kind of world I never thought could, much less would, exist. And that’s the world I wake up to, dreading it, everyday.
But, a huge piece of me was now lost. And what I most feared was the fact that I may not get it back. I mean, what would you do, if your freedom got taken away?
Imagine, how was I supposed to go on like this, act as if nothing had changed, like my heart hadn’t been ripped apart. Do you expect me to live the lie of ‘no art’?
There came a part in my life where I just couldn’t go one, no, not living like this, in disgusting emptiness and captivity.
The thought, of no art, creativity or in my case freedom, that alone, made me sick.
What made it even harder was that I was already struggling and going through discomfort. My family, the people around me, the world, it felt like, just didn’t understand me, who I was or why I was the way I was. It was so hard, to face the world, the day, with the burden of unacceptance and not being understand, not even by your family. They were so shallow, only caring of themselves and things that were meaningless with no flavor or taste, and wouldn’t last. I cared of things of value, memory, hope, love, and beauty, things that I felt were lost. I wasn’t like most 17 year-olds, as you can imagine. In fact I wasn’t like most at all, any age. But, some day, I hoped, that would change.
I woke up every morning to the Siren, blaring its loud, obnoxious horn. I dressed in clothes of black, gray and white, my least favorite colors. Down to breakfast I headed, and I never looked forward to meals, for the food was just as flavorless as society. But, somehow, my family enjoyed it. I couldn’t understand it. Enjoying tastelessness, how? All of them that is except, my brother.
My brother, Barnabas. He was different, and special. He understood me, and even when he didn’t he still loved me. It was so rare that I tasted that. He was a brother, not an annoying one, one I could be myself and genuinely cared about me with love and loyalty. We’d mess around and joke, we’d think and push each other. He’d encourage me. And I felt like we were some of the only people that actually lived.
He was one of my few luxuries and pleasures, amongst me black world. And fortunate for me, he was coming home for a little while. Unfortunately, my brother was a legal adult of 23 and served in our army, something that made me proud. When he was gone I missed him terribly, but I had the comfort of him visiting home to bring me hope, which I definitely needed.
After breakfast
“How, HOW can you all stand this? Living in captivity, living in filth and disgrace of no freedom, no creativity?! It’s more than just a painting, a brush and paint, more than notes and the lovely sounds of music, it’s more than pretty colors, more than dancing or singing that I’m fighting for. It’s beauty and expression, to be ourselves, the chance to be free, to LIVE again.”
And with that I ran, knowing I was soon to get arrested, I ran and ran and ran. But, I knew, I know, you can’t run forever, someday you’ll have to face your troubles, but I’m ready, with Art back on my side, what had I to fear? One can take a girl’s brushes and canvas, but one can’t take away one’s soul, her source of art and creativity away.
Art, it gave the freedom to be different, to truly be myself, purely me! (Something I rarely tasted, yet constantly longed for.) It was the way I breathed, and freedom is what I was breathing.
I mean, of course you could be different anywhere, but with Art I was fully and completely accepted, better than hardly anywhere else.
Without Art, I had almost forgotten how to smile.
How could one man be so sick as to take another man’s freedom away? Why would anyone even think of doing something like this? These were thoughts that constantly ran through my mind.
I wanted everyone to see how the world once was, the beauty of it.
Art was always there I could lean on it, whenever I needed it. It helped me when no one else really could. It accepted me, let me be myself, let me be.
That day, I painted a horse, because I oddly considered myself one of them, a horse. Running, that’s why I considered myself a horse. Because when I imagine running, when you just kept going, where there’s no end, there are no limits or boundaries, you are free. And horses, well, they run, run a lot, at least that’s how I imagine them, just them and an open field or pasture, the green, endless around them, trees, strong and beautiful. Can’t you just taste it taste the freedom.
The feel of the brush, ah. So soothing and calm. Letting you use and control it, letting you do whatever you wanted with it.
You know, as I think about, it really wasn’t the brushes or the paint or the canvas, that’s not what Art is really about. If you took those elements away, you’d still have Art. It’s the soul, really, that’s the true source of Art.
Just me and the blank, white page, a pen ready, just have to open my heart and look straight into my soul... pull it out and somehow put it on the empty page. The feel of the brush, ah. So soothing and calm. Letting you use and control it, letting you do whatever you wanted with it.
Why do we want to be free? Because, things like freedom, be understood, being accepted and loved those things, those are important, something everyone wants, something real and true, something we strive for.
I wanted everyone to see how the world once was, the beauty of it.
Imagine, how was I supposed to go on like this, act as if nothing had changed, like my heart hadn’t been ripped apart. Do you expect me to live the lie of ‘no art’?
There came a part in my life where I just couldn’t go one, no, not living like this, in disgusting emptiness and captivity.
The first few days after
At first I was mad, not the kind where I’d let it out, the type that you kept pushing down, not knowing what to do with it.
But, here I am, now, with my anger bubbling up inside me and there’s really no other place for it to go but out.
What made it even harder was that I was already struggling, going through discomfort.
Questions: How could one man be so sick as to take another man’s freedom away? Why would anyone even think of doing something like this? These were thoughts that constantly ran through my mind.
That day, I painted a horse, because I oddly considered myself one of them, a horse. Running, that’s why I considered myself a horse. Because when I imagine running, when you just kept going, where there’s no end, there are no limits or boundaries, you are free. And horses, well, they run, run a lot, at least that’s how I imagine them, just them and an open field or pasture, the green, endless around them, trees, strong and beautiful. Can’t you just taste it, taste the freedom?
Ending:
And now, now, I travel the world, and each place I leave a piece of me, a piece of my heart and story behind me. The world will see and know me. But most importantly they’ll know the my Art, and the message behind it. The message of being true to yourself, the message of being strong enough to face your troubles, the message of not being afraid to be different, no matter the odds of the cost. The message of truly being free and living. Three letters, one word, my world. ART.
I could hear the Checkers at the door, I panicked, knowing they were going to eventually catch me. As they past through the house, their footsteps grew louder, nearing my room. I held my breath, waiting. What would they do with me, arrest me, lock me away? What would I do? I closed my eyes wondering if they knew. Knew about the secret studio and my diary and my Art.
It hadn’t always been this way, there was a time when I was free:
I remember walking through fields, running in the forests, green all around me, the creatures we’d find, the secrets we’d discover. Painting with my brother, smiling. Without Art, I had almost forgotten how to smile. But, still, the fluid paint, the stiff and soft bristles of the brushes, the open and white canvas... Reality woke me in the form of my teacher, staring down at me, waiting for my answer to the question I didn’t know.
“What?” I asked.
“What,” She paused in frustration, “Is the name of our leader in 1976?”
“Crikwell, Kyle Frat Crikwell,” I answered, glad I just slipped out of that situation.
“That’s correct,” Mrs. Cauldrick said. She leaned down at me and whispered coldly, “Don’t let that happen again, don’t give me another reason to dislike you.”
I tried not to let her stinging words bother me. I was sick of her and the pointless we learned. The things we learned irritated me, I didn’t think they had any meaning or real value, but, despite my complaints and pushing back, asking them to reconsider and possibly change, they’d never budge. Another obstacle to face everyday.
“Mr. Stringer,” I questioned, “Why do we need to learn ‘y=mx+b’?”
“Because,” He answered, “You’ll need it in life someday.”
“But.. when will we...?”
He left before I could finish.
“I don’t understand, Ms. Prathia. Why does it matter how cumulonimbus clouds are formed, or when Facebook went out of date, or the gas prices of 2024 or the TV show we watched last night? Why does it matter!?” I tried not to get upset, but I typically wound up it the Principle’s office.
Do you know why you’re here, Esperanza?
I’m so abundantly creative, I needed to express myself, some way, somehow.
Draft 2:
Story Line: Mapping a Plot
Directions: When reading a story it is important to understand how the story develops. Below you will find the various parts of the story. Please identify evidence (using quotes and page numbers you found in the text to support your conclusions. Draw out your own diagram with the information from the text!
1. Exposition: setting, situation/scene climate, mood
2. Conflict- what seems to be the main disagreement or cause of strife?
Art is gone- no books, no music, no creativity, character already faces conflict(s), and with ART taken away its even harder, people and family don’t get her, people/family= technology, shallow/fake, meaningless, structured
3. Rising Actions events that lead up to a major event
How is this taken away?, goes through stages of grief, anger, frustration; brother dies, she feels like giving up
4. CIimax the final major event
When I do something about it, create a mural or..., drop out of school
5. Falling Actions what is happening to bring the story to a resolution?
comes back
6. Resolution.- how is the conflict resolved?
shows art pieces in the shape of a heart to everyone, publicly, it touches everyone, travels the world
7. Protagonist vs. Antagonist -
(Protagonist main character/hero, Antagonist main enemy of the hero)
Me (Esperanza Joy) world (family, too)
8. Peripheral Characters which other characters are involved in the story?
brother, Art
9. Themes that are explored
fight for your freedom, follow your heart, though the whole world may be against you
10. Author’s Intent
What do I want the audience to take away? if it’s that important, that meaningful to you, fight for it, “If it’s hard, it’s even more worth it”, don’t be afraid to be different and flow our heart no matter what’s against you go against the crowd
11. At what point do you feel like the protagonist Came-of-age?
Ideas:
- The “checks”- gov’t comes and raids houses of ART and creativity
- character has an older brother (symbolic), old and wise
- black windows or shades, can’t see outside
- few natural colors, shades of gray, white, black
- constantly ask questions: What does ‘normal’ mean? Why would you even want to be normal?
- “I want the world to see, to hear my voice, to open their hearts and live.”
- Reads/finds poem, road less traveled
- has a dairy/journal, end of each day, create a symbolic art piece, writes what she’s learned from art: Not everything is as it seems, People are like brushes- some are soft some are hard, all have different purposes
- creates art pieces of the things she saw when/while she was running away, comes back, displays art in the shape of a heart, and slowly it starts to touch people’s hearts, and though life is all hunky dory, there’s hope and that’s what really mattered
ART. It was that word, those three little letters, that somehow made the biggest difference in my world. My heart needed it. That was the way I breathed. It was one of those things you just couldn’t explain, that your life was somehow missing something without it. The thing I didn’t understand was WHY? Why would anyone take this away, Why would anyone do this to us? I couldn’t wrap my brain around it, I just didn’t understand. Why would someone take ART away?
I yearned for it each and everyday, it practically made my world go round. See, I always told myself, if, for whatever reason, though I highly, highly doubt it ever would happened if was ever in prison, well, all I’d need was food, a Bible and a bucket of paint and I’d live. Of course, I’d need people to live, my friends and family, but still, I’d live.
It was one of those things that I couldn’t live without, it nearly completed my heart as long as I can remember. Art. Oh, that word, that made my heart flip. I loved it and even more when things changed, when times got tough. See, art, Art isn’t just how “pretty” something look on a canvas, or how “good” one’s drawing of a face is, or how perfectly realistic it is (I honestly think that part of the amazement of art is that despite the imperfection, it’s still beautiful). No, that’s not all of what art is. It’s when you reach in inside, inside of yourself, inside of your heart and throw into onto a canvas, with true and real meaning behind it. That, my friend, is true ART. It’s what it means and does to you and to the world. It’s a mean and way of expression, individuality and creativity. For me, it didn’t always matter what I was creating, just knowing I had the absolute freedom to do it. Freedom. That itself is so important to me, because what are we without it? And the best way for me to be free, truly free, is through ART.
But, a huge piece of me was now lost. The thought, of no art, creativity or in my case freedom, that alone, made me sick. And what I most feared was the fact that I may not get it back. I mean, what would you do, if your freedom got taken away?
Art, it gave the freedom to be different, to truly be myself, purely me! (Something I rarely tasted, yet constantly longed for.) It was the way I breathed, and freedom is what I was breathing. I mean, of course you could be different anywhere, but with Art I was fully and completely accepted, better than hardly anywhere else. Art was always there I could lean on it, whenever I needed it. It helped me when no one else really could. It accepted me, let me be myself, let me be. I’m so abundantly creative, I need to express myself, some way, somehow... And they took it away.
They took it. Not all at once but over a short time. They shut down the shops, the supply stores, with paint and brushes and canvases, paper, cans... inside them. They took anything creative or art resembling away. They took some much of things you could create art with. They took colors away, in a sense. They took most of the transportation away, so you couldn’t go places to get inspired, so you couldn’t leave. They took away music, dance, singing, books, writing, films, anything at all creative, they took it. They secured off nature, put blinds on our windows. The world was blah and lifeless, meaningless, boring, plain and dark. It was the kind of world I never thought could, much less would, exist. And that’s the world I wake up to, dreading it, everyday.
What made it even harder was that I was already struggling and going through discomfort. My family, the people around me, the world, it felt like, just didn’t understand me, who I was or why I was the way I was. It was so hard, to face the world, the day, with the burden of unacceptance and not being understand, not even by your family. They were so shallow, only caring of themselves and things that were meaningless with no flavor or taste, and wouldn’t last. I cared of things of value, memory, hope, love, and beauty, things that I felt were lost. I wasn’t like most 17 year-olds, as you can imagine. In fact I wasn’t like most at all, any age. But, some day, I hoped, that would change.
I woke up every morning to the Siren, blaring its loud, obnoxious horn. I dressed in clothes of black, gray and white, my least favorite colors. Down to breakfast I headed, and I never looked forward to meals, for the food was just as flavorless as society. But, somehow, my family enjoyed it. I couldn’t understand it. Enjoying tastelessness, how? All of them that is except, my brother.
My brother, Barnabas. He was different, and special. He understood me, and even when he didn’t he still loved me. It was so rare that I tasted that. He was a brother, not an annoying one, one I could be myself and genuinely cared about me with love and loyalty. We’d mess around and joke, we’d think and push each other. He’d encourage me. And I felt like we were some of the only people that actually lived.
He was one of my few luxuries and pleasures, amongst me black world. And fortunate for me, he was coming home for a little while. Unfortunately, my brother was a legal adult of 23 and served in our army, something that made me proud. When he was gone I missed him terribly, but I had the comfort of him visiting home to bring me hope, which I definitely needed.
After breakfast, I was off on my way to a disgusting idea of a “learning community”, school. I road the public bus that everyone took, because there was really nothing else. The government wanted to control everything. Take away transportation, so a man can’t go any where. Sure, a man can run, but not very far.... at least before they’d catch you...
School, there was really nothing much to say about it, except that I considered it a waste of time, the stuff we as students learned and what people did in their freetime. They were practically glued to their H.A.N.D.s (Handular Accessible Networking Device), a phone computer and ipod, right in the palm of your hand. With this things that were real and true, such as Art, were practically gone, everything was fairly meaningless; Like a conversation I had with a group of girls when I tried to fit it once:
“So, Coper,” Angelina, the head of the group said, “Which shade of pink should I put on my H.A.N.D. case, so it matches my outfit?”
“Pink, really? According to Frenio Balanski pink is really out, every one has violet now.”
“Well, fine. But I still have that date with Bryan Crice and I’m trying to decide if we should iceskate or rollerblade for our Virtu-date. This is a really important decision for me.”
“I don’t know what to do, Hartly Nalebore, my newest boyfriend, only likes to Virtu-ski together.”
“Well, that’s not much of a help.”
“Hey, new girl, Essy,” Angelina asked when no one else spoke up in answer, “Got any ideas?”
“Me?” I asked, wondering why they’d ask me, I wasn’t the prettiest or popular, I was really nobody, actually.
“Yeah.”
“Uh, I don’t know,” I answered bluntly.
“Fine! Anyway, I started watching this new TV series on my H.A.N.D....,” Angelina continued as I walked anyway.
See, see what I mean. This is why I don’t fit in, this is why people make me mad. We don’t just not get each other, but it’s why we don’t. They are so disgustingly shallow. The things they talk about don’t matter, won’t last, are meaningless and unimportant. Uh, it drives me crazy. But, I just stuff it away, there’s nothing I can do, just try to blend in no matter how sick it makes me.
Now, normally, Ha! I hate that word. So, boring and unreal, what does it mean anyway? Why would one want to be ‘normal’ Oh! These were questions I constantly asked myself, but unfortunately... I have to pretend to be ‘normal’. Anyway, usually, I’d have Art to lean on, to paint with but now....
I came home everyday from school angry, angry about my life and what they had done. No one even understood, no one cared about me and my brokenness or about the lost in general of Art. But, the worst part was it, Art, wasn’t even there to lean on, to help me through my troubles. The absence of it sickened me. Made me SO mad! But what could I do, I was only a 17, not even a legal adult, but that didn’t really matter because the government controlled everything anyway. Uh! How was I supposed to go on like this, act as if nothing had changed, like my heart hadn’t been ripped apart. Am I expected to live the lie of ‘no art’?
But, I just had to plaster a fake smile on my face and act as if everything were hunky dory, that my best friend wasn’t gone, that I didn’t have much hope left in me. I was still mad be I just stuffed in down inside me. Not the kind of anger where I’d let it out, the type that you kept pushing down, not knowing what to do with it. “Just wear the smile.”
The only thing that did give me hope, as I said, was my brother. We’d go on walks a lot and talk, just talk, as if nothing had changed. Living like the good old times. I looked forward to those times, that we’d do this. And, thankfully, one of them was right around the corner, two more days and he’d be home for a little while.
Once, I got home, I went to my room, then slid a horizontal board on my wall, unnoticeable to the human eye, across and entered what I called my “Secret Studio”. I, then, moved the board back to it’s place. No one knew it was here that’s the best part, I could be, just be, myself.
Then, I cried. Cried about school and family, people and Art. Where was it, I needed it. I needed to breathe needed to be free. Why do we want to be free? Because, things like freedom, be understood, being accepted and loved those things, those are important, something everyone wants, something real and true, something we strive for. Something, I didn’t have. Oh, it made me mad! I was sick of just putting down my feelings, pushing my anger away. I let the tears run down my face feeling absolutely helpless.
The tears blurred my sight and I closed my eyes. I wept quietly and my mind brought me back to a time.
We were laughing, just the two of us. Like two free horses, we run, ran through the fields, there were no limits. The wind blew my hair, filling my lungs. After a while, Barnabas and I went home. I painted while he talked, talked of his dreams, letting his thoughts float freely throughout the room. I led the brush this way and that. The feel of the brush, ah. So soothing and calm. Letting you use and control it, letting you do whatever you wanted with it. The open page, ready, ready for our to pour yourself into it. We laughed again.
As I opened my eyes, I realized it was late, late because I could hear the blinds going down, meaning going to be was coming soon.
I went to my plain bed, longing just for the touch of a brush, the feel of wet paint, oh... I closed my eyes with the thought of free houses, running, wild, chasing, running....free.
The next day, I awoke to the sirens. The day I went through the usual routine, same boring, cold stuff as usual. Sickening, was no one alive, was nothing real. I hoped and longed for the day when the World woke up.
The next day, though, couldn’t come soon enough. My brother was coming home! That, that I could hold onto for hope.
My brother came into my room, waking my from my sleep. Not in a long time had I wanted to come from dreaming and face my reality, but now, he was here!
I hugged him, overwhelmed with joy. We were so happy to see each other, at first we just stared. Then we laugh, the kind we both hadn’t done in a long while, too long.
He then greeted the rest of the family. I had to go off to school, but I told him I’d see him after.
“I can’t wait,” We both said.
Throughout the day, I could barely pay attention, I had long awaited this time, where we’d be together, together, finally, with someone who really got me. Something I rarely had.
I was so excited after school, on the way home I could barely contain it. One person, on the bus noticed and said,
“You excited for the finale episode of Mario and Susan, I can’t wait.”
“Uh, yeah, sure,” I lied hastily.
When I got off, I ran to the door, and rushed inside. I greeted my brother with a huge hug.
“Hey, Essy, want to hit the path?”
“Yes!” I answered. The path was the path we always took, the one that really connected us, the one we went on since we could walk and talk.
As we walked, he started to explain how his division of the military got sent up to the battlefield.
“The battlefield! What, no, you’ll get killed,” I cried.
“No, I wouldn’t I’ll be fine, don’t you worry. So what’s going on with you?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t lie. You know you can tell me.”
“I know, you’re the only one I can tell. It just hurts, that’s all,” I sadly stated. “It’s just that Art is gone, and no one has any idea how hard it is. I mean Art was and is so much to me, it’s what I always leaned on. And I’d lean more on it when you were gone and when people didn’t understand me, which is always. I just don’t know if I can go on this way. It makes me SO MAD!”
“I know how you feel. In fact, I brought a little gift for you. I think it’ll help.”
Out of the backpack he was carrying he pulled it out. No, Yes! Yes, is this really happening.
He pulled out
“How, HOW can you all stand this? Living in captivity, living in filth and disgrace of no freedom, no creativity?! It’s more than just a painting, a brush and paint, more than notes and the lovely sounds of music, it’s more than pretty colors, more than dancing or singing that I’m fighting for. It’s beauty and expression, to be ourselves, the chance to be free, to LIVE again.”
And with that I ran, knowing I was soon to get arrested, I ran and ran and ran. But, I knew, I know, you can’t run forever, someday you’ll have to face your troubles, but I’m ready, with Art back on my side, what had I to fear? One can take a girl’s brushes and canvas, but one can’t take one’s soul, her source of art and creativity awa
y.
You know, as I think about, it really wasn’t the brushes or the paint or the canvas, that’s not what Art is really about. If you took those elements away, you’d still have Art. It’s the soul, really, that’s the true source of Art. Just me and the blank, white page, a pen ready, just have to open my heart and look straight into my soul... pull it out and somehow put it on the empty page. The feel of the brush, ah. So soothing and calm. Letting you use and control it, letting you do whatever you wanted with it.
I wanted everyone to see how the world once was, the beauty of it.
There came a part in my life where I just couldn’t go one, no, not living like this, in disgusting emptiness and captivity.
But, here I am, now, with my anger bubbling up inside me and there’sImagine, how was I supposed to go on like this, act as if nothing had changed, like my heart hadn’t been ripped apart. Do you expect me to live the lie of ‘no art’?
really no other place for it to go but out.
What made it even harder was that I wasWhy do we want to be free? Because, things like freedom, be understood, being accepted and loved those things, those are important, something everyone wants, something real and true, something we strive for.
already struggling, going through disc
The first few days after
At first I was mad, not the kind where I’d let it out, the type that you kept pushing down, not knowing what to do with it. omfort.
Questions: How could one man be so sick as to take another man’s freedom away? Why would anyone even think of doing something like this? These were thoughts that constantly ran through my mind.
That day, I painted a horse, because I oddly considered myself one of them, a horse. Running, that’s why I considered myself a horse. Because when I imagine running, when you just kept going, where there’s no end, there are no limits or boundaries, you are free. And horses, well, they run, run a lot, at least that’s how I imagine them, just them and an open field or pasture, the green, endless around them, trees, strong and beautiful. Can’t you just taste it, taste the freedom?
Ending:
And now, now, I travel the world, and each place I leave a piece of me, a piece of my heart and story behind me. The world will see and know me. But most importantly they’ll know the my Art, and the message behind it. The message of being true to yourself, the message of being strong enough to face your troubles, the message of not being afraid to be different, no matter the odds of the cost. The message of truly being free and living. Three letters, one word, my world. ART.
I could hear the Checkers at the door, I panicked, knowing they were going to eventually catch me. As they past through the house, their footsteps grew louder, nearing my room. I held my breath, waiting. What would they do with me, arrest me, lock me away? What would I do? I closed my eyes wondering if they knew. Knew about the secret studio and my diary and my Art.
It hadn’t always been this way, there was a time when I was free:
I remember walking through fields, running in the forests, green all around me, the creatures we’d find, the secrets we’d discover. Painting with my brother, smiling. Without Art, I had almost forgotten how to smile. But, still, the fluid paint, the stiff and soft bristles of the brushes, the open and white canvas... Reality woke me in the form of my teacher, staring down at me, waiting for my answer to the question I didn’t know.
“What?” I asked.
“What,” She paused in frustration, “Is the name of our leader in 1976?”
“Crikwell, Kyle Frat Crikwell,” I answered, glad I just slipped out of that situation.
“That’s correct,” Mrs. Cauldrick said. She leaned down at me
and whispered coldly, “Don’t let that happen again, don’t give me another reason to dislike you.”
I tried not to let her stinging words bother me. I was sick of her and the pointless we learned. The things we learned irritated me, I didn’t think they had any meaning or real value, but, despite my complaints and pushing back, asking them to reconsider and possibly change, they’d never budge. Another obstacle to face everyday.
“Mr. Stringer,” I questioned, “Why do we need to learn ‘y=mx+b’?”
“Because,” He answered, “You’ll need it in life someday.”
“But.. when will we...?”
He left before I could finish.
“I don’t understand, Ms. Prathia. Why does it matter how cumulonimbus clouds are formed, or when Facebook went out of date, or the gas prices of 2024 or the TV show we watched last night? Why does it matter!?” I tried not to get upset.
throughout this we see her need and the absence of Art
- goes through grief, frustration, misunderstood, anger
- Brother encourages her to be different
- starts to show being different
- brother encourages
- brother dies, she feels like she wants to give up
- Essy gets idea to run away, runs away
- travels, sees beauty, inspired
- comes back
- displays art pieces in shape of a heart, everyone sees it, it touches them
- though Art isn’t completely back, there’s hope
- travels the world/ending
- Flashback to before Art was gone
, but I typically wound up it the Principle’s office.
Do you know why you’re here, Esperanza?
Story Line: Mapping a Plot
Directions: When reading a story it is important to understand how the story develops. Below you will find the various parts of the story. Please 'identify evidence (using quotes and page numbers you found in the text to support your conclusions. Draw out your own
diagram with the information from the text!
1. Exposition: setting, situation/scene climate, mood
2. Conflict- what seems to be the main disagreement or cause of strife?
Art is gone- no books, no music, no creativity, character already faces conflict(s), and with ART taken away its even harder, people and family don’t get her, people/family= technology, shallow/fake, meaningless, structured
3. Rising Actions events that lead up to a major event
How is this taken away?, goes through stages of grief, anger, frustration; brother dies, she feels like giving up
4. CIimax the final major event
When I do something about it, create a mural or..., drop out of school
5. Falling Actions what is happening to bring the story to a resolution?
comes back
6. Resolution.- how is the conflict resolved?
shows art pieces in the shape of a heart to everyone, publicly, it touches everyone, travels the world
7. Protagonist vs. Antagonist -
(Protagonist main character/hero, Antagonist main enemy of the hero)
Me (Esperanza Joy) world (family, too)
8. Peripheral Characters which other characters are involved in the story?
brother, Art
9. Themes that are explored
fight for your freedom, follow your heart, though the whole world may be against you
10. Author’s Intent
What do I want the audience to take away? if it’s that important, that meaningful to you, fight for it, “If it’s hard, it’s even more worth it”, don’t be afraid to be different and flow our heart no matter what’s against you go against the crowd
11. At what point do you feel like the protagonist Came-of-age?
Ideas:
- The “checks”- gov’t comes and raids houses of ART and creativity
- character has an older brother (symbolic), old and wise
- black windows or shades, can’t see outside
- few natural colors, shades of gray, white, black
- constantly ask questions: What does ‘normal’ mean? Why would you even want to be normal?
- “I want the world to see, to hear my voice, to open their hearts and live.”
- Reads/finds poem, road less traveled
- has a dairy/journal, end of each day, create a symbolic art piece, writes what she’s learned from art: Not everything is as it seems, People are like brushes- some are soft some are hard, all have different purposes
- creates art pieces of the things she saw when/while she was running away, comes back, displays art in the shape of a heart, and slowly it starts to touch people’s hearts, and though life is all hunky dory, there’s hope and that’s what really mattered
ART. It was that word, those three little letters, that somehow made the biggest difference in my world. My heart needed it. That was the way I breathed. It was one of those things you just couldn’t explain, that your life was somehow missing something without it. The thing I didn’t understand was WHY? Why would anyone take this away, Why would anyone do this to us? I couldn’t wrap my brain around it, I just didn’t understand. Why would someone take ART away?
I yearned for it each and everyday, it practically made my world go round. See, I always told myself, if, for whatever reason, though I highly, highly doubt it ever would happened if was ever in prison, well, all I’d need was food, a Bible and a bucket of paint and I’d live. Of course, I’d need people to live, my friends and family, but still, I’d live.
It was one of those things that I couldn’t live without, it nearly completed my heart as long as I can remember. Art. Oh, that word, that made my heart flip. I loved it and even more when things changed, when times got tough. See, art, Art isn’t just how “pretty” something look on a canvas, or how “good” one’s drawing of a face is, or how perfectly realistic it is (I honestly think that part of the amazement of art is that despite the imperfection, it’s still beautiful). No, that’s not all of what art is. It’s when you reach in inside, inside of yourself, inside of your heart and throw into onto a canvas, with true and real meaning behind it. That, my friend, is true ART. It’s what it means and does to you and to the world. It’s a mean and way of expression, individuality and creativity. For me, it didn’t always matter what I was creating, just knowing I had the absolute freedom to do it. Freedom. That itself is so important to me, because what are we without it? And the best way for me to be free, truly free, is through ART.
But, a huge piece of me was now lost. The thought, of no art, creativity or in my case freedom, that alone, made me sick. And what I most feared was the fact that I may not get it back. I mean, what would you do, if your freedom got taken away?
Art, it gave the freedom to be different, to truly be myself, purely me! (Something I rarely tasted, yet constantly longed for.) It was the way I breathed, and freedom is what I was breathing. I mean, of course you could be different anywhere, but with Art I was fully and completely accepted, better than hardly anywhere else. Art was always there I could lean on it, whenever I needed it. It helped me when no one else really could. It accepted me, let me be myself, let me be. I’m so abundantly creative, I need to express myself, some way, somehow... And they took it away.
They took it. Not all at once but over a short time. They shut down the shops, the supply stores, with paint and brushes and canvases, paper, cans... inside them. They took anything creative or art resembling away. They took some much of things you could create art with. They took colors away, in a sense. They took most of the transportation away, so you couldn’t go places to get inspired, so you couldn’t leave. They took away music, dance, singing, books, writing, films, anything at all creative, they took it. They secured off nature, put blinds on our windows. The world was blah and lifeless, meaningless, boring, plain and dark. It was the kind of world I never thought could, much less would, exist. And that’s the world I wake up to, dreading it, everyday.
What made it even harder was that I was already struggling and going through discomfort. My family, the people around me, the world, it felt like, just didn’t understand me, who I was or why I was the way I was. It was so hard, to face the world, the day, with the burden of unacceptance and not being understand, not even by your family. They were so shallow, only caring of themselves and things that were meaningless with no flavor or taste, and wouldn’t last. I cared of things of value, memory, hope, love, and beauty, things that I felt were lost. I wasn’t like most 17 year-olds, as you can imagine. In fact I wasn’t like most at all, any age. But, some day, I hoped, that would change.
I woke up every morning to the Siren, blaring its loud, obnoxious horn. I dressed in clothes of black, gray and white, my least favorite colors. Down to breakfast I headed, and I never looked forward to meals, for the food was just as flavorless as society. But, somehow, my family enjoyed it. I couldn’t understand it. Enjoying tastelessness, how? All of them that is except, my brother.
My brother, Barnabas. He was different, and special. He understood me, and even when he didn’t he still loved me. It was so rare that I tasted that. He was a brother, not an annoying one, one I could be myself and genuinely cared about me with love and loyalty. We’d mess around and joke, we’d think and push each other. He’d encourage me. And I felt like we were some of the only people that actually lived.
He was one of my few luxuries and pleasures, amongst me black world. And fortunate for me, he was coming home for a little while. Unfortunately, my brother was a legal adult of 23 and served in our army, something that made me proud. When he was gone I missed him terribly, but I had the comfort of him visiting home to bring me hope, which I definitely needed.
After breakfast, I was off on my way to a disgusting idea of a “learning community”, school. I road the public bus that everyone took, because there was really nothing else. The government wanted to control everything. Take away transportation, so a man can’t go any where. Sure, a man can run, but not very far.... at least before they’d catch you...
School, there was really nothing much to say about it, except that I considered it a waste of time, the stuff we as students learned and what people did in their freetime. They were practically glued to their H.A.N.D.s (Handular Accessible Networking Device), a phone computer and ipod, right in the palm of your hand. With this things that were real and true, such as Art, were practically gone, everything was fairly meaningless; Like a conversation I had with a group of girls when I tried to fit it once:
“So, Coper,” Angelina, the head of the group said, “Which shade of pink should I put on my H.A.N.D. case, so it matches my outfit?”
“Pink, really? According to Frenio Balanski pink is really out, every one has violet now.”
“Well, fine. But I still have that date with Bryan Crice and I’m trying to decide if we should iceskate or rollerblade for our Virtu-date. This is a really important decision for me.”
“I don’t know what to do, Hartly Nalebore, my newest boyfriend, only likes to Virtu-ski together.”
“Well, that’s not much of a help.”
“Hey, new girl, Essy,” Angelina asked when no one else spoke up in answer, “Got any ideas?”
“Me?” I asked, wondering why they’d ask me, I wasn’t the prettiest or popular, I was really nobody, actually.
“Yeah.”
“Uh, I don’t know,” I answered bluntly.
“Fine! Anyway, I started watching this new TV series on my H.A.N.D....,” Angelina continued as I walked anyway.
See, see what I mean. This is why I don’t fit in, this is why people make me mad. We don’t just not get each other, but it’s why we don’t. They are so disgustingly shallow. The things they talk about don’t matter, won’t last, are meaningless and unimportant. Uh, it drives me crazy. But, I just stuff it away, there’s nothing I can do, just try to blend in no matter how sick it makes me.
Now, normally, Ha! I hate that word. So, boring and unreal, what does it mean anyway? Why would one want to be ‘normal’ Oh! These were questions I constantly asked myself, but unfortunately... I have to pretend to be ‘normal’. Anyway, usually, I’d have Art to lean on, to paint with but now....
I came home everyday from school angry, angry about my life and what they had done. No one even understood, no one cared about me and my brokenness or about the lost in general of Art. But, the worst part was it, Art, wasn’t even there to lean on, to help me through my troubles. The absence of it sickened me. Made me SO mad! But what could I do, I was only a 17, not even a legal adult, but that didn’t really matter because the government controlled everything anyway. Uh! How was I supposed to go on like this, act as if nothing had changed, like my heart hadn’t been ripped apart. Am I expected to live the lie of ‘no art’?
But, I just had to plaster a fake smile on my face and act as if everything were hunky dory, that my best friend wasn’t gone, that I didn’t have much hope left in me. I was still mad be I just stuffed in down inside me. Not the kind of anger where I’d let it out, the type that you kept pushing down, not knowing what to do with it. “Just wear the smile.”
The only thing that did give me hope, as I said, was my brother. We’d go on walks a lot and talk, just talk, as if nothing had changed. Living like the good old times. I looked forward to those times, that we’d do this. And, thankfully, one of them was right around the corner, two more days and he’d be home for a little while.
Once, I got home, I went to my room, then slid a horizontal board on my wall, unnoticeable to the human eye, across and entered what I called my “Secret Studio”. I, then, moved the board back to it’s place. No one knew it was here that’s the best part, I could be, just be, myself.
Then, I cried. Cried about school and family, people and Art. Where was it, I needed it. I needed to breathe needed to be free. Why do we want to be free? Because, things like freedom, be understood, being accepted and loved those things, those are important, something everyone wants, something real and true, something we strive for. Something, I didn’t have. Oh, it made me mad! I was sick of just putting down my feelings, pushing my anger away. I let the tears run down my face feeling absolutely helpless.
The tears blurred my sight and I closed my eyes. I wept quietly and my mind brought me back to a time.
We were laughing, just the two of us. Like two free horses, we run, ran through the fields, there were no limits. The wind blew my hair, filling my lungs. After a while, Barnabas and I went home. I painted while he talked, talked of his dreams, letting his thoughts float freely throughout the room. I led the brush this way and that. The feel of the brush, ah. So soothing and calm. Letting you use and control it, letting you do whatever you wanted with it. The open page, ready, ready for our to pour yourself into it. We laughed again.
As I opened my eyes, I realized it was late, late because I could hear the blinds going down, meaning going to be was coming soon.
I went to my plain bed, longing just for the touch of a brush, the feel of wet paint, oh... I closed my eyes with the thought of free houses, running, wild, chasing, running....free.
The next day, I awoke to the sirens. The day I went through the usual routine, same boring, cold stuff as usual. Sickening, was no one alive, was nothing real. I hoped and longed for the day when the World woke up.
The next day, though, couldn’t come soon enough. My brother was coming home! That, that I could hold onto for hope.
My brother came into my room, waking my from my sleep. Not in a long time had I wanted to come from dreaming and face my reality, but now, he was here!
I hugged him, overwhelmed with joy. We were so happy to see each other, at first we just stared. Then we laugh, the kind we both hadn’t done in a long while, too long.
He then greeted the rest of the family. I had to go off to school, but I told him I’d see him after.
“I can’t wait,” We both said.
Throughout the day, I could barely pay attention, I had long awaited this time, where we’d be together, together, finally, with someone who really got me. Something I rarely had.
I was so excited after school, on the way home I could barely contain it. One person, on the bus noticed and said,
“You excited for the finale episode of Mario and Susan, I can’t wait.”
“Uh, yeah, sure,” I lied hastily.
When I got off, I ran to the door, and rushed inside. I greeted my brother with a huge hug.
“Hey, Essy, want to hit the path?”
“Yes!” I answered. The path was the path we always took, the one that really connected us, the one we went on since we could walk and talk.
As we walked, he started to explain how his division of the military got sent up to the battlefield.
“The battlefield! What, no, you’ll get killed,” I cried.
“No, I wouldn’t I’ll be fine, don’t you worry. So what’s going on with you?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t lie. You know you can tell me.”
“I know, you’re the only one I can tell. It just hurts, that’s all,” I sadly stated. “It’s just that Art is gone, and no one has any idea how hard it is. I mean Art was and is so much to me, it’s what I always leaned on. And I’d lean more on it when you were gone and when people didn’t understand me, which is always. I just don’t know if I can go on this way. It makes me SO MAD!”
“I know how you feel. In fact, I brought a little gift for you. I think it’ll help.”
Out of the backpack he was carrying he pulled it out. No, Yes! Yes, is this really happening.
He pulled out an art supply kit. It had paint, brushes, a pallet, canvases..... It was, wow. I was speechless. I almost cried. And my brother knew my happiness.
“You don’t have to say anything, I know you love it,” he said with a smile.
“Wow, thank you,” I breathed out.
“I want you to express yourself, to truly be yourself with this, tell the world who you really are. That’s also what I wanted to tell you. Don’t ever, ever be afraid to be yourself. Go out there and face the world, go against the crowd and follow your heart, no matter the challenges.” He leaned down, put his hands on my shoulders, looked me straight in the eye and said, ”Don’t let the world stop you from who you really are.”
We paused, taking everything in, then continued, new, alive, and refreshed. I’ll never forget that moment, it changed my life, forever.
As we walked home, silently, several thoughts ran through my mind: All the paintings I should paint, this is a perfect use for my Secret Studio, and my brother is going to be on the battlefield, he’ll be fine, I comforted myself.
We entered the house, so happy I still couldn’t speak. I went to be that night feeling a joy I hadn’t felt in a while. But, before I went to sleep, I painted a picture of me and my brother in color and going the opposite way of everyone else around us, who was all in black with blindfolds on. The painting read at the bottom, “Don’t let the world stop you from who you really are.”
My brother headed off back to the army, with my best, but my family didn’t even care to say goodbye. Though it strongly bothers me, I had to concern my attention with other things. And, the next few days, weeks consisted of me going through the typical routine, but instead I also tried to be myself. I tried to wear colored clothes that I kept after they took everything away, but I got warned to not do that again. I would ask people the endless amount of questions I had, like being normal, or why was the government doing this, or how to sunsets form or if they could travel anywhere, where would they go? But most of the responses I got went like this: “What are you talking about?” or “Get lost!” or “What wrong with you?!”
I’d then tell my brother, in person or using my H.A.N.D., and he’d say, “It’ll be hard, but you know it’ll be worth it in the end. Don’t forget, you have me around.”
“Thanks, I know.”
I’d even question the teachers:
“Mr. Stringer,” I questioned, “Why do we need to learn ‘y=mx+b’?”
“Because,” He answered, “You’ll need it in life someday.”
“But.. when will we...?”
He left before I could finish.
“I don’t understand, Ms. Prathia. Why does it matter how cumulonimbus clouds are formed, or when Facebook went out of date, or the gas prices of 2024 or the TV show we watched last night? Why does it matter!?” I tried not to get upset. But, she’d typically just keep going, ignoring my questions.
I remember walking through fields, running in the forests, green all around me, the creatures we’d find, the secrets we’d discover. Painting with my brother, smiling. Without Art, I had almost forgotten how to smile. But, still, the fluid paint, the stiff and soft bristles of the brushes, the open and white canvas... Reality woke me in the form of my teacher, staring down at me, waiting for my answer to the question I didn’t know.
“What?” I asked.
“What,” She paused in frustration, “Is the name of our leader in 1976?”
“Crikwell, Kyle Frat Crikwell,” I answered, glad I just slipped out of that situation.
“That’s correct,” Mrs. Cauldrick said. She leaned down at me, “Don’t let that happened again.”
I tried not to let her stinging words bother me. I was sick of her and the pointless we learned. The things we learned irritated me, I didn’t think they had any meaning or real value, but, despite my complaints and pushing back, asking them to reconsider and possibly change, they’d never budge. Another obstacle to face everyday.
Through the challenges, I remained hopeful that someday things would changes things would be different, that I would change the world.
Even though I could paint, life still had it’s challenges. I could paint, which was so amazing, but only my eyes saw it. I wanted my art to reach others, for my art to touch the hearts and souls of many but how.
Each night I’d paint, or write something I learned in my journal: Brushes are like people, some are stiff and hard some are soft and easy. Also like brushes and paint and canvases, things aren’t always as they seem. Many times brushes, paint and canvases are bigger than they seem. I kept my journal hidden in my Secret Studio, I couldn’t ever let the Checkers get to it.
The Checkers. Oh, they were the people that came and raided our houses every month of art, supplies, anything colorful or creative, if they caught me, I’d be arrested for sure. No, I wouldn’t let that happened.
I felt so peaceful with being able to have little snippets of art here and there. My life was starting to look back up.
I’d paint sunsets, and flowers. Things of the past and things forgotten. Nature, I loved that, another breath of freedom taken away. I would also paint my emotions, to let them out. ANd finally, finally, I felt free.
That day, I painted a horse, because I oddly considered myself one of them, a horse. Running, that’s why I considered myself a horse. Because when I imagine running, when you just kept going, where there’s no end, there are no limits or boundaries, you are free. And horses, well, they run, run a lot, at least that’s how I imagine them, just them and an open field or pasture, the green, endless around them, trees, strong and beautiful. Can’t you just taste it, taste the freedom?
For some reason I heard footsteps, getting louder, but I thought nothing of it. It was probably my mom changing my gray sheets to another gray one. I kept painting, adding the last touches to my painting.....
Suddenly, my door to my studio swing, wide open. The Checkers, no, NO, not them!
They immediately saw my painting and took.
“What are you doing with this?” They rudely asked.
“I, I, well..”
“Who cares,” One said, “Just take it, and you.” They pointed at me, “You better not do this ever again, you hear?!”
“Yes.”
They let with that, and thankfully, very thankfully, not checking the Secret Studio for anything.
I could tell my parents were disappointed, but I also knew they could probably cared less, with the way they treated me. I didn’t even feel like I mattered here in my own home.
I called Barnabas and told him the news, now scared and not wanting to take many more risks. I feared that I couldn’t go on if the risks were like this.
“Come on, now. You’re not like that, you’re braver than that. Remember what I said, “Don’t let the world stop you from who you really are.”
“Thanks, I knew I could trust you.’
I went to bed that night, thinking and dreaming of how I could change the world and show them who I really was. Then, it hit me. Art, use Art. Display my painting, somewhere somewhere so everyone can see it, yes that’s what I’ll do. And I did something I hadn’t done it a while, I smiled.
I went to school, the next day, with hope and a lot of it. I thought off and on throughout the day where, where would I display my art. I searched and looked.....
I thought of it on the way home as we passed the Public H.A.N.D. where they showed movies, or the news or the time, it was just a blank space and it was perfect!
Barnabas, I have to tell him! I couldn’t wait to get home, to call and tell him my ideas.
I got home quickly and as I rushed to my room, my parents stopped me.
“Esperanza, we have something we need to tell you.”
I kept smiling, nothing could be so bad as to take my smile away.
“It’s your brother,” they continued, “You know how he was moved to the battlefield, the most dangerous place during a war, and well...”
Their voice trailed off. My expression changed quickly to shock and confusion.
“He’s just hurt, right?” I asked, “That’s all right? Please.”
“The military called and said he’s dead. I’m sorry, dear.”
“What, dead?” I could barely say it, then I started crying “How are you not upset, or crying or...?”
“Well, it happens, you know? The Barnes’ son died two weeks ago, besides now we have one less mouth to feed.”
“How can you say that?” I cried, disgusted. I ran up to my room and flopped on my bed.
“UHHHHH!” I yelled. How, how could this happen?!?!
My anger bubbled up inside me and having really no other place for it to go but out.
It makes me sick, what am I supposed to do. Right now I just want to give up. I just couldn’t go on, no, not living like this, in disgusting emptiness and captivity. I so sick of this, I can’t go on. What am I supposed to do I just wanted to give up.
I went to bed feeling awful, with that awful taste in my mouth. How can I go on?
I woke up, thinking, I can’t give up that’s not what my brother would have wanted and that’s not going to fix anything I have to do something, just what?!
Going to school that day I felt disgusted and empty, confused with lots of questions. I for some reason had the irresistible thought of taking all of my supplies with me, it wasn’t much, so I just kept it in my backpack, hoping no one would ever know.
Throughout the day, I kept getting distracted about my brother, my world, and my life. How could I go on? It was during one of this distractions were I thought of a plan of what to do. I it came to me as I thought of the horse painting the Checkers took away, the horses running.
It was history class, and I didn’t understand why we needed to know the history of Italian leather and the styles of purses in 2003. I went off on a day dream, running, running, through the fields...
“Esperanza!”
“Sorry,” I turned and looked straight forward, trying to avoid eye contact with Mrs. Cauldrick.
“What is name of the purse designer of the style ‘Chicy Chick’?”
“What, why? Why does it matter? What can’t we learn something real, that means something. Can’t we live, again, do something that matters? Don’t you miss being creative, being ourselves, being free?
“How, HOW can you all
stand this? Living in captivity, living in filth and disgrace of no freedom, no creativity?! It’s more than just a painting, a brush and paint, more than notes and the lovely sounds of music, it’s more than pretty colors, more than dancing or singing that I’m fighting for. It’s beauty and expression, to be ourselves, the chance to be free, to LIVE again.”
And with that I ran, knowing I was soon to get arrested, I ran and ran and ran. Just like a horse. But, I know, IyI knew, ou can’t run forever, someday I’d you’ll have to face myyour troubles, but I’m ready, with Art back on my side, what had I to fear? One can take a girl’s brushes and canvas, but one can’t take one’s soul, her source of art and creativity away.
I kept going into the forest, across the river, past all of the civilization. Until I knew I was safe.
I spent two and a half weeks there, in the forest, traveling all around. I was free, truly free. It was just me, Art and Freedom. I painted, the beauty that I saw, sunsets, trees, animals, thought, and ideas. I painted soul equaling the source of art, water/ocean, black and white vs. colors, light shining in the darkness all symbolizing things. I loved the time there, but I knew I had to come back.
You know, as I think about, it really wasn’t the brushes or the paint or the canvas, that’s not what Art is really about. If you took those elements away, you’d still have Art. It’s the soul, really, that’s the true source of Art. Just me and the blank, white page, a pen ready, just have to open my heart and look straight into my soul... pull it out and somehow put it on the empty page. The feel of the brush, ah. So soothing and calm. Letting you use and control it, letting you do whatever you wanted with it.
I wanted everyone to see how the world once was, the beauty of it.
There came a part in my life where I just couldn’t go one, no, not living like this, in disgusting emptiness and captivity.
But, here I am, now, with my anger bubbling up inside me and there’s really no other place for it to go but out.
What made it even harder was that I was already struggling, going through discomfort.
Questions: How could one man be so sick as to take another man’s freedom away? Why would anyone even think of doing something like this? These were thoughts that constantly ran through my mind.
That day, I painted a horse, because I oddly considered myself one of them, a horse. Running, that’s why I considered myself a horse. Because when I imagine running, when you just kept going, where there’s no end, there are no limits or boundaries, you are free. And horses, well, they run, run a lot, at least that’s how I imagine them, just them and an open field or pasture, the green, endless around them, trees, strong and beautiful. Can’t you just taste it, taste the freedom?
Ending:
And now, now, I travel the world, and each place I leave a piece of me, a piece of my heart and story behind me. The world will see and know me. But most importantly they’ll know the my Art, and the message behind it. The message of being true to yourself, the message of being strong enough to face your troubles, the message of not being afraid to be different, no matter the odds of the cost. The message of truly being free and living. Three letters, one word, my world. ART.
I could hear the Checkers at the door, I panicked, knowing they were going to eventually catch me. As they past through the house, their footsteps grew louder, nearing my room. I held my breath, waiting. What would they do with me, arrest me, lock me away? What would I do? I closed my eyes wondering if they knew. Knew about the secret studio and my diary and my Art.
It hadn’t always been this way, there was a time when I was free:
I remember walking through fields, running in the forests, green all around me, the creatures we’d find, the secrets we’d discover. Painting with my brother, smiling. Without Art, I had almost forgotten how to smile. But, still, the fluid paint, the stiff and soft bristles of the brushes, the open and white canvas... Reality woke me in the form of my teacher, staring down at me, waiting for my answer to the question I didn’t know.
“What?” I asked.
“What,” She paused in frustration, “Is the name of our leader in 1976?”
“Crikwell, Kyle Frat Crikwell,” I answered, glad I just slipped out of that situation.
“That’s correct,” Mrs. Cauldrick said. She leaned down at me
I tried not to let her stinging words bother me. I was sick of her and the pointless we learned. The things we learned irritated me, I didn’t think they had any meaning or real value, but, despite my complaints and pushing back, asking them to reconsider and possibly change, they’d never budge. Another obstacle to face everyday.
“Mr. Stringer,” I questioned, “Why do we need to learn ‘y=mx+b’?”
“Because,” He answered, “You’ll need it in life someday.”
“But.. when will we...?”
He left before I could finish.
“I don’t understand, Ms. Prathia. Why does it matter how cumulonimbus clouds are formed, or when Facebook went out of date, or the gas prices of 2024 or the TV show we watched last night? Why does it matter!?” I tried not to get upset.
throughout this we see her need and the absence of Art
- goes through grief, frustration, misunderstood, anger
- Brother encourages her to be different
- starts to show being different
- brother encourages
- brother dies, she feels like she wants to give up
- Essy gets idea to run away, runs away
- travels, sees beauty, inspired
- comes back
- displays art pieces in shape of a heart, everyone sees it, it touches them
- though Art isn’t completely back, there’s hope
- travels the world/ending
- Flashback to before Art was gone
Story Line: Mapping a Plot
Directions: When reading a story it is important to understand how the story develops. Below you will find the various parts of the story. Please 'identify evidence (using quotes and page numbers you found in the text to support your conclusions. Draw out your own
diagram with the information from the text!
1. Exposition: setting, situation/scene climate, mood
2. Conflict- what seems to be the main disagreement or cause of strife?
Art is gone- no books, no music, no creativity, character already faces conflict(s), and with ART taken away its even harder, people and family don’t get her, people/family= technology, shallow/fake, meaningless, structured
3. Rising Actions events that lead up to a major event
How is this taken away?, goes through stages of grief, anger, frustration; brother dies, she feels like giving up
4. CIimax the final major event
When I do something about it, create a mural or..., drop out of school
5. Falling Actions what is happening to bring the story to a resolution?
comes back
6. Resolution.- how is the conflict resolved?
shows art pieces in the shape of a heart to everyone, publicly, it touches everyone, travels the world
7. Protagonist vs. Antagonist -
(Protagonist main character/hero, Antagonist main enemy of the hero)
Me (Esperanza Joy) world (family, too)
8. Peripheral Characters which other characters are involved in the story?
brother, Art
9. Themes that are explored
fight for your freedom, follow your heart, though the whole world may be against you
10. Author’s Intent
What do I want the audience to take away? if it’s that important, that meaningful to you, fight for it, “If it’s hard, it’s even more worth it”, don’t be afraid to be different and flow our heart no matter what’s against you go against the crowd
11. At what point do you feel like the protagonist Came-of-age?
Ideas:
- The “checks”- gov’t comes and raids houses of ART and creativity
- character has an older brother (symbolic), old and wise
- black windows or shades, can’t see outside
- few natural colors, shades of gray, white, black
- constantly ask questions: What does ‘normal’ mean? Why would you even want to be normal?
- “I want the world to see, to hear my voice, to open their hearts and live.”
- Reads/finds poem, road less traveled
- has a dairy/journal, end of each day, create a symbolic art piece, writes what she’s learned from art: Not everything is as it seems, People are like brushes- some are soft some are hard, all have different purposes
- creates art pieces of the things she saw when/while she was running away, comes back, displays art in the shape of a heart, and slowly it starts to touch people’s hearts, and though life is all hunky dory, there’s hope and that’s what really mattered
throughout this we see her need and the absence of Art
- goes through grief, frustration, misunderstood, anger
- Brother encourages her to be different
- starts to show being different
- brother encourages
- brother dies, she feels like she wants to give up
- Essy gets idea to run away, runs away
- travels, sees beauty, inspired
- comes back
- displays art pieces in shape of a heart, everyone sees it, it touches them
- though Art isn’t completely back, there’s hope
- travels the world/ending
- Flashback to before Art was gone
ART. It was that word, those three little letters, that somehow made the biggest difference in my world. My heart needed it. That was the way I breathed. It was one of those things you just couldn’t explain, that your life was somehow missing something without it. The thing I didn’t understand was WHY? Why would anyone take this away, Why would anyone do this to us? I couldn’t wrap my brain around it, I just didn’t understand. Why would someone take ART away?
I yearned for it each and everyday, it practically made my world go round. See, I always told myself, if, for whatever reason, though I highly, highly doubt it ever would happened if was ever in prison, well, all I’d need was food, a Bible and a bucket of paint and I’d live. Of course, I’d need people to live, my friends and family, but still, I’d live.
It was one of those things that I couldn’t live without, it nearly completed my heart as long as I can remember. Art. Oh, that word, that made my heart flip. I loved it and even more when things changed, when times got tough. See, art, Art isn’t just how “pretty” something look on a canvas, or how “good” one’s drawing of a face is, or how perfectly realistic it is (I honestly think that part of the amazement of art is that despite the imperfection, it’s still beautiful). No, that’s not all of what art is. It’s when you reach in inside, inside of yourself, inside of your heart and throw into onto a canvas, with true and real meaning behind it. That, my friend, is true ART. It’s what it means and does to you and to the world. It’s a mean and way of expression, individuality and creativity. For me, it didn’t always matter what I was creating, just knowing I had the absolute freedom to do it. Freedom. That itself is so important to me, because what are we without it? And the best way for me to be free, truly free, is through ART.
But, a huge piece of me was now lost. The thought, of no art, creativity or in my case freedom, that alone, made me sick. And what I most feared was the fact that I may not get it back. I mean, what would you do, if your freedom got taken away?
Art, it gave the freedom to be different, to truly be myself, purely me! (Something I rarely tasted, yet constantly longed for.) It was the way I breathed, and freedom is what I was breathing. I mean, of course you could be different anywhere, but with Art I was fully and completely accepted, better than hardly anywhere else. Art was always there I could lean on it, whenever I needed it. It helped me when no one else really could. It accepted me, let me be myself, let me be. I’m so abundantly creative, I need to express myself, some way, somehow... And they took it away.
They took it. Not all at once but over a short time. They shut down the shops, the supply stores, with paint and brushes and canvases, paper, cans... inside them. They took anything creative or art resembling away. They took some much of things you could create art with. They took colors away, in a sense. They took most of the transportation away, so you couldn’t go places to get inspired, so you couldn’t leave. They took away music, dance, singing, books, writing, films, anything at all creative, they took it. They secured off nature, put blinds on our windows. The world was blah and lifeless, meaningless, boring, plain and dark. It was the kind of world I never thought could, much less would, exist. And that’s the world I wake up to, dreading it, everyday.
What made it even harder was that I was already struggling and going through discomfort. My family, the people around me, the world, it felt like, just didn’t understand me, who I was or why I was the way I was. It was so hard, to face the world, the day, with the burden of unacceptance and not being understand, not even by your family. They were so shallow, only caring of themselves and things that were meaningless with no flavor or taste, and wouldn’t last. I cared of things of value, memory, hope, love, and beauty, things that I felt were lost. I wasn’t like most 17 year-olds, as you can imagine. In fact I wasn’t like most at all, any age. But, some day, I hoped, that would change.
I woke up every morning to the Siren, blaring its loud, obnoxious horn. I dressed in clothes of black, gray and white, my least favorite colors. Down to breakfast I headed, and I never looked forward to meals, for the food was just as flavorless as society. But, somehow, my family enjoyed it. I couldn’t understand it. Enjoying tastelessness, how? All of them that is except, my brother.
My brother, Barnabas. He was different, and special. He understood me, and even when he didn’t he still loved me. It was so rare that I tasted that. He was a brother, not an annoying one, one I could be myself and genuinely cared about me with love and loyalty. We’d mess around and joke, we’d think and push each other. He’d encourage me. And I felt like we were some of the only people that actually lived.
He was one of my few luxuries and pleasures, amongst mye black world. And fortunate for me, he was coming home for a little while. Unfortunately, my brother was a legal adult of 23 and served in our army, something that made me proud. When he was gone I missed him terribly, but I had the comfort of him visiting home to bring me hope, which I definitely needed.
After breakfast, I was off on my way to a disgusting idea of a “learning community”, school. I road the public bus that everyone took, because there was really nothing else. The government wanted to control everything. Take away transportation, so a man can’t go any where. Sure, a man can run, but not very far.... at least before they’d catch you...
School, there was really nothing much to say about it, except that I considered it a waste of time, the stuff we as students learned and what people did in their freetime. They were practically glued to their H.A.N.D.s (Handular Accessible Networking Device), a phone computer and ipod, right in the palm of your hand. With this things that were real and true, such as Art, were practically gone, everything was fairly meaningless; Like a conversation I had with a group of girls when I tried to fit it once:
“So, Coper,” Angelina, the head of the group said, “Which shade of pink should I put on my H.A.N.D. case, so it matches my outfit?”
“Pink, really? According to Frenio Balanski pink is really out, every one has violet now.”
“Well, fine. But I still have that date with Bryan Crice and I’m trying to decide if we should iceskate or rollerblade for our Virtu-date. This is a really important decision for me.”
“I don’t know what to do, Hartly Nalebore, my newest boyfriend, only likes to Virtu-ski together.”
“Well, that’s not much of a help.”
“Hey, new girl, Essy,” Angelina asked when no one else spoke up in answer, “Got any ideas?”
“Me?” I asked, wondering why they’d ask me, I wasn’t the prettiest or popular, I was really nobody, actually.
“Yeah.”
“Uh, I don’t know,” I answered bluntly.
“Fine! Anyway, I started watching this new TV series on my H.A.N.D....,” Angelina continued as I walked anyway.
See, see what I mean. This is why I don’t fit in, this is why people make me mad. We don’t just not get each other, but it’s why we don’t. They are so disgustingly shallow. The things they talk about don’t matter, won’t last, are meaningless and unimportant. Uh, it drives me crazy. But, I just stuff it away, there’s nothing I can do, just try to blend in no matter how sick it makes me.
Now, normally, Ha! I hate that word. So, boring and unreal, what does it mean anyway? Why would one want to be ‘normal’ Oh! These were questions I constantly asked myself, but unfortunately... I have to pretend to be ‘normal’. Anyway, usually, I’d have Art to lean on, to paint with but now....
I came home everyday from school angry, angry about my life and what they had done. No one even understood, no one cared about me and my brokenness or about the lost in general of Art. But, the worst part was it, Art, wasn’t even there to lean on, to help me through my troubles. The absence of it sickened me. Made me SO mad! But what could I do, I was only a 17, not even a legal adult, but that didn’t really matter because the government controlled everything anyway. Uh! How was I supposed to go on like this, act as if nothing had changed, like my heart hadn’t been ripped apart. Am I expected to live the lie of ‘no art’?
But, I just had to plaster a fake smile on my face and act as if everything were hunky dory, that my best friend wasn’t gone, that I didn’t have much hope left in me. I was still mad be I just stuffed in down inside me. Not the kind of anger where I’d let it out, the type that you kept pushing down, not knowing what to do with it. “Just wear the smile.”
The only thing that did give me hope, as I said, was my brother. We’d go on walks a lot and talk, just talk, as if nothing had changed. Living like the good old times. I looked forward to those times, that we’d do this. And, thankfully, one of them was right around the corner, two more days and he’d be home for a little while.
Once, I got home, I went to my room, then slid a horizontal board on my wall, unnoticeable to the human eye, across and entered what I called my “Secret Studio”. I, then, moved the board back to it’s place. No one knew it was here that’s the best part, I could be, just be, myself.
Then, I cried. Cried about school and family, people and Art. Where was it, I needed it. I needed to breathe needed to be free. Why do we want to be free? Because, things like freedom, be understood, being accepted and loved those things, those are important, something everyone wants, something real and true, something we strive for. Something, I didn’t have. Oh, it made me mad! I was sick of just putting down my feelings, pushing my anger away. I let the tears run down my face feeling absolutely helpless.
The tears blurred my sight and I closed my eyes. I wept quietly and my mind brought me back to a time.
We were laughing, just the two of us. Like two free horses, we run, ran through the fields, there were no limits. The wind blew my hair, filling my lungs. After a while, Barnabas and I went home. I painted while he talked, talked of his dreams, letting his thoughts float freely throughout the room. I led the brush this way and that. The feel of the brush, ah. So soothing and calm. Letting you use and control it, letting you do whatever you wanted with it. The open page, ready, ready for our to pour yourself into it. We laughed again.
As I opened my eyes, I realized it was late, late because I could hear the blinds going down, meaning going to be was coming soon.
I went to my plain bed, longing just for the touch of a brush, the feel of wet paint, oh... I closed my eyes with the thought of free houses, running, wild, chasing, running....free.
The next day, I awoke to the sirens. The day I went through the usual routine, same boring, cold stuff as usual. Sickening, was no one alive, was nothing real. I hoped and longed for the day when the World woke up.
The next day, though, couldn’t come soon enough. My brother was coming home! That, that I could hold onto for hope.
My brother came into my room, waking my from my sleep. Not in a long time had I wanted to come from dreaming and face my reality, but now, he was here!
I hugged him, overwhelmed with joy. We were so happy to see each other, at first we just stared. Then we laugh, the kind we both hadn’t done in a long while, too long.
He then greeted the rest of the family. I had to go off to school, but I told him I’d see him after.
“I can’t wait,” We both said.
Throughout the day, I could barely pay attention, I had long awaited this time, where we’d be together, together, finally, with someone who really got me. Something I rarely had.
I was so excited after school, on the way home I could barely contain it. One person, on the bus noticed and said,
“You excited for the finale episode of Mario and Susan, I can’t wait.”
“Uh, yeah, sure,” I lied hastily.
When I got off, I ran to the door, and rushed inside. I greeted my brother with a huge hug.
“Hey, Essy, want to hit the path?”
“Yes!” I answered. The path was the path we always took, the one that really connected us, the one we went on since we could walk and talk.
As we walked, he started to explain how his division of the military got sent up to the battlefield.
“The battlefield! What, no, you’ll get killed,” I cried.
“No, I wouldn’t I’ll be fine, don’t you worry. So what’s going on with you?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t lie. You know you can tell me.”
“I know, you’re the only one I can tell. It just hurts, that’s all,” I sadly stated. “It’s just that Art is gone, and no one has any idea how hard it is. I mean Art was and is so much to me, it’s what I always leaned on. And I’d lean more on it when you were gone and when people didn’t understand me, which is always. I just don’t know if I can go on this way. It makes me SO MAD!”
“I know how you feel. In fact, I brought a little gift for you. I think it’ll help.”
Out of the backpack he was carrying he pulled it out. No, Yes! Yes, is this really happening.
He pulled out an art supply kit. It had paint, brushes, a pallet, canvases..... It was, wow. I was speechless. I almost cried. And my brother knew my happiness.
“You don’t have to say anything, I know you love it,” he said with a smile.
“Wow, thank you,” I breathed out.
“I want you to express yourself, to truly be yourself with this, tell the world who you really are. That’s also what I wanted to tell you. Don’t ever, ever be afraid to be yourself. Go out there and face the world, go against the crowd and follow your heart, no matter the challenges.” He leaned down, put his hands on my shoulders, looked me straight in the eye and said, ”Don’t let the world stop you from who you really are.”
We paused, taking everything in, then continued, new, alive, and refreshed. I’ll never forget that moment, it changed my life, forever.
As we walked home, silently, several thoughts ran through my mind: All the paintings I should paint, this is a perfect use for my Secret Studio, and my brother is going to be on the battlefield, he’ll be fine, I comforted myself.
We entered the house, so happy I still couldn’t speak. I went to be that night feeling a joy I hadn’t felt in a while. But, before I went to sleep, I painted a picture of me and my brother in color and going the opposite way of everyone else around us, who was all in black with blindfolds on. The painting read at the bottom, “Don’t let the world stop you from who you really are.”
My brother headed off back to the army, with my best, but my family didn’t even care to say goodbye. Though it strongly bothers me, I had to concern my attention with other things. And, the next few days, weeks consisted of me going through the typical routine, but instead I also tried to be myself. I tried to wear colored clothes that I kept after they took everything away, but I got warned to not do that again. I would ask people the endless amount of questions I had, like being normal, or why was the government doing this, or how to sunsets form or if they could travel anywhere, where would they go? But most of the responses I got went like this: “What are you talking about?” or “Get lost!” or “What wrong with you?!”
I’d then tell my brother, in person or using my H.A.N.D., and he’d say, “It’ll be hard, but you know it’ll be worth it in the end. Don’t forget, you have me around.”
“Thanks, I know.”
I’d even question the teachers:
“Mr. Stringer,” I questioned, “Why do we need to learn ‘y=mx+b’?”
“Because,” He answered, “You’ll need it in life someday.”
“But.. when will we...?”
He left before I could finish.
“I don’t understand, Ms. Prathia. Why does it matter how cumulonimbus clouds are formed, or when Facebook went out of date, or the gas prices of 2024 or the TV show we watched last night? Why does it matter!?” I tried not to get upset. But, she’d typically just keep going, ignoring my questions.
I remember walking through fields, running in the forests, green all around me, the creatures we’d find, the secrets we’d discover. Painting with my brother, smiling. Without Art, I had almost forgotten how to smile. But, still, the fluid paint, the stiff and soft bristles of the brushes, the open and white canvas... Reality woke me in the form of my teacher, staring down at me, waiting for my answer to the question I didn’t know.
“What?” I asked.
“What,” She paused in frustration, “Is the name of our leader in 1976?”
“Crikwell, Kyle Frat Crikwell,” I answered, glad I just slipped out of that situation.
“That’s correct,” Mrs. Cauldrick said. She leaned down at me, “Don’t let that happened again.”
I tried not to let her stinging words bother me. I was sick of her and the pointless we learned. The things we learned irritated me, I didn’t think they had any meaning or real value, but, despite my complaints and pushing back, asking them to reconsider and possibly change, they’d never budge. Another obstacle to face everyday.
Through the challenges, I remained hopeful that someday things would changes things would be different, that I would change the world.
One day, when I was for whatever reason, walking around town, I found an a piece of paper, old and forgotten. I wondered what it was doing here, but that didn’t matter. I read it:
The Road Not Taken
By Robert Frost
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
“And that made all the difference,” I repeated. Wow, this is awesome, someone else, somewhere who was going through the same situation as me. The Road not taken, yes I’ll take that path, too, though I know it will be hard.
Even though I could paint, life still had it’s challenges. I could paint, which was so amazing, but only my eyes saw it. I wanted my art to reach others, for my art to touch the hearts and souls of many but how.
Each night I’d paint, or write something I learned in my journal: Brushes are like people, some are stiff and hard some are soft and easy. Also like brushes and paint and canvases, things aren’t always as they seem. Many times brushes, paint and canvases are bigger than they seem. I kept my journal hidden in my Secret Studio, I couldn’t ever let the Checkers get to it.
The Checkers. Oh, they were the people that came and raided our houses every month of art, supplies, anything colorful or creative, if they caught me, I’d be arrested for sure. No, I wouldn’t let that happened.
I felt so peaceful with being able to have little snippets of art here and there. My life was starting to look back up.
I’d paint sunsets, and flowers. Things of the past and things forgotten. Nature, I loved that, another breath of freedom taken away. I would also paint my emotions, to let them out. ANd finally, finally, I felt free.
That day, I painted a horse, because I oddly considered myself one of them, a horse. Running, that’s why I considered myself a horse. Because when I imagine running, when you just kept going, where there’s no end, there are no limits or boundaries, you are free. And horses, well, they run, run a lot, at least that’s how I imagine them, just them and an open field or pasture, the green, endless around them, trees, strong and beautiful. Can’t you just taste it, taste the freedom?
For some reason I heard footsteps, getting louder, but I thought nothing of it. It was probably my mom changing my gray sheets to another gray one. I kept painting, adding the last touches to my painting.....
Suddenly, my door to my studio swing, wide open. The Checkers, no, NO, not them!
They immediately saw my painting and took.
“What are you doing with this?” They rudely asked.
“I, I, well..”
“Who cares,” One said, “Just take it, and you.” They pointed at me, “You better not do this ever again, you hear?!”
“Yes.”
They let with that, and thankfully, very thankfully, not checking the Secret Studio for anything.
I could tell my parents were disappointed, but I also knew they could probably cared less, with the way they treated me. I didn’t even feel like I mattered here in my own home.
I called Barnabas and told him the news, now scared and not wanting to take many more risks. I feared that I couldn’t go on if the risks were like this.
“Come on, now. You’re not like that, you’re braver than that. Remember what I said, “Don’t let the world stop you from who you really are.”
“Thanks, I knew I could trust you.’
I went to bed that night, thinking and dreaming of how I could change the world and show them who I really was. Then, it hit me. Art, use Art. Display my painting, somewhere somewhere so everyone can see it, yes that’s what I’ll do. And I did something I hadn’t done it a while, I smiled.
I went to school, the next day, with hope and a lot of it. I thought off and on throughout the day where, where would I display my art. I searched and looked.....
I thought of it on the way home as we passed the Public H.A.N.D. where they showed movies, or the news or the time, it was just a huge blank space, the size of a wall, reaching high, and it was perfect!
Barnabas, I have to tell him! I couldn’t wait to get home, to call and tell him my ideas.
I got home quickly and as I rushed to my room, my parents stopped me.
“Esperanza, we have something we need to tell you.”
I kept smiling, nothing could be so bad as to take my smile away.
“It’s your brother,” they continued, “You know how he was moved to the battlefield, the most dangerous place during a war, and well...”
Their voice trailed off. My expression changed quickly to shock and confusion.
“He’s just hurt, right?” I asked, “That’s all right? Please.”
“The military called and said he’s dead. I’m sorry, dear.”
“What, dead?” I could barely say it, then I started crying “How are you not upset, or crying or...?”
“Well, it happens, you know? The Barnes’ son died two weeks ago, besides now we have one less mouth to feed.”
“How can you say that?” I cried, disgusted. I ran up to my room and flopped on my bed.
“UHHHHH!” I yelled. How, how could this happen?!?!
My anger bubbled up inside me and having really no other place for it to go but out.
It makes me sick, what am I supposed to do. Right now I just want to give up. I just couldn’t go on, no, not living like this, in disgusting emptiness and captivity. I so sick of this, I can’t go on. What am I supposed to do I just wanted to give up.
I went to bed feeling awful, with that awful taste in my mouth. How can I go on?
I woke up, thinking, I can’t give up that’s not what my brother would have wanted and that’s not going to fix anything I have to do something, just what?!
Going to school that day I felt disgusted and empty, confused with lots of questions. I for some reason had the irresistible thought of taking all of my supplies with me, it wasn’t much, so I just kept it in my backpack, hoping no one would ever know.
Throughout the day, I kept getting distracted about my brother, my world, and my life. How could I go on? It was during one of this distractions were I thought of a plan of what to do. I it came to me as I thought of the horse painting the Checkers took away, the horses running.
It was history class, and I didn’t understand why we needed to know the history of Italian leather and the styles of purses in 2003. I went off on a day dream, running, running, through the fields...
“Esperanza!”
“Sorry,” I turned and looked straight forward, trying to avoid eye contact with Mrs. Cauldrick.
“What is name of the purse designer of the style ‘Chicy Chick’?”
“What, why? Why does it matter? What can’t we learn something real, that means something. Can’t we live, again, do something that matters? Don’t you miss being creative, being ourselves, being free?
“How, HOW can you all stand this? Living in captivity, living in filth and disgrace of no freedom, no creativity?! It’s more than just a painting, a brush and paint, more than notes and the lovely sounds of music, it’s more than pretty colors, more than dancing or singing that I’m fighting for. It’s beauty and expression, to be ourselves, the chance to be free, to LIVE again.”
And with that I ran, knowing I was soon to get arrested, I ran and ran and ran. Just like a horse. But, I know, I can’t run forever, someday I’d have to face my troubles, but I’m ready, with Art back on my side, what had I to fear? One can take a girl’s brushes and canvas, but one can’t take one’s soul, her source of art and creativity away.
I kept going into the forest, across the river, past all of the civilization. Until I knew I was safe.
I spent two and a half weeks there, in the forest, traveling all around. I was free, truly free. It was just me, Art and Freedom. I painted, the beauty that I saw, sunsets, trees, animals, thought, and ideas. I painted soul equaling the source of art, water/ocean, black and white vs. colors, light shining in the darkness all symbolizing things. This was my time to be away from the world around me, I needed to leave for a short while.
I saw running horses, and shining stars amongst the black veil of heaven, I saw birds flying, trees sleeping peacefully, the wind blowing branches, green, leaves.... Freedom. And of course I painted, all of it, all that I saw, my emotions, too. I wanted everyone to see how the world once was, the beauty of it.
I’d live on the wild, eating berries, and go fishing, I found a nice cave I could stay in for this while...
I loved the time there, but I knew I had to come back. I had to once again face the world, tell them who I was, and not be afraid to be different, but I didn’t have to do this on my own. Art was by my side.
After the most amazing two and half weeks of my life, I headed back, back to the world I practically hated. I had to show them the beauty of the world, the way it really is, I needed to make a difference, like my brother said, and Art, now would help me.
I went back through the forest, the fields, running waters..... until I reached civilization. As much as I disliked it, there was something I had to do.
It was, nighttime, so I crept to the center of town and to the Public H.A.N.D. THere it was, huge and perfect and... blank. Then, I started, hanging up my paintings one by, one by one, in the shape of a large heart. I hung up my emotions, valleys, fields, woods, animals, all of them. I just finished it all before dawn, when the people started to arrive. Earlier, I had put a notice on everyone’s door to come to the Public H.A.N.D. at 7:00 a.m., order of the government.
As people started to some, I slipped away, I went to a place where no one could see me, but I could see all of them. I watched, on my stomach, from the rooftop of the Public H.A.N.D. I watched them, their faces.
I watched how their expression changed, their frown went away, and slowly, very slowly I could see how my Art had touched everyone of them, how they remembered and fell in love with things, that were lost and forgotten, all over again Some left not long after, but still refreshed and new. Others stayed all day. It was so incredible to watch them, see them and their hearts changed. Even some government officials came, at first wanting to arrest the person how did this, but as they stopped and looked, I could see them start to change. It was a great feeling, that I had finally stepped up and made a difference in the world, and was truly myself, my brother would be proud.
You know, as I think about, it really wasn’t the brushes or the paint or the canvas, that’s not what Art is re ally about. If you took those elements away, you’d still have Art. It’s the soul, really, that’s the true source of Art. Just me and the blank, white page, a pen ready, just have to open my heart and look straight into my soul... pull it out and somehow put it on the empty page.
And though the world, my world didn’t completely change, there was still hope, because my name means hope.
I wanted everyone to see how the world once was, the beauty of it.
There came a part in my life where I just couldn’t go one, no, not living like this, in disgusting emptiness and captivity.
But, here I am, now, with my anger bubbling up inside me and there’s really no other place for it to go but out.
What made it even harder was that I was already struggling, going through discomfort.
Questions: How could one man be so sick as to take another man’s freedom away? Why would anyone even think of doing something like this? These were thoughts that constantly ran through my mind.
That day, I painted a horse, because I oddly considered myself one of them, a horse. Running, that’s why I considered myself a horse. Because when I imagine running, when you just kept going, where there’s no end, there are no limits or boundaries, you are free. And horses, well, they run, run a lot, at least that’s how I imagine them, just them and an open field or pasture, the green, endless around them, trees, strong and beautiful. Can’t you just taste it, taste the freedom?
Ending:
And now, now, I travel the world, and each place I leave a piece of me, a piece of my heart and story behind me. The world will see and know me. But most importantly they’ll know the my Art, and the message behind it. The message of being true to yourself, the meThe feel of the brush, ah. So soothing and calm. Letting you use and control it, letting you do whatever you wanted with it.
ssage of being strong enough to face your troubles, the message of not being afraid to be different, no matter the odds
of the cost. The message of truly being free and living. Three letters, one word, my world. ART.
I could hear the Checkers at the door, I panicked, knowing they were going to eventually catch me. As they past through the house, their footsteps grew louder, nearing my room. I held my breath, waiting. What would they do with me, arrest me, lock me away? What would I do? I closed my eyes wondering if they knew. Knew about the secret studio and my diary and my Art.
throughout this we see her need and the absence of Art
- goes through grief, frustration, misunderstood, anger
- Brother encourages her to be different
- starts to show being different
- brother encourages
- brother dies, she feels like she wants to give up
- Essy gets idea to run away, runs away
- travels, sees beauty, inspired
- comes back
- displays art pieces in shape of a heart, everyone sees it, it touches them
- though Art isn’t completely back, there’s hope
- travels the world/ending
- Flashback to before Art was gone
Story Line: Mapping a Plot
Directions: When reading a story it is important to understand how the story develops. Below you will find the various parts of the story. Please 'identify evidence (using quotes and page numbers you found in the text to support your conclusions. Draw out your own
diagram with the information from the text!
1. Exposition: setting, situation/scene climate, mood
2. Conflict- what seems to be the main disagreement or cause of strife?
Art is gone- no books, no music, no creativity, character already faces conflict(s), and with ART taken away its even harder, people and family don’t get her, people/family= technology, shallow/fake, meaningless, structured
3. Rising Actions events that lead up to a major event
How is this taken away?, goes through stages of grief, anger, frustration; brother dies, she feels like giving up
4. CIimax the final major event
When I do something about it, create a mural or..., drop out of school
5. Falling Actions what is happening to bring the story to a resolution?
comes back
6. Resolution.- how is the conflict resolved?
shows art pieces in the shape of a heart to everyone, publicly, it touches everyone, travels the world
7. Protagonist vs. Antagonist -
(Protagonist main character/hero, Antagonist main enemy of the hero)
Me (Esperanza Joy) world (family, too)
8. Peripheral Characters which other characters are involved in the story?
brother, Art
9. Themes that are explored
fight for your freedom, follow your heart, though the whole world may be against you
10. Author’s Intent
What do I want the audience to take away? if it’s that important, that meaningful to you, fight for it, “If it’s hard, it’s even more worth it”, don’t be afraid to be different and flow our heart no matter what’s against you go against the crowd
11. At what point do you feel like the protagonist Came-of-age?
Ideas:
- The “checks”- gov’t comes and raids houses of ART and creativity
- character has an older brother (symbolic), old and wise
- black windows or shades, can’t see outside
- few natural colors, shades of gray, white, black
- constantly ask questions: What does ‘normal’ mean? Why would you even want to be normal?
- “I want the world to see, to hear my voice, to open their hearts and live.”
- Reads/finds poem, road less traveled
- has a dairy/journal, end of each day, create a symbolic art piece, writes what she’s learned from art: Not everything is as it seems, People are like brushes- some are soft some are hard, all have different purposes
- creates art pieces of the things she saw when/while she was running away, comes back, displays art in the shape of a heart, and slowly it starts to touch people’s hearts, and though life is all hunky dory, there’s hope and that’s what really mattered
throughout this we see her need and the absence of Art
- goes through grief, frustration, misunderstood, anger
- Brother encourages her to be different
- starts to show being different
- brother encourages
- brother dies, she feels like she wants to give up
- Essy gets idea to run away, runs away
- travels, sees beauty, inspired
- comes back
- displays art pieces in shape of a heart, everyone sees it, it touches them
- though Art isn’t completely back, there’s hope
- travels the world/ending
- Flashback to before Art was gone
ART. It was that word, those three little letters, that somehow made the biggest difference in my world. My heart needed it. That was the way I breathed. It was one of those things you just couldn’t explain, that your life was somehow missing something without it. The thing I didn’t understand was WHY? Why would anyone take this away, Why would anyone do this to us? I couldn’t wrap my brain around it, I just didn’t understand. Why would someone take ART away?
I yearned for it each and everyday, it practically made my world go round. See, I always told myself, if, for whatever reason, though I highly, highly doubt it ever would happened if was ever in prison, well, all I’d need was food, a Bible and a bucket of paint and I’d live. Of course, I’d need people to live, my friends and family, but still, I’d live.
It was one of those things that I couldn’t live without, it nearly completed my heart as long as I can remember. Art. Oh, that word, that made my heart flip. I loved it and even more when things changed, when times got tough. See, art, Art isn’t just how “pretty” something look on a canvas, or how “good” one’s drawing of a face is, or how perfectly realistic it is (I honestly think that part of the amazement of art is that despite the imperfection, it’s still beautiful). No, that’s not all of what art is. It’s when you reach in inside, inside of yourself, inside of your heart and throw into onto a canvas, with true and real meaning behind it. That, my friend, is true ART. It’s what it means and does to you and to the world. It’s a mean and way of expression, individuality and creativity. For me, it didn’t always matter what I was creating, just knowing I had the absolute freedom to do it. Freedom. That itself is so important to me, because what are we without it? And the best way for me to be free, truly free, is through ART.
But, a huge piece of me was now lost. The thought, of no art, creativity or in my case freedom, that alone, made me sick. And what I most feared was the fact that I may not get it back. I mean, what would you do, if your freedom got taken away?
Art, it gave the freedom to be different, to truly be myself, purely me! (Something I rarely tasted, yet constantly longed for.) It was the way I breathed, and freedom is what I was breathing. I mean, of course you could be different anywhere, but with Art I was fully and completely accepted, better than hardly anywhere else. Art was always there I could lean on it, whenever I needed it. It helped me when no one else really could. It accepted me, let me be myself, let me be. I’m so abundantly creative, I need to express myself, some way, somehow... And they took it away.
They took it. Not all at once but over a short time. They shut down the shops, the supply stores, with paint and brushes and canvases, paper, cans... inside them. They took anything creative or art resembling away. They took some much of things you could create art with. They took colors away, in a sense. They took most of the transportation away, so you couldn’t go places to get inspired, so you couldn’t leave. They took away music, dance, singing, books, writing, films, anything at all creative, they took it. They secured off nature, put blinds on our windows. The world was blah and lifeless, meaningless, boring, plain and dark. It was the kind of world I never thought could, much less would, exist. And that’s the world I wake up to, dreading it, everyday.
What made it even harder was that I was already struggling and going through discomfort. My family, the people around me, the world, it felt like, just didn’t understand me, who I was or why I was the way I was. It was so hard, to face the world, the day, with the burden of unacceptance and not being understand, not even by your family. They were so shallow, only caring of themselves and things that were meaningless with no flavor or taste, and wouldn’t last. I cared of things of value, memory, hope, love, and beauty, things that I felt were lost. I wasn’t like most 17 year-olds, as you can imagine. In fact I wasn’t like most at all, any age. But, some day, I hoped, that would change.
I woke up every morning to the Siren, blaring its loud, obnoxious horn. I dressed in clothes of black, gray and white, my least favorite colors. Down to breakfast I headed, and I never looked forward to meals, for the food was just as flavorless as society. But, somehow, my family enjoyed it. I couldn’t understand it. Enjoying tastelessness, how? All of them that is except, my brother.
My brother, Barnabas. He was different, and special. He understood me, and even when he didn’t he still loved me. It was so rare that I tasted that. He was a brother, not an annoying one, one I could be myself and genuinely cared about me with love and loyalty. We’d mess around and joke, we’d think and push each other. He’d encourage me. And I felt like we were some of the only people that actually lived.
He was one of my few luxuries and pleasures, amongst my black world. And fortunate for me, he was coming home for a little while. Unfortunately, my brother was a legal adult of 23 and served in our army, something that made me proud. When he was gone I missed him terribly, but I had the comfort of him visiting home to bring me hope, which I definitely needed.
After breakfast, I was off on my way to a disgusting idea of a “learning community”, school. I road the public bus that everyone took, because there was really nothing else. The government wanted to control everything. Take away transportation, so a man can’t go any where. Sure, a man can run, but not very far.... at least before they’d catch you...
School, there was really nothing much to say about it, except that I considered it a waste of time, the stuff we as students learned and what people did in their freetime. They were practically glued to their H.A.N.D.s (Handular Accessible Networking Device), a phone computer and ipod, right in the palm of your hand. With this things that were real and true, such as Art, were practically gone, everything was fairly meaningless; Like a conversation I had with a group of girls when I tried to fit it once:
“So, Coper,” Angelina, the head of the group said, “Which shade of pink should I put on my H.A.N.D. case, so it matches my outfit?”
“Pink, really? According to Frenio Balanski pink is really out, every one has violet now.”
“Well, fine. But I still have that date with Bryan Crice and I’m trying to decide if we should iceskate or rollerblade for our Virtu-date. This is a really important decision for me.”
“I don’t know what to do, Hartly Nalebore, my newest boyfriend, only likes to Virtu-ski together.”
“Well, that’s not much of a help.”
“Hey, new girl, Essy,” Angelina asked when no one else spoke up in answer, “Got any ideas?”
“Me?” I asked, wondering why they’d ask me, I wasn’t the prettiest or popular, I was really nobody, actually.
“Yeah.”
“Uh, I don’t know,” I answered bluntly.
“Fine! Anyway, I started watching this new TV series on my H.A.N.D....,” Angelina continued as I walked anyway.
See, see what I mean. This is why I don’t fit in, this is why people make me mad. We don’t just not get each other, but it’s why we don’t. They are so disgustingly shallow. The things they talk about don’t matter, won’t last, are meaningless and unimportant. Uh, it drives me crazy. But, I just stuff it away, there’s nothing I can do, just try to blend in no matter how sick it makes me.
Now, normally, Ha! I hate that word. So, boring and unreal, what does it mean anyway? Why would one want to be ‘normal’ Oh! These were questions I constantly asked myself, but unfortunately... I have to pretend to be ‘normal’. Anyway, usually, I’d have Art to lean on, to paint with but now....
I came home everyday from school angry, angry about my life and what they had done. No one even understood, no one cared about me and my brokenness or about the lost in general of Art. But, the worst part was it, Art, wasn’t even there to lean on, to help me through my troubles. The absence of it sickened me. Made me SO mad! But what could I do, I was only a 17, not even a legal adult, but that didn’t really matter because the government controlled everything anyway. Uh! How was I supposed to go on like this, act as if nothing had changed, like my heart hadn’t been ripped apart. Am I expected to live the lie of ‘no art’?
But, I just had to plaster a fake smile on my face and act as if everything were hunky dory, that my best friend wasn’t gone, that I didn’t have much hope left in me. I was still mad be I just stuffed in down inside me. Not the kind of anger where I’d let it out, the type that you kept pushing down, not knowing what to do with it. “Just wear the smile.”
The only thing that did give me hope, as I said, was my brother. We’d go on walks a lot and talk, just talk, as if nothing had changed. Living like the good old times. I looked forward to those times, that we’d do this. And, thankfully, one of them was right around the corner, two more days and he’d be home for a little while.
Once, I got home, I went to my room, then slid a horizontal board on my wall, unnoticeable to the human eye, across and entered what I called my “Secret Studio”. I, then, moved the board back to it’s place. No one knew it was here that’s the best part, I could be, just be, myself.
Then, I cried. Cried about school and family, people and Art. Where was it, I needed it. I needed to breathe needed to be free. Why do we want to be free? Because, things like freedom, be understood, being accepted and loved those things, those are important, something everyone wants, something real and true, something we strive for. Something, I didn’t have. Oh, it made me mad! I was sick of just putting down my feelings, pushing my anger away. I let the tears run down my face feeling absolutely helpless.
The tears blurred my sight and I closed my eyes. I wept quietly and my mind brought me back to a time.
We were laughing, just the two of us. Like two free horses, we run, ran through the fields, there were no limits. The wind blew my hair, filling my lungs. After a while, Barnabas and I went home. I painted while he talked, talked of his dreams, letting his thoughts float freely throughout the room. I led the brush this way and that. The feel of the brush, ah. So soothing and calm. Letting you use and control it, letting you do whatever you wanted with it. The open page, ready, ready for our to pour yourself into it. We laughed again.
As I opened my eyes, I realized it was late, late because I could hear the blinds going down, meaning going to be was coming soon.
I went to my plain bed, longing just for the touch of a brush, the feel of wet paint, oh... I closed my eyes with the thought of free horses, running, wild, chasing, running....free.
The next day, I awoke to the sirens. That de ay I went through the usual routine, same boring, cold stuff as usual. Sickening, was no one alive, was nothing real. I hoped and longed for the day when the World woke up.
The next day, though, couldn’t come soon enough. My brother was coming home! That, that I could hold onto for hope.
My brother came into my room, waking my from my sleep. Not in a long time had I wanted to come from dreaming and face my reality, but now, he was here!
I hugged him, overwhelmed with joy. We were so happy to see each other, at first we just stared. Then we laugh, the kind we both hadn’t done in a long while, too long.
He then greeted the rest of the family. I had to go off to school, but I told him I’d see him after.
“I can’t wait,” We both said.
Throughout the day, I could barely pay attention, I had long awaited this time, where we’d be together, together, finally, with someone who really got me. Something I rarely had.
I was so excited after school, on the way home I could barely contain it. One person, on the bus noticed and said,
“You excited for the finale episode of Mario and Susan, I can’t wait.”
“Uh, yeah, sure,” I lied hastily.
When I got off, I ran to the door, and rushed inside. I greeted my brother with a huge hug.
“Hey, Essy, want to hit the path?”
“Yes!” I answered. The path was the path we always took, the one that really connected us, the one we went on since we could walk and talk.
As we walked, he started to explain how his division of the military got sent up to the battlefield.
“The battlefield! What, no, you’ll get killed,” I cried.
“No, I wouldn’t, I’ ll be fine, don’t you worry. So what’s going on with you?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t lie. You know you can tell me.”
“I know, you’re the only one I can tell. It just hurts, that’s all,” I sadly stated. “It’s just that Art is gone, and no one has any idea how hard it is. I mean Art was and is so much to me, it’s what I always leaned on. And I’d lean more on it when you were gone and when people didn’t understand me, which is always. I just don’t know if I can go on this way. It makes me SO MAD!”
“I know how you feel. In fact, I brought a little gift for you. I think it’ll help.”
Out of the backpack he was carrying he pulled it out. No, Yes! Yes, is this really happening.
He pulled out an art supply kit. It had paint, brushes, a pallet, canvases..... It was, wow. I was speechless. I almost cried. And my brother knew my happiness.
“You don’t have to say anything, I know you love it,” he said with a smile.
“Wow, thank you,” I breathed out.
“I want you to express yourself, to truly be yourself with this, tell the world who you really are. That’s also what I wanted to tell you. Don’t ever, ever be afraid to be yourself. Go out there and face the world, go against the crowd and follow your heart, no matter the challenges.” He leaned down, put his hands on my shoulders, looked me straight in the eye and said, ”Don’t let the world stop you from who you really are.”
We paused, taking everything in, then continued, new, alive, and refreshed. I’ll never forget that moment, it changed my life, forever.
As we walked home, silently, several thoughts ran through my mind: All the paintings I should paint, this is a perfect use for my Secret Studio, and my brother is going to be on the battlefield, he’ll be fine, I comforted myself.
We entered the house, so happy I still couldn’t speak. I went to bed that night feeling a joy I hadn’t felt in a while. But, before I went to sleep, I painted a picture of me and my brother in color and going the opposite way of everyone else around us, who was all in black with blindfolds on. The painting read at the bottom, “Don’t let the world stop you from who you really are.”
My brother headed off back to the army, with my best, but my family didn’t even care to say goodbye. Though it strongly bothers me, I had to concern my attention with other things. And, the next few days, weeks consisted of me going through the typical routine, but instead I also tried to be myself. I tried to wear colored clothes that I kept after they took everything away, but I got warned to not do that again. I would ask people the endless amount of questions I had, like being normal, or why was the government doing this, or how dto sunsets form or if they could travel anywhere, where would they go? But most of the responses I got went like this: “What are you talking about?” or “Get lost!” or “What wrong with you?!”
I’d then tell my brother, in person or using my H.A.N.D., and he’d say, “It’ll be hard, but you know it’ll be worth it in the end. Don’t forget, you have me around.”
“Thanks, I know.”
I’d even question the teachers:
“Mr. Stringer,” I questioned, “Why do we need to learn ‘y=mx+b’?”
“Because,” He answered, “You’ll need it in life someday.”
“But.. when will we...?”
He left before I could finish.
“I don’t understand, Ms. Prathia. Why does it matter how cumulonimbus clouds are formed, or when Facebook went out of date, or the gas prices of 2024 or the TV show we watched last night? Why does it matter!?” I tried not to get upset. But, she’d typically just keep going, ignoring my questions.
I remember walking through fields, running in the forests, green all around me, the creatures we’d find, the secrets we’d discover. Painting with my brother, smiling. Without Art, I had almost forgotten how to smile. But, still, the fluid paint, the stiff and soft bristles of the brushes, the open and white canvas... Reality woke me in the form of my teacher, staring down at me, waiting for my answer to the question I didn’t know.
“What?” I asked.
“What,” She paused in frustration, “Is the name of our leader in 1976?”
“Crikwell, Kyle Frat Crikwell,” I answered, glad I just slipped out of that situation.
“That’s correct,” Mrs. Cauldrick said. She leaned down at me, “Don’t let that happened again.”
I tried not to let her stinging words bother me. I was sick of her and the pointless we learned. The things we learned irritated me, I didn’t think they had any meaning or real value, but, despite my complaints and pushing back, asking them to reconsider and possibly change, they’d never budge. Another obstacle to face everyday.
Through the challenges, I remained hopeful that someday things would changes things would be different, that I would change the world.
One day, when I was for whatever reason, walking around town, I found an a piece of paper, old and forgotten. I wondered what it was doing here, but that didn’t matter. I read it:
The Road Not Taken
By Robert Frost
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
“And that made all the difference,” I repeated. Wow, this is awesome, someone else, somewhere who was going through the same situation as me. The Road not taken, yes I’ll take that path, too, though I know it will be hard.
Even though I could paint, life still had it’s challenges. I could paint, which was so amazing, but only my eyes saw it. I wanted my art to reach others, for my art to touch the hearts and souls of many but how.
Each night I’d paint, or write something I learned in my journal: Brushes are like people, some are stiff and hard some are soft and easy. Also like brushes and paint and canvases, things aren’t always as they seem. Many times brushes, paint and canvases are bigger than they seem. I kept my journal hidden in my Secret Studio, I couldn’t ever let the Checkers get to it.
The Checkers. Oh, they were the people that came and raided our houses every month of art, supplies, anything colorful or creative, if they caught me, I’d be arrested for sure. No, I wouldn’t let that happened.
I felt so peaceful with being able to have little snippets of art here and there. My life was starting to look back up.
I’d paint sunsets, and flowers. Things of the past and things forgotten. Nature, I loved that, another breath of freedom taken away. I would also paint my emotions, to let them out. And Nfinally, finally, I felt free.
That day, I painted a horse, because I oddly considered myself one of them, a horse. Running, that’s why I considered myself a horse. Because when I imagine running, when you just kept going, where there’s no end, there are no limits or boundaries, you are free. And horses, well, they run, run a lot, at least that’s how I imagine them, just them and an open field or pasture, the green, endless around them, trees, strong and beautiful. Can’t you just taste it, taste the freedom?
For some reason I heard footsteps, getting louder, but I thought nothing of it. It was probably my mom changing my gray sheets to another gray one. I kept painting, adding the last touches to my painting.....
Suddenly, my door to my studio swing, wide open. The Checkers, no, NO, not them!
They immediately saw my painting and took.
“What are you doing with this?” They rudely asked.
“I, I, well..”
“Who cares,” One said, “Just take it, and you.” They pointed at me, “You better not do this ever again, you hear?!”
“Yes.”
They let with that, and thankfully, very thankfully, not checking the Secret Studio for anything.
I could tell my parents were disappointed, but I also knew they could probably cared less, with the way they treated me. I didn’t even feel like I mattered here in my own home.
I called Barnabas and told him the news, now scared and not wanting to take many more risks. I feared that I couldn’t go on if the risks were like this.
“Come on, now. You’re not like that, you’re braver than that. Remember what I said, “Don’t let the world stop you from who you really are.”
“Thanks, I knew I could trust you.’
I went to bed that night, thinking and dreaming of how I could change the world and show them who I really was. Then, it hit me. Art, use Art. Display my painting, somewhere somewhere so everyone can see it, yes that’s what I’ll do. And I did something I hadn’t done it a while, I smiled.
I went to school, the next day, with hope and a lot of it. I thought off and on throughout the day where, where would I display my art. I searched and looked.....
I thought of it on the way home as we passed the Public H.A.N.D. where they showed movies, or the news or the time, it was just a huge blank space, the size of a wall, reaching high, and it was perfect!
Barnabas, I have to tell him! I couldn’t wait to get home, to call and tell him my ideas.
I got home quickly and as I rushed to my room, my parents stopped me.
“Esperanza, we have something we need to tell you.”
I kept smiling, nothing could be so bad as to take my smile away.
“It’s your brother,” they continued, “You know how he was moved to the battlefield, the most dangerous place during a war, and well...”
Their voice trailed off. My expression changed quickly to shock and confusion.
“He’s just hurt, right?” I asked, “That’s all right? Please.”
“The military called and said he’s dead. I’m sorry, dear.”
“What, dead?” I could barely say it, then I started crying “How are you not upset, or crying or...?”
“Well, it happens, you know? The Barnes’ son died two weeks ago, besides now we have one less mouth to feed.”
“How can you say that?” I cried, disgusted. I ran up to my room and flopped on my bed.
“UHHHHH!” I yelled. How, how could this happen?!?!
My anger bubbled up inside me and having really no other place for it to go but out.
It makes me sick, what am I supposed to do. Right now I just want to give up. I just couldn’t go on, no, not living like this, in disgusting emptiness and captivity. I so sick of this, I can’t go on. What am I supposed to do? I just wanted to give up.
I went to bed feeling awful, with that awful taste in my mouth. How can I go on?
I woke up, thinking, I can’t give up, that’s not what my brother would have wanted and that’s not going to fix anything I have to do something, but wjusthat?!
Going to school that day I felt disgusted and empty, confused with lots of questions. I for some reason had the irresistible thought of taking all of my supplies with me, it wasn’t much, so I just kept it in my backpack, hoping no one would ever know.
Throughout the day, I kept getting distracted about my brother, my world, and my life. How could I go on? It was during one of this distractions were I thought of a plan of what to do. I it came to me as I thought of the horse painting the Checkers took away, the horses running.
It was history class, and I didn’t understand why we needed to know the history of Italian leather and the styles of purses in 2003. I went off on a day dream, running, running, through the fields...
“Esperanza!”
“Sorry,” I turned and looked straight forward, trying to avoid eye contact with Mrs. Cauldrick.
“What is name of the purse designer of the style ‘Chicy Chick’?”
“What, why? Why does it matter? What can’t we learn something real, that means something. Can’t we live, again, do something that matters? Don’t you miss being creative, being ourselves, being free?
“How, HOW can you all stand this? Living in captivity, living in filth and disgrace of no freedom, no creativity?! It’s more than just a painting, a brush and paint, more than notes and the lovely sounds of music, it’s more than pretty colors, more than dancing or singing that I’m fighting for. It’s beauty and expression, to be ourselves, the chance to be free, to LIVE again.”
And with that I ran, knowing I was soon to get arrested, I ran and ran and ran. Just like a horse. But, I know, I can’t run forever, someday I’d have to face my troubles, but I’m ready, with Art back on my side, what had I to fear? One can take a girl’s brushes and canvas, but one can’t take one’s soul, her source of art and creativity away.
I kept going into the forest, across the river, past all of the civilization. Until I knew I was safe.
I spent two and a half weeks there, in the forest, traveling all around. I was free, truly free. It was just me, Art and Freedom. I painted, the beauty that I saw, sunsets, trees, animals, thought, and ideas. I painted soul equaling the source of art, water/ocean, black and white vs. colors, light shining in the darkness all symbolizing things. This was my time to be away from the world around me, I needed to leave for a short while.
I saw running horses, and shining stars amongst the black veil of heaven, I saw birds flying, trees sleeping peacefully, the wind blowing branches, green, leaves.... Freedom. And of course I painted, all of it, all that I saw, my emotions, too. I wanted everyone to see how the world once was, the beauty of it.
I’d live on the wild, eating berries, and go fishing, I found a nice cave I could stay in for this while...
I loved the time there, but I knew I had to come back. I had to once again face the world, tell them who I was, and not be afraid to be different, but I didn’t have to do this on my own. Art was by my side.
After the most amazing two and half weeks of my life, I headed back, back to the world I practically hated. I had to show them the beauty of the world, the way it really is, I needed to make a difference, like my brother said, and Art, now would help me.
I went back through the forest, the fields, running waters..... until I reached civilization. As much as I disliked it, there was something I had to do.
It was, nighttime, so I crept to the center of town and to the Public H.A.N.D. ThHere it was, huge and perfect and... blank. Then, I started, hanging up my paintings one by, one by one, in the shape of a large heart. I hung up my emotions, valleys, fields, woods, animals, all of them. I just finished it all before dawn, when the people started to arrive. Earlier, I had put a notice on everyone’s door to come to the Public H.A.N.D. at 7:00 a.m., order of the government.
As people started to some, I slipped away, I went to a place where no one could see me, but I could see all of them. I watched, on my stomach, from the rooftop of the Public H.A.N.D. I watched them, their faces.
I watched how their expression changed, their frown went away, and slowly, very slowly I could see how my Art had touched everyone of them, how they remembered and fell in love with things, that were lost and forgotten, all over again Some left not long after, but still refreshed and new. Others stayed all day. It was so incredible to watch them, see them and their hearts changed. Even some government officials came, at first wanting to arrest the person how did this, but as they stopped and looked, I could see them start to change. It was a great feeling, that I had finally stepped up and made a difference in the world, and was truly myself, my brother would be proud.
You know, as I think about, it really wasn’t the brushes or the paint or the canvas, that’s not what Art is really about. If you took those elements away, you’d still have Art. It’s the soul, really, that’s the true source of Art. Just me and the blank, white page, a pen ready, just have to open my heart and look straight into my soul... pull it out and somehow put it on the empty page.
And though the world, my world didn’t completely change, there was still hope, because my name means hope.
And now, now, I travel the world, and each place I leave a piece of me, a piece of my heart and story behind me. The world will see and know me. But most importantly they’ll know the my Art, and the message behind it. The message of being true to yourself, the message of being strong enough to face your troubles, the message of not being afraid to be different, no matter the odds of the cost. The message of truly being free and living. Three letters, one word, my world. ART.
Very enjoyable
E and brothers time, then death
Put together amazingly, beautiful
Story Line: Mapping a Plot
Directions: When reading a story it is important to understand how the story develops. Below you will find the various parts of the story. Please 'identify evidence (using quotes and page numbers you found in the text to support your conclusions. Draw out your own
diagram with the information from the text!
1. Exposition: setting, situation/scene climate, mood
2. Conflict- what seems to be the main disagreement or cause of strife?
Art is gone- no books, no music, no creativity, character already faces conflict(s), and with ART taken away its even harder, people and family don’t get her, people/family= technology, shallow/fake, meaningless, structured
3. Rising Actions events that lead up to a major event
How is this taken away?, goes through stages of grief, anger, frustration; brother dies, she feels like giving up
4. CIimax the final major event
When I do something about it, create a mural or..., drop out of school
5. Falling Actions what is happening to bring the story to a resolution?
comes back
6. Resolution.- how is the conflict resolved?
shows art pieces in the shape of a heart to everyone, publicly, it touches everyone, travels the world
7. Protagonist vs. Antagonist -
(Protagonist main character/hero, Antagonist main enemy of the hero)
Me (Esperanza Joy) world (family, too)
8. Peripheral Characters which other characters are involved in the story?
brother, Art
9. Themes that are explored
fight for your freedom, follow your heart, though the whole world may be against you
10. Author’s Intent
What do I want the audience to take away? if it’s that important, that meaningful to you, fight for it, “If it’s hard, it’s even more worth it”, don’t be afraid to be different and flow our heart no matter what’s against you go against the crowd
11. At what point do you feel like the protagonist Came-of-age?
Ideas:
- The “checks”- gov’t comes and raids houses of ART and creativity
- character has an older brother (symbolic), old and wise
- black windows or shades, can’t see outside
- few natural colors, shades of gray, white, black
- constantly ask questions: What does ‘normal’ mean? Why would you even want to be normal?
- “I want the world to see, to hear my voice, to open their hearts and live.”
- Reads/finds poem, road less traveled
- has a dairy/journal, end of each day, create a symbolic art piece, writes what she’s learned from art: Not everything is as it seems, People are like brushes- some are soft some are hard, all have different purposes
- creates art pieces of the things she saw when/while she was running away, comes back, displays art in the shape of a heart, and slowly it starts to touch people’s hearts, and though life is all hunky dory, there’s hope and that’s what really mattered
throughout this we see her need and the absence of Art
- goes through grief, frustration, misunderstood, anger
- Brother encourages her to be different
- starts to show being different
- brother encourages
- brother dies, she feels like she wants to give up
- Essy gets idea to run away, runs away
- travels, sees beauty, inspired
- comes back
- displays art pieces in shape of a heart, everyone sees it, it touches them
- though Art isn’t completely back, there’s hope
- travels the world/ending
- Flashback to before Art was gone
Questions:
Should I add more characters, specifically a friend for Essy? Should i go more in depth when she’s living in the forest?
ART. It was that word, those three little letters, that somehow made the biggest difference in my world. My heart needed it. It the way I breathed. It was one of those things you just couldn’t explain, that your life was somehow missing something without it. The thing I did not understand was WHY? Why would anyone take this away, Why would anyone do this to us? I could not wrap my brain around it, I just didn’t understand. Why would someone take ART away?
I yearned for it each and everyday, it practically made my world go round. I always told myself, if, for whatever reason, I highly doubt it ever would happened, if I was ever in prison, well, all I’d need was food, a Bible and a bucket of paint and I’d live. Of course, I’d need people to live, my friends and family, but still, I’d live.
Art. Oh, that word, that made my heart flip, it nearly completed my heart as long as I can remember. I loved it and even more when things changed, when times got tough. See, Art isn’t just how “pretty” something looks on a canvas, or how “good” one’s drawing of a face is, or how perfectly realistic it is. I honestly think the amazing part of art is that despite the imperfection, it’s still beautiful. No, that’s not all of what art is. It’s when you reach inside, inside of yourself, inside of your heart and throw it onto a canvas, with true and real meaning behind it. That, is true ART. It’s what it means and does to you and to the world. It’s a means and way of expression, individuality and creativity. For me, it didn’t always matter what I was creating, just knowing I had the absolute freedom to do it. Freedom. That itself is so important to me, because what are we without it? And the best way for me to be free, truly free, is through ART.
But, a huge piece of me was now lost. The thought, of no art, creativity or in my case freedom, that alone, made me sick. And what I most feared was the fact that I may not get it back. I mean, what would you do, if your freedom got taken away?
Art, it gave the freedom to be different, to truly be myself, purely me! Something I rarely tasted, yet constantly longed for. It was the way I breathed, and freedom is what I was breathing. I mean, of course I could be different anywhere, but with Art I was fully and completely accepted, better than hardly anywhere else. Art was always there I could lean on it, whenever I needed it. It helped me when no one else really could. It accepted me, let me be myself, let me be. I’m so creative, I need to express myself, some way, somehow... And they took it away.
They took it. Not all at once but over a short time. They shut down the shops, the supply stores. Everywhere with paint and brushes and canvases, paper, cans... inside them. They took away anything creative or art resembling. They took so much of the things you could create art with. They took colors away, in a sense. They took most of the transportation away, so you couldn’t go places to get inspired, so you couldn’t leave. They took away music, dance, singing, books, writing, films, anything at all creative, they took it. They secured off nature, put blinds on our windows. The world was blah and lifeless, meaningless, boring, plain and dark. It was the kind of world I never thought could, much less would, exist. And that’s the world I wake up to, dreading it, everyday.
What made it even harder was that I was already struggling and going through discomfort. My family, the people around me, the world, it felt like, just didn’t understand me, who I was or why I was the way I was. It was so hard, to face the world, the day, with the burden of being unaccepted and not being understood not even by your family. They were so shallow, only caring of themselves and things that were meaningless with no flavor or taste, and wouldn’t last. I cared of things of value, memory, hope, love, and beauty, things that I felt were lost. I wasn’t like most 17 year-olds, as you can imagine. In fact I wasn’t like most at all, any age. But, some day, I hoped, that would change.
I woke up every morning to the Siren, blaring its loud, obnoxious horn. I dressed in clothes of black, gray and white, my least favorite colors. Down to breakfast I headed, and I never looked forward to meals, for the food was just as flavorless as society. But, somehow, my family enjoyed it. I couldn’t understand it. Enjoying tastelessness, how? All of them that is except, my brother.
My brother, Barnabas. He was different, and special. He understood me, and even when he didn’t he still loved me. It was so rare that I tasted that. He was a brother, not an annoying one, one I could be myself around and genuinely cared about me with love and loyalty. We’d mess around and joke, we’d think and push each other. He’d encourage me. And I felt like we were some of the only people that actually lived.
He was one of my few luxuries and pleasures, amongst my black world. And fortunate for me, he was coming home for a little while. My brother was a legal adult of 23 and served in our army, something that made me proud. When he was gone I missed him terribly, but I had the comfort of him visiting home to bring me hope, which I definitely needed.
After breakfast, I was off on my way to a disgusting idea of a “learning community”, school. I road the public bus that everyone took, because there was really nothing else. The government wanted to control everything. Take away transportation, so a man can’t go anywhere. Sure, a man can run, but not very far.... at least before they’d catch you...
School. There was really nothing much to say about it, except that I considered it a waste of time. The stuff we as students learned and what people did in their freetime. They were practically glued to their H.A.N.D.s (Handular Accessible Networking Device), a phone computer and ipod, right in the palm of your hand. With the things that were real and true, such as Art, that were practically gone, everything else was fairly meaningless; Like a conversation I had with a group of girls when I tried to fit it once:
“So, Coper,” Angelina, the head of the group said, “Which shade of pink should I put on my H.A.N.D. case, so it matches my outfit?”
“Pink, really? According to Frenio Balanski pink is really out, everyone has violet now.”
“Well, fine. But I still have that date with Bryan Crice and I’m trying to decide if we should iceskate or rollerblade for our Virtu-date. This is a really important decision for me.”
“I don’t know what to do, Hartly Nalebore, my newest boyfriend, only likes to Virtu-ski together.”
“Well, that’s not much of a help.”
“Hey, new girl, Essy,” Angelina asked when no one else spoke up in answer, “Got any ideas?”
“Me?” I asked, wondering why they’d ask me, I wasn’t the prettiest or popular, I was really nobody, actually.
“Yeah.”
“Uh, I don’t know,” I answered bluntly.
“Fine! Anyway, I started watching this new TV series on my H.A.N.D....,” Angelina continued as I walked anyway.
See, see what I mean. This is why I don’t fit in, this is why people make me mad. We don’t just not get each other, but it’s why we don’t. They are so disgustingly shallow. The things they talk about don’t matter, won’t last, are meaningless and unimportant. Uh, it drives me crazy. But, I just stuff it away, there’s nothing I can do, just try to blend in no matter how sick it makes me.
Now, normally, Ha! I hate that word. So, boring and unreal, what does it mean anyway? Why would one want to be ‘normal’ Oh! These were questions I constantly asked myself, but unfortunately... I have to pretend to be ‘normal’. Anyway, usually, I’d have Art to lean on, to paint with but now....
I came home everyday from school angry, angry about my life and what they had done. No one even understood, no one cared about me and my brokenness or about the loss in general of Art. But, the worst part was it, Art wasn't even there to lean on, to help me through my troubles. The absence of it sickened me. Made me SO mad! But what could I do, I was only a 17, not even a legal adult, but that didn’t really matter because the government controlled everything anyway. Uh! How was I supposed to go on like this, act as if nothing had changed, like my heart hadn’t been ripped apart. Am I expected to live the lie of ‘no art’?
But, I just had to plaster a fake smile on my face and act as if everything were hunky dory, that my best friend wasn’t gone, that I didn’t have much hope left in me. I was still mad, but I just stuffed it down inside of me. Not the kind where I'd let it out, the type that you kept pushing down, not knowing what to do with it. “Just wear the smile.”
The only thing that did give me hope, as I said, was my brother. We’d go on walks a lot and talk, just talk, as if nothing had changed. Living like the good old times. I looked forward to those times, that we’d do this. And, thankfully, one of them was right around the corner, two more days and he’d be home for a little while.
Once, I got home, I went to my room, then slid a horizontal board on my wall, unnoticeable to the human eye, across and entered what I called my “Secret Studio”. I, then, moved the board back to it’s place. No one knew it was here that’s the best part, I could be, just be, myself.
Then, I cried. Cried about school and family, people and Art. Where was it, I needed it. I needed to breathe needed to be free. Why do we want to be free? Because, things like freedom, be understood, being accepted and loved those things, those are important, something everyone wants, something real and true, something we strive for. Something, I didn’t have. Oh, it made me mad! I was sick of just putting down my feelings, pushing my anger away. I let the tears run down my face feeling absolutely helpless.
The tears blurred my sight and I closed my eyes. I wept quietly and my mind brought me back to a time.
We were laughing, just the two of us. Like two free horses, we run, ran through the fields, there were no limits. The wind blew my crazy mane of curly red hair, filling my lungs. After a while, Barnabas and I went home. I painted while he talked, talked of his dreams, letting his thoughts float freely throughout the room. I led the brush this way and that. The feel of the brush, ah. So soothing and calm. Letting you use and control it, letting you do whatever you wanted with it. The open page, ready, ready for our to pour yourself into it. We laughed again.
As I opened my eyes, I realized it was late, late because I could hear the blinds going down, meaning going to be was coming soon.
I went to my plain bed, longing just for the touch of a brush, the feel of wet paint, oh... I closed my eyes with the thought of free horses, running, wild, chasing, running....free.
The next day, I awoke to the sirens. That day I went through the usual routine, same boring, cold stuff as usual. Sickening, was no one alive, was nothing real. I hoped and longed for the day when the World woke up.
The next day, though, couldn’t come soon enough. My brother was coming home! That, that I could hold onto for hope.
My brother came into my room, waking my from my sleep. Not in a long time had I wanted to come from dreaming and face my reality, but now, he was here!
I hugged him, overwhelmed with joy. We were so happy to see each other, at first we just stared. Looking at his deep brown eyes and dark brown hair, I smiled again. Then we laugh, the kind we both hadn’t done in a long while, too long.
He then greeted the rest of the family. I had to go off to school, but I told him I’d see him after.
“I can’t wait,” We both said.
Throughout the day, I could barely pay attention, I had long awaited this time, where we’d be together, together, finally, with someone who really got me. Something I rarely had.
I was so excited after school, on the way home I could barely contain it. One person, on the bus noticed and said,
“You excited for the finale episode of Mario and Susan, I can’t wait.”
“Uh, yeah, sure,” I lied hastily.
When I got off, I ran to the door, and rushed inside. I greeted my brother with a huge hug.
“Hey, Essy, want to hit the path?”
“Yes!” I answered. The path was the path we always took, the one that really connected us, the one we went on since we could walk and talk.
As we walked, he started to explain how his division of the military got sent up to the battlefield.
“The battlefield! What, no, you’ll get killed,” I cried.
“No, I won’t, I’ll be fine, don’t you worry. So what’s going on with you?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t lie. You know you can tell me.”
“I know, you’re the only one I can tell. It just hurts, that’s all,” I sadly stated. “It’s just that Art is gone, and no one has any idea how hard it is. I mean Art was and is so much to me, it’s what I always leaned on. And I’d lean more on it when you were gone and when people didn’t understand me, which is always. I just don’t know if I can go on this way. It makes me SO MAD!”
“I know how you feel. In fact, I brought a little gift for you. I think it’ll help.”
Out of the backpack he was carrying he pulled it out. No, Yes! Yes, is this really happening.
He pulled out an art supply kit. It had paint, brushes, a pallet, canvases..... It was, wow. I was speechless. I almost cried. And my brother knew my happiness.
“You don’t have to say anything, I know you love it,” he said with a smile.
“Wow, thank you,” I breathed out.
“I want you to express yourself, to truly be yourself with this, tell the world who you really are. That’s also what I wanted to tell you. Don’t ever, ever be afraid to be yourself. Go out there and face the world, go against the crowd and follow your heart, no matter the challenges.” He leaned down, put his hands on my shoulders, looked me straight in the eye and said, ”Don’t let the world stop you from who you really are.”
We paused, taking everything in, then continued, new, alive, and refreshed. I’ll never forget that moment, it changed my life, forever.
As we walked home, silently, several thoughts ran through my mind: All the paintings I should paint, this is a perfect use for my Secret Studio, and my brother is going to be on the battlefield, he’ll be fine, I comforted myself.
We entered the house, so happy I still couldn’t speak. I went to bed that night feeling a joy I hadn’t felt in a while. But, before I went to sleep, I painted a picture of me and my brother in color and going the opposite way of everyone else around us, who was all in black with blindfolds on. The painting read at the bottom, “Don’t let the world stop you from who you really are.”
My brother headed off back to the army, with my best, but my family didn’t even care to say goodbye. Though it strongly bothers me, I had to concern my attention with other things. And, the next few days, weeks consisted of me going through the typical routine, but instead I also tried to be myself. I tried to wear colored clothes that I kept after they took everything away, but I got warned to not do that again. I would ask people the endless amount of questions I had, like being normal, or why was the government doing this, or how do sunsets form or if they could travel anywhere, where would they go? But most of the responses I got went like this: “What are you talking about?” or “Get lost!” or “What wrong with you?!”
I’d then tell my brother, in person or using my H.A.N.D., and he’d say, “It’ll be hard, but you know it’ll be worth it in the end. Don’t forget, you have me around.”
“Thanks, I know.”
I’d even question the teachers:
“Mr. Stringer,” I questioned, “Why do we need to learn ‘y=mx+b’?”
“Because,” He answered, “You’ll need it in life someday.”
“But.. when will we...?”
He left before I could finish.
“I don’t understand, Ms. Prathia. Why does it matter how cumulonimbus clouds are formed, or when Facebook went out of date, or the gas prices of 2024 or the TV show we watched last night? Why does it matter!?” I tried not to get upset. But, she’d typically just keep going, ignoring my questions.
I remember walking through fields, running in the forests, green all around me, the creatures we’d find, the secrets we’d discover. Painting with my brother, smiling. Without Art, I had almost forgotten how to smile. But, still, the fluid paint, the stiff and soft bristles of the brushes, the open and white canvas... Reality woke me in the form of my teacher, staring down at me, waiting for my answer to the question I didn’t know.
“What?” I asked.
“What,” She paused in frustration, “Is the name of our leader in 1976?”
“Crikwell, Kyle Frat Crikwell,” I answered, glad I just slipped out of that situation.
“That’s correct,” Mrs. Cauldrick said. She leaned down at me, “Don’t let that happened again.”
I tried not to let her stinging words bother me. I was sick of her and the pointless things we learned. The things we learned irritated me, I didn’t think they had any meaning or real value, but, despite my complaints and pushing back, asking them to reconsider and possibly change, they’d never budge. Another obstacle to face everyday.
Through the challenges, I remained hopeful that someday things would changes things would be different, that I would change the world.
One day, when I was for whatever reason, walking around town, I found an a piece of paper, old and forgotten. I wondered what it was doing here, but that didn’t matter. I read it:
The Road Not Taken
By Robert Frost
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
“And that made all the difference,” I repeated. Wow, this is awesome, someone else, somewhere who was going through the same situation as me. The Road not taken, yes I’ll take that path, too, though I know it will be hard.
Even though I could paint, life still had it’s challenges. I could paint, which was so amazing, but only my eyes saw it. I wanted my art to reach others, for my art to touch the hearts and souls of many but how.
Each night I’d paint, or write something I learned in my journal: Brushes are like people, some are stiff and hard some are soft and easy. Also like brushes and paint and canvases, things aren’t always as they seem. Many times brushes, paint and canvases are bigger than they seem. I kept my journal hidden in my Secret Studio, I couldn’t ever let the Checkers get to it.
The Checkers. Oh, they were the people that came and raided our houses every month of art, supplies, anything colorful or creative. They were hired by the government, forced more like it, into this horrid job of, particularly, taking our freedom, making sure there was, for certain, no Art. If they caught me, I’d be arrested for sure. No, I wouldn’t let that happened.
I felt so peaceful with being able to have little snippets of art here and there. My life was starting to look back up.
I’d paint sunsets, and flowers. Things of the past and things forgotten. Nature, I loved that, another breath of freedom taken away. I would also paint my emotions, to let them out. And finally, finally, I felt free.
That day, I painted a horse, because I oddly considered myself one of them, a horse. Running, that’s why I considered myself a horse. Because when I imagine running, when you just kept going, where there’s no end, there are no limits or boundaries, you are free. And horses, well, they run, run a lot, at least that’s how I imagine them, just them and an open field or pasture, the green, endless around them, trees, strong and beautiful. Can’t you just taste it, taste the freedom?
For some reason I heard footsteps, getting louder, but I thought nothing of it. It was probably my mom changing my gray sheets to another gray one. I kept painting, adding the last touches to my painting.....
Suddenly, my door to my studio swing, wide open. The Checkers, no, NO, not them!
They immediately saw my painting and took it.
“What are you doing with this?” They rudely asked.
“I, I, well..”
“Who cares,” One said, “Just take it, and you.” They pointed at me, “You better not do this ever again, you hear?!”
“Yes.”
They left with that, and thankfully, very thankfully, not checking the Secret Studio for anything.
I could tell my parents were disappointed, but I also knew they could probably cared less, with the way they treated me. I didn’t even feel like I mattered here in my own home.
I called Barnabas and told him the news, now scared and not wanting to take many more risks. I feared that I couldn’t go on if the risks were like this.
“Come on, now. You’re not like that, you’re braver than that. Remember what I said, “Don’t let the world stop you from who you really are.”
“Thanks, I knew I could trust you.’
I went to bed that night, thinking and dreaming of how I could change the world and show them who I really was. Then, it hit me. Art, use Art. Display my painting, somewhere somewhere so everyone can see it, yes that’s what I’ll do. And I did something I hadn’t done it a while, I smiled.
I went to school, the next day, with hope and a lot of it. I thought off and on throughout the day where, where would I display my art. I searched and looked.....
I thought of it on the way home as we passed the Public H.A.N.D. where they showed movies, or the news or the time, it was just a huge blank space, the size of a wall, reaching high, and it was perfect!
Barnabas, I have to tell him! I couldn’t wait to get home, to call and tell him my ideas.
I got home quickly and as I rushed to my room, my parents stopped me.
“Esperanza, we have something we need to tell you.”
I kept smiling, nothing could be so bad as to take my smile away.
“It’s your brother,” they continued, “You know how he was moved to the battlefield, the most dangerous place during a war, and well...”
Their voice trailed off. My expression changed quickly to shock and confusion.
“He’s just hurt, right?” I asked, “That’s all right? Please.”
“The military called and said he’s dead. I’m sorry, dear.”
“What, dead?” I could barely say it, then I started crying “How are you not upset, or crying or...?”
“Well, it happens, you know? The Barnes’ son died two weeks ago, besides now we have one less mouth to feed.”
“How can you say that?” I cried, disgusted. I ran up to my room and flopped on my bed.
“UHHHHH!” I yelled. How, how could this happen?!?!
My anger bubbled up inside me and having really no other place for it to go but out.
It makes me sick, what am I supposed to do. Right now I just want to give up. I just couldn’t go on, no, not living like this, in disgusting emptiness and captivity. I was so sick of this, I can’t go on. What am I supposed to do? I just wanted to give up.
I went to bed feeling awful, with that awful taste in my mouth. How can I go on?
I woke up, thinking, I can’t give up, that’s not what my brother would have wanted and that’s not going to fix anything I have to do something, but what?!
Going to school that day I felt disgusted and empty, confused with lots of questions. I for some reason had the irresistible thought of taking all of my supplies with me, it wasn’t much, so I just kept it in my backpack, hoping no one would ever know.
Throughout the day, I kept getting distracted about my brother, my world, and my life. How could I go on? It was during one of this distractions were I thought of a plan of what to do. I it came to me as I thought of the horse painting the Checkers took away, the horses running.
It was history class, and I didn’t understand why we needed to know the history of Italian leather and the styles of purses in 2003. I went off on a day dream, running, running, through the fields...
“Esperanza!”
“Sorry,” I turned and looked straight forward, trying to avoid eye contact with Mrs. Cauldrick.
“What is name of the purse designer of the style ‘Chicy Chick’?”
“What, why? Why does it matter? What can’t we learn something real, that means something. Can’t we live, again, do something that matters? Don’t you miss being creative, being ourselves, being free?
“How, HOW can you all stand this? Living in captivity, living in filth and disgrace of no freedom, no creativity?! It’s more than just a painting, a brush and paint, more than notes and the lovely sounds of music, it’s more than pretty colors, more than dancing or singing that I’m fighting for. It’s beauty and expression, to be ourselves, the chance to be free, to LIVE again.”
And with that I ran, knowing I was soon to get arrested, I ran and ran and ran. Just like a horse. But, I know, I can’t run forever, someday I’d have to face my troubles, but I’m ready, with Art back on my side, what had I to fear? One can take a girl’s brushes and canvas, but one can’t take one’s soul, her source of art and creativity away.
I kept going into the forest, across the river, past all of the civilization. Until I knew I was safe.
I spent two and a half weeks there, in the forest, traveling all around. I was free, truly free. It was just me, Art and Freedom. I painted, the beauty that I saw, sunsets, trees, animals, thought, and ideas. I painted a soul equaling the source of art, water/ocean, black and white vs. colors, light shining in the darkness all symbolizing things. This was my time to be away from the world around me, I needed to leave for a short while.
I saw running horses, and shining stars amongst the black veil of heaven, I saw birds flying, trees sleeping peacefully, the wind blowing branches, green, leaves.... Freedom. My bright blue eyes took it all in. And of course I painted, all of it, all that I saw, my emotions, too. I wanted everyone to see how the world once was, the beauty of it.
I’d live in the wild, eating berries, and go fishing, I found a nice cave I could stay in for this while...
I loved the time there, but I knew I had to come back. I had to once again face the world, tell them who I was, and not be afraid to be different, but I didn’t have to do this on my own. Art was by my side.
After the most amazing two and half weeks of my life, I headed back, back to the world I practically hated. I had to show them the beauty of the world, the way it really is, I needed to make a difference, like my brother said, and Art, now would help me.
I went back through the forest, the fields, running waters..... until I reached civilization. As much as I disliked it, there was something I had to do.
It was nighttime, so I crept to the center of town and to the Public H.A.N.D. There it was, huge and perfect and... blank. Then, I started, hanging up my paintings one by, one by one, in the shape of a large heart. I hung up my emotions, valleys, fields, woods, animals, all of them. I just finished it all before dawn, when the people started to arrive. Earlier, I had put a notice on everyone’s door to come to the Public H.A.N.D. at 7:00 a.m., order of the government.
As people started to come, I slipped away, I went to a place where no one could see me, but I could see all of them. I watched, on my stomach, from the rooftop of the Public H.A.N.D. I watched them, their faces.
I watched how their expression changed, their frown went away, and slowly, very slowly I could see how my Art had touched everyone of them, how they remembered and fell in love with things, that were lost and forgotten, all over again Some left not long after, but still refreshed and new. Others stayed all day. It was so incredible to watch them, see them and their hearts changed. Even some government officials came, at first wanting to arrest the person how did this, but as they stopped and looked, I could see them start to change. It was a great feeling, that I had finally stepped up and made a difference in the world, and was truly myself, my brother would be proud.
You know, as I think about, it really wasn’t the brushes or the paint or the canvas, that’s not what Art is really about. If you took those elements away, you’d still have Art. It’s the soul, really, that’s the true source of Art. Just me and the blank, white page, a pen ready, just have to open my heart and look straight into my soul... pull it out and somehow put it on the empty page.
And though the world, my world didn’t completely change, there was still hope, because my name means hope.
And now, now, I travel the world, and each place I leave a piece of me, a piece of my heart and story behind me. The world will see and know me. But most importantly they’ll know my Art and the message behind it. The message of being true to yourself, the message of being strong enough to face your troubles, the message of not being afraid to be different, no matter the odds or the cost. The message of truly being free and living. Three letters, one word, my world. ART.
Mikayla
Very enjoyable
E and brothers time, then death
Put together amazingly, beautiful
Should I add more characters, specifically a friend for Essy? Should i go more in depth when she’s living in the forest?
Cookie
Explain the checkers, describe physically what they look like
very good