DRAFT: This module has unpublished changes.

     I have included the first and final drafts to the first and last essays that I have written for the class. Althought the first essay was a collaborative essay, it still reflects about half of my writing styles and ideas. This differences in both of finals drafts and the first drafts of both of these essays greatly exemplifies my progression as a writer. My growth in critical reading has allowed me to write with more concisely and with more thought provoking details. My goals for these essays were to have them provide the reader with a new lens in which they could view a subject as well as to provoke thought. 

 

Collaborative Essay First Draft

Co-Author: Lidia Diaz-Fong

     In her essay, Plagiarisms, Authorships, and the Academic Death Penalty, Rebecca Moore Howard discusses contrasting views on plagiarism and its development over time. Howard states that specific purpose of her essay is to suggest a revision of higher learning institution’s original policies concerning punishment for plagiarism.

     To start, Howard explores what people believe are the most common motives behind plagiarism: lack of knowledge or lack of morals. These motives have a negative connotation which is why the punishments for plagiarism are so severe (i.e. expulsion, or the academic death penalty). Howard argues this universal opinion by introducing the concept of patchwriting. This method of writing is widely considered a form a plagiarism, because in it, one essentially copies text from a source, but alters a few components of the sentence, while keeping the main idea. Howard asserts that patchwriting can be positive, when used as a stepping stone in the writing process, and is used with good intentions. She then states that if patchwriting is to be seen in a constructive way, professors need to push the boundaries of their respective university’s plagiarism policies.

Howard acknowledges that literature and the idea of original authorship in modern times has evolved from a comprehensive writing style to an individualized proprietorship. In her essay, she says Western writers imitated classic writers as a way to bolster their understanding and to establish authority over the topic, as well as their understanding of the subject. Here she introduces the metaphor of the dwarf standing on the giant’s shoulders that could see much further than the giant could on his own, to exemplify the relationship that the past author has with the classical source. The idea of the author as the sole proprietor of an original work is a completely new concept. This denotes plagiarism as a fairly fresh idea because the advancements in technology have allowed for more efficiently widespread communication of ideas. This idea of intellectual property transfers emphasis from comprehensive writing to the importance of correct and thorough citations that gives credit to the author. Howard utilizes the metaphor of the giant and the dwarf to deliver the message that although writers may seem smarter or more knowledgeable on a topic than the source, it is only because they use the source or “giant” to understand the basics and further their understanding.

     Modern authors are fortunate enough to be able to extract from the work of original authors to form their own, more complex ideas. Hypertext allows people to alter and edit texts with anonymity and without conclusive results, leaving many loose ends. At the end of her section on technology, Howard has yet to form an opinion on the pros and cons of hypertext. Authors of hypertext receive no recognition for their work, because they are often unknown. If writers wish to acquire acknowledgement for their work, Howard states that they must be assertive in their ownership, in order for others to respect their original, intellectual property. The modern author feels the need to declare their originality to ensure that the concept of originality is widely understood.

     Near the end of her essay, Howard gives suggestions to both students and faculty on the existing policies on plagiarism. For the student, she proposes that they use patchwriting as a crutch to understand and write about difficult topics, but not in the completed work. To faculty, she advises them to delve deeper in understanding motives behind plagiarism, before severe punishment is imposed. Overall, she stands as an advocate for alterations to existing laws on plagiarism, so that it will demonstrate how complex authorship can be.

 

 

Collaborative Essay Final Draft 

      Plagiarism is a rampantly debated topic throughout the academic world. There are many different views on what should and what should not be considered plagiarism and how it should be dealt with.  In the essay, “Plagiarisms, Authorships, and the Academic Death Penalty,” Rebecca Moore Howard discusses contrasting views on plagiarism and its development over time.  Howard states that the specific purpose of her essay is to suggest a revision of higher learning institutions’ original policies concerning punishment for plagiarism.

    To start, Howard explores what people believe are the most common motives behind plagiarism: lack of knowledge or lack of morals.  Because both of these motives have a negative connotation, the punishments for plagiarism are often very severe (i.e. expulsion, or the academic death penalty). Howard argues against this universal opinion by introducing the concept of patchwriting. This method of writing is widely considered a form a plagiarism because in it, one essentially copies text from a source, but alters a few components of the sentence, while keeping the main idea. Howard asserts that patchwriting can be positive when used as a stepping-stone in the writing process and with good intentions. She then states that if patchwriting is to be seen in a constructive way, professors need to push the boundaries of their respective university’s plagiarism policies by promoting the use of patchwriting in their own classrooms to aid the novice author struggling to compose an original work.

     Howard acknowledges that the idea of original authorship in modern times has evolved from a comprehensive writing style to an individualized proprietorship because she wants to highlight the fact that although plagiarism is commonly seen as something that’s been around for a while, it is a fairly new concept. In her essay, she says that Western writers imitated, or used patchwriting to imitate, classic writers as a way to bolster their understanding and to establish authority over a topic, as well as their understanding of a subject. Here she introduces the metaphor of the dwarf standing on the giant’s shoulders that could see much further than the giant could on his own, to exemplify the relationship that the author has with the source. The idea of the author as the sole proprietor of an original work is a completely new concept. This denotes plagiarism as a fairly fresh idea because the advancements in technology have allowed for more efficiently widespread communication of ideas. This idea of intellectual property transfers emphasis from comprehensive writing to the importance of correct and thorough citations that gives credit to the author. Howard utilizes the metaphor of the giant and the dwarf to deliver the message that although writers may seem smarter or more knowledgeable on a topic than the source, it is only because they use the source or “giant” to understand the basics and further their understanding.

     Modern authors are fortunate enough to be able to extract from the work of original authors to form their own, more complex ideas. Hypertext allows people to alter and edit texts with anonymity and without conclusive results, leaving many loose ends.  Authors of hypertext receive no recognition for their work, because they are often unknown. If writers wish to acquire acknowledgement for their work, Howard states that they must be assertive in their ownership, in order for others to respect their original, intellectual property. The modern author feels the need to declare their originality to ensure that the concept of originality is widely understood. At the end of her discussion of technology, Howard has yet to form an opinion on the pros and cons of hypertext but makes it apparent that she includes this detail to show yet another way in which plagiarism is an ambiguous concept.

     Near the end of her essay, Howard gives suggestions to both students and faculty on the existing policies on plagiarism. For the student, she proposes that they use patchwriting as a crutch to understand and write about difficult topics, but not to use in the completed work. To faculty, she advises them to delve deeper in understanding motives behind plagiarism, before severe punishment is imposed. Howard stands as an advocate for alterations to existing laws on plagiarism, because of how complex authorship can be.

 

Autobiographical Essay First Draft

     I have a lot of books in my white bookshelf in my purple room. I have burgundy books, blue books, black books, and white books, all pertaining to a wide array of subjects. Some are textbooks, others are bibles. Some are even instructional and motivational books, discussing ways in which a person can become successful and happy. Most of them, however, are storybooks that I’ve collected since my brother and sister taught me how to read.

     The first book that I ever learned to read was The Very Hungry Caterpillar by Eric Carle. The interactive nature and slight wit of the book enticed me, as well as the progression of ideas and the growth(physical and mental) of the main character. The book allowed me to experience a sort of “out-of-body” feeling in which I could mentally put myself in the place of the caterpillar. For the short 30 pages and probably the duration of 20 minutes, I was a very hungry caterpillar, eating my way through apples and lollipops, traveling across the grass in search of my next tasty meal. The idea of being able to live vicariously through a character in a book for any period of time thrilled me. Books became my escape from the physical boundaries of reality. The coming of age story of the starving caterpillar sprouted my affinity for modern literature. 

When I graduated from junior high, my eighth grade teacher, Mrs. Sato, gave me a copy of Dr. Suess’s Oh, the Places You’ll Go! as a graduation present. By this time, I must’ve read over a thousand books; I must’ve been over a thousand characters; I must’ve been to over a thousand places. “Oh, the Places You’ll Go?” I thought as I read the cover, “More like Oh, the Places You’ve Been!”  I thought that reading was the extent to which my travels would go, and I was more than satisfied with that. 

     After I turned six, just as a began to develop my love for adventures of the mind, my family and I took a trip to Nigeria. This was an extremely terrifying experience for me because it was the first time I had ever been on a plane and it so happened to be right after September 9, 2011. I wasn’t old enough to understand the concept of terrorism at the time, but I did know what fire and burning and explosion looked like. I knew what death was. I knew tragedy. I felt the tragedy.

     The airport was in absolute chaos. The amount of people shuffling around gave me extreme anxiety. I clutched onto my Mickey Mouse stuffed animal for dear life and comfort until the ruthless airport security man yanked it out of my hands and slammed it onto the conveyor belt to be checked for whatever dangerous items a six year old could possibly be smuggling onto a plane. I didn’t understand the extent to which a human being would go to do evil, such as stuffing an explosive or a weapon in a teddy bear, so at the time all I felt was anger. I was angry and helpless, vulnerable, so I cried. I cried in the middle of the security line in the busy airport. 

     My parents were just as ruthless as airport security, but they had more of a right to be in retrospect. They had to deal with the stress of going through airport security in addition to traveling with three children. They had to deal with the additional stress of getting through security themselves, being foreigners and all. My dad, he claims, has never been through airport security without being taken aside for additional inspections, so of course, after such a tragic event connected to terrorism, they would take him aside and search him thoroughly.  While my dad was getting searched my mom had to make sure all three of us made it through airport security, so she did not have time to sympathize with my sadness. She did not have time to hold me and squeeze me tight, to kiss me on my forehead and tell me that she’d get my stuffed animal back. No. Instead, she pulled my arm and told me to stop crying, because there is not time for that. There is no time for weakness, “you need to be strong right now,” she said. This side of my mom was something that I’ve had to get used to all my life. 

     Being the age that I was, I didn’t really know how to think past the next 5 minutes, nor did I have the attention span to be able to, so I really believed that that man had taken my Mickey Mouse. Little did I know, he’d give it right back to me after inspecting it.

 

 

Autobiography Essay Final Draft

 

Taking Flight: Soaring Above My Fears

       “Congratulations! Today is your day. You're off to Great Places! You're off and away!” I read aloud. When I graduated from junior high, my eighth grade teacher, Mrs. Sato, gave me a copy of Dr. Seuss’ Oh, the Places You’ll Go! as a graduation present.  By this time, I must have read over a thousand books; I must have been over a thousand characters; I must have been to over a thousand places. “Oh, the Places You’ll Go?” I thought as I re-read the cover, “More like Oh, the Places You’ve Been!”

     The first book that I ever learned to read was The Very Hungry Caterpillar by Eric Carle. The interactive nature and slight wit of the book enticed me, as well as the progression of ideas and the growth (physical and mental) of the main character. The book allowed me to feel a sort of “out-of-body” experience in which I could mentally put myself in the place of the caterpillar. For the short 30 pages and probably the duration of 20 minutes, I was a very hungry caterpillar, eating my way through apples  and lollipops, traveling across the grass in search of my next tasty meal. The idea of being able to live vicariously through a character, traveling to all the places that they traveled in any book, for any period of time, thrilled me. I thought that there was no need for me to actually travel because of all the places that I felt that reading could take me.  The coming of age story of the starving caterpillar sprouted my affinity for modern literature. When I immersed myself in the colorful text my imagination took flight. Safe and sound, in the comfort of my own room and mind, I could be anywhere at any time. However, my imagination could only take me so far. At some point, the book would be over, and I would be back to reality. In the back of my mind I knew that the only way to satisfy my passion for traveling would be to actually travel. This proved to be a problem, however, since I had developed a fear of flying in airplanes after having experienced a terrifying flight. 

 

      I developed and irrational fear of flying at a very young age. I was unaware at the time of how much this fear would affect all aspects of my life, so I found it completely realistic and rational. My fear of traveling, unbeknownst to me, would later affect my willingness to pursue my dreams, and even try new things. Up until I started high school, I decided that I would never travel because I was afraid of dying in a plane crash. I did enjoy my trip to Nigeria, so I knew that traveling did interest me. However, I allowed my unreasonable fear of flying to keep me from actually traveling, so I settled for indulging myself into my imaginations and traveling only as far as an author could have taken a character. I settled for taking short excursions through books rather than actually traveling, thinking that this mode of travel would fulfill my desire. I thought that because of my fear, reading was the extent to which my travels would ever go, and I became satisfied with that at the time.   Later would I realize that the value that I placed on my fear would interfere with my love for adventure, and even further interfere with the ferocity in which I chased my dreams. 

 

     Fear can be seen as a value because it alone can keep one from doing questionable things and making rash decisions. Fear places necessary boundaries on the things that we think and know we can do. The fear of getting burned keeps us from putting our hands over open fires; the fear of being kicked out of the library keeps us from being loud; the fear of not being able to get a job or support ourselves in the future keeps us from dropping out of college. The fear of dying-probably the most commonly shared fear amongst all human beings-can keep us from running in the middle of a busy freeway, jumping off an eleven-story dorm building, and flying in an airplane. Fear is definitely an important value to hold because without it, we would be reckless, careless people. However, when does fear become illogical? Where do we draw the line in which fear becomes more of a hindering thing than a helpful value? 

 

     Fear becomes irrational when it begins to interfere with all other aspects of one’s life; when it begins to compete with one’s other values. The fear of failure should never keep one from trying. For example, when the fear of being hit by a car keeps someone from going outside at all, it becomes more of a harm than a precaution. If one doesn’t go outside, they won’t be able to enjoy the beauty that this world has to offer; they then stifle themselves of major opportunities. Everyones level of irrational fear is different, so knowing when one’s fears have become unreasonable is the key to finding a healthy balance. My fear became irrational when it began to keep me from doing the one thing I wanted to do the most: travel.  

 

     When I was six years old, just as I began to develop my love for adventures of the mind, my family and I took a trip to Nigeria. This was an extremely terrifying experience for me because it was the first time I had ever been on a plane and it so happened to be right after September 9, 2011, the day that the United States was attacked by terrorists via airplane. I wasn’t old enough to understand the concept of terrorism at the time, but I did know what fire and burning and explosion looked like. I knew what death was. I knew tragedy. I felt the tragedy.

 

     The airport was in absolute chaos. The amount of people shuffling around gave me extreme anxiety. I clutched onto my Mickey Mouse stuffed animal for dear life and comfort until the ruthless airport security man yanked it out of my hands and slammed it onto the conveyor belt to be checked for whatever dangerous items a six year old could possibly be smuggling onto a plane. I didn’t understand the extent to which a human being would go to do evil, such as stuffing an explosive or a weapon in a teddy bear, so at the time all I felt was anger. I was angry and helpless, vulnerable, so I cried. I cried in the middle of the security line in the busy airport. 

 

     Being the age that I was, I didn’t really know how to think past the next 5 minutes, nor did I have the attention span to be able to, so I really believed that that man had taken my Mickey Mouse forever. To my satisfaction, after harassing my stuffed animal, the man returned it to me, without even having the decency to make eye contact with me. I hated him for 30 minutes until it was time to board my flight. 

 

     Going through the hectic airport security proved to be the least of my worries. The actual plane ride was completely and utterly terrifying. As we approached France, we started to experience extreme turbulence. The plane began to shake furiously and the nuts and bolts that held the plane together appeared to be creaking. The fold-up tables in front of each passenger trembled. I was sitting next to my mother, who didn’t seem as worried about the turbulence as I was. She remained calm, even as we could have quite possibly been facing death. I closed my eyes, and at the age of six, was ready to accept that this was probably the last thing that I would ever see. 

 

     I didn’t open my eyes again until we landed safely at the Lagos International Airport in Nigeria. I wiped the tears from my face and looked outside the window. Everywhere was lush with vegetation: the tall bushes were speckled with large red and orange flowers, and behind the bushes were tall, beautiful palm trees. There was not a mountain range in sight; we were no longer enclosed in the bowl of the Silicon Valley. We were free.

 

Throughout the two months that we were there I went through an extreme paradigm shift. Never have I seen houses with tin roofs, extremely rusty cars being driven everywhere, people walking around outside with tattered clothing, or roads completely made of a mixture of dirt and sand. I hated it. I hated how we had to fetch water from a well for drinking; I hated how we didn’t have air conditioning, so the doors were always open, allowing small animals to come into our home. I hated how we lived in the nicest complex in the entire Igbo village. I hated that such extreme poverty existed in such a beautiful place. 

 

     Before we had left for the trip, I didn’t understand why my mom had bought so many new clothes and shoes. She stuffed a separate luggage with clothes, shoes, hats, ties, sweaters, and other various clothing items. She also stuffed the suitcase with non-perishable food items like boxes of cereal and cans of vegetables. When we arrived in the village, my mom brought forth the special suitcase with various clothing and opened it up in front of our complex so that people could come by and take whatever they needed. I watched as the eyes of the children lit up when they picked up a new pair of trousers, or even a box of Frosted Flakes. My heart melted. These basic items brought those kids so much joy and I didn’t understand why, but it made me extremely happy to see them happy, so I wanted to give them more. I brought out all the clothes that I had brought with me on the trip, I picked out a few shorts and shirts, and I put them in that special suitcase. In what could be considered a selfish way, I did good so that I could feel good and I loved to feel good. 

 

     The beauty of Nigeria captivated me completely, and the thought of being able to help those less fortunate than I was thrilled me, however, I was never able to fully focus those positive aspects of my trip. The issue that dominated my thoughts was how I was going to survive the plane ride back. I was terrified at the idea of going through the airport and flying in an airplane again; I even considered living in Nigeria for the rest of my life.  Nonetheless, I did make it home in good shape. I don’t remember exactly how I dealt with my airport anxiety or the plane ride itself, but I did. Upon arrival in the United States, I vowed that if I could help it, I would avoid all travel by plane, especially travel that required a passport. 

 

     It wasn’t until my sophomore year in high school that I understood why my eighth grade teacher would give me such an elementary read. My sophomore year happened to be the year that we studied varying types of literature, such as allegories, as well as the year that I went on my first mission trip to South America. 

 

     As I entered high school as a freshmen, I received advice on how to study, what classes to take, and what activities to take part in. Of all the activities mentioned, attending a mission trip was the most frequently suggested one. Because at that point I had read so many novels, physical travel didn’t excite me as much. I had convinced myself that reading was equally if not more thrilling than traveling because it allowed me to go on “adventures of the mind” which didn’t require me putting myself in potentially dangerous situations such as flying. Although the idea of actually traveling didn’t captive me as much because of my fear of flying, the idea of helping others in a less fortunate situation did. I wanted to feel the warm and fuzzy feeling I felt when I helped those kids in Nigeria. I wanted to make a difference in a foreign community like I once had when I was a child. As I heard about the details of projects that my school was planning in Ecuador, I began to wonder if it would be worth conquering my fear for. Then I began to think about my trip to Nigeria and how the entire process of going through airport security and flying in an airplane frightened me. I quickly dispelled the thought of attending this mission trip and decided not to sign up. Little did I know, my fear would make me miss out on the opportunity to build a house for a disabled woman, fix a church, feed the homeless, and lay eyes upon one of the seven wonders of the world: The Galapagos Islands. 

 

     When I heard about the details of how the trip went and saw pictures of the things that the students who attended the trip built and the people they met, I immediately regretted my decision to stay behind. Those who went had the opportunity to meet and even form relationships with the local children, learn about the culture, and experience the beauty of the Galapagos Islands. If I would have gone, I would have gotten the opportunity to both travel and help others, two things that I felt passionate about; two things that I knew would make me feel so alive. It was true that because I didn’t attend this mission trip I didn’t die in a plane crash, but then again, neither did those that did attend the mission trip. My fear saved me from something I didn’t need saving from.Yes, my fear did keep my from dying, but, it also kept me from living.

 

     My irrational fear affected other aspects of my life other than my passions. It began to affect the pursuit of my dreams. I misinterpreted being cautious for being irrationally fearful. Throughout high school, I had always been a good student because I  feared the consequences of receiving bad grades (punishment from my parents, inability to get into a prestigious college, failure to get a job and survive, etc.). This fear of failure caused me to only strive for achievement of goals that were within my reach. I didn’t push myself to do things that were outside of my comfort zone because I feared failing and being seen as a failure. This dismay caused me not to run for Class President, play Volleyball for more than two weeks, and even go on a varsity Basketball Tournament that I was invited to as a freshmen. I missed out on so many opportunities that I could have had if I weren’t so afraid of failure.  The day that I decided not play in a Girls Varsity Basketball Game because I was afraid that I would screw up on a play was the day I realized how much my fear was limiting me. That was day that I realized how irrational my fear was becoming.

 

     As I began my sophomore year, I had to do something about my fear. I could no longer stand missing out on so many great opportunities because I was afraid of messing up. I knew that I was stunting myself from becoming a well-rounded, outgoing, courageous, cultured, and adventurous young woman by not being more involved and setting high goals for myself. I decided to make a change by taking a chance: I signed up to attend the 2011 Mission trip to Uruguay. I was determined to let nothing stop me from traveling and helping others, not even my fear of flying.  

 

     Departing for our first stop, El Salvador, was rough. Going through airport security wasn’t as nerve racking as I had remembered, which gave me great relief.  However, after actually boarding the plane, as we began taxi on the runway, I started freaking out. Tears started to trickle down my face; I felt like I was a 6-year-old staring in the face of death again. I honestly didn’t believe that our flight was going to make it before we even left the ground. For a good thirty minutes I hated myself for making the decision to fly. I closed my eyes and sobbed quietly as we took off. I said my prayers silently to myself. I accepted what I thought to be my inevitable fate. I accepted death.

 

     After I noticed that I was still alive after a good 3 hours of flight, I opened my eyes again. Everyone was talking and laughing with each other, sharing stories about the previous mission trip, and their excitement about the present one. No one else seemed worried at all. I, myself, even began to worry less. There was slight turbulence throughout the flight, and at every bump my heartbeat picked up speed for short amount of time, but then soon after it would return to a normal pace. As we landed and exited the flight, I couldn’t help but smile. My heart was filled with joy and happiness; I survived  the first flight, and surely enough, I gained the confidence to fly again. The next two connections flights to Lima, Peru, and finally, Montevideo, Uruguay, would be no problem for me. I knew that I would still have a little fear, but my fear would no longer keep me from flying. I could now fulfill my passions with less worries. 

 

     The rest of the trip was amazing. Not I was able to influence the community in Montevideo, Uruguay, on a first hand basis, but the community influenced me. I learned so much about South American culture and traditions. As a school, we were able to finish all of our planned projects: we built a trench, repainted all the walls of the dorm rooms and the main entrance wall, rebuilt a church, fed the homeless for a week, fixed a basketball court, and provided clothes and books for the impoverished families with small children. Being able to hand out clothes to those who needed was the most satisfying thing I have ever done. Receiving multiple hugs of gratuity from the children and adults caused me to experience extreme ecstasy. The tears of thankfulness and appreciation that ran down the faces of the natives caused me to create tears of joy of my own. I had never felt happier than I did during those 2 weeks. 

 

     On the way home, it hit me. The book I had perviously classified as ever-so-witty and childish was actually a complex allegory and a metaphor for life. My teacher had given it to me to inspire me to go not only on physical journeys, but on journeys in pursuit of fulfilling the passions I would soon develop. As the main character in the book, I would too encounter things that would “scare [me] right out of my pants,” however, I shouldn’t let those things stop me from trying. My fear of failure should not keep me from trying to achieve my goals. (Seuss)

 

     To this day, I’m glad to say that deciding to attend that mission trip was one of the best decisions I have ever made in my entire life. Since then, I have attended every single mission trip that my high school has planned. I’ve been to over five Central and South American countries including Argentina, Brazil, El Salvador, and Peru. My desire to go on adventures as well as my aspiration to help others has completely overridden my fear of flying. 

 

     I can’t say, however, that I am currently fearless. My fear of failure did originally sprout from my fear of flying, but although I have been able to get over my fear of flying, I still fear failure immensely. I can personally relate to the protagonist of the novel The Absolute Diary of a Part-Time Indian by Sherman j because I feel like I’m going through what Arnold, the main character went through right now. Now that I am attending Santa Clara University, I realize that I have been given the opportunity to pursue my dreams, just as Arnold was given the opportunity to make a better life for himself by attending Reardan, a prestigious high school. However, I am conflicted between whether or not I should allow this fear of failure to dictate my educational path. I dream of one day working overseas in a mental health clinic as a psychiatrist, however, to do so I need to be able to get into medical school. I fear that I will not be able to get into medical school because I feel that I do not have the intelligence to maintain a high enough GPA to get into medical school. I have the passion and the drive to try my best to achieve high marks in my classes however, my fear is making me doubt myself, just as Arnold initially doubted himself in the novel, thus, keeping me from trying.  Arnold triumphs over these doubts towards the end of the novel by deciding that missing the opportunity to pursue higher education, something unheard of throughout his tribe, was more valuable to him than his fears. I envy the courage that Arnold displays throughout the novel, for I lack that courage. Unlike Arnold, once again, my fear has proven to keep me from pursuing a dream or goal of mine. 

 

     In life, there will always be hard decisions to make because of conflicting values that one has. For me personally, my fear and my passion are tearing me apart. Currently, I am still on the pre-med track because I am aware that my fear is causing me to rid myself of an amazing opportunity to help others. I don’t want to give up on my dreams completely, because as I did freshmen year, I will regret not trying. I will regret letting the value that I have placed on my fear conflict with my value of achieving my goals and doing the things that will make me happy. As I continue with my freshmen year and years to come, I hope that I find a healthy balance in which my fear does keep me from making bad decisions, but doesn’t keep me from taking chances, pushing myself outside my boundaries, and being courageous. 

 

     As I walked out of the Swig Hall on my to my first day college class, I noticed this quote posted on the wall: 

 

     “You're off to Great Places! Today is your day! Your mountain is waiting, So... get on your way!”  -Dr. Seuss

 

     I’m on my way now. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Works Cited

 

 

 

Alexie, Sherman. The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian. New York: Little, Brown and Co., 2007. Print.

 

 

 

Seuss, Dr. Oh, The Places You'll Go!. New York: Random House, 1990. Print.

 

DRAFT: This module has unpublished changes.