Creative Expressions: Mini Story and Activities

Creative Expressions: Mini Story and Activities: As I type this short story, I still wonder why I was ashamed to let others know that I was a field laborer.  I felt like I was different, a...

Mini Story and Activities

As I type this short story, I still wonder why I was ashamed to let others know that I was a field laborer.  I felt like I was different, and that people would laugh at me.  Or worse yet, maybe, they would feel sorry for me.  I always felt so ashamed, and I wish I hadn't.  This is who I was, and I didn't want people to know who I really was.  I was so uncomfortable in my own skin.

  

Extracurricular Activities

My older sister and I were both in the high school band.  I was a freshman and she was a junior at the school.  Summer band practice would start three weeks before the first day of school.  When we received our letters indicating the schedule for band practice, my sister told me that we would have to rush from the cotton fields, take a bath and be ready to drive into town so that we could make band practice on time.  My mom had already made arrangements for one of our aunts to drive us to practice.

While I was bathing for the first band practicie, I remember that every bone in my body ached.  My face was red with sunburn and it hurt when I talked or smiled.

My hands were sore with blisters and cuts from the cotton plants.  As we were driving into town, I told my sister I hurt all over.  She told me to ignore the pain and I would be ok.

I held out my hands and asked, "How can I play my clarinet with the blisters on my hands!"

My sister replied that once I got started the pain would disappear.  This was the first time I'd had to go through this ordeal and I wondered how my sister had survived the three years that she had been in the high school band.

Sure enough, I had problems putting my B flat clarinet together and I cringed as I placed the instrument in my mouth.  I pretended that my sunburned face did not hurt and I ignored the pain I experienced with every note that I played.  When other band members asked if I had spent a lot of time at the beach, I just nodded and smiled.

We practiced playing our music inside the band hall and another reality hit me as the band director announced that we would be practicing our marching in the football field for the next two hours.  I discovered a new pain as I lifted each foot to march as our band director had taught us.

I remember looking at my sister with the pain in my eyes.  She never complained and continued with the assigned tasks from our band director.

During our drive home, I realized that this would be the ritual for the next two or three weeks.  My admiration and appreciation for my sister increased as she modeled the level of endurance necessary to pick cotton and participate in our high school marching band.

At the crack of dawn the next morning, my sister and I followed the early morning ritual of cotton field laborers.

Discussion and Writing Prompts:

1.  Why do you think the writer was embarrassed about the fact that she was a field laborer?  Explain your answer and opinion in a well elaborated essay.

2.  Why do you think the writer's older sister had not explained how difficult it was going to be to participate in the high school band and work in the fields?  Explain your answer and opinion in a well developed essay.

3.  Illustrate a picture depicting the pain from working in the fields.

4.  Using a Venn Diagram, compare and contrast the similarities and differences of working in the fields and marching in the high school band.  Write about the comparisons and contrasts in a well developed essay.

5.  Create a collage with pictures and adjectives symbolizing the difficulties of working in the fields and turning right around and participating in band practice.

   

Creative Expressions: The Red Cotton Picker

Creative Expressions: The Red Cotton Picker: To this day, cotton fields lure me still as if in the lull of a dream. I could see the white cotton fields in the background.  I wa...

The Red Cotton Picker

To this day, cotton fields lure me still as if in the lull of a dream.

I could see the white cotton fields in the background.  I was amazed by the whiteness of the cotton and the bright green cotton plants.  It always felt good noticing that the cotton plants were not high enough to cover my whole body; it was difficult to breathe when the plants climbed way over my head.  These cotton plants were perfect for picking.

I was standing on the porch in the early morning admiring the perfect cotton fields when I saw a bright red cotton picker drive up and park by the side of the street next to our house.  The cotton picker looked redder because of the starkness of the white cotton that was piled in the back.  I had never seen a red cotton picker; the ones I had seen were all green.

I smiled and breathed a sigh of relief as I noticed my father climb out of the cotton picker cab.  He was such a young man at the age of 27 and he had such a zest for life.  I watched as he walked briskly toward the porch of our house where I stood.

When he approached me I jumped into his arms and asked, "What are you doing here?"

"I'm home from work.  I never left you.  I want to make sure that you understand that you will no longer have to pick cotton in the hot sun.  I have come to take care of you," my dad answered.

I laughed as only a four-year-old can as I was whirled in my father's arms.  I was relieved to discover that he had never left me.  All of my relatives that kept telling me everyday that my dad was never coming back were wrong.  My dad had gone to work and was now back home.

He released me from his arms and I landed on my feet, only to run into the house to tell my mom, sisters and brother that Dad was home.

I felt my heart expand with glee as I saw my mom standing by the doorway looking at my father.  My mom was not smiling; she still had that sad look on her face that had been there ever since Dad had left.  Why wasn't she happy to find out that he was home?

"Mom, look at Dad!  He's home, and he never really left.  He just told me himself.  Everyone else lied to you about Dad.  He's come back to take care of us."

I forced my eyes back from my mom to my dad.

Reality and disappointment entered my heart as I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes at the crack of dawn.

I was reminded that my dad was dead and he was not coming back to me.  I peeked outside the bedroom window to make sure that a red cotton picker was not parked by the side of the road of our house.

I backed away from the window with a deep sadness, then began dressing in my red pants and pink shirt to face one more day of picking cotton in the hot sun.

My dad would not be joining us.

Discussion/Writing Prompts:

1.  What are three symbols in this short story, and what do they represent?  Illustrate these symbols and write about them?

2.  What is the symbolism of the dream itself?  Why is the narrator having this specific dream?

3.  Illustrate a title page for this short story.

4.  What colors are represented as symbols in the story?  What emotions do they represent?  Combine these emotions to colors in a well developed essay.

5.  Write about one of your dreams or illustrate it with captions or subtitles.

 

Creative Expressions: Don Tomas

Creative Expressions: Don Tomas: I have never understood why Don Tomas made such an impression on me, but he did.  I often think about his, his physical characteristics an...

Don Tomas

I have never understood why Don Tomas made such an impression on me, but he did.  I often think about his, his physical characteristics and wonder what happened to him.

Don Tomas

The dark, wrinkled hands and face caught my attention as I looked up to see who was handing me a piece of pan dulce (sweet bread), a marranito (gingerbread pig).  I was shy about taking the piece of bread from the old man.  In all my seven years of life, I had never seen a man who was so dark and so wrinkled.

I looked at my mom as she said, "Agarra el pan, mija.  Don Tomas lo trajo para ti.  (Take the bread, my daughter.  Mr. Tomas brought it for you.)"  I took the bread but I kept watching Don Tomas as he climbed on the truck that was taking about fifteen of us to the cotton fields.

I couldn't understand why this man was so dark and why his skin was so wrinkled.  He wore a straw cowboy hat, a beige shirt with a blue jean jacket and pants.  Then I noticed that he was wearing large knee pads.  I could hardly wait to get to the cotton fields so that I could ask Mom some questions.

I munched on my pan dulce as I stared at Don Tomas.  He smiled at me, which made his skin wrinkle even more.  I refused to smile at him because I wasn't quite sure if I could trust this old man.  I didn't understand why this viejito (little old man) was paying so much attention to me.  I began to munch on my marranito as we traveled to the cotton fields early in the morning.

We picked up our cotton bags and belongings was we arrived at the fields and began climbing off the truck.  I looked at the hundreds of rows of cotton and began to feel tired as I saw how long the rows were.  Mom gave me my hat so I could protect my face from the sun.

I felt silly in my cotton picking clothes.  Mom would make me wear a long-sleeved light pink shirt and red pants with socks and tennis shoes.  She always told me that I needed to protect my skin from the dangers of the hot sun.

I felt guilty for wishing that I were old enough so that I could be at school with my older sisters.  I did not want to be at the cotton fields with all the old cotton pickers.  They kept telling my mother how cute I looked and asking how young I was.  My mom would tell them that I was only seven years old, but she could not afford a baby sitter.  Even though I was seven, I knew I was going to have to help my mom pick cotton and I was not happy about it.  Cotton picking was hard work, even at the age of seven.

As I followed my mom to the opposite end of the field, away from the truck, I complained about how long the cotton rows were.  I told my mom that it would take us all day to pick just one row of cotton.  Mom said that we would pick two rows at a time really fast so that we could get a  lot of cotton into our sacks.  This meant more money to buy food on the weekend.

We finally reached the end of the rows of cotton and everyone began select which cotton rows they wanted to pick.  As I stood there contemplating the long, hot day, I could see that everyone was already beginning to pick.  I refused to wear the oversized gloves that Mom gave me because it was hard to pick cotton with them.  Mom gave me a stern look and told me to start picking.  The gloves were

supposed to protect my hands from the sun and the harsh cotton plant branches.

I looked at Don Tomas who miraculously stood beside me as he said "Com on Paulita, the day will be over before you know it."  I blushed a deep red when I realized that Don Tomas had heard me complaining to my mom.

Don Tomas dropped down to his knees and began to pick cotton very quickly.  I stood there at the end of our rows and watched his fast fingers picking cotton and dropping it into his cotton sack.  I had never seen anyone pick cotton so fast,  Mom forced me to look away as she called me to start picking.

I began to pick cotton and asked Mom, "Why does he kneel down to pick cotton?

"His back hurts," was my mom's response.

I felt sorry for Don Tomas Tomas because he seemed so old and so alone.

I continued picking slowly and asked Mom,  "Why is he by himself?  Doesn't he have a family?"

My patient mom answered, "I don't know, but he probably has a wife and older children.  Picking cotton is hard work and maybe he does not want to bring his wife and children."

I looked at Mom with my big, brown eyes and asked,  "Why don't they come help him; he's all by himself!  If they pick cotton together, they will take more money and he won't be alone."

Mom told me, "He chooses to  come by himself.  Now you start picking so that we can fill our cotton sacks!"

I sighed as I looked at our empty cotton sacks.  It wasn't long before I asked my next question.  "Why does the old man wear those things on his knees?"

Mom continued picking as she answered.  "Since he picks cotton his knees, the pads protect his knees from pain.  They are called rodilleras.  (kneepads)"

"Well, why can't he pick cotton standing up like the rest of us?"

"i told you that his back hurts.  He is an older gentleman and he has picked cotton for a long time.  His back hurts too much if he bends all day to pick cotton and the kneepads help."

"Will we have to wear kneepads if we pick cotton for a long time?"  I asked.

My mom answered, "Mijita, you will not be in the cotton fields all your life, if you get an education.  If I had an education, I could have an easier job.  Someday, if both of us go to school, we will be able to get good jobs and we will not have to worry about rodilleras."

By this time, Don Tomas was way ahead of us.  He moved quickly even though he picked cotton while on his knees.

I looked at my small burlap sack and told Mom that I had already filled it and wanted her to put my cotton into her cotton sack.  Mom told me to just leave the burlap sack beside her.

"But what will I do with the cotton that I pick?"  I asked her.

"Walk all the way up to where Don Tomas is and start picking there.  Just make motoncitos (little bunches) and I will pick them up as I pick and travel toward you."

This sounded different to me so I began walking away from my mom and closer to Don Tomas.  As I approached him, I stopped and stared.

Don Tomas winked at me and smiled as he said, "Come on little one; you and your mom will fill up a big cotton sack that will weigh many pounds before you know it."

I lowered my covered head and continued to pick.  Don Tomas was ahead of me in seconds.  I watched him as I removed my hat and wiped my forehead.  It was no later than 9:00 AM, but I could already tell that it was going to be a blistering hot day.  I continued to pick cotton and tried to imitate the quickness of Don Tomas.  Mom smiled and shook her head as she looked at me.  It was on my knees picking cotton like Don Tomas.

I lifted my head to look at my mom and told her, "My back hurts and kneeling makes me feel better."

Kneeling while I picked cotton made me feel grown up.  I picked for a while longer and asked mom if I could go get some water.

My mom told me to go ahead and gave me a jar so that I could bring some water back with me.  All I can remember is the excitement about getting out of picking cotton for as long as I could.  I was hot and tired.

I began to walk toward the truck and realized I would have to pass by Don Tomas.  I was shy about doing that.

Sure enough, as I walked by Don Tomas he asked "Para donde vas, Paulita?"

I told him I was going to get some water.  Don Tomas never looked up as he talked and picked cotton.

It took me a while to get to the water truck, but that was the whole point.  The water gave me an excuse to get away from the cotton fields.  I was exhausted and the long, hot day loomed ahead of me.  I climbed the truck and removed the lid from the drinking keg, knowing there would be a huge piece of ice in the water.  I could hardly wait to drink the cold water.  I drank slowly and prepared a jar of water for my mother.

I enjoyed my walk back toward my mother and felt shame because everyone was picking cotton faster than my mom and she had been left far behind.  This made me sad as I lifted the jar of water to her.  I folded my arms in front of my chest and looked down at the ground out of respect for my mother.  When she lowered the jar from her mouth, she asked that I take some water to Don Tomas.  As I turned toward Don tomas, who was way ahead of us, my mom asked that I show him respect.

I approached Don tomas shyly and told him that my mom has asked me to bring him some water.

His brown eyes, almost hidden in his wrinkled brown ace, showed a twinkle as a smile spread across his face.  "Me le das las gracias a tu mama.  (Give my thanks to your mom for me.)"

Don Tomas kept smiling as I crossed my arms across my chest and lowered my eyes toward the ground.  As I waited for Don Tomas to drink the water, I guessed that he must be at least 60 years old.  I felt sorry that he had to pick cotton even though he had a bad back.

"Ten, Paulita, (Here, Paulita,)" said Don Tomas.  "Deja agua en el jarro para que tomes mas agua mas tarde.  (Leave water in the jar so that you can drink water later.)  El dia va ser bien caliente y tenemos que trabajar.  (The day will be very hot and we have to work.)"

I went back to my mo and decided that I was going to pick cotton and work hard just like Don Tomas so that my mom would not have to work in the cotton fields when she was 60 years old.

Throughout the years, I continued picking cotton and so did Don Tomas.  He continued to being me pan dulce at least once a week.  I brought him water whenever I could and shared Mom's delicious tacos with him.  In our own quiet way, Don Tomas and I  became special friends.  I respected his tolerance for picking cotton with a bad back and his elderly age.  I sensed that Don Tomas and I were kindred spirits.  One day after many years of picking cotton together, Don Tomas just stopped coming to work.  I missed his friendship.  Most importantly, I never forgot that I needed to get an education so that my mom and I could stay out of the cotton fields. 

Discussion and Writing Prompts:

1.  Do you think that Don Tomas pays special attention to Paulita?  Why or why
     not?  Support your answer in a well developed essay.

2.  Using a Venn Diagram, compare and contrast Paulita and Don Tomas.  How
     were they different and how were they alike?  Write an essay comparing and
     contrasting the two characters.

3.  Illustrate the likenesses and differences between Paulita and Don Tomas by
     using a Venn diagram.  Draw the two characters and list the characteristics of
     each one.

4.  What did Paulita think would change her mother's lives and hers?  What
      would keep them out of the cotton fields and poverty?  Explain your answer
      using data regarding people in poverty.

5.   Illustrate the encounters between Paulita and Don Tomas.  Write a sentence
      or two below each picture showing their conversations.  What did the dialog
      between the characters tell you about each one?

Creative Expressions: Summer Vacation in the Cotton Fields

Creative Expressions: Summer Vacation in the Cotton Fields: When I was a kid, I always wanted our family to take a vacation to Disney World, but we were too poor.  Instead of going to Disney World...