Paragraph Wk 3, 2nd draft, Shinjae Sung

 

 

 

 

Grandparentville, Your Worst Nightmare

 

Shinjae Sung

11/07/10 2^nd draft

 

             I'm not close to my grandmother because of the time I spent living in her house. When I was fourteen, my family and I spent three crazy months with my grandma. I'd been raised in England so barely knew her but was excited at the idea of living with her in Korea. But to my utter dismay, the cultural differences and age gap between my grandma and I made us row constantly. The first day there, I opened the fridge and there was no juice. My grandma had no liquids other than an occasional carton of milk and an endless supply of tap water. She believed milk was too fancy and orange juice was bad for you. Little things kept getting my grandmother and me into fights. She gave more pocket money to my brother although I was older. My grandmother thought gender trumped age and I'd call her sexist. She ended up giving us the same amount which enraged me more. She'd often insist I was talking back when I felt I had a right to speak. Grandma would often say, "Children should never be seen or heard". We spent three months trying to understand each others' different cultural background but got nowhere. I'd love to have a good relationship with my grandma but after living together our relationship is strained; we barely meet now. Spending too much time with my grandma caused silly, hurtful fall-outs. If I could do it over, I'd never live with my grandma. If I'd just met her a few times a month, we'd be much closer. Sometimes, living together makes us grow apart.

 

 

 

 

 

 

That Fuzzy Feeling

 

Shinjae Sung

11/07/10 2^nd draft

 

             I remember feeling pleased about sitting in the very middle of the front row. During the winter season, our school assembly hall would turn into a stage where we'd watch the annual Christmas pantomime. It was the height of my childhood experiences. I still yearn for that warm and fuzzy feeling of watching the play, lining up to see Father Christmas, and finally getting a present from his big sack. I loved sitting on Father Christmas's huge red lap the most. His workshop was set up right next to the assembly hall in a corner of the lunch room. It was covered in an extraordinarily large piece of cloth, grey and frayed from years of children tugging at it. The tiny lunchroom chairs and tables we usually ate from instead made me think of Father Christmas's little elves instead. Meeting Father Christmas was better than pulling gift filled crackers, eating chocolates from an advent calendar or any full stocking bursting with goodies. Going to school late at night was the best treat of all. The darkness made everything look different and mysterious and the ten minute walk to school seemed more exciting and surreal. Usually, night meant sleep so the vastness of nighttime outside gave me an adventurous thrill. Even at twenty four, when I am out under dimly illuminated dark grey skies, I feel bold and free. Precious memories that should not be wasted are always accompanied by that warm, fuzzy feeling that makes me think of soft red Father Christmas suits and chilly, dark winter nights. Those kinds of memories, however cold the winters get, are unforgettable.