The Dust Bowl Autobiography [written 3.15.05]

I love reading my old essays; I wrote this one in 8th grade. The post below has not been edited at all; there are definitely a few punctuation and grammatical errors as well as awkwardness.

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It was around 1931 when the disaster occurred. I was only a child, and I did not understand anything. Only recently have I learned how difficult life was in the 1930’s. I was living in the Great Plains in the west, my parents growing crops and holding a prosperous life. Life was easy, until the decade of the Dust Bowl. Little did I know how much devastation it would cause.

The years of the 1920’s in Texas are wonderful. Our crops are surviving, and the food we bring home each night full-filling. Wheat is our main crop and it brings in most of the money we need. But miles of untamed fertile soil are still yet to be turned into farmland. Many of us new settlers hope to one day own this land and turn it into another busy farm. My parents are extremely proud of the crops we have grown so far.

It is 1931, and months have gone by without rain. The crops are dying, and my parents worry about the income. Also, the winds have gotten to be stronger than normal. Dust is blowing, and it covers everything. When I go outside, the world seems to be under a blanket of brown dust. The fields are becoming barer as each day passes.

Now four years have passed, and no rain has fallen. When I hear the sound of thunder, I hope to hear the pitter-patter sound heavy burden that does not go away. Soon, my parents have to work for the government for relief checks, because all of our crops have failed. Still, my parents are not giving up hope, and I believe they are too ashamed to admit defeat. These last four years have been difficult for everyone living in the Great Plains. A reporter came by the plains and called it the “Dust Bowl”.

Every breath we take is dusty. I dream of rain, but I never hear it. A feeling of static electricity hangs in the air, like a heavy burden that does not leave. The air is always dirty, and every breath we take seems to be dusty. Immediately, adults and most children are all falling ill with a mysterious sickness. Later, I find out that is from all the dust particles, which is causing pneumonia. Folks around this area call it “dust pneumonia”. There is no real cure to pneumonia, so some people die. Many families have given up surviving the Dust Bowl. A quarter have already packed up and left for the east. Unfortunately, the dust is heading closer toward the east each day. Because of this reason, my parents believe it is the best to stay and wait for the rain. Soon, the dust reaches the east, and for the first time, easterners taste and feel the dust.

A year later, the government is starting a soil conserving project. It is 1937, and fertile soil is disappearing, as the rain had. Changing the ways of farming will be hard on dedicated farmers, including my parents. Mother is becoming ill from dust pneumonia, and I do not know if she will ever be the same. Father seems distant all the time, as if there is nothing left upon the land. All the dreams he has had about fertile farmland have dried up, and now he has nothing to dream about.

Good new soon arrives. Another year later, 65 percent of soil has been saved. Many more families leave the plains they had dreamed to be their home. Everyone says that the Dust Bowl is creating another Sahara Desert. Still, my parents vow that they will never leave, and that they will stay until the rain arrives. I feel like a part of me is dying, as the world seems to be. My mother gets weaker everyday, and my father remains distant.

Finally, 6 months later it rained. My heart soared at that moment. Immediately, my parents healed from whatever they were suffering from. Somehow, the air seemed cleaner, fresher, and it felt good to breathe it. I savored every moment, and I held on to every strand of the feeling. This experience made everyone realize how careless we had been to the soil. The harsh effects have changed the way we farm today. Soil is not a renewable resource, and with nothing to hold the soil, the wind blew it all away into the ocean. Therefore, we had to learn to use the soil as a gift.

drawing

fluid motion upon my skin
delicate tracings
simple lines
it tickles
i'm hiding a smile

because we're alone
and it's midnight
your hand upon my shoulder
as you color in spaces
those empty places

now filled with care
a blossom that lasted
so short a while
it faded away
just like us

AP Lit "Metaphor for Self" [written August 2008]

I wander through a virgin forest, reaching out to touch every living, breathing soul growing across my path. My eyes are drawn to a brilliant blend of purple and white, her beauty seemingly exotic, raw, and naked against a background of deep hues of brown—the perfect flower for a Polaroid. How lovely she must feel to be captured as the only beautiful thing in an empty world.

Although small, she still manages to stand out. Delicate and enchanting, the flower’s dazzling purple core and white embroidery reach for the sun buried between dizzying layers of trees. Healthy, dew-covered leaves rustle as they are caressed by a gentle breeze. Brightly colored bees gather around in celebration, and birds fly by to drop off a melodious note. Wanted by all but rarely found, she is hidden in the most exotic areas. Stretching deep into the soil, her roots anchor against constant, battering rain. As each flower blooms with rainfall, she only grows more elegant, and with each blossom, new possibilities unfold.

When I spot a passion flower, I pause to imagine myself in her skin. Like looking into a mirror, she is a constant reminder of the person I yearn to be: beautiful, strong, and loved.