Personal Narrative Assignment: This assignment was to write a detailed essay like the examples we analyzed in the Rhetorical Analysis Essay. This meant a first person, true, rhetorically rich essay.
In the Personal Narrative Essay the theme of "cycles" came in the form of my experience with friends. Friends have a routine of coming and going.
Personal Narrative Essay
It was our senior year of high school, fall semester. Summer hadn’t quite ended in north Georgia and a new atmosphere was settling over Forsyth County. This atmosphere wasn’t unfamiliar to this town or it’s people. The school year started, and high school football was soon to follow. My friends and I were football players at our high school, and while I could tell six stories all about football, all at once, all with six lessons about toughness, discipline, miracles, and more. I won’t because it’s just a game. Instead I’m going to tell a story about three guys who liked to eat chicken. I could’ve guessed where we would go to eat after practice every day. I never would’ve been able to tell you how special those meals would turn out to be. Football is important in this story about three dudes eating fast food for one reason, they all played football. There was Kolten, a hot-headed linebacker who could be the warmest or coldest person you’d ever met depending on how he was feeling that day. Everybody loved him, and regardless if he liked them or not, he was just a loveable person. There was Nick, wide receiver, ladies’ man, his hair touched his lower back, but he would never accept the name Sunshine because he wasn’t from California. He was from Texas, and it was the best damn state in the country. That’s if you asked him, at least. Then there was me, third string quarterback three years running, wannabe cool guy, who’s main hobbies included having a dad-bod and telling dad jokes. Our school’s social hierarchy wasn’t so much of a hierarchy rather than a pie chart. Riddled with cliques that weren’t defined by a common trait; there wasn’t any kings or queens, you just had your friends and other people had theirs. So, the only way to categorize my group is to say that we spent thirty hours a week at football with each other on the sideline. Now, about the chicken. We would arrive at our pre-determined destination in a tactical formatted convoy. Being the first to arrive, Nick’s navy blue 2007 Honda Civic or “the Civ” would scout out the parking lot for three side by side open parking spaces. He would always get there first because he was a speed demon. Then would come Kolten’s lifted, 2005 red Ford F-150 with a muffler would roll in like thunder. You’d always know when Kolten got in the parking lot. Then I’d arrive in my stock edition, white, 2011 Chevy Silverado 1500. We stuck our claim to the three side by side spaces. We looked to the restaurant and labeled by large (high school appropriate) neon lights it read Zaxby’s and our minds began to coronate our soon to be meals into our mouths. We walked in the door with our compression shirts rolled up to our stomachs. Probably to show off what the Zaxby’s didn’t to us in our youth. We had our phones and wallets tucked into the waistbands of our black shorts because the only thing they had on them was the school logo, no pockets. Upon entering our kingdom, we were greeted with the explosive aroma of royally flavored batter splintering into the perfect crunch in a bath of all-American grease. The sounds of unintelligible order numbers being spoken over the intercom, joyful conversation, and hard genuine laughs buzzed around the establishment. Above the order window was old football, softball, and lacrosse jerseys and memorabilia from our high school. We owned this place, it was ours. As we marched in a flying-v formation towards the registers, the undiscussed creed of our friendship was in our heads, “Wingz and Thingz, Boneless, Tongue Torch Sauce, please.” As we all spent the nine dollars our moms would all yell at us for spending later that night, we filled up our drinks. We never got a lid or straw, often times we would bring other people and they would obstruct their cups with lids and straws, but never Nick, Kolten, and I. This social construct we built separated us from everyone else. It was always the last person to order’s duty to grab all the forks and napkins needed for the ensuing feast. Which created some fun entertainment as we basically wrestled in the order line. Then once the bureaucracy of the meal subsided, we all sat down in the worn black leather seats of the farthest northeast booth of the restaurant. Our meal soon followed us. We would talk and talk about girls, coaches, teachers, parents, friends, cars, and college. Just three guys with every reason to say screw the world, talking about their problems in a camouflaged form of therapy. We would never fully appreciate these moments while they happened. Our conversation was constant and just as fast as our food left our plates, seemingly the August sun sank below the horizon, the beacon of wisdom that it was time to head home, and so we went. This time we spent together was the epitome of our high school life. Now in present time I remember all those times we ate at Zaxby’s. That one-time Kolten got that cute cashiers’ number. That one-time we stayed there through a full cycle of their 100-number order system. That one time after I threw a touchdown against the state champions. All I can remember is how fun and easy it was, how nothing else mattered except the three of us and some good food. There were never any love triangles, bad grades, warm bench seats, or fighting parents in Zaxby’s. There was always just Nick, Kolten, and I. Now, things are different. We’re no longer the boys of fall, we’re big men on campus. Kolten goes to school too far away to consistently see. I think me and Nick both miss him, but we don’t talk about it. Nick cut his hair and is constantly at my throat about some useable mess in our dorm room. I wish I could look at him and see the freedom of his long hair while he laughed at one of my jokes. Not this cold recluse that won’t so much as look at me. If we’re not throwing punches at each other, we’re getting into personally attacking arguments. On our good days we’re extremely passive aggressive to each other. I wish in those memories we had of Zaxby’s would carry into our conversations. I wish I didn’t take those times for granted. I sit and wonder if it was the cliché of the American freedom of senior year that made for a red, white, and blue array of cars in that Zaxby’s parking lot? I wonder if things can ever be the way they were in that north east booth? Does Kolten miss me as much as I miss him? Do the workers miss all of the sweaty guys whose hair was longer than it should’ve been walk into the restaurant? Because I do. I lean towards the idea that maybe the reason this warmth, this second home, we frequented is so foundational in all our hearts, is because it is just a memory. I guess as all things are that once were, the memory is the best conceptual picture possible of the situation. A motley crew of young men who ate every meal like the last supper, a perfect freeze frame of friendship that hangs on the wall of our memory. Maybe our story ends with a team football photo hanging on the wall next to register one. All that’s left now is a hollow feeling that I didn’t appreciate these meals as much as I should’ve. A wish that I cried when I hugged Kolten before I drove off to college. A wish I would’ve talked to Nick in our room before our situation became so unfixable. A wish that this memory was still my reality, the smell of chicken, youth, and freedom in the air.
Personal Narrative Reflection
I personally feel like the personal narrative essay was a good experience for me. It helped me prove to myself that I could write a good first-person essay that is fluid and makes sense. It also helped me on a deeper personal level. Previously anything I wrote from a story sounded like stream of conscious and just didn’t make much sense. By focusing on adding a message, audience, and purpose to my narrative I was able to write something extremely detailed and personable. This also made my essay very entertaining. The reader was able to enjoy my natural ability to provide extreme detail, but also follow along to an indulging story. The topic really helped me release a lot of built up pressure I put on myself and others. Not only did it alleviate my problems, but it also showed me a small lesson in how to communicate with others, and most importantly, myself. This type of essay specifically gave me an outlet to really expose my inner feelings about a difficult situation. I think what I could do better is focus in the story even more. While my story was structured better than before, it still had its moments where it went off on tangents. I feel that took away from the essay and that I could have done a better job and only writing what’s important to the story. I also think I could’ve done a better job at creating a specific climax to the story. I think my essay had dramatic moments but lacked a certain epic moment that is the tell all of the story. Do I think I’m perfect at writing personal narrative essays? Absolutely not. However, this was a great leap forward for me. I’m excited at how these newly honed skills will improve my writing in the future.