Our+Introductions

= **Inspired by Sandra Cisneros and the Earned Name Poems of our predecessors, we worked on ways to introduce ourselves to the world... ** = Be sure to add your introduction in YOUR class section!

**10:30 Section**
10: 30 class add your introduction pieces here...don't forget to add the "Horizontal rule" line after your piece and your name.

The Name Game

My name has no real meaning. It is just a jumble of four letters, two syllables. If you try to interpret it into Japanese, you will find there is no interpretation, no character to describe it. It is a made up name that my parents came up with. It is a plain name. No special inflections. They tell me my name was supposed to be Mariko, which means, "true village child." In Japanese, the R is rolled slightly, smoothing the syllable down, making it sound more elegant, refined. However, my father, born and raised in Kentucky, had a bit of a hard time with that pronunciation, so my name was shortened to Mari, and the rolled R was forgotten. My siblings are all named after prominent figures in the Bible. Elyssa originated from Elizabeth, Zachariah from Zechariah, and of course Isaiah, after the book of Isaiah, and the prophet and saint. Each of their names holds significance, and are all connected to each other. I am the only one left out of the pattern, of this little name game my parents had. In the book of Luke, Elizabeth and Zechariah receive a child from God after Elizabeth proved to be barren. Zechariah and Isaiah are both books from the Old Testament in the Bible. My siblings similarly have close connections with each other. My sister and youngest brother, Isaiah, the oldest and the youngest, are a perfectly paired yin and yang. She is the bright, cheery sun, and he the muted, mellow moon. Zachariah and Isaiah share the bonds of brotherhood and a sense of following. Zachariah is the wolf, and Isaiah the cub, the wolf showing its cub the steps to take. Elyssa and Zachariah are most similar in personality, both always reaching out and touching other peoples' lives. I, on the other hand, find my connections with each of them are weaker; frayed pieces of rope that may sever at the touch of a finger. My interests and theirs are like vinegar and water, never quite mixing. I am the sea lion on the rocks, belonging, yet lumbering and clumsy: clearly not in my own environment. Recently I asked my father why he and my mother had chosen to give me a non-biblical name. His response was so simple it verged on inanity: because they liked the name. He might have said it just to comfort me into believing my name was just as special as the rest. Or maybe it is just my imagination, and the only game being played is the one inside my head.

Mari Grief

Waterer of Plants

She is standing in the weak 6:00 pm sunlight In her hands is a pastel green hose, which from a cascade of water batters the leaves of a baby tomato plant. Watching the muddy soil recede as the water escapes through the base of a pot, and seeing the droplets of water caught on the rough leaves of the plant she smiles to herself with satisfaction, and the knowledge that her babies are being loved. These few minutes are her favorite. It's the silver lining and the best part of her day.

Chanel Louie

Water Boy

The sun is scorching the earth, While parched mouths Crave the feeling of Refreshing clear liquid Going deep down into the Raspy throat.

But not the water boy. For he is the one who cradles the Bottle of water that can Satisfy everyone's needs.

So like a family, the water boy Reaches out and hands his Siblings the beverage. Caring, gently. As if he were holding out his hand To someone in need of Desperate help.

After drinking the water boy's drink, The siblings have gone off as if they have never met.

Was he just a water boy?

Was he just someone who could satisfy that parched feeling?


 * The Boy Who Defies Time.**

He hates it. Ever since he could remember. It sickens him how much it changes things So he defies it.

He's constantly reminded of it By his family, his friends. No matter where he looks, He sees its mark everywhere.

But in the end, Even with all his defiance There's a patch of fear And it grows like mold, Because he knows it's coming is absolute.

So he does the only thing left to him. He runs.

But no matter how hard he pushes himself No matter how fast he runs. It's inevitable that it'll catch up to him. After all, it's impossible to outrun the future.

//Hall Wu//

Quiet Bay

Everything from my early life, my first life, the life where I was in darkness was lost in the clouds of shady memories. In that life, I was just one small child.

In that life, the life of darkness, my grandmother gave me my name; she named me after my grandfather who rarely talks and sits silently on the couch always pondering the unknown. My life of darkness has past, and my name is glued to me. I have inherited my grandfather's name for good or ill and have grown into it.

In English my name means quiet bay. The Japanese associate my name with grace, beauty, and silence; but I have neither. I am clumsy and I when I try to dance there is no grace, only disjointed movements. I associate my name with the light of the sun, but I feel as if I am the moon piercing the bitter, black sky.

I am not like the name that I've so easily grown to love. I’m carving the definition of my own name, the definition of my name that will allow me to become the real me. My name is the number six. It is the grace and the beauty of the water that in an instant, it can turn into a vengeful torrent of rushing waves when its wrath is unleashed.

I am still Shizue, and I cannot change who I am without losing part of what I have grown to love. I have always been the quiet girl. Sitting by myself, I only had a few true friends. Shy by nature, I kept my inner most thoughts to myself. But, sometimes, I want to shout my thoughts to the heavens and make myself heard.

No one sees this part of me. The part always hidden behind the curtains of other names I loathe. In the past, I was a quiet bay, but now, in this new life of light, I am not as calm as the smooth waters of a quiet bay.

Katie Yanagi

Night Owl

At the late hours of night He's still up wasting time, Sometimes doing homework Other times just fooling around Some would think midnight is a scary time But he feels in his environment. It is easier to do school work He feels in his niche With no sunlight to distract him Only the cool breeze of the night When he feels overwhelmed by life He finds serenity by looking up at the stars. Just a time to reflect on the day. Sometimes he will spend hours outside Forgetting about life's troubles And of course the true reason Why he holds night so dear, Is because of the quality Sports programs broadcast on the air.

Nick Suzuki

I’m Brittney //Hello. I’m Brittney. How do you do?// I help complete my family’s sequence. My Mom’s name is Ada, my Dad’s name is Clay, my brother’s name is Dane, and my self sufficient shrimp’s name is Elvis. Ada, Brittney, Clay, Dane, Elvis. ABCDE. Born to fit into the pattern. Who knew? My name serves as an original for imitation. Bu-ri-to-ni. Britt-nay. Britt. Brittbritt. Britty. Burt. Birdy. Bob. Bubs. Boo. My name divides itself into many nicknames, but just Brittney will do. But sometimes, I choose to step out of the box. Out of the pattern. My name is opposite of lapis-lazuli. Have you ever heard of lapis-lazuli? Have you ever heard the name Brittney? But don’t be fooled; I’m not ubiquitous. I’m not the color blue. //Nice to meet you too.//

//*//Pattern: noun. 1. a combination of qualities, acts, tendencies, etc., forming a consistent or characteristic arrangement 2. an original or model considered for or deserving of imitation (dictionary.com).

Brittney Higuchi

**2:30 Section**
2:30 class add your introduction pieces here... don't forget to add the "Horizontal rule" line after your piece and your name.

Gazelle

Pale Negev skin freckled With hundreds of stories Written by Hashem. These tales make her different They make the center of the room, of attention: Her home. Within a blushing, velvet, valley, she waits for her moment on stage The only divider between her and the crowd is A costume and an elaborate story When the cue is given She bounds to the stage Waking up those around her With song. Her heart trumpets, Saying, "I will remain forever In the east" -Ellie Halevi

STORM WEAVER

The weaver sat at the loom, back straight before A Blank Page. And taking the storm outside, the weaver tumbled The crack of thunder, The battle cry of cloud-hailed rain, Into a tapestry of glory.

In the weaver's mind, there is no 'I' Only the storm: the story. The CLASH Of lightning. The ROAR Of the wind.

As the weaver grew, the elements Revealed themselves, one by one. Wind did not just roar: It mewled like newborn kittens, And whispered like the sea. Thunder did not just crack, but Wrapped itself around the weaver like A call to order. Rain slithered to the ground: A sky-clad cobra. Rain galloped through the forest, A herd of river-washed horses.

The weaver never mastered the elements; Never wanted to. As the sky called, And the wind howled like a dog without a bone. The weaver merely sat before the spindle: Spun a story made of words, Wove a tapestry from hurricanes.

//Megan Wasserman//

The Calm Fury I. She spreads her claws, fangs bared Moon-howling on the worn path home Waiting to greet the sun's reflection on the windows Patient for the transformation Then she will skip down the same haunted road. II. She is the glue, invisible but strong Stringing them together Waiting patiently for the conflict, Holding fast when it came. She is the eye in the storm And the calm in the familiarly chaotic after-math.

Adelina Manaut

Lucky A Time Or Two

Careless with her body She dangles herself around. Afraid to watch her go Her parents keep her confined for fear that If she left, She'd come back broken to bits.

Always being watched She's pulled by something only she can feel A clear fishing line attaches her To the grand orb in the sky.

It pulls her, Twists her, Involuntarily moves her A force shaping her limbs and Doomed to repeat the process again.

Everyone waits for the crunch The snapping of their girl. She walks on obliviously Knowing she is just fine.

Asia Novak

My Name is David? David, the little man who fought the giant. This is my name. It is simple and short; it is nothing like me.

My name has the attitude of a calm Sunday, yet manages to persevere. It is a forceful red. My name is sturdy copper that corrodes with abrasiveness. It is the five o'clock before sunrise, not yet ready to light up my own uncertainty. My name's meaning has merely just begun.

My name is common, yet the name I truly hold is only defined as me. Is my name just David? Am I what my name defines me to be? I am my name as I have made it; my parents merely chose it. I am my name, my name is not me.

David Roeca

My name is a hard sound and a soft sound conjoined in the middle by a letter that makes a metallic sigh, like the closing of a heavy door. It seems on the verge of tumbling apart, coming out of the mouth broken. Be careful; come at it too fast and your tongue might trip. It's not just you. I see my name on paper and it looks strange, awkward, unreal. Unreal the way things seem when you've repeated a word so many times it begins to take on surreal qualities. Say it again, listen to the curious dullness. Say it again, and feel your cotton breath.

My name is a word that's attached itself to me like a black-polished limpet clings against the sucking pull of the sea. Not a whole but a part of a whole, natural but existing as a separate entity. For this reason, nicknames are not a possibility. I couldn't bear to take apart the glue, devote myself to harsh sounds or the softness of vowels.

Lately, though, Duarte is calling me girlbellies.

//Why do you keep calling me that?// I ask.

//Why not, girlbellies?//

//It's strange. I feel old,// I admit.

He says, //Don't feel old. You've been girlbellies a lot less than you've been Roxanne.//

I say, //Roxanne isn't a suffix name. You can't tack it on to the end of a sentence. You use it once. At the beginning. Only once. And that's it.//

He doesn't understand.

I say, //You've used girlbellies more times in the last hour than anybody has used Roxanne in the last week.//

And he says, //Well, what can you do about it?//

I pause to think, but the answer is already there, a hot rush of hopelessness: //Not much. Not much at all.

Roxanne//

The Dancer

She observes herself in Ballet, Her eyes glued to the mirror. Examining every move her body makes. "What looks better?" she questions herself constantly. Though she knows it is incorrect to watch her own movement, This has become a sacrifice for her. She hates it if people are able to see a mistake in her dancing. Her insecurities take her over every class. Not even while teaching does she let them slide; The pressure to be exact only builds. She will only try new steps alone, Pushing herself until she gets them precise. But in that vacant studio she is fearless, Because no one is there to see if she falls.

Ali

My name is a name of opposites and contradictions. hannah. When written all in lowercase it can be very round and go with the flow. Or it can be written all in uppercase. HANNAH. It can be a hard, sharp, unforgiving name. I can be both. When written properly I become Hannah, a sharp edge to a softer, more calm person. Or it might look like hANnAh. A soft, smooth look to begin with, then if you look closer to the center I become a sharper, more hard hearted person. But if you look long enough to get to the end, I become more even flowing with just a small pointy glass shard in the middle. My name becomes a perfect balance between sharp and soft. In a name of contradiction the balance helps me find my way. Hannah Elizabeth. The two names come from opposite origins. Elizabeth for the Queen of England with whom I share a birthday, and Hannah, a maid's name in England. I have the name of a powerful queen, and the name of a lowly maid. Split in half by my two names which one do I take after? I am at neither end of the scale but in the middle. Hannah, a unique name at the time I was born. A couple years later it became one of the most popular names in America. The uniqueness backfired and became the opposite, but I'm still a unique person in a population of many. Names are chosen for people at birth. I'm a product of what many people, like my parents, thought would be best for me. With a name given to me, does it leave enough room for me to shape a name for myself? I can be more than a name. My name is full of opposites and contradictions, twists and turns, and within it all, a balance that I'm supposed to find.
 * Contradicting Name**

Hannah

My Name

My dad gave me my name. He winnowed the name from an odd, antique, dusty name book with popular names from way back in the day. It came from an odd, old name book that had popular names WAY back in the day. So no one has heard of it except the people of the era.

My name is awkwardly short, sharp, and curt, just like the number seven and a bland crisp apple. It is simple to write and say but hard to match with other words. A platypus like name.

I'll let you on a secret though; I didn't like my name then because it was too unique and I had wanted to be "normal". I was peculiar enough as it was, a short-haired Chinese girl who could only speak Chinese, so I yearned to blend in. If I could choose my name then, I'd probably choose Stephanie, Jessica, or Danielle. I just wanted a ribbony, silky name that contrasted sharply with my kinky, borderline masculine name. I used to glare enviously at girls with the same names who became friends. I felt like the ugly ducking painfully waddling, stumbling, and chasing after the faster and more adept ducks. I wanted desperately to add more letters to my short name.

I don't know why or when but as I got older, I resisted conformity. I guess it's probably because I figured being different was the better or only option. When I cleaved myself from my naïve aspirations, I finally understood that I was lucky. I had no Alta's to strive to be or to be compared to. I had the chance to define myself, the opportunity to create the quirks associated with my name. I was free from restrains, out of the cell and unfettered; Alta unclipped my wings, rustled my wings, and let me SOAR…

Alta

Naming Legacy My name in Chinese connects to way farther back than does my English one. It by itself holds a significance that defines my entire life; but the importance diminishes as I hear it continuously, in tones different according to the mood: anger, exasperation, joy, amusement. In English, the most I can say of my name is that its Greek meaning is "bearer of the faith of Christ". Beyond the Christian meaning behind the name, my parents chose it merely because it sounded nice. My grandfather and grandmother chose the second character of my Chinese name, according to some ancient family tradition. As my surname, Lee, was not to change, two of the three characters of my name were ready far before my birth. Before I was brought into existence, the last character was added to my name, completing my name and fulfilling the legacy – 李国威. However far back the significance of my Chinese name may go, I also feel a great attachment to my English name, similar to the attachment I feel to the place of my birth, Hawaii. My parents chose it with no apparent source; thus it became the complete opposite of my Chinese name – a name with no origin, no legacy, no background. Yet I made it mine; just as my name is the number 5, the metal platinum, the time of midnight, and the color of gray. No matter what my other names might be, the real significances lie in the name given to me, Christopher, and the legacy contained in my name of my ancestor's language.

Chris

A Path as Steady as the Beating Drums

My name means resolute strength, my everyday dose of drug from the old days. My name is shaped with a lot of curves, like the number eight, a twisted circle. As it was once a symbol of love for new spouses, it has become a vertical symbol of infinity. It's ironic how a symbol of love twists and changes in order to keep infinite. Infinity has two circles; just the way love should be, with two people.

Eight is silky and blue, like the river bend. The same river I wished had connected to the sea; as if I could jump in that one river and free myself to peace. In the inkiest nights, where only the moon can be seen, free. I am a sea bird, a freedom bird, one which migrates with the seasons, one which chooses its own path. Depend of fishermen's scraps and dead prey, or hunt for life and live along my own rules. I choose freedom, where the waves can thrash on my wings and I still beat, where the food can be scarce and I can dive as deep as bird could and thrive on my own prey, where I choose my path.

Where my name lays, a path has been lead before, the name of a promiscuous actress, the one every time my name has been mentioned, so has hers. Her path connects to mine, but I choose not to follow hers. As I smoothly say my name I think of the harsh sadness behind it, where my name is not as strange, where I'm from. As Pocahontas didn't choose "the river as steady as the beating drums", I won't either.

Brigitte Russo

Gliding through the air Feeling the cool breeze caress his beak. Having no fear as he makes his way across the vast ocean abyss. The journey is arduous and the destination is vague, Flying solely on instinct as he finds his way. Seeing the unseen is the only way he will make it. As the wind picks up he struggles to make it Faster and faster he pumps his wings Until finally he soars past the soft tangerine horizon.

David TOkioka

Autumn

A girl at the open window: Elbow to the sill, Half her face cradled in her hand. She observes the world, Taking mental notes: Sisters skipping along, hand in hand, Blue jays sing the zippedy-doo-da, The sun shines so bright. She wonders, ponders, watches, Marvels. Why does the world seem so perfect?

Planet Earth: so beautiful, so precious, Yet cruel and twists your dearest fantasies to a Nightmare.

She gazes at the graying skies, Watching Mother's diamonds drip-drop down. Heaving a sigh, she feels safe.

"Beloved?" That's not her name. It shouldn't be. May seem so, But never does the outside prove justice inside. So, what is her name? Something dull, But marvelous. Something beautiful, Yet brings a melancholy. Maybe Harmony? A bright, sunny melody or a monotonous siren's sound. Or Autumn: The beginning of a dark era: Winter. And the end of a beautiful one: Summer. The perfect name to tell the story of The girl at the open window.

Amy Li

The Adamant Beaver

The ageless sunlight filters across the extensive rows of sepia logs. The gradual crescendo of water streaming through the dam's inevitable crevices awaken the resident beaver. As she scuffles along the bank the relentless wind sings: "Your dam will not suffice, it will not sustain its flawless cover. Beneath the surface it is a disarray of stripped trunks, the raw bark threatening to implode. Your ancestors have done better." She furiously gnaws the permeable boles of the neighboring trees, deforesting the landscape in efforts to enhance a dam that is more than sufficient. Yet her mind persists, it is not yet perfect. She propels glutinous mud into the seeping spigots. Her obsession arises from fear. Fear of being inadequate, fear of not measuring up to those who came before her. The wind swirls around her whispering taunts into her keen ears. And as the sun traced the horizon an adhesive mass of mud, twigs and rocks released itself from the unified dam, buoyantly floating down the vermilion waters.

Kristi Lee

Zanshin Never give up, and always finish the job. That is what Zanshin means. I like the word. The word looks like a crimson sword in an ice storm. The word surrounds me with an aggressive and chilling aura. Zanshin is austere, accurate, and stand-alone like the number one. My Mom originally gave me the middle name, Kanji, but I'd rather be Zanshin. Kanji is the first name of my Grandpa. His name and mine have the same meaning, complete. Though my Grandpa and I share the same name, he has earned his. The name Kanji should be reserved for those who feel they have reached their life's potential, and have become "complete". My Grandpa always talk about how he has lived a "complete" life. Nowadays, he lives on what he calls "bonus" years, years that are just frosting to the cake of his venerable life. Unfortunately I haven't lived out a "complete" life yet. In order for me to be complete, I need to become number one. In my eyes, I will be number one when I've control my full existence. I want to be strong, a stand-alone complex. I want to rule, dominate, control, command, and monopoly my world. In order for me to control my world, I must be Zanshin. I will never give up on my dreams and I'll always finish the job at hand. Even if one tries to pull me down from my sky of visions, I'll burn my way back to the top just like a Phoenix from conflagrant ash. Perhaps when I've become number one, I'll be Kanji.

-Jordan Wakayama

Forever Rewriting.

Goody-two shoes may be packed away Enclosed among her baggage Deny Disruption Rambunctiously Standing at a distance She'll think, she'll know Only her heart stays Come closer, stage lit with light A moment... wait Weight upon the words Lips cursed shoved shut Inward for meaning Beliefs feel; Fields in the shape of her mouth in the form of her body Her mind reacts she heals to contract She rests on an arrow Soul to ponder A floating feather above a scale as time stands still at a distance By a wave of washed up nothingness She finds sorrow & happiness Her life written in black and white All upon a page of a journal

Kawehi Goto