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I think this autobiography is different from the excerpt because it is in a 1st person perspective and you know what's Malala is thinking and what happens as if it were you.  I learned that she was an activist at the age of 11

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I think this autobiography is different from the excerpt because it is in a 1st person perspective and you know what's Malala is thinking and what happens as if it were you.  I learned that she was an activist at the age of 11

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I am inspired by her because she gave her life for education because some people did not even want to go to school

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The autobiography is different because it gave a little bit more detail than the biography did and the Autobiography is written is first person

Zach Q2  I am inspired by Malala because her whole country supported  her.I am also inspired by her because she fought for women's
rights

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Q1
The Autobiography is different from the Biography because it's in 1st person perspective also because it is was actually happened to herself. On the other hand the biography is different because it has facts but from another person in their perspective.
Q2
I'm inspired by Malala because she fought for rights to have women free. She was a very brave young women she argued with men, she believed, and she fought for her people. She has risked her life for women to have the rights they deserve or not, you always go forward never backwards.

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i am inspired by Malala because she thinks that everyone should be equal and share the same rights

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i am inspired by Malala because she thinks that everyone should be equal and share the same rights

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Ethan Q.1

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the auto is different because it says what happens in a certain day and the bio says just facts

Q.2
I am inspired by Malala because she helped not only herself but her whole country while risking her life

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the auto biography is different because the person who experienced this is the writer biography is different from this because another person is writing about them 

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the auto biography is different because the person who experienced this is the writer biography is different from this because another person is writing about them 

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Ethan Q.2

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The biography is different because, It tells the basic details and not the real details of what the day was like and how Malala felt that day. You still learn a lot from each but, the autobiography gave more detail.

Q2:
I am inspired by Malala because she stood up for girls when it was not even that safe. She did what was right for her country and for her race and gender. She is so brave and I admire that. She always kept going even when times were hard. She is an amazing women.

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The auto is different from bio because the autobiography is 3rd person and the biography is 1st person. Q2                            im really inspired by Malala she survived gunshots and Taliban she fought for rights she did everything tough

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Q.1
The biography is different because it tells facts and events but no in depth details, like how she used to gossip with her friends and things like that i learned in the autobiography things that happened to herself in a 1st person perspective, i learned facts from the biography but no in depth details.

Ian
Q.2
I am inspired by Malala because she believed something was wrong so she strived to change it. There was many obstacles and she knew she would make many enemies, but she did it anyway for the sake of her people, she risked her life and even shortly died! but she kept pushing forward.

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How Can I Be More Like Malala? Young Readers Meet the Teen Who Inspired the World 'I Am Malala': Excerpt of the Prologue The ride to school was quick, just five minutes up the road and along the river. I arrived on time, and exam day passed as it always did. The chaos of Mingora city surrounded us with its honking horns and factory noises while we worked silently, bent over our papers in hushed concentration. By day’s end I was tired but happy; I knew I’d done well on my test. “Let’s stay on for the second trip,” said Moniba, my best friend. “That way we can chat a little longer.” We always liked to stay on for the late pickup.For days I’d had a strange, gnawing feeling that something bad was going to happen. One night I’d found myself wondering about death. What is being dead really like? I wanted to know. I was alone in my room, so I turned toward Mecca and asked God. “What happens when you die?” I said. “How would it feel?”If I died, I wanted to be able to tell people what it felt like. “Malala, you silly girl,” I said to myself then, “you’d be dead and you couldn’t tell people what it was like.”Before I went to bed, I asked God for one more thing. Can I die a little bit and come back, so I can tell people about it?But the next day had dawned bright and sunny, and so had the next one and the one after that. And now I knew I’d done well on my exam. Whatever cloud had been hanging over my head had begun to clear away. So Moniba and I did what we always did: We had a good gossip. What face cream was she using? Had one of the male teachers gone for a baldness cure? And, now that the first exam was over, how difficult would the next one be?When our bus was called, we ran down the steps. As usual, Moniba and the other girls covered their heads and faces before we stepped outside the gate and got into the waiting dyna, the white truck that was our Khushal School “bus.” And, as usual, our driver was ready with a magic trick to amuse us. That day, he made a pebble disappear. No matter how hard we tried, we couldn’t figure out his secret.We piled inside, twenty girls and two teachers crammed into the three rows of benches stretching down the length of the dyna. It was hot and sticky, and there were no windows, just a yellowed plastic sheet that flapped against the side as we bounced along Mingora’s crowded rush-hour streets. Haji Baba Road was a jumble of brightly colored rickshaws,women in flowing robes, men on scooters, honking and zigzagging through the traffic. We passed a shopkeeper butchering chickens. A boy selling ice-cream cones. A billboard for Dr. Humayun’s Hair Transplant Institute. Moniba and I were deep in conversation. I had many friends, but she was the friend of my heart, the one with whom I shared everything. That day, when we were talking about who would get the highest marks this term, one of the other girls started a song, and the rest of us joined in.Just after we passed the Little Giants snack factory and the bend in the road not more than three minutes from my house, the van slowed to a halt. It was oddly quiet outside. “It’s so calm today,” I said to Moniba. “Where are all the people?”I don’t remember anything after that, but here’s the story that’s been told to me: Two young men in white robes stepped in front of our truck.“Is this the Khushal School bus?” one of them asked.The driver laughed. The name of the school was painted in black letters on the side.The other young man jumped onto the tailboard and leaned into the back, where we were all sitting.“Who is Malala?” he asked.No one said a word, but a few girls looked in my direction.He raised his arm and pointed at me. Some of the girls screamed, and I squeezed Moniba’s hand.

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How Can I Be More Like Malala? Young Readers Meet the Teen Who Inspired the World 'I Am Malala': Excerpt of the Prologue The ride to school was quick, just five minutes up the road and along the river. I arrived on time, and exam day passed as it always did. The chaos of Mingora city surrounded us with its honking horns and factory noises while we worked silently, bent over our papers in hushed concentration. By day’s end I was tired but happy; I knew I’d done well on my test. “Let’s stay on for the second trip,” said Moniba, my best friend. “That way we can chat a little longer.” We always liked to stay on for the late pickup.For days I’d had a strange, gnawing feeling that something bad was going to happen. One night I’d found myself wondering about death. What is being dead really like? I wanted to know. I was alone in my room, so I turned toward Mecca and asked God. “What happens when you die?” I said. “How would it feel?”If I died, I wanted to be able to tell people what it felt like. “Malala, you silly girl,” I said to myself then, “you’d be dead and you couldn’t tell people what it was like.”Before I went to bed, I asked God for one more thing. Can I die a little bit and come back, so I can tell people about it?But the next day had dawned bright and sunny, and so had the next one and the one after that. And now I knew I’d done well on my exam. Whatever cloud had been hanging over my head had begun to clear away. So Moniba and I did what we always did: We had a good gossip. What face cream was she using? Had one of the male teachers gone for a baldness cure? And, now that the first exam was over, how difficult would the next one be?When our bus was called, we ran down the steps. As usual, Moniba and the other girls covered their heads and faces before we stepped outside the gate and got into the waiting dyna, the white truck that was our Khushal School “bus.” And, as usual, our driver was ready with a magic trick to amuse us. That day, he made a pebble disappear. No matter how hard we tried, we couldn’t figure out his secret.We piled inside, twenty girls and two teachers crammed into the three rows of benches stretching down the length of the dyna. It was hot and sticky, and there were no windows, just a yellowed plastic sheet that flapped against the side as we bounced along Mingora’s crowded rush-hour streets. Haji Baba Road was a jumble of brightly colored rickshaws,women in flowing robes, men on scooters, honking and zigzagging through the traffic. We passed a shopkeeper butchering chickens. A boy selling ice-cream cones. A billboard for Dr. Humayun’s Hair Transplant Institute. Moniba and I were deep in conversation. I had many friends, but she was the friend of my heart, the one with whom I shared everything. That day, when we were talking about who would get the highest marks this term, one of the other girls started a song, and the rest of us joined in.Just after we passed the Little Giants snack factory and the bend in the road not more than three minutes from my house, the van slowed to a halt. It was oddly quiet outside. “It’s so calm today,” I said to Moniba. “Where are all the people?”I don’t remember anything after that, but here’s the story that’s been told to me: Two young men in white robes stepped in front of our truck.“Is this the Khushal School bus?” one of them asked.The driver laughed. The name of the school was painted in black letters on the side.The other young man jumped onto the tailboard and leaned into the back, where we were all sitting.“Who is Malala?” he asked.No one said a word, but a few girls looked in my direction.He raised his arm and pointed at me. Some of the girls screamed, and I squeezed Moniba’s hand.

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1. How is the autobiography different from the biography excerpt? What did you learn from each?

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1. How is the autobiography different from the biography excerpt? What did you learn from each?

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2. Are you inspired by Malala? Why or why not?