Scout's Perspective: Maycomb

Name's Scout.  I want to tell you a little about my hometown, Maycomb, Alabama.  I’ve lived here my whole life, which is six years so far.  I don’t have much to compare it to, since I’ve never really been more than a few miles away, but I can tell you a few things.  First of all, Maycomb is a small, isolated southern town. Everyone moves very slowly and there is no rush or busy-ness to the town. This place is very poor, decrepit, and simple. There are no paved roads and a few streets.  My town is an agricultural (farm based) and it’s really hot out here. Also, there’s not much to do- play, go to school, and go to church.  In addition, my town is traditional and conservative. I would have to say, in my hometown, we tend to look down a little on poorer people, as well as black people.  People’s attitude towards black people is somewhat different. I don't know, but surely I don't see other white people any better than Calpurnia, who's help raise me to who I am today. Atticus, my dad calls it “discrimination” but that’s all I’ve ever heard about it.  My hometown is religious (Christianity) and people here are suspicious of the outside ideas and big city thinking.  The people here are generally pretty nice folks, except Boo Radley from what the folks around here say.  From my neighbours’ legend, Radley’s house is “haunted” and now I’m frightened by and curious about this Boo Radley.  I would like to tell you more about Maycomb but for now, this is what I have pictured in my mind.

The Communication Killer: An Experience I Had In Grade 9 (Self-Consciousness)

Although people look alike, with four limbs and a torso and a head, their feelings do not come around the same away. Self–consciousness is something that is different for everyone; some people need practice in order to do well without much hesitation, while others are just naturally comfortable presenting in front of an audience. It all depends on the person.

Unfortunately, I am one of the practicing types; I just cannot get through a speech without the twitching and the scratching.  What I am trying to say is that I get nervous through presentations. Recently, last year, I felt self-consciousness throughout a drama presentation I was given for homework, due the following week. I decided to group up with students that I usually did not talk to even though of course my closest friends are the best to work with. They jump and flip and soar this way and that, right in front of the TV screen with a pencil and a piece of paper placed on the table, “ready” to work. No, they are just not the people I would want to work with. In fact, they are the worst people to work with. There might be one or two of my friends who are mature but really, at high school, the only subject most students seem to focus on is girls and games. Sure I might have more fun with students I actually know, and sure the presentation could be cooler with those students, but consequences kick in. I would get nothing but a big, fat zero if I teamed up with my friends.

 Anyhow, for the play, we had periods of class to practice and rehearse over and over again, so we did not do much out of class but some sound effects as well as the facial expressions and positioning we had to work on. We gathered after school in front of Starbucks near the village and ambled to one of the group members, Nima’s house on the last day with an opportunity to practice. We found ourselves with no problems, and feeling over confident, we all left for home.

The very next day, when I arrived at school, the first thing I learned was that my bright friend, Nima, changed some of the parts in the play at the last second. The changes were unnecessary. They weren’t needed, but yet now we had to perform the new version because we knew we wouldn’t be able to remember our lines without the script. All of my group members became anxious and they started blaming each other for this and that, that and this. I was just there, sitting on a chair and gazing at a blank wall, worried about the play. Would we do well? Would we make mistakes? I kept asking these questions, which I could not answer, when abruptly the teacher suddenly called our names. We all froze; we weren’t even close to ready and we were picked first. What were the odds of that happening?

Despite my friends’ background noise of laughter, hysteria, and panic, I retained my composure and went on with the play.  It wasn’t turning out so bad.  My group members were doing exactly what was told on the script. The sound effects and visuals were perfectly lined up against our play. Everything was great, until I flipped two pages without noticing. Worried and lost, I was sweating and adrenaline was pumping through my veins. Without much thought, I decided to end the play, forgetting about the rest, and said, “The End” with a lack of confidence. I stormed to my desk and hid my face under my arms, knowing that it was entirely my fault. I could just feel my group glaring at the unfathomable me, as they were treading back to their seats.

The pressure I felt as a result of my “self-consciousness” killed my communication skills, and I just don’t understand how.  I certainly need not feel fear, up on the stage, and yet I do.  I certainly need not worry, and yet I do. It is such a hard concept for one to conceive of. At the end of class, we all got to see our marks for the play. My group got a 79 percent. The bell had rung and I was tramping across the hallway with gloom. I saw my friends down on the far end. They bragged. The mark they got as group was something everyone would want; a 98 percent. They had scenes that were beautiful with the exact actions fitting in the background sound effects and everything seemed so perfect.

 

My Invention with Unlimited Resources

I think the most logical thing to invent is the waste rocket, as I call it.  The invention is very simple as the idea of construction because in reality, it is just a rocket sending waste up to space.  How would this affect the countries? A lot.  Right now at this time, it is a generation where problems are stacked at a number that cannot be postponed longer to take in action; consequently, this means that we could be the last generations.  People say, “Why not live the lives now?” but that shows no responsibility and respect.  We must clean what we have done to the earth and fast, in order for the ones after us to live happily.  I thought about this invention because with this, we could solve some of the biggest problems on earth right now and this was waste.  Waste is being thrown into oceans and undergrounds at a fast rate as to our benefit, but everything we do without thoughts, there are always the consequences.  As an example, the nuclear wastes pollute the earth to a dangerous level of toxicity and we can stop this by my waste rocket with the unlimited resources of fuel. 

 

My Baseball Experiences

It was my first time playing baseball; I hadn’t even tried this sport outside of teams at school. Astonishingly, never had I watched someone play nor had I even touched a baseball before. Everything was new to me. It was very frustrating. Here and there, I heard people shouting at each other about something I did not get and they kept demanding that I do this and that… It wasn’t a pleasant sport, from my perspective. It is not a great sport to start with, especially when you don’t know anything about it, aside from the fact that there is a base and a ball. My first baseball game happened around two years ago when I couldn’t speak English at all. I knew “yes” and “no”, but that was about as far as I could go; beyond those two words, BAM! I got lost and my head blanked out. This was a rough year. Not only was English a problem through school, but this baseball season in addition just blew me away. Everything came to be a struggle in every way.

The very first game I ever played is something that I wish I could erase from my memories. It started off as a beautiful day with extraordinary weather. I looked in the mirror once, then twice. I chowed down on my sandwich with my mind filled with the most wonderful thoughts on the first baseball game that I was going to have in an hour. No, it was going to be bad and when I mean bad, I mean really bad.  Of utmost importance, I skipped most of the practices so I don’t really know what is going on around my team. I had other things to do better than swinging bats all day; it’s just a complete waste of time. I was forced to do this baseball camp. No opinions were taken from me. I arrived to the field and everyone was gathered around a sheet of paper. I joined them with curiosity, only to find myself the twelfth on the page. It was the batting list. There were only twelve players, which left me as the last batter and this really hurt me because this meant that I was the worst on the team. I knew I was new to Canada, but I thought I would at least outrank a few careless people. After a glimpse at the batting order, I strolled near the paper that listed everyone’s positions. The coach was assigning the positions, and he was on the last role. As he was looking at the leftover players, I prayed he wouldn’t pick me to embarrass myself out on the baseball field. Happily, things went the way I wanted them to.

I ended up as the “bench warmer” as everyone calls it. My job was to sit there and warm the bench for my teammates, while cheering each one of them up. After a period of time that felt like an eternity, I was up to bat. My mom was out on the far side, shouting out my name repeatedly as I came closer to the home plate. Honestly, it was very embarrassing, hearing my mom scream with glee while everyone else was dead silent. I could even hear the background noise of laughter that came from my teammates and as I was thinking about this and that, the umpire hollered, “STRIKE ONE!” What? I wasn’t even ready. I could hear my coach yelling at me to look straight at the ball and concentrate. “Man, when will he ever stop telling me the stuff I already know?” Then again, the ball swished over the plate and the umpire shouted, “STRIKE TWO!” I saw my coach with his old hands over his face, frustrated from my lack of attention. At last, he looked at me in the eyes and stammered to just hit the ball, with a forced smile. I didn’t care less. He was always this way; mean and cheap.

Anyhow, I couldn’t get struck out this time, because my mom was there always cheering me up and whenever I was up to bat, all she ever saw was either a strike out or a hit directly in my face by a baseball. I got out of my Simon Says mode and focused on the ball. I glared at the pitcher and grabbed my grip tight. I saw the pitcher let go of the ball and without much thought, I swung the bat as hard as I could, with my eyes completely shut. I was expecting something to hit my bat and it did! I was ever so thrilled, until I noticed that it wasn’t the ball I hit, but the catcher’s glove. The catcher was shrieking with pain and I got down on my knees to try to help him out, but the coach told me to go back in the dugout. I tossed the bat into the air, indicating my disappointment, and trampled back. How did the bat ever hit him? It just seemed impossible from my point of view.  A while later, when everything was settled a bit, I was back in the role of warming the bench, watching my teammates play.

            First experiences weren’t so friendly in most of my childhood. Baseball was a huge challenge that gave me a harsh time, but now, I can live with it; I can throw, I can bat, and I can catch, which really are the only main skills one must master in baseball.

 

More Than A Teacher

Miss Hancock was more than a teacher
She was a colourfully wrapped box
with a bright red ribbon
Tying together her exuberance
She was a gift
that I threw aside.

Her sorrow, my entire fault.
The black shadow of my guilt looming over me day after day.
As more of my memories of her burn away and fall into pieces, I feel pain.
Black ashes of despair covers my heart and suffocates me.

But I write your colourful, merry face
With my eyes swollen and the guilt inside me
I write this elegy, hoping
For you to rest in peace.

And no matter how many oceans and floods I cry,
you are the lifeboat.
A brilliant purple and yellow ship
dragging me up from the depths.

I wonder,
What you would say to me
How you would look
What metaphor you would be
Today.

By Charlotte