Grade 12 November X-Grade Texts PDF

English 12 November x-grade texts #1 analysisstapledto “The Good Life” by Tracy K. Smith When some people talk about money theback They s...

English 12 November x-grade texts #1 analysisstapledto “The Good Life” by Tracy K. Smith When some people talk about money theback They speak as if it were a mysterious lover Who went out to buy milk and never Came back, and it makes me nostalgic For the years I lived on coffee and bread, Hungry all the time, walking to work on payday Like a woman journeying for water From a village without a well, then living One or two nights like everyone else On roast chicken and red wine. #2 e “An American Sunrise” by JOY HARJO metamoricananguage centralmessage strisiiiiiiiiirjiqiu.ee We were running out of breath, as we ran out to meet ourselves. We iin.ie were surfacing the edge of our ancestors’ fights, and ready to strike. wifi It was difficult to lose days in the Indian bar if you were straight. nfEg Easy if you played pool and drank to remember to forget. We ones made plans to be professional — and did. And some of us could sing wittiest so we drummed a fire-litimam was invented by the Christians, as was the Devil, 1 pathway up to those starry stars. Sin infowesufferins were the heathens, but needed to be saved from them — thin sang. We LitEEE chance. We knew we were all related inanemomania this story, a little ginjhfhfffereovationofneritag will clarify the dark and make us all feel like dancing. We had something to do with the origins of blues and jazz I argued with a Pueblo as I filled the jukebox with dimes in June, hei.si forty years later and we still want justice. We are still America. We know the rumors of our demise. We spit them out. They die soon. pay it ii ff attentiontotheirweaknesses HEMESfreedom.at #3 4 ofti hi.fu.gimyuuthfolkes thing titillation from Citizen: AnAmericanlyricby2014600k j TONEPY.ES faffffjocs “You are in the dark, in the car...” CLAUDIA RANKINE fifty if mom mineral You are in the dark, in the car, watching the black-tarred street being mood swallowed by speed; he tells you his dean is making him hire a person of color when there are so many great writers out there.You think maybe this is an experiment and you are being tested or retroactively insulted or you have done something that communicates this is an okay conversation to be having. Why do you feel okay saying this to me? You wish the light would turn red or a ne youpirii.gggiiiins u cÉlfIfÉi É EhfponE ffhtTr  police siren would go off so you could slam on the brakes, slam into the car ahead of you, be we propelled forward so quickly both your faces would suddenly be exposed to the wind. As usual you drive straight through the moment with the expected backing off of what was previously reef said. It is not only that confrontation is headache producing; it is also that you have a destination that doesn’t include acting like this moment isn’t inhabitable, hasn’t happened tie before, and the before isn’t part of the now as the night darkens and the time shortens between where we are and where we are going.When you arrive in your driveway and turn off the car, you remain behind the wheel another ten minutes. You fear the night is being locked in aeffects and coded on a cellular level and want time to function as a power wash. Sitting there staring at the closed garage door you are reminded that a friend once told you there exists a medical reigns term — John Henryism — for people exposed to stresses stemming from racism. They achieve themselves to death trying to dodge the build up of erasure. Sherman James, the researcher who came up with the term, claimed the physiological costs were high. You hope by sitting in silence you are bucking the trend.When the stranger asks, Why do you care? you just stand feelivisible there staring at him. He has just referred to the boisterous teenagers in Starbucks as n….. Hey, I am standing right here, you responded, not necessarily expecting him to turn to you. He is holding the lidded paper cup in one hand and a small paper bag in the other. They are just being kids. Come on, no need to get all KKK on them, you say.Now there you go, he responds.The people around you have turned away from their screens. The teenagers are on pause. There I go? you ask, feeling irritation begin to rain down. Yes, and something about hearing yourself repeating this stranger’s accusation in a voice usually reserved for your partner makes you smile. A man knocked over her son in the subway. You feel your own body wince. He’s okay, but the son of a bitch kept walking. She says she grabbed the stranger’s arm and told him to apologize: I told him to look at the boy and apologize. And yes, you want it to stop, you want Eni the black child pushed to the ground to be seen, to be helped to his feet and be brushed off, not brushed off by the person that did not see him, has never seen him, has perhaps never seen I anyone who is not a reflection of himself. The beautiful thing is that a group of men began to stand behind me like a fleet of bodyguards, she says, like newly found uncles and brothers. The new therapist specializes in trauma counseling. You have only ever spoken on the phone. Her aracism house has a side gate that leads trauma to aaback entrance she uses for patients. You walk down a path bordered on both sides with deer grass and rosemary to the gate, which turns out to be locked. At the front door the bell is a small round disc that you press firmly. When the door finally Iii opens, the woman standing there yells, at the top of her lungs, Get away from my house. What are you doing in my yard? It’s as if a wounded Doberman pinscher or a German shepherd has gained the power of speech. And though you back up a few steps, you manage to tell her you have an appointment. You have an appointment? she spits back. Then she pauses. Everything pauses. Oh, she says, followed by, oh, yes, that's right. I am sorry. I am so sorry, so, so sorry. a fake words #4 “Her Kind” by ANNE SEXTON Tutti think items messed fi iiiiiniiiiiiiaiis.tn I have gone out, a possessed witch, PARASTY haunting the black air, braver at night; dreaming evil, I have done my hitch witch howsocietyviews cohsonance womenwho alive vitalymore levarer Effifnal solidarity minacogifeminisfiiaiitesi.no Edieiiinv S is womanhood oppression rejectssocietalexpectations of women parasitismprostitution or negation  be out of outof a woman who wants to befree must vermino spirits p over the plain houses, light by light: lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind. woman based A woman like that is not a woman, quite. veieitela.tkYit deftitgidiisa I have been her kind. ANY I have found the warm caves in the woods, filled them with skillets, carvings, shelves, PMdependence closets, silks, innumerable goods; fixed the suppers for the worms and the elves:cuneeiiii.ie of whining, rearranging the disaligned. homemaking A woman like that is misunderstood. I have been her kind. known as a spinster I have ridden in your cart, driver, off I waved my nude arms at villages going by, learning the last bright routes, survivor where your flames still bite my thigh I walkiesfaYeIpunished for not thepatriarchalsociety playinginto 1205110710 and my ribs crack where your wheels wind. A woman like that is not ashamed to die. paradox being an outcast beingpart of I have been her kind. a rommunity it havebeenherkind #5 A passage from bitter uncomfortable logffite Fasting, Feasting by Indian novelist Anita Desai iyl.tk iyItMnoatfamicg defensive noexoses It is Saturday. Arun cannot plead work. He stands despondent and when Melanie comes to the door dressed in her bathing suit with a big shirt drawn over her shoulders, and stares at him imagery characterization challengingly, he starts wildly to find excuses. Mrs. Patton will not hear them. No , she will not. Absolutely not. So she says, with her hands II iii spread out and pressing against the air. No. No. No. We’re all three of us going. Rod and Daddy have gone sailing on Lake Wyola and were not going to sit here waiting for them to come home- oh no. Arun must go back upstairs and collect his towel and swimming trunks. Then he follows Melanie to the driveway where Mrs Pattom is waiting with baskets of equipment-oils and lotions, paperbacks and dark glasses, sandwiches and lemonade. With that new and animated prance galvanizing her dwindled shanks, she leads the way through the gap in the bushes to one it i of the woodland paths. Melanie and run follow silently. They try to find a way to walk that will not compel them to be side by side or in any way close together. But who is to follow whom? It is an awkward problem. Srun finally stops trying to lag behind her-she can lag even better-and peon EE goes ahead to catch up with Mrs. Patton. He ought to help carry those baskets anyway. He takes one from her hands, and she throws him a radiant lipsticked smile. Then she swings away and goes confidently forwards. “Summertime:, he hears her singing, “when the living is eeh zee…” CONTRAST Ameritan us Indian culture  unfamiliarityfrontomforta mail.itaai They make their way along scuffed paths through layers of old soft pine needles. The woods are thrumming with cicadas: they shrill and shrill as if the sun is playing on their sinews, as if they were small harps suspended in the trees. A bird shrieks hoarsely, flies on, shrieks elsewhere, further off- that ugly jarring note that does not vary. But there are no birds to be seen, nor animals. It is as if they are in hiding or fled. Perhaps they have because the houses of Edge Hill do intrude and one can glimpse a bit of wall here or roof there, a washing line hung with sheets or a plastic gnome, finger to nose, enigmatically winking. Arun finds the hair on the back of his neck begin to prickle, as if in warning. He is sweating, and the palms of his hands are becoming puffy and damp. Why must people live in the vicinity of such benighted wilderness and become a part of it? The town may be small and have little to offer, but ho passionately he tation prefers its post office, its shops, its dry-cleaning stores and picture framers to this creeping curtain of insidious green, these grasses stirring with insidious life, and bushes with poisonous berries- so bright or else so pale. Nearly tripping upon a root, he stumbles and has to steady himself so as not to spill the contents of the basket. Effy metaphors #6 “General Review of the Sex Situation” by Dorothy Parker Tone 8 E L Woman wants monogamy; Man delights in novelty. Love is woman’s moon and sun; Man has other forms of fun. Woman lives but in her lord; Count to ten, and man is bored. With this the gist and sum of it, What earthly good can come of it? analysisstapled totheback