American Dream Essay

The American dream constantly changes, although the basis of it is still “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.” The American people search for freedom, equality, and fulfillment in this country.
In the mid-1800s, John Albert, one of my ancestors, came to America from Germany in search of a better life for himself and his family. He enlisted as a musician for the North in the Civil War and died as a prisoner a few months later. Throughout the 1900s, immigrants continued to come to America, which was seen as a land of opportunity. In the movie Golden Door, which reflects that era, the Italians imagined America as the land of plenty where everyone took baths in milk and ate 10-foot vegetables. The American reality was quite different as many people went hungry and died from diseases they got in the cramped tenement houses. In general, however, the new life started by immigrants was better than facing starvation in their old countries. Most were even shocked by the simple ability to receive hot, running water directly into their kitchens.
In the 1950s the American dream was for a housewife to have a working husband with one or two children in a nice house with a white picket fence. Leave it to Beaver is a prime example of what this idealistic life would have been like. The people focused on family values and morals. The reality was a bit different since America was fighting in the Korean War, and also because of the fear and suspicion of communism during McCarthyism. The dream was somewhat realized since many families lived happily in suburban areas in which the wives had dinner ready for the time their husbands would get home from work.
In the new millennium, the basic dream remains the same. Americans live in the land of possibility where it is easy to succeed and live liberally. Every person has the right to an education, economic advancement, and political freedom. Many people aspire to go to college, pursue successful careers, and have loving families. In reality, some people are homeless and there is a recession, which may lead to a severe economic depression. However, there are signs of hope and possibility in this nation: having an African American president, advancing in technology, or maybe becoming famous through youtube.
Despite my passion for Europe, America will always be my home and the place I love most. America symbolizes hope and promise even today, for people living all over the world.

Memories from Padre Claret 15

For some reason, tonight I am feeling nostalgic. We were studying the Parisian Metro map in French class and it made me miss the Metro in Madrid. Luckily, youtube is amazing. I found clips of the Metro man saying, "Proxima estacion... ". I didn't think I would miss something as simple as that, which I heard almost every day. I never realized how beautiful the subway was.



The clip shows la linea 4. I lived at Alfonso XIII. Maps.google is pretty amazing, too. I was able to virtually walk the streets. I walked past the park I spent a bit of my youth running in. We used to go to the Retiro park to eat obleas. I saw the pharmacy with the big green cross and the garden with the snails we poked. I saw the VIPS restaurant where we ate pancakes and the second hand store where we bought VHSs. I saw the Sabeco super market where I bought bread every morning for 58 cents. I saw the church where we spent countless hours whispering in the pews and making paper aiplanes out of the pamphlets. I saw the apartment we had lived in since my birth (only in the summer for me). Victor the landlord, who we were afraid of but is now shorter than us, would yell because we put our fingerprints on the mirrors in the elevator. We liked to push all the buttons in the elevator and send Brian up alone. We also thought he’d enjoy being thrown from the top floor down all the stairs. He got his first bath as a consequence. I saw the terrace on the fourth floor, the one with the faded yellow blinds. I traveled into my memory to see that stack of newspapers Papa piled to the ceiling, insisting he would need them one day. I saw the old brown chairs that were falling apart because we sat on them wrong, with the right arm crusty from my brother wiping his boogers on it. The wood on the floor, stained and old, in a crisscross pattern. The rows of VHS movies to which we knew all the lines in spanish. The balcony with the cat stickers on the glass, we put them up and couldn't get them down. The 3 noodles stuck to the bumpy ceiling (it was my method of making sure they were cooked). The orange striped awning, which made my hands smell like metal when I rolled it down. The thermometer in degrees Celcius. The dusty bricks. The chandelier that Papa knocked his head on but that I couldn’t reach. The old tablecloth with years of stains on it, always covered with breadcrumbs. Years of eating exactly one cup of Cola Cao and toast with marmelada and mantequilla. The black dresser with the eagle heads and candelabrum. The white kitchen which was usually not very clean. The wet mop that I made my brother dance with once. The old-fashioned coffee maker that Papa used every morning. The stove that only turned on with a lighter. The container of stale candy we refused to throw out. Endless jars of Nutella and Cola Cao. The refrigerator with the handle falling off. Filled with banana and strawberry yogurts despite the fact that Papa hated them. There was an ince cube tray in the freezer which I would snack on in those terribly hot days. The big green door with brass knobs and 4A written on it. The pictures of girls dancing on the wall. The wooden door with the screen. The bathroom with the painted ceiling chipped. The pile of Papa’s clothes in the butt rinse. The yellow heater which made odd gurgling sounds. The bottle of hairspray that my mom left and which Papa hadn’t wanted to part with. The cabinet with 3 mirrors, filled with junk. The little whole Papa uncovered to try to rescue my Polly Pocket that had taken a bath in the sink and slipped. Papa’s study… so overstuffed with CDs and magazines that I had to pretend to be a ballerina on tiptoes when I walked in. The pigeons that would sit on his window sill. The loud crunching sound of plastic when I knocked over his CDs. The rows of old books, with a section devoted to Hitchcock. The picture of him with his mother when he was a boy. My room. The room where the few dramatic moments of my young life took place. The old bed with the debilitated pillow that we loved. Where Papa woke us with kisses and freshly squeezed orange juice when we had to go to school. The pile of books that fell when I stretched my feet out. The closet that wouldn’t open but contained all of our toys. Where I also hung my plaid skirt school uniform. The collection of porcelain dolls that I got from the magazine stand. The blocks of wood that could be pulled up to reveal dust and my paper money. My pig, Segovia, holding all my pesetas. The dark corridor to Papa’s room. The exercising bike he never used. The other balcony from which Alberto squirted innocent people. The cross hanging above his bed. The beige leather chair from the last century. The lamp with bulbs hanging upside down. The closet with Abuelo’s old suits. The giant bed over which I tripped, broke my arm, and laid on for an hour in agony. Papa told us stories of Brian’s adventures with pirates, cowboys, and eskimos on that bed. Bedtime stories. Which I sorely miss. In retrospect, I never really appreciated it until I was gone. It was just another place I went. It was just another summer house. Only now do I realize how much of a home it was.

Memories from Padre Claret 15

Narrative Story

“What if I bought you some gelato? Would you come with me then?”
“Yes,” I said without hesitation, practically jumping into her car. It smelled like her and was extremely clean. I would follow her every day after school in the center of town. She would sit in her chair behind the counter stringing pearls. She said one day she might give me a necklace if she had extras. When she saw my face peeping through the window, she would beckon for me to come in and I would do so, timidly.
Franca was one of my few friends in Scandiano, Italy. There was a great view of the hills from my bedroom window and I went hiking there a few times. My mom moved the family, my brother and me, there while she was on sabbatical. It was my freshman year. The people were so very kind and the language was so beautiful that I fell in love at once with the country. The first day we were in town, our neighbor came over with a huge piece of chocolate. Since then she’s known my weakness for sweets and that’s how she got me into her car that day. We went to Reggio Emilia to pick up an order for her jewelry store and I got the Stracciatella ice cream she had promised me. Later, Franca taught me how to make Italian tortelli. She rolled the dough as I put the paste in the middle.
School was very difficult, having to learn Italian subjunctive grammar and Latin verbs. Especially the oral exams, which I answered in broken Italian. The Italian kids weren’t too interested in an outsider like me and mostly kept to themselves. A girl from Morocco and one from Ukraine would talk to me a lot and help me understand the assignments. Whenever I was done with my homework and had nothing to do (the TV was broken), I would head up to Franca’s apartment. She would let me pick the cherries and figs that grew on her trees in the backyard.
It was autumn, the leaves were starting to turn colors, and suddenly it was Halloween. I invited a few classmates over to celebrate this bizarre American holiday. We had all dressed up as witches with our black hats. Most of the houses we visited were oblivious to the trick-or-treating system. One lady gave us a piece of nut cake she had just baked and another gave us a basket of sticky cough drops. In the apartments, we rang the doorbells and yelled for them to throw us candy. They floated down in plastic bags delicately, sustained by the wind for a few seconds. We also had a five minute encounter with an elderly man who couldn’t understand what we wanted from him.
My stepfather, Danilo, brought us to his dusty attic once to taste his homemade vinegar. It was the most delicious liquid I had ever tasted. The sweetness of the balsamic and the burn of the acid was a perfect combination. I would sneak spoonfuls of it from his kitchen when he wasn’t looking. We picked white grapes when he brought us to his vineyard. After squashing the sweet grapes, we tasted his wine from the previous year. I loved it so much that I drank enough to smack my eye when I tried to find my nose. On his green farm he had a herd of goats. I immediately fell in love with the adorable Pepe and trained him to give me kisses and sit on my lap.
The next holiday was Thanksgiving. We invited Franca, her husband Franco, and Danilo to dinner. I made turkey with stuffing and mashed potatoes. The pie was made from a real pumpkin that we squashed and had a very distinguished flavor. It was nowhere near as good as my grandmother’s but it was special because it was eaten with my new Italian family. Franca had practically adopted me as her granddaughter. We had a gallon of corn relish left over, which we gave to every person we knew, passing it off as a popular American delicacy.
On the day before we left, the house was full of tears. After going through that whole experience I was leaving with the fondest of memories and new friends for life. As promised, Franca gave me a little box. I knew immediately what treasure lay inside.

Europe

Europe is so wonderful. You just have to visit it. Until then, I will point out some unique things about life there:
Food is a huge part of their culture. A normal meal consists of 3 courses: vegetable appetizer, meat main course, ham and cheese. Of course, no meal is complete without wine or bread. Even kids can drink alcohol there and I was sometimes pressured by the adults, who thought it was funny, to do so.
A sandwich is made out of a baguette or another long bread and filled with proscuito and cheese. They only use the bread we have to make toast, which is what they have for breakfast instead of cereal or pancakes. A specialty that is eaten on the toast is Nutella. Made with chocolate and hazelnuts, there is really nothing with the same flavor and consistency in America. I eat it straight out of the jar, sometimes. For Halloween, despite the fact that they don't celebrate it there, we made nutella-covered apples instead of caramel.

Many streets in the older town are paved with stones from almost 1000 years ago. They say that all streets lead to Rome. A lot of the towns are from the Medieval Era. The houses aren't made of wood, but of stone.

Positano, on the Amalfi coast, is unlike any other place on earth. Last summer, I saw the wonderfully brightly colored, vibrant houses built on the mountains by the sea. It's truly spectacular and incredible to think of how it was built.




A very important part of their society is ice cream. Gelato shouldn't even be considered ice cream, it's more like a melting paradise in your mouth. The Gelaterie, or ice cream shops, are open every night and have a giant assortment of flavors.
A lot of adults live with their parents since the family is such an important part of people's lives.
There is a two hour break for lunch where stores close and schools stop. Their highschools are a lot different, too. One class usually grows up together, creating a sense of family. The teachers switch classrooms, not the students. There areno yellow school busses and everyone uses the metro to get to school. That's the equivalent of the subway in NYC.
European kids know 4 languages. Their native language, English and two of either French, Italian, German, or Spanish. Kids there listen to music in different languages, mostly English, but also French, Italian and Spanish. It was great to listen to the Spanish radio and hear the Italian singer Nek, the French-speaking Kate Ryan, and the American band Bon Jovi in addition to all the Spanish groups.
Nobody uses dryers. They hang the wash out on the line. Spread out on the racks in the yard, or from lines in the window, one can see brightly colored wet clothes drying in the sun. Then they all need to be pressed and ironed, which is a tedious task.

Sound Story

In the back of an old workshop in Basel, Switzerland, there lived an old man with his granddaughter, Sabine. He was jolly and reminded all who knew him of Saint Nicolas. His beard was white and his gentle hands were calloused from hard work. He had spent his whole life making clocks out of the finest and purest woods: mahogany, pine, maple, etc. His little bright-eyed granddaughter helped him in his shop, dusting and setting the right times.
“Großvater,” she asked him, “can you make me a Pinocchio like Gepetto?”
“Nein,” he replied with a twinkle, “I only make clocks. They are far more beautiful than a little wooden boy, and far less trouble.”
Sabine, although she loved her grandfather and his clocks dearly, could not understand how a simple wooden clock could be more beautiful than a walking, talking playmate.
“One day, my little choux-fleur, you will see and hear the magic of the clocks. You must wait, for I am not yet ready with my symphony.”

A few months later, the clockmaker told Sabine that he had a surprise for her.
“Bella bimba, I’ve finished! My masterpiece is complete! I’ve filled my shop with cuckoo clocks, all made from my own hands.”
It was a dark and rainy night, but it was full of hope and promise. Sabine sat on the counter, dusty with wood chip shavings, and waited for the clocks to announce midnight.
A little white bird peeped out of its hole and then, with a burst of sound, the other birds followed. A thousand different creatures with colored voices were singing in harmony. Little men dressed in green were coming out of their bavarian houses and saluting their sheep. Birds of every color were creating sounds of pure joy.
Sitting behind her, the director looked at his orchestra with tears in his eyes. He was seeing the most beautiful thing in the world.





*This story made my mom cry, which I view as the greatest complement despite the fact that it is quite easy to make her cry. *

Halloween

One of my favorite holidays... dressing up and receiving candy, what could be better than that? Well, this year I dressed as Buster Keaton. My absolute favorite actor. He's funny, romantic, adorable, etc. And he does all his own stunts! Bottom line, he's just plain incredible. 

So, I set off around 4 to go trick-or-treating with my best friend Val. I was quite disapointed when no one asked me who I was. They just handed me the candy and closed their doors. When I was little people would say, "Ooh, how pretty you look. And what are you this year? A princess? Oh, you're so cute!" Some people actually asked me if I wasn't too old to go asking around for candy. My reply was, "One is never too old for candy!" With that said, I was extremely excited when three older people asked me who I was. I love old people, we have so much in common. I tend to dislike my age group.

 One person asked me if I was Sarah Palin but I quickly corrected him. Another asked me if I could do any of his tricks; I cannot, except for the forward sommersalt while holding a cup of tea.
Anyway, I collected 10 lbs of candy, 2 of which are already gone. The chocolate is always the first to go. Then the skittles and lollipops. I think I was a convincing Buster, besides the fact that I couldn't help but smile when I thought of him... which was constantly, being dressed as him and all. I even dyed my hair black like his, although I didn't cut it so I looked more like Johnny Depp's character in Benny & Joon. The only problem is that now it seems to be falling out more, which is really bad since I have a bit of trichophobia. Shiver. 

I have to thank Grampa for his shirt, Mommy for her pants, Alberto for his tie, Granma for her shoes, and Papa for the pocketwatch. The only thing that was mine was the porkpie, I never knew how hard it would be to sew a hat but it looks so real.

New Yorkian Adventure

Grabbing my messenger bag, I flew down the porch stairs and hopped into my mom's car. She was letting me drive that morning because we were a bit early. When we got to the bus station, we bought our tickets and stood in line. I noticed an Italian couple standing a few feet away from us. Ethnic diversity is something that is not prevalent in the town we live in, but is the standard in New York City. 

I was born in the Big Apple, on Lenox Hill. I lived on Riverside Dr. for the first four years of my life, with frequent trips to Europe. I can't remember much from that time except going to preschool. The playground was on the roof and I didn't want to climb the monkeybars in fear of falling off.  
On the bus I tried to do my physics homework. No use, I couldn't concentrate. After an hour I could make out the enormous shapes that formed in the distance. The New York skyline. The tall gray skyscrapers reaching into the clouds. Another twenty minutes and I will be home.
When I finally arrived at Port Authority, I could sense the change in the atmosphere. There was an urgency to move: the buzz of the city streets below, the people flocking to Times Square. My mom and I descended to the underground. I swiped my metro card and entered the long mosaic hallway to the uptown station. The Mardi Gras characters on the wall were happy to see me return, and so were the signs on the ceiling.
Next stop, Columbia University. Both on the subway and in my life. 

We took the express to 116th and walked out of the dark tunnel. The college gate welcomed all the students to enter. The hum of intellectual conversation whizzed through my head and I felt at home. I also blended in since I was sporting a Columbia t-shirt.
My mom, her friend Karina, and I took a tour of the campus together. I saw the buildings in which I will be spending a lot of time in, just two more years. I immediately recognized La Maison Française, and Hamilton Hall of course. I remember running in the hallway on the fifth floor by my mom's office, writing on the chalkboards and sitting in the wooden seats pretending to be a student. Once I even answered a question while listening in on one of her Lit Hum classes. I was immensely proud of myself until I realized, years later, that the question was rhetorical. 
After the tour I went with Karina to Sezz Medi', an Italian brick oven pizza restaurant. The margherita pizza con pancetta was delicious. We talked about Eurpean films and she invited me to visit her in Switzerland this summer.
On my way out, I went to look for the owl hidden in the Alma Mater, Minerva. The legend is that the first person to find it will become valedictorian of their class. I found it in about ten seconds, but I won't say where it is. It was then that my glasses broke. In my resident town, I would have to drive for fifteen minutes before I could get them fixed. In NY, I walked for a block to an optitrition where they repaired my glasses in about two minutes.
Karina went to the library and I was left on my own. The first thing I did, which my mother later reprimanded me for, was to walk down the steps in Morningside Park. The lovely view was somewhat ruined by the two gangsters peeing in the grass. I walked through Harlem until I reached Central Park.
Central Park is the most inspiring place to write poetry. The sounds are so lovely: childrens' laughter, birds fluttering, creek water trickling... It's an oasis to escape the busy roar of the city cars. I took a solitary path that ventured into the higher rocks and dodged around bushes and trees. A set of typical Harlem teenagers were standing on the path. Oh no, I'm going to get mugged.
"Hi," one of the guys said suddenly, "How are you today?"
"Hi," I replied suspiciously.
The other one looked at me, "Have a nice day, now." Who said New Yorkers were unfriendly??
After that I climbed down the rocks into Stranger's Gate and I decided to take the metro on 103 st. Of course, I got on the wrong train and I went uptown instead of downtown. When I got on the correct train, I looked at my map so I wouldn't get lost again. A creepy man was staring at me across the row. I moved. By then it was time for me to get off. I walked to the east side of Central Park, seeing the Alice in Wonderland statue and the Belvedere Castle on my way there. My legs were growing weary so I rested for a minute in the Shakespear Garden. The roses were so lovely, and the seclusiveness of the benches was quite romantic. I passed the dome where my mother's Orlando in Love play had been performed a few years ago and I watched the people roller blading up and down the pathway.
Next, I was headed to the Strand, my favorite bookstore with almost every type of book for great prices. I bought a book on Hitchcock for $5. I used my Spanish credit card for the first time in a store, which made me feel very adult-like. Across the street I found a little shop which sold old LP records. They didn't have Claude François, but I did find Françoise Hardy, Lucio Battisti, and Michele Torr.
I went on a mission for my father and tried to find apartment 460 on 24th st. Naturally, being as inexperienced as I was in finding streets, I went east instead of west. That meant I had to do triple the walking: there, back, and to the correct house. I left a message and the nice doorman helped me to the metro station. It was almost 7:00 by the time I reached Port Authority, the buses were about to depart. I tripped while running up the escalator and punctured my toe, which immediately started bleeding. After taking care of that little incident, I was able to catch up on the gossip with the pigeons that live on the 3rd floor of the station.
When I went home, I fell asleep right away from the fatigue of walking for five straight hours. I had the pleasantest of dreams... me as a college student of Columbia, walking the city streets of New York, my hometown.

Music

Enjoy! =D