American Literature (C) Portfolio

The reality

–Realism in Maggie: A Girl of the Streets

“The building quivered and creaked from the weight of humanity; buckets, brooms, rags, and bottles were in all unhandy places; formidable women with disordered dress gossiped while leaning on railings”(Crane 8). From the society to a person, the equality, liberty, and happiness in the American principle became fragile water bubbles, evaporating successively at the end of the nineteenth century. After the Industrial Revolution, economy and industry grew prosperously in the United States. At the same time, with the pursuit of money and material enjoyments, mammonism and materialism started to infect the society. The belief in the omnipotence of money eroded people’s ethic and morality and resulted in the increasing wealth disparity. Facing the darkness under the gorgeous neon light in New York City, the realist Stephen Crane published the book Maggie: A Girl of the Streets to criticize the situation of the society and awaken the public. His work shows the reality of violence, greed, and evilness by revealing the actual society, a real family, and the instinct of normal people. This realistic piece of fiction focuses on the reality and expresses Stephen Crane’s concern on the life of the lower level class.

From the beginning to the end, Realism permeates in the description of the society. The tragedy is set in Rum Alley in Bowery, which is described by the narrator as “a mud puddle” full of dirt. Puddle and dirt, with their sordid and messy characteristic, are such realistic metaphors to represent the chaos in the society. They also reveal the key element of social criticism in American Realism(Longwood). In order to show a real neighborhood where the protagonist Maggie lives, Crane describes a battle among children from two different alleys. When the battle begins, “the small combatants pounded and kicked, scratched and tore. They began to weep and their curses struggled in their throats with sobs”(Crane 7). Child is a social group which reveals the reality because they are the easiest to be influenced by the environment and don’t know how to disguise. The narrator uses the cruel actions of children to show, instead of telling, the readers the violence and the law of “survival for the fittest” in that unidealized society(Scheidenhelm). Violence keeps happening in this novel; normal people’s response to the violence reveals the immorality and nonchalance in the society. The narrator describes the reaction of people when they see Pete and Jimmie fighting as: “A laugh and down the avenue for the half of a block. ‘Dey’ve t’rowed a bloke inteh deh street.’”(Crane 55). The people in the society regard the violence more like a farce than a tragedy; no one cares about the person who was thrown on the street. Frankly speaking, in that society, who wants to miss a free comedy show to save a stranger at that time? Their nonchalance to violence and ignorance of help indicate the lack of morality in the society, which is often emphasized by the realists(University of West Georgia). By applying the elements of realism, Crane successfully presents a real nineteenth-century American Society to his audiences.

Realism focuses on the relations between the society and a person(Scheidenhelm). Family, like a joint, connects the whole and the individual. Crane uses the real life of Meggie’s family, one of the lowest in the society, to interpret Meggie’s downfall. Since Meggie was born, the poverty, along with the cruelty and alcoholism of the parents, has shaped her unique personality. Crane describes the fight between little Meggie’s parents as: “There was a crash against the door and something broke into clattering fragments, confusingly in chorus as if a battle were raging”(Crane 15). The family filled with “howls and curses, groans and shrieks” deprived Meggie’s sense of security, satisfaction, and happiness; she becomes helpless and hopeless. The presence of Pete, an ideal “rich“ man with “integrity”, triggers her pursuit of money and social identity. It is Meggie’s fear of her horrible family life, together with the greed, that leads her to her downfall. As a realistic novel, Crane not only reveals the actual life of poor people, but also interprets the mental influence of the family on individuals.  He also reflects the desire in the humanity by embodying the realistic element of psychology in his description.

Character is the most important aspect of realism, appearing in the real complexity of temperament and motive(University of West Georgia). Crane’s realistic depiction of the characters reveals the characteristic of the figures and the human nature. Nellie, the women of brilliance and audacity, wears a hat of prevailing fashion and looks clear-eyed through the stares of the men(Crane 64). Nellie knows how to disguise herself with elegance, but after all, she is just a hypocritical prostitute. The narrator shows the reality at the end: “ She stayed behind, taking up the bills and stuffing them into a deep irregularly-shaped pocket”(Crane 86).  Nellie takes Pete’s money when he is drunk and regards him as “a damn fool”. What a hypocritical and greedy woman that Crane shows to us! The narrator also portrays a sarcastic Sister by describing her reaction to Meggie’s death. “Her good, motherly face was wet with tears. She trembled in eagerness to express her sympathy”(Crane 87). No one cares about Meggie’s death; pretending to be sympathetic cannot cover up her disdain on Meggie, as the Sister said: “ What a terrible affliction is a disobedient child.” The figures Crane created are vivid; the evilness in people’s instinct is real; the realism in the description of characters is palpable.

This fiction of Meggie, a girl of the streets, is not a real story. However, the society of evil and darkness, the family in poverty and violence, and the people with greed and sarcasm are the reality. Stephen Crane uses the reality to awaken the Americans in the downfall. Instead of being idealistic, this novel is realistic. It is so realistic that no publishing house wanted to publish it. In conclusion, this self-published novel reflects the reality, matches the features of realism, and thus should be considered as a realistic piece of fiction.

The Face

Perhaps it is because we are too close to the people by our side, that, when time passes, we become unconscious of what we said and how we performed. In our inadvertent words and actions, the invisible blades of sarcasm and cruelty carve on people’s hearts; they are often ignored, while hurting the people we cared about for countless times. Even though the wound will heal rapidly, the scar of distress and sorrow barely disappears.

When I was walking under the dim streetlight outside the market two weeks ago, I saw a mother and a son who both looked agitated. The boy was almost the same age as me, his reddish face revealed his outraged state of mind. When I walked closer, the boy pointed his forefingers into her mother’s eyes and roared: “ You know nothing about me! I know what I am doing! Just leave me alone!” He turned around and trotted away, leaving his mother to freeze in the wind.  The woman shouted hoarsely to call him back, but the figure had vanished in the darkness. The teardrops, along with the snow, was glimmering when I looked at her face. I saw anxiety; I saw distress; I saw helplessness. All of a sudden in my mind, I saw another similar face.

That was the night after the parents-teacher conference. My mother sat opposite to me at the dinner table, gathering her grows into the frown. After she put down the chopsticks, she grabbed a glass of water in her hand and looked into my eyes. I knew exactly what she was going to say because I didn’t do well in my midterm exam. “ I will work harder and be better next time,” I said with a serious face and a persuasive tone before she opened her mouth. “ Next time, next time, and always next time. How many ‘next times’ do you have in your life,” my mother started to preach: “ Your math score is sixty-seven. Teacher told me that the class has reviewed the topics for half of the month. What are you doing in class?” “ The test was so hard. I know the principles, but I just can’t solve the problems.” “ What about your English,” she raised her volume and scolded: “Your English score is still below the average. I have hired the most expensive tutor for you, but did you do anything for yourself? Did you finish any practice tests? Did you memorize the vocab list? Have you ever thought about the reason why are your score always worse than the others?” A thought jumped into my mind: “Probably it is true that I was not hardworking enough.” However, instead of admitting it, I kept silence for a moment.

“I am not as clever as others. Wisdom is hereditary. I was born with less intelligence than others because you are inferior than other parents.” I started to laugh in my mind: “ Uh-huh! What a good explanation. Now you can stop blaming me.” I thought she would simply argue with me, but her response was too simple. She ‘put’ the glass of water on the table, then her arms powerlessly dropped to her sides. It was deadly silent except for the sound of glass crackling. Suddenly, the glass crumbled into the small pieces. She sat like a statue and let the water drop on her. I stared at her pale face: her lip was trembling, her breath was rapid, and her eyes were widely open. Tears slipped across her face and left a straight track. With that distressed face, she sat there for a whole night, until I come to her to apologize.

I will never forget that face, the face of a mother when being hurt by her own children. I will never forget that face, the face which keeps telling me that I was born with the same talent and wisdom as others. I will never forget that face, the face reminding me the power of verbal abuse.

I women I saw outside the market walked away with a heavy gait. When I got back to school, I did a video call with my mother. I saw her face. I saw happiness; I saw relief; I saw exhilaration. I hope that boy will see a similar face soon.

The Seed

When I was young, I once planted an apple seed in a flowerpot.

After finishing an apple, I saved a seed and carefully wrapped it with tissue. Learned from my mother planting flower seeds, I knew that the seed would sprout and grow in soil. My juvenile mind also told me, that the deeper the seed was buried, the more nutrition it was going to absorb. With my tender fingertips, I moved apart the topsoil, excavated a hole, and embedded the seed deep in the pot. I kept the pot on the balcony, where it is closest to the sun but farthest from thunders and storms. I held some water from the tap with my palms, and poured it into the pot everyday. When the water immediately permeated into the soil, I smiled expectantly. I hoped the seed would grow into trees and bear apples soon with my irrigation and great care.

I waited. However, not knowing when I stopped watering the soil, the seed was left in the forgotten corner of the balcony. Not until three years ago did I remembered and noticed that flowerpot which carried my young little hope. It was still there, unmoved.

I had been depressed for a long time; my future had become an unsolvable mystery because I didn’t do well in my graduation test. Even after I accepted my father’s offering to go to US, I still had an ambivalent feeling. For me, studying abroad was certainly a new hope of my future. Nevertheless, was it coward to escape the reality? What shall I do to preserve the hope? There would be too many uncertainties. On the morning before I flew abroad, I lingered around my house, touching everything with my fingertips. Everything felt familiar but strange. I strolled to the balcony, stretched in the sunshine with open arms. When I was twisting my head, a little green color was reflected into my eyes. I traced that light to a flowerpot and suddenly recognized it, though it was covered with dirt and dust. Holding the flowerpot with both hands, I observed the appearance of that seedling. No matter how hard I tried to convince myself: “its shape looks like the apple tree leaves; it smells like an apple, ” it was just a weed. That apple seed, together with my hope, had been rotten and integrated into the soil for a long time. “But how can a seed of weed sprout and grow in this isolated situation with hardly no water,” I wondered in my mind. “Probably it was because of its hope to grow and its tenacious vitality!” Suddenly, the haze in Shanghai seemed to be dispersed. I smiled confidently, as a new seed had been planted into my heart. I hoped this seed would sprout fast.

Last year there were more storms than it used to be. When I was at home, looking at that seedling of weed became my daily routine. Instead of placing it on the balcony or watering it every day, I placed it in the garden. I  knew it can grow faster out there because it can absorb more water and nutrition from the storm. At the time before I come back to school again, a small red flower had bloomed on the top of that weed. Looking at that flower, I smiled sturdily.

I have become a seed. I hope to grow up as a weed, as it has tenacious vitality. I hope to live in the storms because I can absorb more and become stronger. As a seed of hope, I hope I can develop my roots first, grow up fast, and bear fruits for the world at the end.

The Pen Box I Carried

“I had three chairs in my house; one for solitude, two for friendship, three for society.”

-Henry David Thoreau, Walden

When I came to this world, I was a bare infant. God hadn’t made any external things except for my soul and body; I didn’t carry anything. Nevertheless, when I was growing up, I ceaselessly created things for myself to carry. They exerted more burden on my mind and magnified the complexity of life. Losing ease and happiness, I told myself: “I need simplicity.”

Like Thoreau’s three chairs, simplicity should be limited by the need. Anything beyond it create redundancy. If three chairs are enough for life, one more chair will just create space for those who are unnecessary. Once there are four people in the house, maybe some others will come to have a group discussion. Will there be enough chairs and space for everyone? Probably not. Then, more chairs and a larger house will be needed. Thoreau knows that it is everlasting, so he pursues simplicity. Carrying things beyond the need will create more futile things to hump. His idea arouses my sympathy; but initially, what I wanted to do was to carry more.

Wherever I go, I always carry a pen box with me in case I need to write something. This is a habit that developed in elementary school when I learned how to write. At that time, I could never stop writing because it is so fascinating for me. I would like to write each character in different colors to express my enthusiasm. To satisfy this hobby, I carried a case filled with color pens and pencils. Teachers appreciated my attitude and my parents kept buying pens to encourage me to write. My collection was accumulating and the size of the pen box was enlarging. Holding the pen box with my slender arm, my body inclined; I was almost unable to resist the weight of that box. The pen box that I carried was overwhelming; but I insisted to carry because I was carrying my hobby and dream.

In the second grade, I still carried that pen box to school, even though I was required to write in a single color. My friend admired me and the pen box that I carried, which was filled with colorful pens. That box brought me a predominant feeling; I enjoyed to see the envy and jealousy in their eyes. The thing that I carried was not only a pen box, but also the vanity.

One day, the teacher asked the class to draw different shapes and fill the inside with colors, but no one in the class except me had color pens and pencils. I was happy to lend them mine, as it generated the sense of superiority. However, because the pens had not been used for several months, the ink had already dried up. I could not remember how my classmates looked at that time, or I daren’t see their face. I could imagine them laughing derisively at me. When I received the pens back, I dumped them in the trash can, as well as the pen box and vanity. I thought in my little mind that I ought not to carry useless things. I finished the drawing with a pencil and filled in the inside with different lines. It was the first time I noticed the importance of simplicity. I had to carry something useful.

Several days later I began to carry a multi-function pen box. A compass, rulers, erasers, and pens were stored in four different sections within the box. After several days of use, I started to realize that the stationeries that came with the pen box were not advanced enough; the rulers didn’t even have angle measures on them. I went to store and got the one I wanted, but the size didn’t fit the pen box. I revisited there and found one with the right size but pink color. I started to carry burdens in my mind, the heavy load of perfection deprived the ease and happiness in life. I could not focus on my studies anymore but thinking about the functions of the new pen box that I needed to get. The pen box that I carried made my life complex.

In elementary school and middle school, I always sought out for a perfect pen box with perfect stationeries. But after ten years of studying, I started to be aware that I have never used compasses or angle measures again. The things that I need to carry are just a pen box with a pencil, a black pen and a red marker. Carrying a pen box even seems to be useless. I tell myself: “I need to get rid of the redundancy and carry simplicity.”

I carry three pens with different colors in my pen box now; one for creation, two for preparation, and three for correction.

As a woman,
I am afraid.

I am alone,
(I fear I will always be alone).
I am loved,
(I fear love is fleeting).

I have a family who loves me,
(I fear I will disappoint).
I have passion for life,
(A delicate flicker of flame that will burn out into the abyss of night).

I am alive,
(I fear death).
I am young,
(I fear growing old).

I am beautiful,
(I fear that familiar look from a man)
I am naive,
(A privilege so easily ripped away with one malicious act).

I am surrounded by women,
I am not afraid.
I have hope.
Rachel Brouwer

In the modern day, religion is either widely accepted or looked down upon by the citizens of the world. Growing up in a religious family has not always been easy for me because I never got to pick whether or not I wanted to be part of it. Over the years there have always been the ups and downs where I questioned my religion and during those times my nana was always there to help me get to where I needed to be. However, when she gave me a little St. Christopher charm to clip onto the visor in my car I gave her a look that a teenager would give their parents after being told that they were disciplined fairly. In my eyes this small metal object was just a trinket that store clerks conned innocent old people into buying because of the “protection” it supposedly inflicted on the human being. However, my nana truly believed that it would protect me behind the wheel so I went with it because I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. After she flew home to Pennsylvania the charm became a weight I constantly carried with me physically and mentally. Every time I got in my car I would see it staring down at me and I would laugh to myself. A metal trinket could not protect someone. It was just there. The only meaning I got from it was the memory of my nana. The end.
It was the type of day everyone hates. Bitterly cold with sharp winds and fast rain that seemed to never cease. As I prepared to leave the house to pick up Jules from school it never occurred to me how the weather could affect my driving. Like any other day I drove the route to Saint Dom’s where Jules was at school. The same roads I always drive. As I pulled up to the school, and waited for Jules to walk to the car, I looked up at the foolish charm and smiled softly. As the door opened I heard the all too familiar crash of lunchboxes and backpacks as it was Jules’ daily ritual to throw her belongings into the backseat. When her sweet face turned my way my heart softened as it did each time she looked at me. We went to our usual spot to eat our early dinner, Panera Bread, where we got our usual meals and did homework while we ate. We left Panera earlier than normal that day because we had to run errands before dance and hockey. I will forever regret that decision.
It was 4:02PM. Center Street, Auburn, Maine. The charm was the last thing I saw before it happened. Car horns. Smoke. Tears. As I opened my eyes I felt a stinging sensation on my face while choking on smoke simultaneously. My first instinct was to put the car in park and turn it off. Next, was Jules, my sweet girl. “Tessie, I want to get out. I don’t like the smoke. I’m getting out.” When I heard her say this I went into instant panic mode. I knew she could not get out of the car because we were in the middle of an intersection during a thunderstorm. She would get hit.
“Jules everything will be okay but you can’t get out right now, just wait.” I remember asking her over and over again, “Are you hurt?”
I remember her response every time, “Tessie, I’m fine.” Then the police came.
“Where are your parents? Have you been able to reach them?”As I answered the questions I kept looking at that stupid charm above my head. Then, I started to believe.
We had to have the car towed, so Jules and I rode in a squad car to the hockey rink where mom met us twenty minutes later. Just before we left the car I grabbed the charm off of the visor and tucked it into my pocket.
The Saint Christopher charm was real. It was not just an object, a useless trinket sold as a con. Jules and I walked away from the accident with nothing but a scratch on my hand. For what I initially thought was a materialistic object, the charm became something more to me. I no longer carried it around because it reminded me of my nana. Instead, I carried it with me because I now believed that it could truly protect me, like a guardian angel. Ever since that cold day in November I have carried St. Christopher with me both literally and figuratively. I now keep the charm in my school bag so that it is with me everyday. The once foolish charm has become my guardian angel because of that day and it will continue to mean something to me until I pass it along to someone who needs something to believe in.

“A life led by a simple dream, In hope to fulfill our destiny, [because we are one family]”

My energy is gone. I’m depleted, running up and down the field. My legs begin to fill with blood, each second I become more tired. “Tick, tock,” as each minute passes, the anxiety builds, and so does the excitement. The crowd is cheering, but all of that is blocked out. At this moment in time, our surroundings are oblivious; we are focused on one thing and one thing only. As eight minutes soon turns to five, our journey begins to come to a close. Although, right now, we aren’t thinking about that. We aren’t thinking about anything, but soccer, our family, and our goal. As five turns to three, many of us realize that we now have the opportunity to achieve our goal; the goal we set three years ago, which is the goal that blood, sweat, and tears have been shed to obtain. We are so close, but yet so far.

At six O’clock at night, the team boards the vans. We are high on excitement and adrenaline, but low on nutrition and fluids. We have now won two games throughout the New England tournament, the Quarterfinals, and the Semi-Finals; what a week!

Three minutes begins to seem like five hours. I can’t take it! Defending each attack, and then moving up the field with the ball; it is like an ultimate chess match involving extreme physical pain, as well as mental pain. “Tick, tock,” three soon turns to two, and we are just that much closer.

On the way down to the hotel, we laughed, we joked, and we cramped! Everyone was experiencing both agonizing pain and extreme joy at the same time, it was worth it, we were ready. We knew that we had a chance at a New England Championship, and all we had to do was make it through the next day. We were focused. Aside from the jokes and laughter, we all had the same thought. The thought that bubbled in our minds, hidden underneath our smiles and sometimes pained faces. That thought was our goal. The fact that we were all thinking the same thing was made known not through our actions or words, but through our silence. We are focused, we have one goal, and now we have one mind.

The two agonizing minutes had passed, or so we thought. Up and down the field; players making slide tackles, crunching their opponents, only to preserve the 1-0 lead that we had. Everyone pushed themselves to the limit, gasping for air after each sprint to win the ball and every time we dribbled down the field the excitement rose. The fans cheered louder and louder as we moved up the field. Then finally, a shot is taken. Silence spread throughout the crowd, but then the silence becomes louder and louder, and as the ball misses the goal the fans loudly sigh. After every play, each player begins to freak out, thinking, “Why isn’t the game over yet…”, “I’m so tired, how will I ever make it any longer”, and “Is this ref crazy, call the game already.” The tension increases, but now the excitement throughout the stadium has turned into nerves, anxiousness, and eagerness. Still, we have one goal, and now we have one mind, ultimately united by our emotions.

As we arrived at the hotel, six hours later, we all hobbled out of the vans; some limping because of injuries, and others half asleep. Although, on the outside we seem to be tired and worn out, seemingly with no way to move forward and function, it was the overall excitement that was keeping the family awake and motivated to win the next day. We have one goal, and now we have one mind.

The final whistle sounds! The piercing noise that usually belongs to a blown whistle had never sounded so sweet. We had done it! I immediately jump up and hugged Freddy. Soon after, I went to hug my dad, my teammates, and our fans. After three long and tiring years consisting of many successes, but also many crushing defeats, we had overcome the odds. We had won a New England Championship!

We arrived at the field at around 10:00 A.M., emotions firing, and adrenaline pumping. No one spoke unless needed. The team unity and focusness was silencing. We had realized that it was our time to shine. We knew that the only way we would win was if we played, and fought, as a family. The team walked to the field together as I straggled behind, trying to catch up as they began their warm-up. As my feet touched the pitch I entered a zone, and I could see that the rest of my family had as well. Not just my teammates, but my coaches, and our fans. There was more riding on this game than just a championship. Time passed like a blur, and we lined up on the field, ready to start, and as the referee blew his whistle, the battle had begun. It was time to achieve our destiny, as one.

“Ry, let’s go, we’re going to be late for Drivers Ed.” And I was off, realizing as I was being chauffeured, it was now my time to step up to the plate and drive. It was the norm after all these years to just slide into the passenger’s seat. I could feel my nerves and excitement as it was now my time to cross the threshold from passenger to driver.  I entered the class naive to the rules of driving. But, thanks to the instructor, Mr. Dingley, I became enlightened to the rules of the road. The three hours flew by on the clock, and I was soon to be on the road in the driver’s seat. Days later, while driving, I could hear Ben in the back
saying;

“Kapp, don’t kill us.” I responded

“Don’t worry about it” then almost went off the road. I continued my cautious driving for two long, grueling hours while swerving side to side to dodge cars and remain in the correct lane. After barely arriving back at the school safely, I had never been so excited and relieved to be greeted by my Mom in her van waiting for me to hop in the old, familiar passenger seat. The instructor said;

“Don’t worry it is only the beginning. Everything will get better.” It never did. I contemplated my nerves and thought this was ridiculous, I should not be scared to get behind the wheel, but the nerves never left. Even with me constantly telling myself  “you got this” and “relax, don’t worry”.

As the clock kept ticking, my second time to drive was fast approaching. I was starting to breath heavily and was trembling with nerves. As I stepped on the gas pedal and accelerated gaining speed, the fresh air and air conditioning was keeping me calm. After one long and stressful hour of driving, I finally heard Mr. Dingley say “Ok, good, pull in here and switch.” A  smile spread across my face and a calmness I hadn’t felt overcame me as I realized I had completed my hour without harming anyone. My confidence was bubbling through the roof, and I could  now sit back as a passenger and enjoy a nice hour while Ben was driving.

Parallel parking was a big setback for my confidence. After almost hitting a few cars, and putting the car in reverse at the wrong time, we were back to square one. My on and off nerves continued for the remainder of the ten hours of driving.

I pulled into the school parking lot for the final time, relieved and content, I was ready to get my permit. After sitting for what seemed like an eternity, my number was called and it was time to become a legal driver. I could feel my excitement, confidence and maturity grow as I stepped closer to the counter. My confidence was quickly deflated when the man asked;

“Let me see the paperwork.” I responded

“Funny story about that actually.”  Once again, confidence, the feeling of being mature and responsibility vanished. I had gone all this way, waited in line for so long, and neglected to do the paperwork. After completing the forms, and the guy getting annoyed, I finally had my permit. My mom asked;So, will you drive home?” I quickly answered 

“Not a chance.” Days, weeks, months flew by and I would assume my comfortable position in the passenger’s seat. Out of the blue, I  regained my confidence and maturity. I said

“Dad, I’m going to drive.” He laughed and said “Okay, go for it.” I got settled in, turned the key, and began driving. It was easier than I had even imagined. I quickly settled in making turns, backing up and driving. I did not know what the big deal had been. This began to be a weekly event, he would hand me the keys, and we were off. I could feel myself finding my groove and there was no stopping me now. Hours passed, and I was still on top of the world as a driver and as a person. The day came to a close, and I asked my Dad;

“How many driving hours should I put down?” He responded

“None, you’ve been driving a golf cart when we play, that’s not real driving.”

Even though technically I wasn’t really driving, it gave me more confident and I felt mature.  I could finally tell “the summer was over”, even if there are still some little kid moments along the way.

Live to Play Another Day

When I think of hope and what we associate it with the first thing that comes to mind for me is women.  In 2015 the United States Women’s Soccer team won the World Cup, a prestigious championship on the world’s biggest stage, yet they still fought against the men’s team for equal pay.  In 2017 we elected Donald Trump as President of the United States, over that of female candidate.  Surrounding his inauguration all around the world, women’s marches were held to fight for the equality and fair treatment of all women, but to also express our thoughts and feelings on female minority.  As a young woman myself, my memory of the NEPSAC Soccer New England Championships embodies just those qualities, a team of driven young women that fought until they couldn’t fight anymore and motivated a whole community.

It was November 19th, this past fall, that the girls of the Hebron Academy Varsity Soccer team walked up to the pitch of the New England semi-final match in the NEPSAC playoff tournament.  With a crowd of about 30, consisting of mostly parents and friends, and very few from the student body the girls walked together.  We walked with our hearts on our sleeves, eager and willing to start a match in which we knew nothing about our opponent, nor had we even expected to make it to this point.  We were backboned by our coach Colin Griggs, someone who embodied the biggest heart and whose passion for winning was contagious, and he passed that on to every one of us.  

When we were seeded for our first playoff birth in 13 years our boys team was seeded as well, given a much higher seed than us resulting from their undefeated regular season.  Many people doubted our chances at winning the tournament and being as successful as the boys because there was this unexplainable difference of faith and confidence in the boys rather than in us.  It was the 18 girls that pulled on the jerseys that day who believed, who were ingrained with that confidence, and who fought with emotion.  It was one of the closest, most competitive games we had ever laced our cleats for.  We played scoreless for a while, chances at both ends went back and forth boiling up the nerves as the clock kept ticking.  The first half was waning down when our opponent opened the game with the first goal.  In a time when we could’ve easily accepted defeat, slowed our runs, and hung our heads we did just the opposite.  The crowd of supporters rose around us consuming the atmosphere with encouragement and positivity.  It was finally late in the second half when Hebron tied it.  The scorer of that goal was not what mattered, nor will I give a name.  It was the 11 people standing within the lines of that field who told the story, the willingness to never give up.

It would take overtime for this one, nervous was an understatement of emotion at this point in the contest.  We as players, as well as the fans supporting us were in shock of the work we had put into every minute of this game to force an overtime.  In a game that we played from behind once more, it was in the second overtime that Hebron would score the game winning goal with just two and half minutes remaining in the overtime period.  The team came together for the final two minutes and left every last effort we had on that field, and we were once again victorious, shocking so many.

In the coming hours we took the field the next morning to play Vermont Academy in the New England Final, a dream come true.  We had disproven all expectations and outcomes others had for us, we had made it to the very end.  The game was so evenly matched that it took all but five minutes of regulation to determine a winner.  Though it wasn’t the lumberjacks who rose the championship trophy on that November afternoon, we as young women had won the hearts and respect of our community.  

What I take from that game was not the final score, the unfinished chances, or the mistakes, but the lessons I learned and the pride we walked away with that day.  I’d like to quote a teammate of mine in a social media post following that game talking about the conclusion of our season.  Senior Meaghan Donahue wrote, “What means the most to me is that as female athletes so many doubted us, and we proved so many wrong.  We just set the bar for female athletes at Hebron so high this past week.”  That is what we played for in those last two games.  We played for respect, we played for recognition, but most of all we played for each other.  Though at many points in those last two games when momentum had left us and we were playing from behind many lost hope, but across the field from the fans who may have doubted was a culmination of about 20 whose hope never left.  

Following that game there were tears and disappointment, but what diminished all that was the hearts of 18 young women who fought for respect, and who came together and loved each other.  In a community that had become obsessed over the hype of the boys soccer team for so many years, the girls had finally stepped atop the podium along with them.  We, as young women, created our own special hype, it was not characterized by winning or by how many goals we beat teams by, but with the hearts we played with and the pride and respect we had gained for ourselves.    

Welcome to the American Literature C period portfolio blog. This site will contain student writing examples and class discussions.