Colors

I know what the caged bird feels, alas!
When the sun is bright on the upland slopes;
When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass,
And the river flows like a stream of glass;
When the first bird sings and the first bud opes,
And the faint perfume from its chalice steals–
I know what the caged bird feels!

I know why the caged bird beats his wing
Till its blood is red on the cruel bars;
For he must fly back to his perch and cling
When he fain would be on the bough a-swing;
And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars
And they pulse again with a keener sting–
I know why he beats his wing!

I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,
When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,–
When he beats his bars and he would be free;
It is not a carol of joy or glee,
But a prayer that he sends from his heart’s deep core,
But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings–
I know why the caged bird sings!

abaabcc

It is a rather uncommon one

QUESTIONS
1. What is the turning point in the story? What epiphany does the daughter have? (HINT: how does the daughter feel about her mother at the beginning of he story? What are her feelings at the end of the story?)

2. Are the characters of the mother static, dynamic or developing?

3. Although the story is told in the first person ( from the view of the daughter), readers have access to the way others perceive the mother. How are other people’s perceptions communicated to the reader?

4. What is the major theme of the story? (remember- there can be more than one!)

5. What the setting of the story? (Include where/when it takes place, social conditions, and the tone and mood.)

STORY
The First Day
In an otherwise unremarkable September morning, long before I learned to be ashamed of my mother, she takes my hand and we set off down New Jersey Avenue to begin my very first day of school. I am wearing a checkeredlike blue-and-green cotton dress, and scattered about these colors are bits of yellow and white and brown. My mother has uncharacteristically spent nearly an hour on my hair that morning, plaiting and replaiting so that now my scalp tingles. Whenever I turn my head quickly, my nose fills with the faint smell of Dixie Peach hair grease. The smell is somehow a soothing one now and I will reach for it time- and time again before the morning ends. All the plaits, each with a blue barrette near the tip and each twisted into an uncommon sturdiness, will last until I go to bed that night, something

that has never happened before. My stomach is full of milk and oatmeal sweetened with brown sugar. Like everything else I have on, my pale green slip and underwear are new, the underwear having come three to a plastic package with a little girl on the front who appears to be dancing. Behind my ears, my mother, to stop my whining, has dabbed the stingiest bit of her gardenia perfume, the last present my father gave her before he disappeared into memory. Because I cannot smell it, I have only her word that the perfume is there. I am also wearing yellow socks trimmed with thin lines of black and white around the tops. My shoes are my greatest joy, black patent-leather miracles, and when one is nicked at the toe later that morning in class, my heart will break.

I am carrying a pencil, a pencil sharpener, and a small ten-cent tablet with a black-and-white speckled cover. My mother does not believe that a girl in kindergarten needs such things, so I am taking them only because of my insistent whining aVid because they are presents from our neighbors, Mary Keith and Blondelle Harris. Miss Mary and Miss Blondelle are watching my two younger sisters until my mother returns. The women are as precious to me as my mother and sisters. Out playing one day, I have overheard an older child, speaking to another child, call Miss Mary and Miss Blondelle a word that is brand new to me. This is my mother: When I say the word in fun to one of my sisters, my mother slaps me across the mouth and the word is lost for years and years.

All the way down New Jersey Avenue, the sidewalks are teeming with children. In my neighborhood, I have many friends, but I see none of them as my mother and I walk. We cross New York Avenue, we cross Pierce Street, and we cross L and K, and still I see no one who knows my name. At I Street, between New Jersey Avenue and Third Street, we enter Seaton Elementary School, a timeworn, sadfaced building across the street from my mother’s church, Mt. Carmel Baptist.

Just inside the front door, women out of the advertisements in Ebony are greeting other parents and children. The woman who greets us has pearls thick as jumbo marbles that come down almost to her navel, and she acts as if she had known me all my life, touching my shoulder, cupping her hand under my chin. She is enveloped in a perfume that I only know is not gardenia. When, in answer to her question, my mother tells her that we live at 1227 New Jersey Avenue, the woman first seems to be picturing in her head where we live. Then she shakes her head and says that we are at the wrong school, that we should be at Walker-Jones.

My mother shakes her head vigorously. ”I want her to go here,” 5 my mother says. ”If I’da wanted her someplace else, I’da took her there.” The woman continues to act as if she has known me all my life, but she tells my mother that we live beyond the area that Seaton

serves. My mother is not convinced and for several more minutes she questions the woman about why I cannot attend Seaton. For as many Sundays as I can remember, perhaps even Sundays when I was in her womb, my mother has pointed across I Street to Seaton as we come and go to Mt. Carmel. ”You gonna go there and learn about the whole world.” But one of the guardians of that place is saying no, and no again. I am learning this about my mother: The higher up on the scale of respectability a person is—and teachers are rather
are rather high up in her eyes—the less she is liable to let them push her around. But finally, I see in her eyes the closing gate, and she takes my hand and we leave the building. On the steps, she stops as people move past us on either side.

”Mama, I can’t go to school?”

She says nothing at first, then takes my hand again and we are down the steps quickly and nearing New Jersey Avenue before I can blink. This is my mother: She says, ”One monkey don’t stop no show.”

Walker-Jones is a larger, newer school and I immediately like it because of that. But it is not across the street from my mother’s church, her rock, one of her connections to God, and I sense her doubts as she absently rubs her thumb over the back of her hand. We find our way to the crowded auditorium where gray metal chairs are set up in the middle of the room. Along the wall to the left are tables and other chairs. Every chair seems occupied by a child or adult. Somewhere in the room a child is crying, a cry that r
that rises above the buzz-talk of so many people. Strewn about the floor are dozens and dozens of pieces of white paper, and people are walking over them without any thought of picking them up. And seeing this lack of concern, I am all of a sudden afraid.

”Is this where they register for school?” my mother asks a woman at one of the tables.

The woman looks up slowly as if she has heard this question once too often. She nods. She is tiny, almost as small as the girl standing beside her. The woman’s hair is set in a mass of curlers and all of those curlers are made of paper money, here a dollar bill, there a five-dollar bill. The girl’s hair is arrayed in curls, but some of them are beginning to droop and this makes me happy. On the table beside the woman’s pocketbook is a large notebook, worthy of someone in high school, and looking at me looking at the notebook, the girl places her hand possessively on it. In her other hand she holds several pencils with thick crowns of additional
erasers.

”These the forms you gotta use?” my mother asks the woman, picking up a few pieces of the paper from the table. ”Is this what you have to fill out?”

The woman tells her yes, but that she need fill out only one.

”I see,” my mother says, looking about the room. Then: ”Would ifou help me with this form? That is, if you don’t mind.” I The woman asks my mother what she means. | ”This form. Would you mind help in me fill it out?” \ The woman still seems not to understand.

i ”1 can’t read it. I don’t know how to read or write, and I’m askin you to help me.” My mother looks at me, then looks away. I know almost all of her looks, but this one is brand new to me. ”Would you help me, then?”
The woman says Why sure, and suddenly she appears happier, so much more satisfied with everything. She finishes the form for her daughter and my mother and I step aside to wait for her. We find two chairs nearby and sit. My mother is now diseased, according to the girl’s eyes, and until the moment her mother takes her and the form to the front of the auditorium, the girl never stops looking at my mother. I stare back at her. ”Don’t stare,” my mother says to me. ”You know better than that.”

Another woman out of the Ebony ads takes the woman’s child away. Now, the woman says upon returning, let’s see what we can do for you two.
My mother answers the questions the woman reads off the form. They start with my last name, and then on to the first and middle names. This is school, 1 think. This is going to school. My mother slowly enunciates each word of my name. This is my mother: As the questions go on, she takes from her pocketbook document after document, as if they will support my right to attend school, as if she has been saving them up for just this moment. Indeed, she takes out more papers than I have ever seen her do in other places: my birth certificate, my baptismal record, a doctor’s letter concerning my bout with chicken pox, rent receipts, records of immunization, a letter about our public assistance payments, even her marriage license—every single paper that has anything even remotely to do with my five-year-old life. Few of the papers are needed here, but it does not matter and my mother continues to pull out the documents with the purposefulness of a magician pulling out a long string of scarves.
My mother presents the form to a woman sitting in front of the stage, and the woman looks at it and writes something on a white card, which she gives to my mother. Before long, the woman who has taken the girl with the drooping curls appears from behind us, speaks to the sitting woman, and introduces herself to my mother and me. She’s to be my teacher, she tells my mother. My mother stares.

We go into the hall, where my mother kneels down to me. Her lips are quivering. ”I’ll be back to pick you up at twelve o’clock. I don’t want you to go nowhere. You just wait right here. And listen to every word she say.” I touch her lips and press them together. It is an old, old game between us. She puts my hand down at my side, which is not part of the game. She stands and looks a second at the teacher, then she turns and walks away. I see where she has darned one of her socks the night before. Her shoes make loud sounds in the hall.
She passes through the doors and I can still hear the loud sounds of her shoes. And even when the teacher turns me toward the classrooms and I hear what must be the singing and talking of all the children in the world, I can still hear my mother’s footsteps above it all.

nice

… it was written few days before Liverpool vs Milan CL final… if anyone has 10 minutes to read everything can answer the question (I doubt anyone will) I really agree with this guy too….. ”As a sport, I have to admit football isn’t a big deal. Too many people are following a ball, too little ending of this commune effort. It also takes about 2 hours… And then, what’s its magic??? How was it possible to become the "king of sports" ??? The answer is simple but also painful. THE FANS. The people. Why painful? Because from this fact it will "die". Now everybody (bankers, good fellows, family guys, women, babies, unborn children) are wanting to go to the "show". I go crazy when I hear this: "show". Haven’t the circus, theater, opera, handball, basketball, formula 1, Disneyland etc. been enough???

Why do you want to take our last joy? The last place where you can come and feel free? free to swear, free to spit, free to talk aloud, to drink with your friends, to live an adventure in an away trip.
Does everything has to be like you want it??? To sit on a chair, clap your hands, and maybe also to wear the right kind of perfume. To be unable to scream because next to you there is a 9 year old girl. To be unable to swear because a woman on high heals can’t accept the rudeness. Do I really have to sell my house just to participate at a world cup? A ticket for a match has became so important that they have to write your name, address and 5th degree relatives on it. To be forced to seat on a warm chair, to drink Pepsi and eat hot-dog. Is it possible to confuse the interior of a stadium with a mall?”…..

Do you like what football is becoming, a ‘’show” for rich people that, like the guy said, care about football like we care about Eurosong???

Mj it seems that i have already seen the light regard what you have posted!1 Yes i support Manchester United, Its my home city and its in my blood, that is something that will never go away. BUT in 2005 my club was taken away from me by greedy American investors who have brought nothing but a bottomless pit of debt to what was before the richest club in the world. I for 1 am not helping to repay the debt that is not mine and should never have been put upon the club.

Therefore i no longer go to Old Trafford but choose to watch non-league(amateur) football instead. and to be honest its like rolling back 20-25 years in terms of the way football is supported!!!

Nice post have a star!!

Assalaamu Aleikum Wa Rahmut Allah Wa Barakatu

Ladies i’ve started reading a book called "You Can Be The Happiest Woman In The World" By Dr. A’id Al-Qarni…
This book is filled with Quranic Verses, Ahadeeth and inspirational quotes and stories, that will help you be happier in life, insha’allah.

So Insha’allah for the next 10 days i will be posting a text from the book, each day from the first chapter..just to bring that little piece of extra happiness into your lives =)

…………………………………………………

"Allah is my Lord and i do not associate anything with Him."

LAZINESS IS A KIN TO FAILURE

I urge you to keep busy, not to give in to laziness and idleness. Rather, you should take care of your house and home library, and do your duties and your work, or pray, or read Quran or useful books, or listen to useful tapes, or sit with your neighbours and friends and talk to them about things that will bring them closer to Allah. Then you will find happiness and joy, by Allah’s Leave. And beware of giving in to idleness, for this will lead to worries, anxiety, devilish whispers and doubts that nothing can relieve except hard work.

You should take care of your appearance, wear perfume at home, keep your house tidy, and meet your husband, children, siblings, relatives and friends looking cheerful, with a ready smile and an attitude of contentment.

Beware of sin for it leads to grief, especially the sins that are very common among women, such as forbidden glances, wanton adornment, being alone with non-mahram man, cursing, slandering, backbiting, denying one’s husband’s rights and not acknowledging his acts of kindness. These sins are very common among women, except for those on whom Allah has mercy, so beware of incurring the wrath of Allah and fear Him, for fear of Allah is what brings happiness and a clear conscience.

"When distress strikes and calamities come one after another, then say: La ilaha illallah."

wa alaykom assalam wa rahmato llah wa barakatoh

i LOVED the subj SOOOOOO MUCH

but i wonder doesnt ” by Allah’s Leave” seems wrong?? i dont know but as for the rest well ITS AMAZING … i loved reading this post.. thanks for sharing and i would be happy to read the other parts too in sha’aa llah

jazaki llah khayran sis.amin

assalamo alaykom

Sympathy
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

I know what the caged bird feels, alas!
When the sun is bright on the upland slopes;
When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass,
And the river flows like a stream of glass;
When the first bird sings and the first bud opens,
And the faint perfume from its chalice steals–
I know what the caged bird feels!

I know why the caged bird beats its wing
Till its blood is red on the cruel bars;
For he must fly back to his perch and cling
When he fain would be on the bough a-swing;
And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars
And they pulse again with a keener sting–
I know why he beats his wing!

I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,
When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,–
When he beats his bars and he would be free;
It is not a carol of joy or glee,
But a prayer that he sends from his heart’s deep core,
But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings–

"Sympathy" was written by Paul Laurence Dunbar in 1899, right at the end of the Nineteenth Century. It is a poem about the caged bird who wants to be free and tries, tries and tries again to break out of its cage. Each time, it is unable to break free and instead only injures itself, adding to injuries left over from past escapes. Dunbar depicts the bird’s desperate and unsuccessful struggle for freedom and images of nature, that beckon outside. The first paragraph touches on the situation that black people faced at the turn of the century.

When we are leaving this world for the next one, it shall be like a trip to another country.

Where details of that country won’t be found in glamorous travel brochures but in the Holy Quran and the Ahadiths.

Where our plane won’t be British Airways, Gulf Air or American Airlines but Air Janazah.

Where our luggage won’t be the allowed 23 kgs but our deeds no matter how heavy they weigh.

You don’t pay for excess luggage. They are carried free of charge. With your Creator’s compliment.

Where our dress won’t be a Pierre Cardin suit or the like but the white cotton shroud.

Where our perfume won’t be Chanel, Paco Rabane, but the camphor and attar.

Where our passports won’t be British, French or American but Al Islam Where our visa won’t be the 6 months leave to stay or else but the "La Illaha Illallah.."

Where the airhostess won’t be gorgeous females but Isra’iil and its like Where the in-flight services won’t be 1st class or economy but a piece of beautifully scented or foul smelling cloth.

Where our place of destination won’t be Heathrow Terminal 1 or Jeddah International Terminal but the Qabarastaan.

Where our waiting lounge won’t be nice carpeted and air-conditioned rooms but the 6 feet deep gloomy Qabar.

Where the Immigration Officer won’t be Her Majesty’s officers but Munkir and Nakir. They only check out whether you deserve the place you yearn to go.

Where there is no need for Customs Officers or detectors. Where the transit airport will be Al Barzaakh.

Where our final place of destination will be either the Garden under which rivers flow or the Hell Fire This trip does not come with a price tag.

It is free of charge. So your savings would not come handy This flight can never be hijacked so do not worry about terrorists. Food won’t be served on this flight so do not worry about your allergies or whether the food is Halal.

Do not worry about legroom; you won’t need it, as your legs will become things of the past.

Do not worry about delays. This flight is always punctual. It arrives and leaves on time.

Do not worry about the in-flight entertainment programme because you would have lost all your sense of joy.

Do not worry about booking this trip, it has already been booked the day you became a foetus in your mother’s womb. Ah! At last good news!

Do not worry about who will be sitting next to you. You will have the luxury of being the only passenger. So enjoy it while you can. If only you can!

One small snag though, this trip comes with no warning.

Are you prepared ?

I’m not afraid of leaving, nor am I prepared, I think I will never be prepared completely.

A Good Reminder, Jazaak Allahu Khiren brother.

Salaam alaikkum.

I bought an original eau de toilette (Scarlett by Cacharel) less than a week ago I love the smell use it with joy and everything. I haven’t been using it for a couple of days and today when i put on some of it it smelled awful. It totally changed its smell it heavier and makes me wanna throw up. (I thought it might be something on my skin so i sprayed a little bit on a paper and into the top of the perfume but it still smelled ridiculous.)
Its brand new and the bottle is practically full. I haven’t been exposing the bottle to sun or high temperature.
So my questions are:
Do you have any idea why the perfume changed it smell?
and
Is there anything I can do about it?

please HELP
tnx in advance
xxxx, m.

goshhh this happens to me sometimes too !
but, i think really, its just maybe the perfume’s quality is not quite as good as you thought.
that’s my guess.
advice: dont buy it again, try something else.
-also try asking other buyers of the perfume if you know any, if they had the same problem.

POLL: http://answers.yahoo.com/question/index;_ylt=AlEQG9CPCs9EZwKiKHorjybsy6IX;_ylv=3?qid=20091229125525AAmefYk

So this year will be one of the most depressing Christmases of my life. I am now fourteen and I live in a really crap area where it doesn’t snow at all. Santa is not coming to our house - I am the youngest of 5 and if you are the eldest then you’ll know the joy of watching your younger siblings opening their presents and exclaiming, "Look what Santa brought me! I must have been so good this year!" I have asked my parents for surprises. I’ll just get the usual - socks, clothes, perfume. Then I’ll feel like an idiot as I wear a tissue paper hat and shovel turkey into my mouth. And only 6 people will attend because my eldest brother cant make it back from Portugal. So I won’t be with my whole family. Any ways to get me into the Christmas Spirit?
Thanks
Merry Christmas
Tamalea

you are lucky, think of some other less fortunate,
no home at all to have Christmas in
no presents at all
and no family to see
SOME people cant afford paper hats
or any food!
so live with what you got! and seriously suck it up, imagine the people you have nothing if they ever read this they would be like wow, i wish i could live like that.
make the best of it, at least you get something, even if its not the best you could think of.
WA!

ok, so I’m 24wks pregnant tomorrow, and for the past week I was getting a real itchy rash on my neck. It would go away after I put lotion on it (cocoa butter, that I’ve been using for years) Well, now it’s not going away and it’s traveled down my left upper arm and tiny little red dots on both my lower arms. I feel itching on my back right now, but I’m at work so I cant really take my shirt off to look! It’s itches sooo bad!

I haven’t changed anything! Not laundry soap, not lotion, or perfume.. no new clothes no new jewelry… nothing! I was going to put some caladryl lotion on it, but stupid me forgot to bring it with me. I’ll prob call my DR in a little while when the office opens, but any suggestions as to what this might be? Should I be concerned about it, or is it just another joy of pregnancy???

Thank you!

i had this happen with my last one. My hormones just caused a changed in my body, which is known to happen during pregnancy. I wouldn’t worry too much, it stinks I know but probably isn’t anything to worry about.

I changed my lotion to help cope with it, as well as my soaps, laundry detergent and such. Went to dye-free, hypoallergenic types. It seemed to help.

Your doctor will probably have you come in just to double check and make sure there isn’t something wrong. Mine did but when it turned out to be nothing he just told me to change my lotions and such and it helped. He said if that didn’t help he would prescribe something to help with any allergy I may have developed during pregnancy. It went away about 3 weeks after I had my son.

Hope you get to feel better. If you don’t have anything in the house to help, try oatmeal. It works for chicken pox, it helped me until I could get everything changed out.

He was wearing white cowboy uniform and he was selling perfume the name of the episode or the season no. plz

That was "The One with the Breast Milk" season 2, episode 2.

http://uk.imdb.com/title/tt0583583/