Help Me With My Homework?
I need help! I'm still working on my homework for my creative writing class: writing about something I hate. I've written two pieces, and I can't decide which I want to submit. Please, read them both and then comment and tell me which you like better. Which is more interesting? Which shows more individuality, or more voice? Which best describes what it is and why I hate it?
There is a comedy sketch in which a man walks into a restaurant that serves bisque. He asks the waiter what kinds of bisque they serve, and the waiter lists several: mushroom, tomato, asparagus, lettuce, shrimp, but dwells on the house specialty, which is lobster bisque. The customer doesn’t care for lobster, and so he orders the mushroom bisque. A few minutes later, the waiter returns to apologize and inform him that they are all out of mushroom bisque. So the man asks for tomato bisque. The waiter tells him that they are out of tomato bisque as well. In exasperation, the man finally asks what kind of bisque they DO have, and the waiter tells him, “lobster bisque!”
This situation may be funny in a comedy sketch, but in real life, I find these “false choices” incredibly annoying: to think I have a choice about something, and then find that my preference doesn’t matter after all.
Several years ago, when I was living in Brazil, my roommate and I would return home after a long day of being out in the humidity and heat, and she would offer to make us some juice. She would list the kinds of juice we had available: passion fruit, guava, or acerola, and she would ask what kind of juice I wanted. Gratefully, I’d tell her I’d like passion fruit juice, and then she would inform me that she preferred acerola, and she would make the acerola juice instead. Inside my head, I would be screaming, “If you wanted acerola, why didn’t you just make it in the first place? Why did you even ask me what I wanted, if you had already decided what you were going to make?” It wasn’t that I had anything against the tart berries that resemble cherries. My problem was that she would let me think I had some say in the matter, and then totally disregard everything I said.
Being offered a choice and then having the decision taken out of my hands is like being given a closet full of clothes and then told I have to wear one specific uniform. It’s like a child being told he can do anything he wants when he grows up, but then being compelled to join the family business. It’s like learning thousands of delicious words, and then being told I must only use certain ones. It’s like Henry Ford telling his customers they can “have a car painted any color that he wants, so long as it is black.”
If you offer me a choice, let me make it. If there isn’t really a choice, or if that choice has already been made by someone else, then don’t offer it as a choice, just tell me what the answer is. Don’t lift my hopes up and then dash them to the ground in a crumpled and useless heap! If you are going to give me a choice, then let me choose, and let my choice mean something!
The vilest thing I’ve ever had the misfortune to sink my teeth into was a bean. Don’t misunderstand me; I don’t mind most beans. I enjoy white beans cooked until they are tender in a soup flavored with ham. Red beans simmered with spicy peppers in chili are good. Even black beans served over fluffy white rice can make a tasty dinner. It wasn’t the color of the vegetable that was the problem. I like dark green broccoli drizzled with melted cheese, and shiny green zucchini that has been broiled and well seasoned isn’t bad either. Even tiny green peas plucked fresh from the vine can make a tasty snack. But this evil green thing was a bean. It wasn’t a long string bean – that would have been fine too. No, this was much, much worse.
This bean was short and squat. It was a pale, sickly green, a color that may well have been reflected in my face the first time my teeth punctured the waxy outer membrane and its inner guts were excreted onto my unsuspecting taste buds. My first reflex was to gag and spit, to expel the torture from my mouth, but I knew that wouldn’t go over well with my mom who was sitting nearby, ensuring that all the vegetables on my plate were eaten. I choked and gagged in agony, but eventually managed to swallow that bitter pill of a vegetable. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the only one on my plate.
I attempted different strategies to make the poison disappear. (I wasn’t surprised when I learned that the vile pills do actually contain a trace amount of arsenic!) I crowded my fork with other foods to try to camouflage the taste. I tossed them to the back of my throat and guzzled cold water in an attempt to swallow them whole. I moved them around the plate with my fork in a desperate hope that they would vanish on their own. But it was all in vain. Into my mouth they would go, and once in my mouth, their bitter nastiness would permeate everything else, lingering in my throat and the taste would haunt me for hours after.
I sometimes wonder what starving individual first came across this awful bean and decided it was edible. I wonder what atrocities they must have eaten before to even suppose that someone might want to eat this bitter and acrid pill. I gape in astonishment to find it sharing the same bags at the grocery store with such delicious things as carrots and corn. What were the packagers thinking?
One of the most wonderful things about becoming an adult and moving out of my parents’ house was never again having to see – let alone taste, my dreadful nemesis, the lima bean.
______________________________________________________
There is a comedy sketch in which a man walks into a restaurant that serves bisque. He asks the waiter what kinds of bisque they serve, and the waiter lists several: mushroom, tomato, asparagus, lettuce, shrimp, but dwells on the house specialty, which is lobster bisque. The customer doesn’t care for lobster, and so he orders the mushroom bisque. A few minutes later, the waiter returns to apologize and inform him that they are all out of mushroom bisque. So the man asks for tomato bisque. The waiter tells him that they are out of tomato bisque as well. In exasperation, the man finally asks what kind of bisque they DO have, and the waiter tells him, “lobster bisque!”
This situation may be funny in a comedy sketch, but in real life, I find these “false choices” incredibly annoying: to think I have a choice about something, and then find that my preference doesn’t matter after all.
Several years ago, when I was living in Brazil, my roommate and I would return home after a long day of being out in the humidity and heat, and she would offer to make us some juice. She would list the kinds of juice we had available: passion fruit, guava, or acerola, and she would ask what kind of juice I wanted. Gratefully, I’d tell her I’d like passion fruit juice, and then she would inform me that she preferred acerola, and she would make the acerola juice instead. Inside my head, I would be screaming, “If you wanted acerola, why didn’t you just make it in the first place? Why did you even ask me what I wanted, if you had already decided what you were going to make?” It wasn’t that I had anything against the tart berries that resemble cherries. My problem was that she would let me think I had some say in the matter, and then totally disregard everything I said.
Being offered a choice and then having the decision taken out of my hands is like being given a closet full of clothes and then told I have to wear one specific uniform. It’s like a child being told he can do anything he wants when he grows up, but then being compelled to join the family business. It’s like learning thousands of delicious words, and then being told I must only use certain ones. It’s like Henry Ford telling his customers they can “have a car painted any color that he wants, so long as it is black.”
If you offer me a choice, let me make it. If there isn’t really a choice, or if that choice has already been made by someone else, then don’t offer it as a choice, just tell me what the answer is. Don’t lift my hopes up and then dash them to the ground in a crumpled and useless heap! If you are going to give me a choice, then let me choose, and let my choice mean something!
___________________________________________________________
The vilest thing I’ve ever had the misfortune to sink my teeth into was a bean. Don’t misunderstand me; I don’t mind most beans. I enjoy white beans cooked until they are tender in a soup flavored with ham. Red beans simmered with spicy peppers in chili are good. Even black beans served over fluffy white rice can make a tasty dinner. It wasn’t the color of the vegetable that was the problem. I like dark green broccoli drizzled with melted cheese, and shiny green zucchini that has been broiled and well seasoned isn’t bad either. Even tiny green peas plucked fresh from the vine can make a tasty snack. But this evil green thing was a bean. It wasn’t a long string bean – that would have been fine too. No, this was much, much worse.
This bean was short and squat. It was a pale, sickly green, a color that may well have been reflected in my face the first time my teeth punctured the waxy outer membrane and its inner guts were excreted onto my unsuspecting taste buds. My first reflex was to gag and spit, to expel the torture from my mouth, but I knew that wouldn’t go over well with my mom who was sitting nearby, ensuring that all the vegetables on my plate were eaten. I choked and gagged in agony, but eventually managed to swallow that bitter pill of a vegetable. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the only one on my plate.
I attempted different strategies to make the poison disappear. (I wasn’t surprised when I learned that the vile pills do actually contain a trace amount of arsenic!) I crowded my fork with other foods to try to camouflage the taste. I tossed them to the back of my throat and guzzled cold water in an attempt to swallow them whole. I moved them around the plate with my fork in a desperate hope that they would vanish on their own. But it was all in vain. Into my mouth they would go, and once in my mouth, their bitter nastiness would permeate everything else, lingering in my throat and the taste would haunt me for hours after.
I sometimes wonder what starving individual first came across this awful bean and decided it was edible. I wonder what atrocities they must have eaten before to even suppose that someone might want to eat this bitter and acrid pill. I gape in astonishment to find it sharing the same bags at the grocery store with such delicious things as carrots and corn. What were the packagers thinking?
One of the most wonderful things about becoming an adult and moving out of my parents’ house was never again having to see – let alone taste, my dreadful nemesis, the lima bean.
I personally like both of them, but the dreaded Lima bean one made me laugh! It definitely shows your individuality more than the first one. The first one applies to most people, but the Lima bean is more interesting and entertaining. :)
ReplyDeleteThey were both good, but I loved the lima bean one :) I feel exactly the same way, and reading that was actually making me gag. Great! unfortunately, Dean loves lima beans, and so I still see them in my home regularly, although I can usually avoid eating them.
ReplyDeleteThat is kinda how I feel towards raw carrots, or even more so, the avocado. The first story felt redundant. There seemed to be too many descriptions, and examples of one basic point. Once I knew what you hated, I was ready for the next story. The second one pulled you in better, making you wonder what this awful bean might be..
ReplyDeletethanks for your comments! I did decide to go with the lima bean one.
ReplyDelete