"A child who reads will be an adult who thinks"
PASTICHE
A pastiche is a style of poetry that imitates another work. The poem we will use today is called “How It Feels to Be Colored Me” by Zora Neale Hurston. You will write yours in the style of her poem.
Step 1: Self-Reflection
Think about one thing people may consider bad or negative about you. Write about why you think that aspect of your character is good or bad. Is this something you would like to change or are you content with that thing staying the same?
**Be sure to use at least one APPOSITIVE and one METAPHOR in your response. Underline or circle them.**
Appositive: The book, with the stain on it, is mine.
Metaphor: My life is a rhombus.
Appositive: The book, with the stain on it, is mine.
Metaphor: My life is a rhombus.
Step 2 (write your reflection) : Top Model Self-Reflection
When people describe my energy, they usually label me as a free-spirit or eccentric. Sometimes, they tease and say I’m a modern-day hippie because of my vegan, Buddhist, natural lifestyle, or because I don’t … can’t… won’t conform. I hear the slugs. It’s their nicest way of saying they don’t like the way I move. JaiQue, my younger sister, even calls me “uniquely weird” when she introduces me to her fake ass friends. I don’t mind though. I am who I am.
From scratch, I was made this way SONshine, and I won’t ever apologize for the vibration I’m rooted in. So be it. I’m an enigma. My mom says she doesn’t understand me. My dad says I don’t ever follow the rules. But that’s not my problem. It’s theirs. How I am does not bother me. I’m a goal digger so I cannot let people’s opinions or judgements about me sway my progress—I don’t impose on people. I’m not mean. I’m not rude. I mind my business. I flow with the Universe. Afterall, I only have one life. Just. One. Ain’t no do-overs. So, I have to live this life on my own terms until the day I fall asleep for the last time and drift toward my continuum and who I’ll be next.
From scratch, I was made this way SONshine, and I won’t ever apologize for the vibration I’m rooted in. So be it. I’m an enigma. My mom says she doesn’t understand me. My dad says I don’t ever follow the rules. But that’s not my problem. It’s theirs. How I am does not bother me. I’m a goal digger so I cannot let people’s opinions or judgements about me sway my progress—I don’t impose on people. I’m not mean. I’m not rude. I mind my business. I flow with the Universe. Afterall, I only have one life. Just. One. Ain’t no do-overs. So, I have to live this life on my own terms until the day I fall asleep for the last time and drift toward my continuum and who I’ll be next.
Step 3: Read the Poem You'll Use for Your Pastiche
For this example, you will use Zora Neale-Hurston's poem, How It Feels to be Colored Me
How It Feels to be Colored Me by Zora Neal Hurston
But I am not tragically colored. There is no great sorrow dammed up in my soul, nor lurking behind my eyes. I do not mind at all. I do not belong to the sobbing school of Negrohood who hold that nature somehow has given them a lowdown dirty deal and whose feelings are all but about it. Even in the helter-skelter skirmish that is my life, I have seen that the world is to the strong regardless of a little pigmentation more of less.
No, I do not weep at the world—I am too busy sharpening my oyster knife.
Someone is always at my elbow reminding me that I am the granddaughter of slaves. It fails to register depression with me. Slavery is sixty years in the past. The operation was successful and the patient is doing well, thank you. The terrible struggle that made me an American out of a potential slave said "On the line!" The Reconstruction said "Get set!" and the generation before said "Go!" I am off to a flying start and I must not halt in the stretch to look behind and weep. Slavery is the price I paid for civilization, and the choice was not with me. It is a bully adventure and worth all that I have paid through my ancestors for it. No one on earth ever had a greater chance for glory. The world to be won and nothing to be lost. It is thrilling to think--to know that for any act of mine, I shall get twice as much praise or twice as much blame. It is quite exciting to hold the center of the national stage, with the spectators not knowing whether to laugh or to weep.
The position of my white neighbor is much more difficult. No brown specter pulls up a chair beside me when I sit down to eat. No dark ghost thrusts its leg against mine in bed. The game of keeping what one has is never so exciting as the game of getting.
I do not always feel colored. Even now? I often achieve the unconscious Zora of Eatonville before the Hegira. I feel most colored when I am thrown against a sharp white background. For instance at Barnard. "Beside the waters of the Hudson" I feel my race. Among the thousand white persons, I am a dark rock surged upon, and overswept, but through it all, I remain myself. When covered by the waters, I am; and the ebb but reveals me again.
But I am not tragically colored. There is no great sorrow dammed up in my soul, nor lurking behind my eyes. I do not mind at all. I do not belong to the sobbing school of Negrohood who hold that nature somehow has given them a lowdown dirty deal and whose feelings are all but about it. Even in the helter-skelter skirmish that is my life, I have seen that the world is to the strong regardless of a little pigmentation more of less.
No, I do not weep at the world—I am too busy sharpening my oyster knife.
Someone is always at my elbow reminding me that I am the granddaughter of slaves. It fails to register depression with me. Slavery is sixty years in the past. The operation was successful and the patient is doing well, thank you. The terrible struggle that made me an American out of a potential slave said "On the line!" The Reconstruction said "Get set!" and the generation before said "Go!" I am off to a flying start and I must not halt in the stretch to look behind and weep. Slavery is the price I paid for civilization, and the choice was not with me. It is a bully adventure and worth all that I have paid through my ancestors for it. No one on earth ever had a greater chance for glory. The world to be won and nothing to be lost. It is thrilling to think--to know that for any act of mine, I shall get twice as much praise or twice as much blame. It is quite exciting to hold the center of the national stage, with the spectators not knowing whether to laugh or to weep.
The position of my white neighbor is much more difficult. No brown specter pulls up a chair beside me when I sit down to eat. No dark ghost thrusts its leg against mine in bed. The game of keeping what one has is never so exciting as the game of getting.
I do not always feel colored. Even now? I often achieve the unconscious Zora of Eatonville before the Hegira. I feel most colored when I am thrown against a sharp white background. For instance at Barnard. "Beside the waters of the Hudson" I feel my race. Among the thousand white persons, I am a dark rock surged upon, and overswept, but through it all, I remain myself. When covered by the waters, I am; and the ebb but reveals me again.
Step 4: Write your own pastiche based on your self-reflection.
Use Zora Neale-Hurston's stanza starters, write your own based on your self-reflection. Here's my example below.
How It Feels to be Eccentric Me by delmetria l. millener
But I am not tragically eccentric. I'm who I’ve become. A smart, keep-it-real, loving, caring, napfrocentric, flip-flops in the winter wearing, conflicted-feminist vibing, leaf-chewing, semi-conscious, doing-life-my-way, writing my ass off intellect. They call me red. They call me thawriter. They call me…d. I am here to look, listen, learn then leave.
No, I do not weep at the world. I do me, which sometimes require that I do normal things like normal people when all I want to do is just be—free—be me. Many say I’m an enigma, a rebel, that I walk to the beat of my own drum. Do I care? Let me think…Nope. I live my life in a bubble. In my head. I despise hum-drum. So, I keep thriving. And I create. I write. And the rhythm of it all makes me feel high as a kite.
Someone is always at my elbow reminding me just how eccentric I am. But what is it they think they see? Is it my innate curiosity to always want to learn new things? My transparency? That’s all I know to be. When I’m conflicted or confused, I sneak off to spend time with Jah. The Buddha. Jesus. My Consciousness. My Muse. There’s a long streak of fire deep down in me to live free. Like the incense I burn when I’m searching for peace. I crave it. Long for it. And haters. You say I’m fickle? In order to get to know me (a little), you need to get to know me. A little.
The position of my eccentricity is simple: Daily, I self-medicate with new words, new potions. I flow with the Universe. I’m easy. Slow motion. I love as hard as I work. I work as hard as I love. I don’t look for signs from above. I make the signs myself, to be sure of—my passion about life (when it doesn’t pose me strife). I'm a natural, vegan, chemical-free environmentalist with a dry sense of humor. I have a monotone laugh and my heart couldn’t be truer. True-her: I am earth. I am wind. I am fire. I am water. I am d. Always and all ways—I am she.
I do not always feel eccentric. But I always keep it real. I’m authentic. Folk say I have an addiction. They say it’s my affliction. I cheat on my family every day with words, puzzles, and readers who make predictions. I’m addicted to nouns, adjectives, verbs and other words. I’ll skip celebrations and vacations to spend time with books, essays, and my higher vibrations. I've starved myself on language; binged on literature, poetry, and writing. My veins bleed ink onto the notebook pages in which I write—it makes me feel mighty. My fingertips blister from the puzzle pieces called letters on laptop keyboards that I embroider into words. I’m a nerd. I need reprieve. So I get my pencil and I WRITE for the very reason I breathe...
But I am not tragically eccentric. I'm who I’ve become. A smart, keep-it-real, loving, caring, napfrocentric, flip-flops in the winter wearing, conflicted-feminist vibing, leaf-chewing, semi-conscious, doing-life-my-way, writing my ass off intellect. They call me red. They call me thawriter. They call me…d. I am here to look, listen, learn then leave.
No, I do not weep at the world. I do me, which sometimes require that I do normal things like normal people when all I want to do is just be—free—be me. Many say I’m an enigma, a rebel, that I walk to the beat of my own drum. Do I care? Let me think…Nope. I live my life in a bubble. In my head. I despise hum-drum. So, I keep thriving. And I create. I write. And the rhythm of it all makes me feel high as a kite.
Someone is always at my elbow reminding me just how eccentric I am. But what is it they think they see? Is it my innate curiosity to always want to learn new things? My transparency? That’s all I know to be. When I’m conflicted or confused, I sneak off to spend time with Jah. The Buddha. Jesus. My Consciousness. My Muse. There’s a long streak of fire deep down in me to live free. Like the incense I burn when I’m searching for peace. I crave it. Long for it. And haters. You say I’m fickle? In order to get to know me (a little), you need to get to know me. A little.
The position of my eccentricity is simple: Daily, I self-medicate with new words, new potions. I flow with the Universe. I’m easy. Slow motion. I love as hard as I work. I work as hard as I love. I don’t look for signs from above. I make the signs myself, to be sure of—my passion about life (when it doesn’t pose me strife). I'm a natural, vegan, chemical-free environmentalist with a dry sense of humor. I have a monotone laugh and my heart couldn’t be truer. True-her: I am earth. I am wind. I am fire. I am water. I am d. Always and all ways—I am she.
I do not always feel eccentric. But I always keep it real. I’m authentic. Folk say I have an addiction. They say it’s my affliction. I cheat on my family every day with words, puzzles, and readers who make predictions. I’m addicted to nouns, adjectives, verbs and other words. I’ll skip celebrations and vacations to spend time with books, essays, and my higher vibrations. I've starved myself on language; binged on literature, poetry, and writing. My veins bleed ink onto the notebook pages in which I write—it makes me feel mighty. My fingertips blister from the puzzle pieces called letters on laptop keyboards that I embroider into words. I’m a nerd. I need reprieve. So I get my pencil and I WRITE for the very reason I breathe...
Resource: Pastiche starters from Zora Neale-Hurston's How it Feels to Be Colored Me.
But I am not tragically…
No, I do not weep at the world…
Someone is always at my elbow reminding me…
The position of…
I do not always feel…
No, I do not weep at the world…
Someone is always at my elbow reminding me…
The position of…
I do not always feel…