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ORPHANS' LONELY BEGINNINGS REVEAL HOW PARENTS SHAPE A CHILD'S BRAIN

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ORPHANS' LONELY BEGINNINGS REVEAL HOW PARENTS SHAPE A CHILD'S BRAIN

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Scholastic.com | Teachers: Write It | Publish Your Work

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Scholastic.com | Teachers: Write It | Publish Your Work

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Write It is the premiere site for kids' and teens' writing instruction and online publishing. In genres like poetry, essays, short fiction, memoir, humor writing, and journalism, students can learn the steps and publish their work online while getting constructive criticism from experts and their peers alike.

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http://teacher.scholastic.com/writeit/readwork.asp?Genre=Memoir

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Parents do a lot more than make sure a child has food and shelter, researchers say. They play a critical role in brain development.

More than a decade of research on children raised in institutions shows that "neglect is awful for the brain," says Charles Nelson, a professor of pediatrics at Harvard Medical School and Boston Children's Hospital. Without someone who is a reliable source of attention, affection and stimulation, he says, "the wiring of the brain goes awry." The result can be long-term mental and emotional problems.

A lot of what scientists know about parental bonding and the brain comes from studies of children who spent time in Romanian orphanages during the 1980s and 1990s. Children like Izidor Ruckel, who wrote a book about his experiences.

When Ruckel was 6 months old, he got polio.[1] His parents left him at a hospital and never returned. When he turned three, he was sent to an orphanage for "irrecoverable" children.

But Ruckel was luckier than many Romanian orphans. A worker at the orphanage "cared for me as if she was my mother," he says. "She was probably the most loving, the most kindest person I had ever met."

Then, when Ruckel was 5 or 6, his surrogate[2] mother was electrocuted trying to heat bath water for the children in her care. Ruckel was on his own in a place where beatings, neglect and boredom were the norm. Q1

Polio had left him with a weak leg. But as he got older he found he had power over many of the other children who had more serious disabilities.

"There was no right, there was no wrong in the orphanage," Ruckel says. "You didn't know the difference because you were never taught. I was put in charge of kids and I treated them just the way they treated us. If you didn't listen to me, I'd beat you."

Researchers began studying the children in Romanian orphanages after the nation's brutal and repressive government was overthrown in 1989. At the time, there were more than 100,000 children in government institutions. And it soon became clear that many of them had stunted growth and a range of mental and emotional problems.

When Nelson first visited the orphanages in 1999, he saw children in cribs rocking back and forth as if they had autism.[3] He also saw toddlers desperate for attention.

The odd behaviors, delayed language and a range of other symptoms suggested problems with brain development, Nelson says. So he and other researchers began studying the children using a technology known as electroencephalography (EEG), which measures electrical activity in the brain.

Many of the orphans had disturbingly low levels of brain activity. "Instead of a 100-watt light bulb, it was a 40-watt light bulb," Nelson says.

As the children grew older, the researchers were able to use MRI[4] to study the anatomy of their brains. And once again, the results were troubling. "We found a dramatic reduction in what's referred to as gray matter and in white matter," Nelson says. "In other words, their brains were actually physically smaller." Q2

The scientists realized the cause wasn't anything as simple as malnutrition. It was a different kind of deprivation - the lack of a parent, or someone who acted like a parent.

A baby "comes into the world expecting someone to take care of them and invest in them," Nelson says. "And then they form this bond or this relationship with this caregiver." But for many Romanian orphans, there wasn't even a person to take them out of the crib.

"Now what happens is that you're staring at a white ceiling, or no one is talking to you, or no one is soothing you when you get upset," Nelson says. So areas of the brain involved in vision and language and emotion don't get wired correctly.

Izidor Ruckel says he suspects the wiring in his brain was changed by his time in the orphanage. And that may have contributed to his troubles after leaving the institution.

In 1991, when he was 11, Ruckel was adopted by an American family and moved to San Diego. At first things went pretty well, he says. Then he began to have a lot of conflict with his adoptive parents. Ruckel says it wasn't their fault.

"I respond better when you beat me, or when you smack me around," he says. "That never happened. When you show me kindness, when you show me love, compassion, it seemed to make me even more angrier."

And those feelings became increasingly intense. "I felt angry to a point where I could feel my heart is turning black," Ruckel says. "And at the same time I have been raised in a Christian home. And you know with my Christian faith I always wondered, am I a child from hell? What went wrong with me?"

Scientists can't answer that question for Ruckel or any other individual. But they now know that, as a group, neglected or abandoned children tend to have abnormal circuitry in areas of the brain involved in parental bonding. Q3

When typical children are shown pictures of their mothers, the response in the amygdala, a brain region that plays an important role in emotional reactions, is much greater than when they see a stranger, according to Nim Tottenham. She's an associate professor of psychology at the University of California, Los Angeles.

Her team repeated the experiment with children who had been adopted after spending time in an orphanage or some other institution. This time, the children saw pictures of either an unfamiliar woman or their adoptive mother. And "the amygdala signal was not discriminating Mom from strangers," Tottenham says.

This sort of brain adaptation may help children survive in an environment without parents, she says. But it also may affect the kind of family relationships these children have once they are adopted.

Tottenham, who is a parent herself, says all the research on neglected children reminds her of something that should be obvious: "Parents are playing a really big role in shaping children's brain development." And parenting, she says, is a bit like oxygen. It's easy to take for granted until you see someone who isn't getting enough. Q4

Children who are adopted by about age 2 are most likely to grow up with typical brains, researchers say. Other neglected children, though, often show remarkable recoveries.

Things turned out pretty well for Izidor Ruckel. After leaving home at age 17 and being out of touch with his adoptive parents for several years, he learned that his family had been in a serious car crash. He realized he couldn't just leave them there. So he went to the hospital.

"It was really hard because I wanted to make sure they were OK," he says. "I was scared. And I didn't think I was going to be forgiven for everything I'd put them through."

But they did forgive him. And since then, he says, he and his adoptive parents have become very close.

That may be possible because his brain has changed, Ruckel says. "I believe that even the brain cells that don't work as a child, I believe that they can develop as a grown man."

Scientists have their own version of that idea. They say the brain has a remarkable ability to rewire itself and compensate for things that go wrong during development, including some problems caused by neglect.

Ruckel is 33 now and lives in Denver. In addition to writing a book about his experiences, he produced a documentary on Romanian orphans who were adopted. And he's raising money for a second documentary about what happened to the orphans who stayed in Romania.

"I've become an advocate fighting for other orphans," Ruckel says. "And I believe that has everything to do with my parents, because I realized what love, what compassion, what affection can do." Q5

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CommonLit | Orphans' Lonely Beginnings Reveal How Parents Shape A Child's Brain

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Izidor Ruckel grew up in a Romanian orphanage where he did not get the attention that most children receive. By studying other children who grew up in similarly neglectful conditions, researchers are able to learn more about the effects of parental bonding.

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Possibly an anticipatory set for 2G and/or 3G.

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In one of the most famous Dove films, Real Beauty Sketches explores the gap between how others perceive us and how we perceive ourselves. Each woman is the subject of two portraits drawn by FBI-trained forensic artist Gil Zamora: one based on her own description, and the other using a stranger's observations.

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CommonLit | The Destinies of Two Men Who Share One Name | Free Fiction & Nonfiction Literacy Resources, Curriculum, & Assessment Materials for Middle & High School English Language Arts

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CommonLit | The Destinies of Two Men Who Share One Name | Free Fiction & Nonfiction Literacy Resources, Curriculum, & Assessment Materials for Middle & High School English Language Arts

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Wes Moore escaped a rough-and-tumble childhood to become a model of achievement. Decorated combat veteran. White House Fellow. Business leader. Just after he learned he'd won a Rhodes Scholarship[1] in late 2000, he also learned about another Wes Moore, who would soon be sentenced to life in prison. Michele Norris talks to Wes Moore the achiever - and now author of The Other Wes Moore - about his journey of discovery and friendship.

MELISSA BLOCK, host: From NPR News, this is All Things Considered. I'm Melissa Block.

MICHELE NORRIS, host: And I'm Michele Norris.

And we're going to spend some time considering the notion of fate and the destinies who share one name, Wes Moore. The first Wes Moore escaped a rough-and-tumble childhood to become a model of achievement, decorated combat veteran, White House Fellow, business leader.

Just after that Wes Moore learned he'd won a Rhodes Scholarship in late 2000, he also learned about another Wes Moore, who would soon be sentenced to life in prison for his role in a botched jewelry store robbery that resulted in the death of an off-duty police officer.

The stories of both Wes Moores were chronicled in the Baltimore Sun. Wes Moore the achiever was so rattled by the coincidence he eventually wrote a letter to Wes Moore, the prisoner. The resulting correspondence led to a journey of discovery and friendship and a book published this week. It's called The Other Wes Moore: One Name, Two Fates.

Wes Moore the achiever and now author took us back to the moment he first learned of his counterpart. Q1

Mr. WES MOORE (Author, The Other Wes Moore): I was in South Africa, living in one of the townships[2] of South Africa doing research, and I got a call from my mother, and we were talking for a little bit, and she said, I have something crazy to tell you. She said, you know, the cops are looking for a man with your name in your neighborhood for killing a cop. And it hit me. I was like, what? And she said, there are wanted signs all over your neighborhood for Wes Moore, and if you happen to see Wes Moore, do not approach because he's assumed to be armed and very dangerous.

That was the first time I really even learned about him, but then as I started reading these articles and learning about this other Wes Moore, I realized that we had so much more in common that just our name. The fact that we both came up in single-parent households, the fact that we both had trouble with school and the fact that we both had, you know, these interactions with the criminal justice system.

That always haunted me, and it just sat with me for years until I eventually decided to write him that letter.

NORRIS: What did you expect to hear back, and what kind of response did you actually get?

Mr. MOORE: Well, you know, initially, I wasn't even expecting to hear back. The day after I mailed that letter, I thought to myself, man, that was a mistake. I was asking what, in retrospect, were relatively naive[3] questions, like, you know, who are you? And I was asking questions about his kids and about his older brother, who I knew was also in prison.

I was actually a bit surprised when a month later, I get a note from Jessup Correctional Institution from Wes Moore. And it was just a remarkable letter where he just literally went point by point answering the questions. And he was explaining to me how much it meant to him that I wrote him in the first place because he said when you're behind bars, you believe that no one even knows that you exist anymore. Q2

NORRIS: Now, we ticked through some of your achievements. You have a sterling[4] resume. Perhaps you could for us tick through a few of the important milestones in the other Wes Moore's life.

Mr. MOORE: I think there were a few really important milestones. I think, you know, a couple crucial moments have to come down to the first time that he started experimenting and getting involved in the drug life in Baltimore. As he first started, you know, getting involved with the, in many ways, the revolving door of the juvenile and eventually adult criminal justice system. The time that he first had his first children when he was 16 and 17, and then two more children at 19 and 20 years old and the way that shapes your future and affects the way you think about your future and the future of your family as a whole.

And after, you know, being involved in drugs and having a chance now to rebuild his life, going to Job Corps,[5] getting his GED,[6] when he came out of that GED program, he was very fired up and excited about life and excited to do things differently and realized just how strong that calling and how strong that pullback into the streets was, to the point that it eventually broke him. Q3

NORRIS: When you talk about the grip of the street, you often think of this sort of voracious[7] force that grabs young men and women, but in his case, it was almost like he drifted into drugs, both using drugs and selling them. He saw a kid with a cool headset that looked like something out of a Janet Jackson video and said, ooh, I want one of those.

Mr. MOORE: That's right.

NORRIS: And before long, he was a lookout.

Mr. MOORE: That's exactly right. My mother always says, she says, you know, kids need to think that you care before they care what you think. What Wes saw from the streets and from, you know, the kids on the corner and the kids who were dealing was he saw kids who he felt at that time genuinely cared about him and genuinely cared about his future. And he saw what they had and the material items that they had and how cool they looked, and then you see these kids who are willing to take you in and embrace you as family.

What they say starts meaning a whole lot more than what the teachers are saying or what the community leaders are saying. And that's that pull, that's that draw that really dragged Wes in. Q4

NORRIS: Now, we should say that you also had run-ins with the law yourself, and you flirted with the idea of walking across that line and leading a life that could ultimately have led to prison. But when you were arrested for spraying graffiti on a wall, you immediately knew this is not someplace I want to be. And you were with someone who had a very different reaction. He almost dealt with the cops like, come on, bring it on. I'm tougher than you are.

Mr. MOORE: That's exactly right, and you know, I think about it, and it is almost embarrassing now to think about the fact that I was, you know, here I was with, you know, with a tremendous mother and, you know, support from family but just this draw of the streets and this challenge that I was personally having internally about what does it mean to be a man, was really pulling at me. So it manifested[8] itself in things like vandalism[9] and getting into fights.

And it was really at that point that my mother decided, she said, you know, I've got to do something different. You know, I've tried other schools in the Bronx, and this hasn't worked. So I'm just going to try something completely new, and that's when she decided to send me off to military school.

NORRIS: Is it key for boys to have consistent authority figures, also guides in their life? I guess that's what I was thinking about because your father died when you were very young, but he was there in the very early years, not so for Wes, the other Wes.

Mr. MOORE: Absolutely, yeah. And, you know, there's actually a part in the book where Wes and I are talking about our fathers, and he said something that I think is very true when he said, you know, your father isn't here because he couldn't be. My father wasn't there because he chose not to be. And therefore, we're going to mourn their absences differently.

And I think he's absolutely right. I think we do mourn their absence differently. However, that hole that was left in both of us from not having a father there, from not having that presence there throughout to help us to make decisions is, I think, something that both of us spent a lot of our time, particularly our young years, trying to fill. Q5

NORRIS: What does the other Wes Moore want from this book?

Mr. MOORE: You know, what's amazing, Wes has had the chance to read the whole book, and he's had two reactions to it. The first reaction was, he's like, it's amazing that you got all the facts right because, he said, it's obvious you've done a lot of homework and a lot of research and talked to a lot of people.

But he said the other thing that he realized from the book was how little he's done with his life. He said, he said, listen, I've wasted every opportunity I've ever had in life and I'm going to die in here. So if you can do something to help people understand the ramifications[10] of their decisions and do something to help people understand the neighborhoods in which these decisions are being made, then I think you should do it.

And I'm glad I did it because I think I'm a better person because of this process, and I think I rediscovered a part of myself that I never even dreamed and never even imagined was even there.

NORRIS: Do you feel at times that you're afflicted[11] with something akin to survivor's guilt?[12]

Mr. MOORE: It's a great question because I thought about that as I was, you know, writing this book. And, you know, I would wake up at 5:30 in the morning every morning and begin my day, and I'd write for a couple hours before going to work.

And when you start your day reading a letter from someone who is going to spend the rest of their life in prison, when you start your day like that, it really helps you to think about your day. It humbles you. And I do think about the blessings that I had, the family, and I do feel like I'm very lucky, and I'm sincerely thankful for it.

NORRIS: Wes Moore, thank you very much.

Mr. MOORE: Thank you so much.

NORRIS: Wes Moore is the other of The Other Wes Moore: One Name, Two Fates. Q6

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CommonLit | The Destinies of Two Men Who Share One Name

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Despite a challenging childhood, Wes Moore has accomplished much, including success as an author, producer and decorated US Army officer. In late 2000, he was made aware of a man who had the same name as him but a very different future ahead of him, life in jail for murder.

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Fathers and Angels Wes stared back at me after I'd asked my question, letting a moment pass and a smirk flicker across his face before responding. "I really haven't thought too deeply about his impact on my life because, really, he didn't have one." Wes leaned back in his seat and threw an even stare at me. "Come on, man," I pressed on. "You don't think about how things would have been different if he'd been there? If he cared enough to be there?" "No, I don't." The lower half of his face was shrouded by the long beard that he'd grown, an outward sign of the Islamic faith he'd adopted in prison. His eyes danced with bemusement. He was not moved by my emotional questioning. "Listen," he went on. "Your father wasn't there because he couldn't be, my father wasn't there because he chose not to be. We're going to mourn their absence in different ways." This was one of our first visits. I had driven a half hour from my Baltimore home, and into the woody hills of central Maryland to Jessup Correctional Institute to see Wes. Immediately upon entering the building, I was sternly questioned by an armed guard and roughly searched to ensure I wasn't bringing anything that could be passed on to Wes. Once cleared, another guard escorted me to a large room that reminded me of a public school cafeteria. This was the secured area where prisoners and their visitors came together. Armed guards systematically paced around the room. Long tables with low metal dividers separating the visitors from the visited were the room's only furnishing. The prisoners who were marched in, shackled and dressed in orange or blue jumpsuits, or grey sweatsuits with "DOC" emblazoned across the chest. The uniforms reinforced the myriad other signals all around us: the prisoners were owned by the state. Lucky inmates were allowed to sit across a regular table from loved ones. They could exchange an initial hug and then talk face-to-face. The rest had to talk to their families and friends through bulletproof glass using a telephone, visitor and the prisoner connected by receivers they held tight to their ears. Just as I was about to ask another question, Wes interrupted me. "Let me ask you a question. You come here and ask me all these questions but you haven't shared any of yourself up with me. So tell me, what impact did your father not being there have on your childhood?" "I don't know-" I was about to say more when I realized that I didn't really have more to say. "Do you miss him?" he asked me. "Every day. All the time." I replied softly. I was having trouble finding my voice. It always amazed me how I could love someone so deeply, so intensely, that I barely even knew. I was taught to remember, but never question. Wes was taught himself to forget, and never ask why. We learned our lessons well, and were showing them off to a tee. We sat there, just a few feet from each other, both silent, pondering an absence. "Is Daddy Coming With Us?" -1982-
Nikki and I would play this game: I would sit on the living room chair while Nikki deeply inhaled and then blew directly in my face, eliciting hysterical laughs on both sides. This was our ritual. It always ended with me jabbing playfully at her face. She'd run away and bait me to give chase. Most times before today I never came close to catching her but today, I caught her and realized, like a dog chasing a car, I had no idea what to do. So, in the spirit of three-year-old boys everywhere who've run out of better ideas, I decided to punch her. Of course my mother walked into the room right as I swung and connected.

The yell startled me, but her eyes are what I remember.

"Get up to your damn room," came my mother's command from the doorway. "I told you, don't you ever put your hands on a woman!"

I looked up, confused, as she quickly closed the distance between us.

My mother had what we called "Thomas Hands," a tag derived from her maiden name: hands that hit so hard you only had to be hit once to know you never wanted to be hit again. The nickname began generations ago, but each generation took on the mantle of justifying it. Those hands were now reaching for me. Her eyes told me it was time to get moving.

I darted up the stairs still unsure about what exactly I'd done so terribly wrong. I headed to the bedroom I shared with my baby sister, Shani. Our room was tiny, barely big enough for my small bed and her crib. There was no place to hide. I was running in circles, frantic to find a way to conceal myself. And still trying to figure why I was in so much trouble. I couldn't even figure out the meaning of half the words she was using.

In a panic, I kicked the door shut behind me, just as her voice reached the second floor. "And don't let me hear you slam that -" boom! I stared for a moment at the closed door, knowing it would soon be flying open again. I sat in the middle of the room, next to my sister's empty crib, awaiting my fate.

Then, deliverance.

"Joy, you can't get on him like that," my father's baritone voice drifted up through the thin floor. "He's only three. He doesn't even understand what he did wrong. Do you really think he knows what a woman beater is?"

My father was in the living room, ten feet from where the entire incident began. He was a very slender 6'2 with a bushy mustache and a large afro. It wasn't his style to yell. When he heard my mother's outburst he rose from his chair, his eyes widening in confusion. My mother slowly reeled herself in. But she wasn't completely mollified.

"Wes, he needs to learn what is acceptable and what is not!" My father agreed, but with a gentle laugh, reminded her that cursing at a young boy wasn't the smartest way of making a point. I was saved, for the moment.

Excerpted from The Other Wes Moore: One Name, Two Fates by Wes Moore. Copyright 2010 by Wes Moore. Excerpted by permission of Spiegel & Grau, a division of Random House Inc.

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Fathers and Angels Wes stared back at me after I'd asked my question, letting a moment pass and a smirk flicker across his face before responding. "I really haven't thought too deeply about his impact on my life because, really, he didn't have one."

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Rosie King: How autism freed me to be myself

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"People are so afraid of variety that they try to fit everything into a tiny little box with a specific label," says 16-year-old Rosie King, who is bold, brash and autistic. She wants to know: Why is everyone so worried about being normal?

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NPR Audio of Underground Girls in Afghanistan

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In Search of a Hidden Resistance in Afghanistan

Hardcover, 350 pages |

In many families of Afghanistan, the birth of a girl is mourned. While boys are seen as blessings, girls are considered burdens and forced to live a strict life of limited options. They can't leave the house alone; they're not educated; and they're dressed in clothes that conceal them and literally restrict their view of the world.

But some young girls find a way to fight that for at least a few years.

In 2010, Jenny Nordberg wrote the first stories about the bacha posh, girls who dress up like boys to live as a boy as long as they can. Those stories appeared, to much interest and acclaim, in The New York Times. She has now expanded her reporting into a new book called The Underground Girls of Kabul: In Search of a Hidden Resistance in Afghanistan.

Nordberg tells NPR's Scott Simon about how common the bacha posh are in Afghanistan, and what's expected of them once they hit puberty.

Interview Highlights
On discovering a bacha posh among the children of a female Afghan parliamentarian
This was the very first time I was invited to her house, and I came to interview her about being a parliamentarian in Afghanistan. ... And I was with the two little twin girls, and they spoke a little bit of English, like a limited English, and we had a conversation that was mostly about, "What color do you like? What do you want to be when you grow up?" And all of a sudden, one of them said, "You know our brother is really a girl." And I looked at her, and I was like, "Yeah, yeah." And then the other said, somewhat annoyed that I didn't take her seriously, she said, "No, no. It's our sister." And at that point, I hadn't met the youngest in the family. She had four children all together, and I knew them as three girls and a youngest boy.

Magnus Forsberg/Courtesy of Crown
On how common a practice it is in Afghanistan
Every single Afghan I have spoken to, except for those who have been abroad for a very long time and are essentially expatriates, they will know of someone. They will have a neighbor, someone in their extended family, a great-grandmother, a colleague, there will usually be one in a school. In more conservative areas, there might be more. But every Afghan will know about this, and every Afghan has a story to tell.
On how easy it is to disguise a girl as a boy
Oh, it's simple. You know, it's a child, so who can really tell the difference? When I first met Mehran, who's Azita's daughter, she walked into the room - she's a 6-year-old child - and whereas her sisters are very girly and giggly and, you know, have all those typical sort of feminine traits, this is a boy. She walks in with a short haircut, a denim shirt, hips forward, much of an attitude, points a toy gun at me. It's a whole different character. I mean, it's important to, I think, understand that in extreme segregation where men and boys are given almost all the rights, it's very important for that system to be upheld - that boys look like boys and girls look like girls. So, in a sense, that makes it easier to pass to the other side.
On what happens when a bacha posh reaches puberty
In most cases, this is when Afghan girls are supposed to become girls again, to take on the very traditional path of Afghan women, which is that you are married off to a husband of your parents' choice, and you will become a mother, ideally have sons of your own. So it's very important for the girls not to go through puberty as boys.

Zahra is [a bacha posh] who's pushed it further than that. She was 15 when I first met her, and she's a tomboy. She said to me, "I see how women are treated here. Why would I want to be one of them?" So she goes to great lengths to disguise herself as a boy, and she has constant daily arguments with her parents, who beg of her, "Can you become more feminine? Can you grow out your hair?" And she refuses. She will walk in a hunched-over way, in an exaggerated male fashion, and very much take on the attitude of a young man. This is how she's grown up, and this is what feels natural to her. So, there are a few who actually are able to resist, but most of the time, you don't go against your parents.
On the universal takeaways from the bacha posh story
I think it's a story about oppression, and I think that's a universal story. This is something that women and girls have done throughout our own history. There were women who joined the Civil War here as men because women were not allowed to get an education, to become doctors. It's a story of passing, and how to buck the system in an impossible society.

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Why Afghanistan's 'Underground Girls' Skirt Tradition To Live As Boys

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In Search of a Hidden Resistance in Afghanistan Hardcover, 350 pages | In many families of Afghanistan, the birth of a girl is mourned. While boys are seen as blessings, girls are considered burdens and forced to live a strict life of limited options.

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NY Times article about "underground girls" in Afghanistan. LONG article.

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Afghan families have many reasons for pretending their girls are boys, including economic need, social pressure to have sons, and in some cases, a superstition that doing so can lead to the birth of a real boy. Lacking a son, the parents decide to make one up, usually by cutting the hair of a daughter and dressing her in typical Afghan men's clothing. There are no specific legal or religious proscriptions against the practice. In most cases, a return to womanhood takes place when the child enters puberty. The parents almost always make that decision.

In a land where sons are more highly valued, since in the tribal culture usually only they can inherit the father's wealth and pass down a name, families without boys are the objects of pity and contempt. Even a made-up son increases the family's standing, at least for a few years. A bacha posh can also more easily receive an education, work outside the home, even escort her sisters in public, allowing freedoms that are unheard of for girls in a society that strictly segregates men and women.

But for some, the change can be disorienting as well as liberating, stranding the women in a limbo between the sexes. Shukria Siddiqui, raised as a boy but then abruptly plunged into an arranged marriage, struggled to adapt, tripping over the confining burqa and straining to talk to other women.

The practice may stretch back centuries. Nancy Dupree, an 83-year-old American who has spent most of her life as a historian working in Afghanistan, said she had not heard of the phenomenon, but recalled a photograph from the early 1900s belonging to the private collection of a member of the Afghan royal family.

It featured women dressed in men's clothing standing guard at King Habibullah's harem. The reason: the harem's women could not be protected by men, who might pose a threat to the women, but they could not be watched over by women either.

"Segregation calls for creativity," Mrs. Dupree said. "These people have the most amazing coping ability."

It is a commonly held belief among less educated Afghans that the mother can determine the sex of her unborn child, so she is blamed if she gives birth to a daughter. Several Afghan doctors and health care workers from around the country said that they had witnessed the despair of women when they gave birth to daughters, and that the pressure to produce a son fueled the practice.

"Yes, this is not normal for you," Mrs. Rafaat said in sometimes imperfect English, during one of many interviews over several weeks. "And I know it's very hard for you to believe why one mother is doing these things to their youngest daughter. But I want to say for you, that some things are happening in Afghanistan that are really not imaginable for you as a Western people."
Pressure to Have a Boy
From that fateful day she first became a mother - Feb. 7, 1999 - Mrs. Rafaat knew she had failed, she said, but she was too exhausted to speak, shivering on the cold floor of the family's small house in Badghis Province.

She had just given birth - twice - to Mehran's older sisters, Benafsha and Beheshta. The first twin had been born after almost 72 hours of labor, one month prematurely. The girl weighed only 2.6 pounds and was not breathing at first. Her sister arrived 10 minutes later. She, too, was unconscious.

When her mother-in-law began to cry, Mrs. Rafaat knew it was not from fear whether her infant granddaughters would survive. The old woman was disappointed. "Why," she cried, according to Mrs. Rafaat, "are we getting more girls in the family?"

Mrs. Rafaat had grown up in Kabul, where she was a top student, speaking six languages and nurturing high-flying dreams of becoming a doctor. But once her father forced her to become the second wife of her first cousin, she had to submit to being an illiterate farmer's wife, in a rural house without running water and electricity, where the widowed mother-in-law ruled, and where she was expected to help care for the cows, sheep and chickens. She did not do well.

Conflicts with her mother-in-law began immediately, as the new Mrs. Rafaat insisted on better hygiene and more contact with the men in the house. She also asked her mother-in-law to stop beating her husband's first wife with her walking stick. When Mrs. Rafaat finally snapped the stick in protest, the older woman demanded that her son, Ezatullah, control his new wife.

He did so with a wooden stick or a metal wire. "On the body, on the face," she recalled. "I tried to stop him. I asked him to stop. Sometimes I didn't."

Soon, she was pregnant. The family treated her slightly better as she grew bigger. "They were hoping for a son this time," she explained. Ezatullah Rafaat's first wife had given birth to two daughters, one of whom had died as an infant, and she could no longer conceive. Azita Rafaat delivered two daughters, double the disappointment.

Mrs. Rafaat faced constant pressure to try again, and she did, through two more pregnancies, when she had two more daughters - Mehrangis, now 9, and finally Mehran, the 6-year-old.

Asked if she ever considered leaving her husband, she reacted with complete surprise.

"I thought of dying," she said. "But I never thought of divorce. If I had separated from my husband, I would have lost my children, and they would have had no rights. I am not one to quit."

Today, she is in a position of power, at least on paper. She is one of 68 women in Afghanistan's 249-member Parliament, representing Badghis Province. Her husband is unemployed and spends most of his time at home. "He is my house husband," she joked.

By persuading him to move away from her mother-in-law and by offering to contribute to the family income, she laid the groundwork for her political life. Three years into their marriage, after the fall of the Taliban in 2002, she began volunteering as a health worker for various nongovernmental organizations. Today she makes $2,000 a month as a member of Parliament.

As a politician, she works to improve women's rights and the rule of law. She ran for re-election on Sept. 18, and, based on a preliminary vote count, is optimistic about securing another term. But she could run only with her husband's explicit permission, and the second time around, he was not easily persuaded.

He wanted to try again for a son. It would be difficult to combine pregnancy and another child with her work, she said - and she knew she might have another girl in any case.

But the pressure to have a son extended beyond her husband. It was the only subject her constituents could talk about when they came to the house, she said.

"When you don't have a son in Afghanistan," she explained, "it's like a big missing in your life. Like you lost the most important point of your life. Everybody feels sad for you."

As a politician, she was also expected to be a good wife and a mother; instead she looked like a failed woman to her constituents. The gossip spread back to her province, and her husband was also questioned and embarrassed, she said.

In an effort to preserve her job and placate her husband, as well as fending off the threat of his getting a third wife, she proposed to her husband that they make their youngest daughter look like a son.

"People came into our home feeling pity for us that we don't have a son," she recalled reasoning. "And the girls - we can't send them outside. And if we changed Mehran to a boy we would get more space and freedom in society for her. And we can send her outside for shopping and to help the father."
No Hesitation
Together, they spoke to their youngest daughter, she said. They made it an alluring proposition: "Do you want to look like a boy and dress like a boy, and do more fun things like boys do, like bicycling, soccer and cricket? And would you like to be like your father?" Mehran did not hesitate to say yes.

That afternoon, her father took her to the barbershop, where her hair was cut short. They continued to the bazaar, where she got new clothing. Her first outfit was "something like a cowboy dress," Mrs. Rafaat said, meaning a pair of blue jeans and a red denim shirt with "superstar" printed on the back.

She even got a new name - originally called Manoush, her name was tweaked to the more boyish-sounding Mehran.

Mehran's return to school - in a pair of pants and without her pigtails - went by without much reaction by her fellow students. She still napped in the afternoons with the girls, and changed into her sleepwear in a separate room from the boys. Some of her classmates still called her Manoush, while others called her Mehran. But she would always introduce herself as a boy to newcomers.

Khatera Momand, the headmistress, with less than a year in her job, said she had always presumed Mehran was a boy, until she helped change her into sleeping clothes one afternoon. "It was quite a surprise for me," she said.

But once Mrs. Rafaat called the school and explained that the family had only daughters, Miss Momand understood perfectly. She used to have a girlfriend at the teacher's academy who dressed as a boy.

Today, the family's relatives and colleagues all know Mehran's real gender, but the appearance of a son before guests and acquaintances is just enough to keep the family functioning, Mrs. Rafaat said. At least for now.

Mr. Rafaat said he felt closer to Mehran than to his other children, and thought of her as a son. "I am very happy," he said. "When people now ask me, I say yes and they see that I have a son. So people are quiet, and I am quiet."
Economic Necessity
Mehran's case is not altogether rare.

Ten-year old Miina goes to school for two hours each morning, in a dress and a head scarf, but returns about 9 a.m. to her home in one of Kabul's poorest neighborhoods to change into boys' clothing. She then goes to work as Abdul Mateen, a shop assistant in a small grocery store nearby.

Every day, she brings home the equivalent of about $1.30 to help support her Pashtun family of eight sisters, as well as their 40-year-old mother, Nasima.

Miina's father, an unemployed mason, is often away. When he does get temporary work, Nasima said, he spends most of his pay on drugs.

Miina's change is a practical necessity, her mother said, a way for the entire family to survive. The idea came from the shopkeeper, a friend of the family, Nasima said: "He advised us to do it, and said she can bring bread for your home."

She could never work in the store as a girl, just as her mother could not. Neither her husband nor the neighbors would look kindly on it. "It would be impossible," Nasima said. "It's our tradition that girls don't work like this."

Miina is very shy, but she admitted to a yearning to look like a girl. She still likes to borrow her sister's clothing when she is home. She is also nervous that she will be found out if one of her classmates recognizes her at the store. "Every day she complains," said her mother. " 'I'm not comfortable around the boys in the store,' she says. 'I am a girl.' "

Her mother has tried to comfort her by explaining that it will be only for a few years. After all, there are others to take her place. "After Miina gets too old, the second younger sister will be a boy," her mother said, "and then the third."
Refusing to Go Back
For most such girls, boyhood has an inevitable end. After being raised as a boy, with whatever privileges or burdens it may entail, they switch back once they become teenagers. When their bodies begin to change and they approach marrying age, parents consider it too risky for them to be around boys anymore.

When Zahra, 15, opens the door to the family's second-floor apartment in an upscale neighborhood of Kabul, she is dressed in a black suit with boxy shoulders and wide-legged pants. Her face has soft features, but she does not smile, or look down, as most Afghan girls do.

She said she had been dressing and acting like a boy for as long as she could remember. If it were up to her, she would never go back. "Nothing in me feels like a girl," she said with a shrug.

Her mother, Laila, said she had tried to suggest a change toward a more feminine look several times, but Zahra has refused. "For always, I want to be a boy and a boy and a boy," she said with emphasis.

Zahra attends a girls' school in the mornings, wearing her suit and a head scarf. As soon as she is out on the steps after class, she tucks her scarf into her backpack, and continues her day as a young man. She plays football and cricket, and rides a bike. She used to practice tae kwon do, in a group of boys where only the teacher knew she was not one of them.

Most of the neighbors know of her change, but otherwise, she is taken for a young man wherever she goes, her mother said. Her father, a pilot in the Afghan military, was supportive. "It's a privilege for me, that she is in boys' clothing," he said. "It's a help for me, with the shopping. And she can go in and out of the house without a problem."

Both parents insisted it was Zahra's own choice to look like a boy. "I liked it, since we didn't have a boy," her mother said, but added, "Now, we don't really know."

Zahra, who plans on becoming a journalist, and possibly a politician after that, offered her own reasons for not wanting to be an Afghan woman. They are looked down upon and harassed, she said.

"People use bad words for girls," she said. "They scream at them on the streets. When I see that, I don't want to be a girl. When I am a boy, they don't speak to me like that."

Zahra said she had never run into any trouble when posing as a young man, although she was occasionally challenged about her gender. "I've been in fights with boys," she said. "If they tell me two bad words, I will tell them three. If they slap me once, I will slap them twice."
Time to 'Change Back'
For Shukria Siddiqui, the masquerade went too far, for too long.

Today, she is 36, a married mother of three, and works as an anesthesiology nurse at a Kabul hospital. Short and heavily built, wearing medical scrubs, she took a break from attending to a patient who had just had surgery on a broken leg.

She remembered the day her aunt brought her a floor-length skirt and told her the time had come to "change back." The reason soon became clear: she was getting married. Her parents had picked out a husband whom she had never met.

At that time, Shukur, as she called herself, was a 20-year old man, to herself and most people around her. She walked around with a knife in her back pocket. She wore jeans and a leather jacket.

She was speechless - she had never thought of getting married.

Mrs. Siddiqui had grown up as a boy companion to her older brother, in a family of seven girls and one boy. "I wanted to be like him and to be his friend," she said. "I wanted to look like him. We slept in the same bed. We prayed together. We had the same habits."

Her parents did not object, since their other children were girls, and it seemed like a good idea for the oldest son to have a brother. But Mrs. Siddiqui remained in her male disguise well beyond puberty, which came late.

She said she was already 16 when her body began to change. "But I really had nothing then either," she said, with a gesture toward her flat chest.

Like many other Afghan girls, she was surprised the first time she menstruated, and worried she might be ill. Her mother offered no explanation, since such topics were deemed inappropriate to discuss. Mrs. Siddiqui said she never had romantic fantasies about boys - or of girls, either.

Her appearance as a man approaching adulthood was not questioned, she said. But it frequently got others into trouble, like the time she escorted a girlfriend home who had fallen ill. Later, she learned that the friend had been beaten by her parents after word spread through the neighborhood that their daughter was seen holding hands with a boy.
'My Best Time'
Having grown up in Kabul in a middle-class family, her parents allowed her to be educated through college, where she attended nursing school. She took on her future and professional life with certainty and confidence, presuming she would never be constricted by any of the rules that applied to women in Afghanistan.

Her family, however, had made their decision: she was to marry the owner of a small construction company. She never considered going against them, or running away. "It was my family's desire, and we obey our families," she said. "It's our culture."

A forced marriage is difficult for anyone, but Mrs. Siddiqui was particularly ill equipped. She had never cooked a meal in her life, and she kept tripping over the burqa she was soon required to wear.

She had no idea how to act in the world of women. "I had to learn how to sit with women, how to talk, how to behave," she said. For years, she was unable to socialize with other women and uncomfortable even greeting them.

"When you change back, it's like you are born again, and you have to learn everything from the beginning," she explained. "You get a whole new life. Again."

Mrs. Siddiqui said she was lucky her husband turned out to be a good one. She had asked his permission to be interviewed and he agreed. He was understanding of her past, she said. He tolerated her cooking. Sometimes, he even encouraged her to wear trousers at home, she said. He knows it cheers her up.

In a brief period of marital trouble, he once attempted to beat her, but after she hit him back, it never happened again. She wants to look like a woman now, she said, and for her children to have a mother.

Still, not a day goes by when she does not think back to "my best time," as she called it. Asked if she wished she had been born a man, she silently nods.

But she also wishes her upbringing had been different. "For me, it would have been better to grow up as a girl," she said, "since I had to become a woman in the end."
Like Mother, Like a Son
It is a typically busy day in the Rafaat household. Azita Rafaat is in the bathroom, struggling to put her head scarf in place, preparing for a photographer who has arrived at the house to take her new campaign photos.

The children move restlessly between Tom and Jerry cartoons on the television and a computer game on their mother's laptop. Benafsha, 11, and Mehrangis, 9, wear identical pink tights and a ruffled skirt. They go first on the computer. Mehran, the 6-year-old, waits her turn, pointing and shooting a toy gun at each of the guests.

She wears a bandage over her right earlobe, where she tried to pierce herself with one of her mother's earrings a day earlier, wanting to look like her favorite Bollywood action hero: Salman Khan, a man who wears one gold earring.

Then Mehran decided she had waited long enough to play on the computer, stomping her feet and waving her arms, and finally slapping Benafsha in the face.

"He is very naughty," Mrs. Rafaat said in English with a sigh, of Mehran, mixing up the gender-specific pronoun, which does not exist in Dari. "My daughter adopted all the boys' traits very soon. You've seen her - the attitude, the talking - she has nothing of a girl in her."

The Rafaats have not yet made a decision when Mehran will be switched back to a girl, but Mrs. Rafaat said she hoped it need not happen for another five or six years.

"I will need to slowly, slowly start to tell her about what she is and that she needs to be careful as she grows up," she said. "I think about this every day - what's happening to Mehran."

Challenged about how it might affect her daughter, she abruptly revealed something from her own past: "Should I share something for you, honestly? For some years I also been a boy."

As the first child of her family, Mrs. Rafaat assisted her father in his small food shop, beginning when she was 10, for four years. She was tall and athletic and saw only potential when her parents presented the idea - she would be able to move around more freely.

She went to a girls' school in the mornings, but worked at the store on afternoons and evenings, running errands in pants and a baseball hat, she said.

Returning to wearing dresses and being confined was not so much difficult as irritating, and a little disappointing, she said. But over all, she is certain that the experience contributed to the resolve that brought her to Parliament.

"I think it made me more energetic," she said. "It made me more strong." She also believed her time as a boy made it easier for her to relate to and communicate with men.

Mrs. Rafaat said she hoped the effects on Mehran's psyche and personality would be an advantage, rather than a limitation.

She noted that speaking out may draw criticism from others, but argued that it was important to reveal a practice most women in her country wished did not have to exist. "This is the reality of Afghanistan," she said.

As a woman and as a politician, she said it worried her that despite great efforts and investments from the outside world to help Afghan women, she has seen very little change, and an unwillingness to focus on what matters.

"They think it's all about the burqa," she said. "I'm ready to wear two burqas if my government can provide security and a rule of law. That's O.K. with me. If that's the only freedom I have to give up, I'm ready."

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Facing Social Pressures, Families Disguise Girls as Boys in Afghanistan

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Afghan families have many reasons for pretending their girls are boys, including economic need, social pressure to have sons, and in some cases, a superstition that doing so can lead to the birth of a real boy. Lacking a son, the parents decide to make one up, usually by cutting the hair of a daughter and dressing her in typical Afghan men's clothing.

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Students will be able to define the word identity

Students will be able to identify various factors that shape their identity

This lesson is part of the unit Identity & Community: An Introduction to 6th Grade Social Studies

"Who am I?" is a question we all ask at some time in our lives. It is an especially critical question for adolescents. As we search for answers we begin to define ourselves. How is our identity formed? To what extent are we defined by our talents and interests? by our membership in a particular ethnic group? by our social and economic class? by our religion by the nation in which we live? How do we label ourselves and how are we labeled by others? How are our identities influenced by how we think others see us? How do our identities inform our values, ideas, and actions? In what ways might we assume different identities in different contexts? How do we manage multiple identities? Answers to these questions help us understand history, ourselves, and each other.

As students study world history, they will explore how individuals and groups over time and across continents have answered questions about identity. They will learn that many of the same factors that influence their identities-factors such as religion, gender, and geography-also shaped the identities of the ancient Greeks, the Mayans, and the Chinese. Thus, this lesson establishes an important social studies theme that will resonate throughout the year.

At the same time, beginning the year by having students examine and share their own identities is a way to build relationships in your class. When sixth grade students begin a new school year, often with unfamiliar classmates and teachers, it is particularly important for them to have the opportunity to get to know their new community and to become known by others. The activities suggested in this lesson begin this process of relationship building.

Reading: "My Name" by Sandra Cisneros
Warm-up
When students begin a new school year they may hold contradictory feelings. On one hand, they may think they know a lot about their classmates just by looking at them. They may have formed judgments about who will (or will not) be their friends based on the clothes people wear or how they speak. On the other hand, students may feel they are in the company of strangers; they may feel that nobody really knows them and that they don't really know their classmates. To help students push beyond judging their peers based on simple stereotypes, you can have them participate in a "How well do we know each other?" activity.

First, distribute an index card to each student. Ask students to write one little-known fact about themselves on this card. It should be something that people could not know just by looking at them. Their names should not appear on the cards. Then collect the cards.

Read a card and ask the class to guess who the fact describes. You might read several cards at the beginning of each class period throughout this unit. Through this activity students often learn that they have something in common with a classmate or they learn something interesting about someone that might otherwise have taken all year to discover.
Main activity
In the next several lessons, students will focus on the concept of identity. Write the word identity on the board and ask for volunteers to share their thoughts on what it means. Or
you can share this definition with students: Identity is the answer to the question, "Who am I?" The fact students wrote on their index cards in the warm-up activity represents one part of students' answer to this question.

Next, distribute copies of "My Name," a chapter from Sandra Cisneros's book The House on Mango Street. In this excerpt a young girl, Esperanza, reflects on her name. In the process she reveals information about her identity-how she perceives herself, what she values, where her family is from, and so on. Ask student volunteers to read a paragraph of this excerpt to the class. As the text is read aloud, students can underline any words or phrases that give them information about how Esperanza would answer the question, "Who am I?"

In small groups, have students create an identity chart for Esperanza. The diagram on the next page is an example of an identity chart. Students can begin with the words orphrases they underlined in the passage that represent how Esperanza defines her identity.

You can also provide groups with some questions to guide them:

Who is in Esperanza's family?

Where is her family from?

What languages does she speak?

What does she hope for her future?

What does she think about her name? What does this reveal about her personality?

Alternatively, you can create Esperanza's identity chart as a whole class activity.
Curriculum connection: Students can create identity charts for historical figures as well as for civilizations and nation-states. For example, have students create identity charts for Athens and Sparta or for Montezuma or Siddhartha.
The purpose of reading "My Name" is to help students think about the various factors that shape our identities. However, the text also introduces other interesting themes such as the concepts of stereotypes and prejudice. Later in this unit, students will have the opportunity to address questions such as, "How do we perceive and judge others?" and "How does it feel to be labeled?" For now, you can frame questions about the way Esperanza describes Mexicans, Chinese, and women in terms of what this says about her own beliefs and experiences.
Follow-through
Now students can create identity charts for themselves. Before beginning this activity, ask students to brainstorm a list of categories people use to help define themselves such as gender, age, physical characteristics, and hobbies as well as ties to a particular religion, ethnic group, neighborhood, and nation. Explain to students that they will be sharing their identity charts with the class so they should be cautious about including information that they want to remain private. In the next few lessons, students will have the opportunity to think more deeply about their own identities. As they gain a deeper understanding of identity, they will add to their identity charts. Their identity charts willalso serve as useful prewriting tools for future assignments such as students' biopoems.
Teaching note: In preparation for this class, you may want to create your own identity chart. Not only will this model the assignment for students but it also provides a way for students to get to know you. Throughout this unit there are opportunities for you to work alongside the students to reinforce the idea that you are a member of their classroom community too. Homework

1. Students can complete their identity charts for homework. You could also ask students to write a brief journal entry about their identity charts. Here is a prompt to help structure students' reflections:
Look over your identity chart. What aspects of your identity are most important to you? Select one characteristic from your identity chart and write about why it is an important part of defining who you are.

2. Following Esperanza's example, students could write a personal essay about their own name. Students could share their essays in class the next day as a way to begin to introduce themselves to each other.

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Students will be able to define the word identity Students will be able to identify various factors that shape their identity This lesson is part of the unit Identity & Community: An Introduction to 6th Grade Social Studies "Who am I?" is a question we all ask at some time in our lives.

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Newsela | Sarah Winnemucca: Straddling two different worlds, belonging to neither

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Newsela | Sarah Winnemucca: Straddling two different worlds, belonging to neither

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Born around 1844, Sarah Winnemucca did not know that she was American as a child. Born Thocmetony (Shell Flower) among the Paiute Indians, she roamed with her people over western Nevada and eastern Oregon, gathering plants and fish from local lakes. But even during her early years, Winnemucca had learned to be afraid of the men with blue eyes, who looked like owls because of their beards.

For Winnemucca, being "American" meant adopting the behaviors and language of people she had reason to distrust. Translating between the two cultures became her life's work. Winnemucca's autobiography, "Life Among the Paiutes," the first English narrative by a Native American woman, voices a thoughtful critique of American culture while recounting the troubled history of federal lands.

The American Way Of Things

As Winnemucca grew up, she began adopting American habits, taking the Christian name Sarah and mastering English and Spanish. She and her sister went to a convent school in San Jose, California. Only a few weeks after their arrival, parents of fellow students made complaints about "Indians being in school with their children."

For most of her life, she sought to straddle American and Native cultures to help the Northern Paiutes. In 1859, land was set aside near Pyramid Lake for a reservation. Winnemucca and her family were expected to abandon their nomadic life for a settled, "American" lifestyle. Many Paiutes died of starvation at Pyramid Lake.

Winnemucca was driven to action, begging military leaders at Nevada's Camp McDermit for help. Wagonloads of supplies were finally sent to the reservation. Winnemucca was hired as a military interpreter and her father and their band moved to the military camp.

Military Translator

Translating was a means for Winnemucca to get better treatment for her people, but she was often in a difficult position. In the mid 1870s, she had to translate for agent William V. Rinehart, whom she found to be a hard, unlikeable man.

In 1878, she worked as a messenger, scout and interpreter for General O. O. Howard during the Bannock War between the U.S. military and the Bannock Indians. For her work, she once rode her horse 223 miles. Her courageous actions landed her on the front page of The New York Times in June 1878.

The Bannock War ended badly for the Paiutes, who were mostly innocent bystanders. In 1879, military leaders forced the Paiutes at Camp McDermit to march more than 350 miles in winter to the Yakama reservation in Washington territory. Winnemucca was devastated. She had promised the Paiutes they would be all right if they followed military orders. She and other Paiute leaders traveled to Washington, D.C., to meet with the secretary of the interior, Charles Schurz. They succeeded in obtaining a letter allowing the Paiutes to return home, but the Yakama agent refused to let them leave.

Several of the Paiutes accused Winnemucca of betraying them for money. She showed them Schurz's letter and said, "I have said everything I could in your behalf ... I have suffered everything but death to come here with this paper. I don't know whether it speaks truth or not. You can say what you like about me. You have a right to say I have sold you. It looks so."

Lecture Touring

When face-to-face petitions and letters failed to improve conditions for the Paiutes, Winnemucca began lecturing in San Francisco, dramatizing the misfortune of reservation Indians. "I would be the first Indian woman who ever spoke before white people," Winnemucca told a reporter. "They don't know what the Indians have got to stand sometimes."

Winnemucca became famous, and in 1883, important intellectuals invited her to lecture in New England. They also arranged for the publication of "Life Among the Paiutes" later that year. In all, Winnemucca spoke nearly 300 times throughout New England.

Her writing about Americans often criticized their hypocrisy. "Since the war of 1860, there have been one hundred and three (103) of my people murdered, and our reservation taken from us," she wrote in her book. "And yet we, who are called blood-seeking savages, are keeping our promises to the government."

Present But Apart

After the mid-1880s, she abandoned lecturing, exhausted and disillusioned. She worked in both worlds, but was at home, ultimately, in neither. She once told an interviewer, "I would rather be with my people, but not to live with them as they live."

She turned her energies instead toward a school for Paiute children, teaching children to read and write in English and providing them with training in marketable skills. Unfortunately, funding for the school was a persistent problem, and in 1887, the Dawes Act mandated that Native children be taught in white-run, English-only schools. And so the school was closed.

Winnemucca may have begun her life ignorant of Americans, but by the time she died in 1891, Americans were not ignorant of her. She became so well-known that The New York Times published a notice about her death. And if her speeches and writing did not make the changes she hoped for, they remain a powerful, vivid testimony of a life spent speaking for others.

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Sarah Winnemucca: Straddling two different worlds, belonging to neither

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Born around 1844, Sarah Winnemucca did not know that she was American as a child. Born Thocmetony (Shell Flower) among the Paiute Indians, she roamed with her people over western Nevada and eastern Oregon, gathering plants and fish from local lakes.

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Newsela | New D.C. museum of African-American history highlights Hughes poem

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Newsela | New D.C. museum of African-American history highlights Hughes poem

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There is a sentence chiseled in large engraved letters on the wall of the newly opened National Museum of African American History and Culture on the National Mall in Washington, D.C.: "I, too, am America."

It is the last line of a poem called "I, Too" by African-American poet Langston Hughes, first published in 1926.

I, too, sing America.

I am the darker brother.

They send me to eat in the kitchen

When company comes,

But I laugh,

And eat well,

And grow strong.

Tomorrow,

I'll be at the table

When company comes.

Nobody'll dare

Say to me, "Eat in the kitchen,"

Then.

Besides,

They'll see how beautiful I am

And be ashamed -

I, too, am America.

From "The Collected Poems of Langston Hughes." By permission of Harold Ober Associates Incorporated.
The poem is an important affirmation of the museum's mission to tell the history of United States through the lens of the African-American experience. It embodies that history at a particular point in the early 20th century when Jim Crow laws throughout the South enforced racial segregation; and it argues against those who would deny that importance - and that presence.

Jim Crow laws were state and local laws enacted by white southerners after they lost the Civil War in 1865. The laws, which were designed both to oppress blacks and keep them separate from whites, continued to be enforced until 1965.

Poetic Subtleties

The poem captures a series of intertwined themes about the relationship of African-Americans to the majority white culture and society.

There is a pun in the title, "I, Too" in the lines that open and close the poem. If you hear the word as the number, "two," it suddenly seems that Hughes is referring to himself as secondary, or even inferior.

Hughes speaks powerfully for people who are excluded. The poem portrays African-Americans coming in from out of sight, eating in the kitchen. It shows them taking their place at the dining room table as equals with the "company" that is dining.

Hughes doesn't say who owns the kitchen. The house represents the United States. Hughes refers to the African-Americans who worked in the plantation houses as slaves and servants. They lived below stairs or in the cabins, and were often made to keep out of sight of the slave owners. Still, the presence of African-Americans was obvious from the smooth running of the house, the appearance of meals on the table, and other tasks that they performed.

Divided In Two

Hughes left another reference for hearing "too" as "two" in the poem. The listener could think of "two" not as being secondary, but being divided.

Hughes was paying tribute to another writer of the time, the intellectual leader and founder of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, W.E.B. DuBois, whose speeches and essays about the dividedness of African-American identity and consciousness helped to empower the Civil Rights Movement of the mid-20th century.

According to DuBois in his influential work, "The Souls of Black Folks," the African-American existed always in two "places" at once:

"One ever feels his two-ness, an American, a Negro; two souls, two thoughts, two unreconciled strivings; two warring ideals in one dark body, whose dogged strength alone keeps it from being torn asunder."

The idea of this "two-ness" is referred to in the second stanza, or section, of Hughes' poem: "I am the darker brother."

The sense of being divided in two was a problem not just for African-Americans, but for the United States. As Lincoln said about trying to have slavery at the same time as freedom, "A house divided against itself cannot stand."

A Reference To Another Writer

Hughes ties together this sense of the unity of the separate parts of the American democracy with a reference to the great American poet of the 1800s, Walt Whitman.

Whitman wrote, "I sing the body electric." In the poem, he connected the power of that body with all the virtues of American democracy, seeing each individual as having basic rights, and as having the power to act together with their fellow citizens. Whitman believed that the "electricity" of the body formed a kind of glue that would bind people together in companionship and love. Another one of his poems begins, "I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear ..."

Hughes references this line, in a more openly political way when he says, "I, too, sing America."

The verb here is important because it brings up the idea of all the creative work that African-Americans provided to make America, which was understood, but never spoken about. African-Americans helped sing America into existence, and for that work they deserve a seat at the table, dining as coequals with their fellows.

At the end of the poem, the line is changed because the transformation has occurred.

"I, too, am America."

The presence of African-Americans has been established and recognized. The problem for the politics of all this is the simple statement "They'll see how beautiful I am ..." may not be enough.

The new African-American museum on the National Mall is a powerful statement about the presence of a story that is unique, tragic and an important part of American history.

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New D.C. museum of African-American history highlights Hughes poem

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There is a sentence chiseled in large engraved letters on the wall of the newly opened National Museum of African American History and Culture on the National Mall in Washington, D.C.: "I, too, am America." It is the last line of a poem called "I, Too" by African-American poet Langston Hughes, first published in 1926.

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(14) Newsela | Expeditionary Learning: Identity and Transformation: Then and Now (Grade 7)

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(14) Newsela | Expeditionary Learning: Identity and Transformation: Then and Now (Grade 7)

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Newsela | Expeditionary Learning: Identity and Transformation: Then and Now (Grade 7)

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Newsela is an Instructional Content Platform that supercharges reading engagement and learning in every subject.

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How Trauma Can Effect Your Body and Mind | World of Psychology

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How Trauma Can Effect Your Body and Mind | World of Psychology

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As I write this, our thoughts are with those in Boston who were affected by the bombings at the 2013 Boston Marathon.

In my 20 years living in the Boston area, I cheered on the runners on many occasions and now, even from far way, these events feel close to home.

Experiencing trauma can have a dramatic effect on our bodies and our minds. And although it's a different experience to witness a trauma on television, it still can affect us.

When you perceive a threat, the body activates the stress response. The stress response occurs in both your body and brain.

The body's response to acute stress is a preparation for emergency. Adrenaline and other hormones are released. The body shuts down processes associated with long-term care. When under immediate threat, digestion, reproduction, cell repair and other body tasks related to long-term functioning are unimportant.

Of immediate importance is survival. Increased blood sugar can provide extra energy for muscles. Increases in cortisol counter pain and inflammation. Blood pressure increases. Blood is diverted from our extremities to our major muscles to provide us with extra strength. Increased endorphins can help us ignore physical pain.

You can see the effects of these changes to the body in many of the symptoms of stress, such as racing heart, dizziness, nausea, shortness of breath, shaking, feeling hot and flushed, and sweating.

But it is the impact of trauma on the mind that is often the most disturbing. Traumatic events can leave us feeling unsafe. They can disrupt our beliefs and assumptions about the world. Your sense of your ability to control your life may be shattered. You may question how much influence you have over your life and your life choices.

A trauma, such as the one the occurred at the Boston Marathon, can leave us distrustful of other people. You may question your basic trust of other people in the world. Trauma can affect your ability to be intimate with others and may impact your feelings of self-worth. Those who survive the trauma often feel guilt and wonder why they lived when others were less fortunate.

As we grow, change and have varied experiences throughout life, our beliefs and assumptions typically evolve over time. With trauma, those beliefs and assumptions that we use to make sense of the world around us change nearly instantaneously.

It's common to experience a wide range of psychological symptoms, including intrusive thoughts, worry, difficulty sleeping, trouble focusing, bouts of crying, blame or self-judgment and lack of satisfaction.

The effects of trauma also can cause intense emotion, including extreme emotional fluctuations, unhappiness, anxiety, loneliness, anger, and irritability.

Multiple traumas or repeatedly being exposed to life-threatening events can have a further impact on your body and mind. Parts of the brain can become sensitized, causing you to be on high alert and to perceive threats all around, leaving you jumpy and anxious.

Other parts of the brain associated with memory can actually shrink, making it difficult to consolidate and form new memories. Prolonged stress can effect the development of a number of health issues, including diabetes, obesity and hypertension. And repetitive stress affects our moods, brings on anxiety disorders, and affects our experience of chronic pain and our ability to control food intake.

But when horrible events occur, such as those that occurred at the 2013 Boston Marathon, we also see the generosity and caring that is a large part of human nature.

Countless individuals ran to help without a second thought. First responders, medics, EMTs and even bystanders jumped into action to do what they could to save lives. Runners crossed the finish line and kept on running straight to give blood.

As we deal with the impact of violence, we can also keep in our minds the heroes and the strength of the human spirit that brings us together when we are faced with senseless tragedy.
Image: Wikimedia Commons: Aaron "tango" Tang

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How Trauma Can Effect Your Body and Mind

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As I write this, our thoughts are with those in Boston who were affected by the bombings at the 2013 Boston Marathon. In my 20 years living in the Boston area, I cheered on the runners on many occasions and now, even from far way, these events feel close to home.

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Were you lucky enough to grow up in the Midwest?

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Schnitzel Republic: The Seven Personality Traits of a German

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Schnitzel Republic: The Seven Personality Traits of a German

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The Seven Personality Traits of a German

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Over the years, I've come to agree....there are are seven obvious and traditional personality traits of a typical German. I realize....that...

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Who am I? That is a simple question, yet it is one without a simple answer. I am many things-and I am one thing. But I am not a thing that is just lying around somewhere, like a pen, or a toaster, or a housewife. That is for sure. I am much more than that. I am a living, breathing thing, a thing that can draw with a pen and toast with a toaster and chat with a housewife, who is sitting on a couch eating toast. And still, I am much more.

I am a man.

And I am a former baby and a future skeleton, and I am a distant future pile of dust. I am also a Gemini, who is on the cusp.

I am "brother" and I am "son" and I am "father" (but just according to one person, who does not have any proof but still won't seem to let it go). Either way, I am moving very soon and not letting her know about it. I am asking you to keep that between us.

I am trustworthy and loyal, but at the same time I am no Boy Scout. No, I am certainly not. I am quite the opposite, in fact. And by opposite I do not mean Girl Scout. No. I mean Man Scout. And by that I do not mean Scout Leader. In fact, I am not affiliated with the Scouts at all. Let's just forget about the Scouts and Scouting altogether, O.K.?

I am concepts and thoughts and feelings and outfits. And I am each of these all at once, unless I am in the shower. Then I am not outfits, because that would be uncomfortable.

To some I am known as Chief. And these are usually people who work in Radio Shack or try to sell me shoes. To others I am known as Buddy. These are people who dwell in bars and wonder if I've got a problem or what it is that I am "looking at." And to still others, who are in that same bar, standing just off to the side, I am "Get Him!"

I am he and I am him. I am this and I am that. And I am, from time to time, Roberta, if I am in a chat room.

People have known me by many titles. In high school, I was Student and Key Club Vice-President and Queer Bait. In college, I was Pledge and then Disappointed and then Transfer Student. I am still amazed at how picky certain so-called "brotherly" organizations can be. And I am actually glad that they didn't choose me for their stupid fraternity.

To some I am fantasy, and to others I am Frank, mostly because I have told them that this is my name-even though it is not even close to my name. I am a mystery wrapped in an enigma wrapped in a pita. Why the pita? That counts as another mystery.

I am everything and I am nothing. I am just kidding; I am not everything and nothing. That would be ridiculous. I am just everything.

I am what I eat. And I am this especially when I bite my nails.

I have been called Hey, You! and Get Out of the Way! and Look Out! And then, some time later, Plaintiff.

I am my own worst critic. I am going to give you an example. "That's not me enough" is the kind of thing I am prone to say about myself. See what I mean? I am sure you do.

I am the silent majority.

I am a loud minority.

I am not talking about Puerto Ricans when I say that, because I am not a racist. I am just clearing that up. In fact, I am pretty sure I have at least one friend from each of the races (Hi, Guillermo).

I am friend. I am foe. I am fo' sho'. What up, y'all?

I am sorry about that. I was just talking to one of my race friends, a black one. I am white and I am black. And I am both of these when I am dressed as a mime. And then I am sh-h-h.

I am Batman, but only on Halloween. And then I am not invited to many parties. But I am fine with that, because that just makes me an even more accurate Batman (because Batman does not go to parties as Batman but only as Bruce Wayne). I am right about this.

I am someone who likes to go to the park. But I am not the guy with the Labrador retriever and the tennis ball and the tattered book under his arm, who is wearing fleece and is kind of tan. No. I am not that guy. I am sick of that guy and all the women who talk to him.

I am the Walrus, but not the one you're probably thinking of. I am the Other Walrus, the one who is less the Walrus in the sense of legendary music and more the Walrus in the sense of his tendency to lie around on a beach for too long.

I am bravery. I am courage. I am valor. I am daring. I am holding a thesaurus.

I am the sun. I am the moon. I am the rain, I am the earth. I am these when I am taking mushrooms with Kevin. I am good friends with Kevin. I am not sure what Kevin's last name is.

I am sometimes referred to as Excuse Me in an annoyed tone of voice, because apparently I am in the way. I am so sorry. I am supposed to be some sort of mind reader, I guess. I am moving out of the way now as slowly as I possibly can. I am doing this and there's nothing you can do about it.

I am often the one they call You but I am no more You than you. I am me. And I am more Me than you are or can ever be. And one time I was Corey for almost five minutes while I was talking with a stranger, until she realized that I was not her friend Corey.

I am neither here nor there, but there-a little to the left. Yeah. That's me.

I am waving at you. I am waving right at you now.

I am looking right at you.

I am sensing that you don't know me. I am starting to feel awkward.

I am getting out of here. ♦

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Who am I? That is a simple question, yet it is one without a simple answer. I am many things-and I am one thing. But I am not a thing that is just lying around somewhere, like a pen, or a toaster, or a housewife. That is for sure.

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*Online Identity
*I Am Not an Inmate... I Am a Man
*WHY AFGHANISTAN’S ‘UNDERGROUND GIRLS’ SKIRT TRADITION TO LIVE AS BOYS
*Life After Sport
*Everyday Use?  AS  only?
*Jabari Unmasked poem
*Hello, My Name is_______

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CommonLit | Identity | Can You Change Your Identity?

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Can you change your identity? Explore CommonLit's collection by grade level.

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The Beatles Live On « Macklin Levine | This I Believe

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The Beatles Live On « Macklin Levine | This I Believe

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http://thisibelieve.org/audio/TIB_Levine.mp3

I believe in The Beatles. Although they don't exist anymore, their music is very much alive, even to a 12-year-old like me. As old as the songs are, you can learn a lot about yourself from the lyrics. Listening to them with others and singing along has been important to me and to my family.

Three years ago, my dog Phoebe ran away near our house in Cold Spring, New York. Every Friday afternoon, we would drive upstate from Manhattan together as family and dog. My parents never had much music in the car-nothing that we could all agree to listen to except for "Yellow Submarine" by The Beatles.

We were really scared when Phoebe took off, but hoped she'd come back soon. She didn't. My friend's Dad hiked into the state park behind our house, miles in, posting signs explaining about our lost dog. A day passed, and still no Phoebe.

We called and called into the woods.

Next thing I knew, my Dad climbed into our station wagon and disappeared. A half an hour later, I saw the headlights of our car and heard the weirdest thing: loud, loud music. It was nine o'clock at night, my dad is in the car alone, and he's blasting Beatles music.

My Dad was really smart, probably the smartest one of any of the people looking for Phoebe. But Mom thought he'd lost his mind. Dad explained he figured Phoebe had been in the car with us all those times when we had nothing else to listen to but The Beatles over and over again. He thought if anything could make her come home, it would be the sound of The Beatles.

Phoebe did come home a few days later. It wasn't The Beatles who got her there; it was a sign a neighbor saw, and the phone number on her collar. But I think back to my Dad playing The Beatles' music so loud we could hear him a half mile away across the lake, and it makes me smile.

My Dad died a few months after my dog ran away, and when I first wrote the essay I was afraid to say that because I knew I wouldn't be able to read it out loud in class without crying. But now when I think of him, I remember his wacky idea to play the family music, and how it made me feel like everything would be okay.

The Beatles don't exist anymore but their music will live in everyone forever. I believe in The Beatles because their music brings people together, and gives us hope.

Macklin Levine wrote her essay for her sixth grade English class at Fieldston School in New York City. She says she explored several beliefs including the importance of mistakes and the power of forgiveness before coming to her belief in The Beatles.

Independently produced for NPR by Jay Allison and Dan Gediman with John Gregory and Viki Merrick.

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Macklin Levine was born more than 25 years after The Beatles broke up, but that hasn't prevented the 12-year old from developing a deep appreciation for the group. She believes in their music as a source of happy memories and hope for the future.

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CommonLit | Identity | What Makes You Who You Are?

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What makes you who you are? Explore CommonLit's collection by grade level.

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By Patricia Polacco

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Ziauddin Yousafzai: My daughter, Malala | TED Talk | TED.com

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Ziauddin Yousafzai: My daughter, Malala | TED Talk | TED.com

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Pakistani educator Ziauddin Yousafzai reminds the world of a simple truth that many don't want to hear: Women and men deserve equal opportunities for education, autonomy, an independent identity. He tells stories from his own life and the life of his daughter, Malala, who was shot by the Taliban in 2012 simply for daring to go to school.

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https://www.longbranch.k12.nj.us/cms/lib3/NJ01001766/Centricity/Domain/762/Mason%20Dixon%20Memory%20Story.pdf

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http://www.ncps-k12.org/cms/lib8/CT01903077/Centricity/Domain/638/LA/Short%20Story%20-%20Fish%20Cheeks.pdf

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The Smallest Dragonboy

by Anne McCaffrey
When the marvelous Anne McCaffrey died at the age of 85 in 2011, she left a huge hole in the science fiction field. Fortunately, she gave us hundreds of novels, essays, and short stories to help fill some of that hole, although new readers will never get the chance to see her in person, which was always a treat.
Anne McCaffrey is one of science fiction's most popular authors. After her novel, The White Dragon, (1978) became one of the first science fiction novels to ever hit The New York Times bestseller list, Anne's work remained a staple of bestseller lists for decades.
Most non-readers of McCaffrey associate her with the Dragonriders of Pern series and, because the series has "dragon" in the title, erroneously believe the series is fantasy. Instead, it examines human history on a planet called Pern. Science fiction tropes abound-a planet with an odd orbit, spaceships, telepathy, lost (but useful) technology, as well as the existence of the Other on two levels-the dragons themselves and the dragonriders, who bond with those dragons.
If Pern were the only thing Anne McCaffrey ever wrote, it would cement her place in science fiction forever. But it's not. She also wrote the Brain & Brawn Ship series, which features such classic tales as The Ship Who Sang, the Catteni series, the Talents universe, and more series than I can name in this brief introduction.
McCaffrey's importance to the field cannot be understated. She is the first woman to win a Hugo for fiction. (The first woman to win a Hugo period was Elinor Busby who, along with F. M. Busby, Burnett Toskey, and Wally Weber, won the Best Fanzine award in 1960.) McCaffrey was also the first woman to win the Nebula Award, winning it in the fourth year the award was given out. Her awards are too numerous to list here, but they include the Science Fiction Writers of America Grand Master award, several lifetime achievement awards, and the Golden Pen award, which is given by children to their favorite author. With such a vast array of excellent fiction to choose from, I found it hard to pick the best story for this volume. McCaffrey excels at the novella length, and my favorites of hers are the longer pieces. Because of my word-length constraints for this volume, I spent a lot of happy hours reading her shorter stories. And then I came across "The Smallest Dragonboy," which I had not read before. It does everything I wanted in the perfect McCaffrey story. It's entertaining, touching, and compelling. And it's in her best known series. If you've never read any of Anne McCaffrey's work, this story will open doors for you that will keep you reading her excellent fiction for decades to come.
* * *

Although Keevan lengthened his walking stride as far as his legs would stretch, he couldn't quite keep up with the other candidates. He knew he would be teased again.

Just as he knew many other things that his foster mother told him he ought not to know, Keevan knew that Beterli, the most senior of the boys, set that spanking pace just to embarrass him, the smallest dragonboy. Keevan would arrive, tail fork-end of the group, breathless, chest heaving, and maybe get a stem look from the instructing wing-second.

Dragonriders, even if they were still only hopeful candidates for the glowing eggs which were hardening on the hot sands of the Hatching Ground cavern, were expected to be punctual and prepared. Sloth was not tolerated by the Weyrleader of Benden Weyr. A good record was especially important now. It was very near hatching time, when the baby dragons would crack their mottled shells, and stagger forth to choose their lifetime companions. The very thought of that glorious moment made Keevan's breath catch in his throat. To be chosen-to be a dragonrider! To sit astride the neck of a winged beast with jeweled eyes: to be his friend, in telepathic communion with him for life; to be his companion in good times and fighting extremes; to fly effortlessly over the lands of Pern! Or, thrillingly, between to any point anywhere on the world! Flying between was done on dragonback or not at all, and it was dangerous.

Keevan glanced upward, past the black mouths of the weyr caves in which grown dragons and their chosen riders lived, toward the Star Stones that crowned the ridge of the old volcano that was Benden Weyr. On the height, the blue watch dragon, his rider mounted on his neck, stretched the great transparent pinions that carried him on the winds of Pern to fight the evil Thread that fell at certain times from the skies. The many-faceted rainbow jewels of his eyes glistened fleet-ingly in the greeny sun. He folded his great wings to his back, and the watch pair resumed their statuelike pose of alertness.

Then the enticing view was obscured as Keevan passed into the Hatching Ground cavern. The sands underfoot were hot, even through heavy wher-hide boots. How the bootmaker had protested having to sew so small! Keeven was forced to wonder why being small was reprehensible. People were always calling him "babe" and shooing him away as being "too small" or "too young" for this or that. Keevan was constantly working, twice as hard as any other boy his age, to prove himself capable. What if his muscles weren't as big as Beterli's? They were just as hard. And if he couldn't overpower anyone in a wrestling match, he could outdistance everyone in a footrace.

"Maybe if you run fast enough," Beterli had jeered on the occasion when Keevan had been goaded to boast of his swiftness, "you could catch a dragon. That's the only way you'll make a dragonrider!"

"You just wait and see, Beterli, you just wait," Keevan had replied. He would have liked to wipe the con-temptuous smile from Beterli's face, but the guy didn't fight fair even when a wingsecond was watching. "No one knows what Impresses a dragon!"

"They've got to be able to find you first, babe!"

Yes, being the smallest candidate was not an enviable position. It was therefore imperative that Keevan Impress a dragon in his first hatching. That would wipe the smile off every face in the cavern, and accord him the respect due any dragonrider, even the smallest one.

Besides, no one knew exactly what Impressed the baby dragons as they struggled from their shells in search of their lifetime partners.

"I like to believe that dragons see into a man's heart," Keevan's foster mother, Mende, told him. "If they find goodness, honesty, a flexible mind, patience, courage-and you've got that in quantity, dear Keevan-that's what dragons look for. I've seen many a well-grown lad left standing on the sands., Hatching Day, in favor of someone not so strong or tall or handsome. And if my memory serves me"-which it usually did: Mende knew every word of every Harper's tale worth telling, although Keevan did not interrupt her to say so-"I don't believe that F'lar, our Weyrleader, was all that tall when bronze Mnementh chose him. And Mnementh was the only bronze dragon of that hatching."

Dreams of Impressing a bronze were beyond Keevan's boldest reflections, although that goal dominated the thoughts of every other hopeful candidate. Green dragons were small and fast and more numerous. There was more prestige to Impressing a blue or brown than a green. Being practical, Keevan seldom dreamed as high as a big fighting brown, like Canth, F'nor's fine fellow, the biggest brown on all Pern. But to fly a bronze? Bronzes were almost as big as the queen, and only they took the air when a queen flew at mating time. A bronze rider could aspire to become Weyrleader! Well, Keevan would console himself, brown riders could aspire to become wingseconds, and that wasn't bad. He'd even settle for a green dragon: they were small, but so was he. No matter! He simply had to Impress a dragon his first time in the Hatching Ground. Then no one in the Weyr would taunt him anymore for being so small.

Shells, Keevan thought now, but the sands are hot!

"Impression time is imminent, candidates," the wingsecond was saying as everyone crowded respectfully close to him. "See the extent of the striations on this promising egg." The stretch marks were larger than yesterday.

Everyone leaned forward and nodded thoughtfully. That particular egg was the one Beterli had marked as his own, and no other candidate dared, on pain of being beaten by Beterli at his first opportunity, to approach it. The egg was marked by a large yellowish splotch in the shape of a dragon backwinging to land, talons outstretched to grasp rock. Everyone knew that bronze eggs bore distinctive markings. And naturally, Beterli, who'd been presented at eight Impressions already and was the biggest of the candidates, had chosen it.

"I'd say that the great opening day is almost upon us," the wingsecond went on, and then his face assumed a grave expression. "As we well know, there are only forty eggs and seventy-two candidates. Some of you may be disappointed on the great day. That doesn't necessarily mean you aren't dragonrider material, just that the dragon for you hasn't been shelled. You'll have other hatchings, and it's no disgrace to be left behind an Impression or two. Or more."

Keevan was positive that the wingsecond's eyes rested on Beterli, who'd been stood off at so many Impressions already. Keevan tried to squinch down so the wingsecond wouldn't notice him. Keevan had been reminded too often that he was eligible to be a candidate by one day only. He, of all the hopefuls, was most likely to be left standing on the great day. One more reason why he simply had to Impress at his first hatching.

"Now move about among the eggs," the wingsecond said. "Touch them. We don't know that it does any good, but it certainly doesn't do any harm."

Some of the boys laughed nervously, but everyone immediately began to circulate among the eggs. Berterli stepped up officiously to "his" egg, daring anyone to come near it. Keevan smiled, because he had already touched it-every inspection day, when the others were leaving the Hatching Ground and no one could see him crouch to stroke it.

Keevan had an egg he concentrated on, too, one drawn slightly to the far side of the others. The shell had a soft greenish-blue tinge with a faint creamy swirl design. The consensus was that this egg contained a mere green, so Keevan was rarely bothered by rivals. He was somewhat perturbed then to see Beterli wandering over to him.

"I don't know why you're allowed in this Impression, Keevan. There are enough of us without a babe," Beterli said, shaking his head.

"I'm of age." Keevan kept his voice level, telling himself not to be bothered by mere words.

"Yah!" Beterli made a show of standing in his toetips. "You can't even see over an egg; Hatching Day, you better get in front or the dragons won't see you at all. 'Course, you could get run down that way in the mad scramble. Oh, I forget, you can run fast, can't you?"

"You'd better make sure a dragon sees you, this time, Beterli," Keevan replied. "You're almost overage, aren't you?"

Beterli flushed and took a step forward, hand half-raised. Keevan stood his ground, but if Beterli advanced one more step, he would call the wingsecond. No one fought on the Hatching Ground. Surely Beterli knew that much.

Fortunately, at that moment, the wingsecond called the boys together and led them from the Hatching Ground to start on evening chores. There were "glows" to be replenished in the main kitchen caverns and sleeping cubicles, the major hallways, and the queen's apartment. Firestone sacks had to be filled against Thread attack, and black rock brought to the kitchen hearths. The boys fell to their chores, tantalized by the odors of roasting meat. The population of the Weyr began to assemble for the evening meal, and the drag-onriders came in from the Feeding Ground on their sweep checks.

It was the time of day Keevan liked best: once the chores were done but before dinner was served, a fellow could often get close enough to the dragonriders to hear their talk. Tonight, Keevan's father, K'last, was at the main dragonrider table. It puzzled Keevan how his father, a brown rider and a tall man, could be his father-because he, Keevan, was so small. It obviously puzzled K'last, too, when he deigned to notice his small son: "In a few more Turns, you'll be as tall as I am-or taller!"

K'last was pouring Benden wine all around the table. The dragonriders were relaxing. There'd be no Thread attack for three more days, and they'd be in the mood to tell tall tales, better than Harper yarns, about impossible maneuvers they'd done a-dragonback. When Thread attack was closer, their talk would change to a discussion of tactics of evasion, of going between, how long to suspend there until the burning but fragile Thread would freeze and crack and fall harmlessly off dragon and man. They would dispute the exact moment to feed firestone to the dragon so he'd have the best flame ready to sear Thread midair and render it harmless to ground-and man-below. There was such a lot to know and understand about being a dragonrider that sometimes Keevan was overwhelmed. How would he ever be able to remember everything he ought to know at the right moment? He couldn't dare ask such a question; this would only have given additional weight to the notion that he was too young yet to be a dragonrider.

"Having older candidates makes good sense," L'vel was saying, as Keevan settled down near the table. "Why waste four to five years of a dragon's fighting prime until his rider grows up enough to stand the rigors?" L'vel had Impressed a blue of Ramoth's first clutch. Most of the candidates thought L'vel was marvelous because he spoke up in front of the older riders, who awed them. "That was well enough in the Interval when you didn't need to mount the full Weyr complement to fight Thread. But not now. Not with more eligible candidates than ever. Let the babes wait."

"Any boy who is over twelve Turns has the right to stand in the Hatching Ground," K'last replied, a slight smile on his face. He never argued or got angry. Keevan wished he were more like his father. And oh, how he wished he were a brown rider! "Only a dragon-each particular dragon-knows what he wants in a rider. We certainly can't tell. Time and again the theorists," K'last's smile deepened as his eyes swept those at the table, "are surprised by dragon choice. They never seem to make mistakes, however."

"Now, K'last, just look at the roster this Impression. Seventy-two boys and only forty eggs. Drop off the twelve youngest, and there's still a good field for the hatchlings to choose from. Shells! There are a couple of weyrlings unable to see over a wher egg much less a dragon! And years before they can ride Thread."

"True enough, but the Weyr is scarcely under fighting strength, and if the youngest Impress, they'll be old enough to fight when the oldest of our current dragons go between from senility."

"Half the Weyr-bred lads have already been through several Impressions," one of the bronze riders said then. "I'd say drop some of them off this time. Give the untried a chance."

"There's nothing wrong in presenting a clutch with as wide a choice as possible," said the Weyrleader, who had joined the table with Lessa, the Weyrwoman.

"Has there ever been a case," she said, smiling in her odd way at the riders, "where a hatchling didn't choose?"

Her suggestion was almost heretical and drew astonished gasps from everyone, including the boys.

F'lar laughed. "You say the most outrageous things, Lessa."

"Well, has there ever been a case where a dragon didn't choose?"

"Can't say as I recall one," K'last replied.

"Then we continue in this tradition," Lessa said firmly, as if that ended the matter.

But it didn't. The argument ranged from one table to the other all through dinner, with some favoring a weeding out of the candidates to the most likely, lopping off those who were very young or who had had multiple opportunities to Impress. All the candidates were in a swivet, though such a departure from tradition would be to the advantage of many. As the evening progressed, more riders were favoring eliminating the youngest and those who'd passed four or more Impressions unchosen. Keevan felt he could bear such a dictum only if Beterli were also eliminated. But this seemed less likely than that Keevan would be turfed out, since the Weyr's need was for fighting dragons and riders.

By the time the evening meal was over, no decision had been reached, although the Weyrleader had promised to give the matter due consideration.

He might have slept on the problem, but few of the candidates did. Tempers were uncertain in the sleeping caverns next morning as the boys were routed out of their beds to carry water and black rock and cover the "glows." Twice Mende had to call Keevan to order for clumsiness.

"Whatever is the matter with you, boy?" she demanded in exasperation when he tipped blackrock short of the bin and sooted up the hearth.

"They're going to keep me from this Impression."

"What?" Mende stared at him. "Who?"

"You heard them talking at dinner last night. They're going to turf the babes from the hatching."

Mende regarded him a moment longer before touching his arm gently. "There's lots of talk around a supper table, Keevan. And it cools as soon as the supper. I've heard the same nonsense before every hatching, but nothing is ever changed."

"There's always a first time," Keevan answered, copying one of her own phrases.

"That'll be enough of that, Keevan. Finish your job. If the clutch does hatch today, we'll need full rock bins for the feast, and you won't be around to do the filling. All my fosterlings make dragonriders."

"The first time?" Keevan was bold enough to ask as he scooted off with the rockbarrow.

Perhaps, Keevan thought later, if he hadn't been on that chore just when Beterli was also fetching black rock, things might have turned out differently. But he had dutifully trundled the barrow to the outdoor bunker for another load just as Beterli arrived on a similar errand.

"Heard the news, babe?" Beterli asked. He was grinning from ear to ear, and he put an unnecessary emphasis on the final insulting word.

"The eggs are cracking?" Keevan all but dropped the loaded shovel. Several anxieties flicked through his mind then: he was black with rock dust-would he have time to wash before donning the white tunic of candidacy? And if the eggs were hatching, why hadn't the candidates been recalled by the wingsecond?

"Naw! Guess again!" Beterli was much too pleased with himself.

With a sinking heart, Keevan knew what the news must be, and he could only stare with intense desolation at the older boy.

"C'mon! Guess, babe!"

"I've no time for guessing games," Keevan managed to say with indifference. He began to shovel black rock into the barrow as fast as he could.

"I said, guess." Beterli grabbed the shovel.

"And I said I have no time for guessing games."

Beterli wrenched the shovel from Keevan's hands. "Guess!"

"I'll have that shovel back, Beterli." Keevan straightened up, but he didn't come to Beterli's bulky shoulder. From somewhere, other boys appeared, some with barrows, some mysteriously alerted to the prospect of a confrontation among their numbers.

"Babes don't give orders to candidates around here, babe!"

Someone sniggered and Keevan, incredulous, knew that he must've been dropped from the candidacy.

He yanked the shovel from Beterli's loosened grasp. Snarling, the older boy tried to regain possession, but Keevan clung with all his strength to the handle, dragged back and forth as the stronger boy jerked the shovel about.

With a sudden, unexpected movement, Beterli rammed the handle into Keevan's chest, knocking him over the barrow handles. Keevan felt a sharp, painful jab behind his left ear, an unbearable pain in his left shin, and then a painless nothingness.

Mende's angry voice roused him, and startled, he tried to throw back the covers, thinking he'd overslept. But he couldn't move, so firmly was he tucked into his bed. And then the constriction of a bandage on his head and the dull sickishness in his leg brought back recent occurrences.

"Hatching?" he cried.

"No, lovey," Mende said in a kind voice. Her hand was cool and gentle on his forehead. "Though there's some as won't be at any hatching again." Her voice took on a stern edge.

Keevan looked beyond her to see the Weyrwoman, who was frowning with irritation.

"Keevan, will you tell me what occurred at the black-rock bunker?" asked Lessa in an even voice.

He remembered Beterli now and the quarrel over the shovel and . . . what had Mende said about some not being at any hatching? Much as he hated Beterli, he couldn't bring himself to tattle on Beterli and force him out of candidacy.

"Come, lad," and a note of impatience crept into the Weyrwoman's voice. "I merely want to know what happened from you, too. Mende said she sent you for black rock. Beterli-and every Weyrling in the cavern-seems to have been on the same errand. What happened?"

"Beterli took my shovel. I hadn't finished with it."

"There's more than one shovel. What did he say to you?"

"He'd heard the news."

"What news?" The Weyrwoman was suddenly amused.

"That . . . that . . . there'd been changes."

"Is that what he said?"

"Not exactly"

"What did he say? C'mon, lad, I've heard from everyone else, you know."

"He said for me to guess the news."

"And you fell for that old gag?" The Weyrwoman's irritation returned.

"Consider all the talk last night at supper, Lessa," Mende said. "Of course the boy would think he'd been eliminated."

"In effect, he is, with a broken skull and leg." Lessa touched his arm in a rare gesture of sympathy. "Be that as it may, Keevan, you'll have other Impressions. Beterli will not. There are certain rules that must be observed by all candidates, and his conduct proves him unacceptable to the Weyr."

She smiled at Mende and then left.

"I'm still a candidate?" Keevan asked urgently.

"Well, you are and you aren't, lovey," his foster mother said. "Is the numbweed working?" she asked, and when he nodded, she said, "You just rest. I'll bring you some nice broth."

At any other time in his life, Keevan would have relished such cosseting, but now he just lay there worrying. Beterli had been dismissed. Would the others think it was his fault? But everyone was there! Beterli provoked that fight. His worry increased, because although he heard excited comings and goings in the passageway, no one tweaked back the curtain across the sleeping alcove he shared with five other boys. Surely one of them would have to come in sometime. No, they were all avoiding him. And something else was wrong. Only he didn't know what.

Mende returned with broth and beachberry bread. "Why doesn't anyone come see me, Mende? I haven't done anything wrong, have I? I didn't ask to have Beterli turfed out."

Mende soothed him, saying everyone was busy with noontime chores and no one was angry with him. They were giving him a chance to rest in quiet. The numbweed made him drowsy, and her words were fair enough. He permitted his fears to dissipate. Until he heard a hum. Actually, he felt it first, in the broken shin bone and his sore head. The hum began to grow. Two things registered suddenly in Keevan's groggy mind: the only white candidate's robe still on the pegs in the chamber was his; and the dragons hummed when a clutch was being laid or being hatched. Impression! And he was flat abed.

Bitter, bitter disappointment turned the warm broth sour in his belly. Even the small voice telling him that he'd have other opportunities failed to alleviate his crushing depression. This was the Impression that mattered! This was his chance to show everyone, from Mende to K'last to L'vel and even the Weyrleader that he, Keevan, was worthy of being a dragonrider.

He twisted in bed, fighting against the tears that threatened to choke him. Dragonmen don't cry! Dragonmen learn to live with pain.

Pain? The leg didn't actually pain him as he rolled about on his bedding. His head felt sort of stiff from the tightness of the bandage. He sat up, an effort in itself since the numbweed made exertion difficult. He touched the splinted leg; the knee was unhampered. He had no feeling in his bone, really. He swung himself carefully to the side of his bed and stood slowly. The room wanted to swim about him. He closed his eyes, which made the dizziness worse, and he had to clutch the wall.

Gingerly, he took a step. The broken leg dragged. It hurt in spite of the numbweed, but what was pain to a dragonman?

No one had said he couldn't go to the Impression. "You are and you aren't," were Mende's exact words.

Clinging to the wall, he jerked off his bedshirt. Stretching his arm to the utmost, he jerked his white candidate's tunic from the peg. Jamming first one arm and then the other into the holes, he pulled it over his head. Too bad about the belt. He couldn't wait. He hobbled to the door, hung on to the curtain to steady himself. The weight on his leg was unwieldy. He wouldn't get very far without something to lean on. Down by the bathing pool was one of the long crooknecked poles used to retrieve clothes from the hot washing troughs. But it was down there, and he was on the level above. And there was no one nearby to come to his aid: everyone would be in the Hatching Ground right now, eagerly waiting for the first egg to crack.

The humming increased in volume and tempo, an urgency to which Keevan responded, knowing that his time was all too limited if he was to join the ranks of the hopeful boys standing around the cracking eggs. But if he hurried down the ramp, he'd fall flat on his face.

He could, of course, go flat on his rear end, the way crawling children did. He sat down, sending a jarring stab of pain through his leg and up to the wound on the back of his head. Gritting his teeth and blinking away tears, Keevan scrabbled down the ramp. He had to wait a moment at the bottom to catch his breath. He got to one knee, the injured leg straight out in front of him. Somehow, he managed to push himself erect, though the room seemed about to tip over his ears. It wasn't far to the crooked stick, but it seemed an age before he had it in his hand.

Then the humming stopped!

Keevan cried out and began to hobble frantically across the cavern, out to the bowl of the Weyr. Never had the distance between living caverns and the Hatching Ground seemed so great. Never had the Weyr been so breathlessly silent. It was as if the multitude of people and dragons watching the hatching held every breath in suspense. Not even the wind muttered down the steep sides of the bowl. The only sounds to break the stillness were Keevan's ragged gasps and the thump-thud of his stick on the hard-packed ground. Sometimes he had to hop twice on his good leg to maintain his balance. Twice he fell into the sand and had to pull himself up on the stick, his white tunic no longer spotless. Once he jarred himself so badly he couldn't get up immediately.

Then he heard the first exhalation of the crowd, the oohs, the muted cheer, the susurrus of excited whispers. An egg had cracked, and the dragon had chosen his rider. Desperation increased Keevan's hobble. Would he never reach the arching mouth of the Hatching Ground?

Another cheer and an excited spate of applause spurred Keevan to greater effort. If he didn't get there in moments, there'd be no unpaired hatchling left. Then he was actually staggering into the Hatchling Ground, the sands hot on his bare feet.

No one noticed his entrance or his halting progress. And Keevan could see nothing but the backs of the white-robed candidates, seventy of them ringing the area around the eggs. Then one side would surge forward or back and there'd be a cheer. Another dragon had been Impressed. Suddenly a large gap appeared in the white human wall, and Keevan had his first sight of the eggs. There didn't seem to be any left uncracked, and he could see the lucky boys standing beside wobble-legged dragons. He could hear the unmistakable plaintive crooning of hatchlings and their squawks of protest as they'd fall awkwardly in the sand.

Suddenly he wished that he hadn't left his bed, that he'd stayed away from the Hatching Ground. Now everyone would see his ignominious failure. So he scrambled as desperately to reach the shadowy walls of the Hatching Ground as he had struggled to cross the bowl. He mustn't be seen.

He didn't notice, therefore, that the shifting group of boys remaining had begun to drift in his direction. The hard pace he had set himself and his cruel disappointment took their double toll of Keevan. He tripped and collapsed sobbing to the warm sands. He didn't see the consternation in the watching Weyrfolk above the Hatching Ground, nor did he hear the excited whispers of speculation. He didn't know that the Weyrleader and Weyrwoman had dropped to the arena and were making their way toward the knot of boys slowly moving in the direction of the entrance.

"Never seen anything like it," the Weyrleader was saying. "Only thirty-nine riders chosen. And the bronze trying to leave the Hatching Ground without making Impression."

"A case in point of what I said last night," the Weyrwoman replied, "where a hatchling makes no choice because the right boy isn't there."

"There's only Beterli and K'last's young one missing. And there's a full wing of likely boys to choose from. . ."

"None acceptable, apparently. Where is the creature going? He's not heading for the entrance after all. Oh, what have we there, in the shadows?"

Keevan heard with dismay the sound of voices nearing him. He tried to burrow into the sand. The mere thought of how he would be teased and taunted now was unbearable.

Don't worry! Please don't worry! The thought was urgent, but not his own.

Someone kicked sand over Keevan and butted roughly against him.

"Go away. Leave me alone!" he cried.

Why? was the injured-sounding question inserted into his mind. There was no voice, no tone, but the question was there, perfectly clear, in his head.

Incredulous, Keevan lifted his head and stared into the glowing jeweled eyes of a small bronze dragon. His wings were wet, the tips drooping in the sand. And he sagged in the middle on his unsteady legs, although he was making a great effort to keep erect.

Keevan dragged himself to his knees, oblivious of the pain in his leg. He wasn't even aware that he was ringed by the boys passed over, while thirty-one pairs of resentful eyes watched him Impress the dragon. The Weyrmen looked on, amused, and surprised at the draconic choice, which could not be forced. Could not be questioned. Could not be changed.

Why? asked the dragon again. Don't you like me? His eyes whirled with anxiety, and his tone was so piteous that Keevan staggered forward and threw his arms around the dragon's neck, stroking his eye ridges, patting the damp, soft hide, opening the fragile-looking wings to dry them, and wordlessly assuring the hatchling over and over again that he was the most perfect, most beautiful, most beloved dragon in the Weyr, in all the Weyrs of Pern.

"What's his name, K'van?" asked Lessa, smiling warmly at the new dragonrider. K'van stared up at her for a long moment. Lessa would know as soon as he did. Lessa was the only person who could "receive" from all dragons, not only her own Ramoth. Then he gave her a radiant smile, recognizing the traditional shortening of his name that raised him forever to the rank of dragonrider.

My name is Heth, the dragon thought mildly, then hiccuped in sudden urgency. I'm hungry.

"Dragons are born hungry," said Lessa, laughing. "F'lar, give the boy a hand. He can barely manage his own legs, much less a dragon's."

K'van remembered his stick and drew himself up. "We'll be Just fine, thank you."

"You may be the smallest dragonrider ever, young K'van," Flar said, "but you're one of the bravest!"

And Heth agreed! Pride and joy so leaped in both chests that K'van wondered if his heart would burst right out of his body. He looped an arm around Heth's neck and the pair, the smallest dragonboy and the hatchling who wouldn't choose anybody else, walked out of the Hatching Ground together forever.

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The Smallest Dragonboy by Anne McCaffrey When the marvelous Anne McCaffrey died at the age of 85 in 2011, she left a huge hole in the science fiction field. Fortunately, she gave us hundreds of novels, essays, and short stories to help fill some of that hole, although new readers will never get the chance to see her in person, which was always a treat.

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50+ Myself Essay Topics, Titles & Examples

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50+ Myself Essay Topics, Titles & Examples

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50+ Myself Essay Topics, Titles & Examples

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17 new entries added to myself essay, me myself and i, how to write about yourself, introduce myself, who am i essay, that include topics and analysis. 1. My View on the World Who am I? Where am I? Where am I in my life? How can we change the world?

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For many international students, adjusting to American culture can be difficult and at times frustrating. American customs and values might be very different from those of your home country, and you might find them confusing. You will probably want to familiarize yourself with American culture before your departure, in order to make the transition as easy as possible.

Values

Independence. Americans strongly believe in the concept of individualism. They consider themselves to be separate individuals who are in control of their own lives, rather than members of a close-knit, interdependent family, religious group, tribe, nation, or other group.

Equality. The American Declaration of Independence states that "all [people] are created equal," and this belief is deeply embedded in their cultural values. Americans believe that all people are of equal standing, and are therefore uncomfortable with overt displays of respect such as being bowed to.

Informality. This belief in equality causes Americans to be rather informal in their behavior towards other people. Don't be surprised if store clerks and waiters introduce themselves by their first names. Many people visiting the US are surprised by the informality of American speech, dress, and posture. Don't mistake this for rudeness or irreverence; it's just a part of their culture!

Directness. Americans tend to value, frankness and openness in their dealings with other people. They believe that conflicts and disagreements are best solved by means of forthright discussion among the people involved. Americans believe that if someone has a problem with someone else, they should tell the person clearly and directly in order to come up with a solution to the problem.

U.S. Holidays and Customs to Know

One fun way to learn about a culture is to participate in its traditions. Here are a few key holidays that Americans celebrate throughout the country:

Of course, the US is a large country, made up of many different cultures. Your cultural experience is bound to differ depending on where in the US you choose to study. To learn more about individual states, visit our State Guide.

Related Content:

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For many international students, adjusting to American culture can be difficult and at times frustrating. American customs and values might be very different from those of your home country, and you might find them confusing. You will probably want to familiarize yourself with American culture before your departure, in order to make the transition as easy as possible.

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belief that each person is unique, special and a "basic unit of nature"

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5 Reasons Your Individuality Is Important

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5 Reasons Your Individuality Is Important

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Many people get bullied or harassed in life because of their unique traits or qualities. But the fact is that the only people who bully these individuals are non-unique people! Other people who have some individuality in them, and let it loose, know what those confused and sad clones don't know. Uniqueness is important to our society and our world.

Here are 5 reasons why your individuality is important.

1. You Contribute Great Ideas To The World.

When you are unique you can think outside of the box. Limiting beliefs are not always there to hold you back from coming up with new ideas or seeing things in a new light. Many of these new ideas can help this world and the people who are in it. Creating a better life for everyone is left to people who think outside of the box.

2. You Are Not Influenced By Other People's Fears.

Many people will hold back from attempting something because of other people's fears. They are told by someone else that they can't do it or wouldn't be able to do it and they don't even try because of that fact.

People with their own minds tend to think for themselves. They decide whether they want to go for something they want and whether the risks outweigh the benefits. And most of the time they go for it! They achieve and do more with their lives than their cookie cutter peers.

3. You Lead The Way For Others.

Because you are more open-minded and willing to learn and try new things, you clear the path for people who have to see what will happen first before they try anything. You also clear the way for those people who have to follow the latest belief in order to feel part of this world. Every trend, fad, and present belief, was started by one unique individual who led the way.

4. You Life Live With More Joy.

People who pride themselves on being their own individual also are more aware of what makes them happy and take more pleasure in those things. They know what makes them happy and they go for it!

Many people who believe that their pleasures are wishful thinking or not plausible because of other people beliefs do not attempt to find their pleasure, but instead live a life of acceptable behavior and normality. In other words, they want to paint the scenery they see and they know it would give them pleasure, but because other people would judge them or make fun of them for painting they just don't even bother.

5. You Inspire People Like You to Live Their Lives More Passionately.

Many people are scared to break out of their shells with their own individuality. They don't see anyone around them like themselves and don't want to risk the judgement from the peers. But many people are inspired to do so when they see the freedom that your uniqueness gives you. You allow people to break free from their pretend self and live their life out with the joy of being their individual selves.

As you can see, being an individual is not only important to your own well-being but leads the way for others to be happy as well. So be who you are meant to be and live with no regrets. You will thank yourself later in life and you will feel better about yourself now.

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5 Reasons Your Individuality Is Important

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Many people get bullied or harassed in life because of their unique traits or qualities. But the fact is that the only people who bully these individuals are non-unique people! Other people who have some individuality in them, and let it loose, know what those confused and sad clones don't know.

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"How Are You Unique?" Sample Essay 1 | Military.com

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"How Are You Unique?" Sample Essay 1 | Military.com

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Perhaps the most important influence that has shaped the person I am today is my upbringing in a traditional family-oriented Persian and Zoroastrian culture. My family has been an important source of support in all of the decisions I have made, and Zoroastrianism's three basic tenets-good words, good deeds, and good thoughts-have been my guiding principles in life. Not only do I try to do things for others, but I always push myself to be the best that I can be in all aspects of my life. I saw early the doors and opportunities that a good education can open up; thus, I particularly tried hard to do well in school.

Another important experience that has had a large influence on me the past few years has been college. Going from high school to college was a significant change. College required a major overhaul of my time-management techniques as the number of things to do mushroomed. In high school, I was in the honors program, with the same cohort of students in all my classes. Thus, I was exposed little to people very different from myself. College, on the other hand, is full of diversity. I have people of all backgrounds and abilities in my classes, and I have been fortunate enough to meet quite a few of them. This experience has made me more tolerant of differences. Furthermore, a variety of classes such as the Humanities Core Course, in which we specifically studied differences in race, gender, and belief systems, have liberalized my world view.

My undergraduate research has occupied a large portion of my time in college. Along with this experience have come knowledge and skills that could never be gained in the classroom. I have gained a better appreciation for the medical discoverers and discoveries of the past and the years of frustration endured and satisfaction enjoyed by scientists. I have also learned to deal better with the disappointments and frustrations that result when things do not always go as one expects them to. My research experience was also important to me in that it broadened my view of the medical field. Research permitted me to meet a few medical doctors who have clinical practices and yet are able to conduct research at the university. This has made me seriously consider combining research with a clinical practice in my own career.

From my earliest memories, I can always remember being interested in meteorology. I believe that this interest sparked my love for the outdoors, while my interest in medicine molded my desire for healthy living. As a result of these two influences, I try to follow an active exercise routine taking place mostly in the outdoors. I enjoy running and mountain biking in the local hills and mountains, along with hiking and backpacking. All of these activities have made me concerned about the environment and my place in it.

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Perhaps the most important influence that has shaped the person I am today is my upbringing in a traditional family-oriented Persian and Zoroastrian culture. My family has been an important source of support in all of the decisions I have made, and Zoroastrianism's three basic tenets-good words, good deeds, and good thoughts-have been my guiding principles in life.

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35 Things that Make YOU Special - Goodlife Zen

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35 Things that Make YOU Special - Goodlife Zen

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What do people remember about you when you walk out of the room?

In my case, I may think it's my background and knowledge that makes me special, but it's more likely that what's really memorable is seeing food magically transports itself from my plate onto the floor or onto other laps when I'm excited...

What makes YOU special?

Take a look at the following list of 35 things that make you special. It's like a life inventory. When you consider all the questions, you'll get a sense of how your life is at the moment, and how you could change it to bring out YOUR special uniqueness.

1. Personality

What is your personality? Take a look at the following personality types according to the Enneagram. Are you

An idealistic Reformer,

a caring Helper,

a success-oriented Achiever,

an introspective Idealist,

an idealistic Reformer,

a caring Helper,

a success-oriented Achiever,

a sensitive Individualist,

an intense Investigator,

a security-oriented Loyalist,

a spontaneous Enthusiast,

a powerful Challenger,

or a reassuring Peacemaker?

You can take the Enneagram test here.

2. Signature style

What's your signature style? Are you engaging, entertaining, moving, intense, funny, bold, ditzy, serene, boring, or threatening?

3. Beliefs

What do you believe about life, the universe, or about yourself? Do you have religious beliefs? Do have beliefs about yourself that limit your potential?

4. Spirituality

Are you drawn to the mysteries of life? Do you use spiritual practice, i.e. meditation, prayer, or other to nurture your spirituality?

5. Aspirations

What are your aspirations? Do you strive for a cause that is greater than you?

6. Dominant sense

Each of us has a dominant sense through which we experience the world. What is your dominant sense? Is it sight or sound or touch?

7. Thoughts

What kind of thoughts are mostly in your mind? Are they daydreams, or thoughts focussed on your current project? Is your mind usually focused on the past, on the present, or on the future?

8. Goals

What are your goals? Have you recorded them? Which goals we choose, and whether we set them determines a substantial part of our uniqueness. Click here to learn how to set goals.

9. Creativity

Are you creative? Do you create at work, or write, paint, cook, or in any other way? Often people who are creative are more lively and happier than those who are not. Find out what makes us creative.

10. Happiness

How happy are you? Take the test here to see how happy you are. Find out what authentic happiness is.

11. Attitude

What is your habitual attitude? Is it negative or positive? Our attitude is shaped by influence and association, beliefs, thoughts, expectations, and self-talk. How was your attitude shaped?

12. Attraction

What are you drawn to? What are your favourite colours? What's your favourite music, climate, or food? What kind of people do you like?\13. Genes

We are shaped by both heredity, as well as environment. What traits have you inherited from your parents that make you unique?

14. Body

The size and build of our body is genetically encoded. However, how we care for our bodies determines what it looks like. Check out the following questions: Are you slim or overweight? Are you fit or out of shape? Are you flexible enough to touch your toes? Is your body able to practise sports, or dance, or do yoga, or train in martial arts? If you have a physical disability, are you stretching your capability to the limit, or not?

15. Face

The face is a mirror of the soul. If we are kindly and upbeat, our face looks animated and relaxed. If we feel down, or anxious or ill, our face looks tight and grey. What is your face like? Do you take moments to relax your face?

16. Ethnicity

What is your ethnic origin? Are you proud of your culture of origin and your ancestors, or not?

17. Culture

What is your culture? Is it followed by the majority or a minority of the people around you? In what way does your culture influence your life?

18. Voice

We are born with a particular voice and its resonance, tone and pitch. However, it can be developed - as actors and singers know. What is your unique voice like?

19. Diction

Do you speak with an accent or a dialect? The way we pronounce the language we use is a unique marker.

20. Gender

Gender is only partly determined by body formation. What masculine and feminine traits do you see in yourself?

21. Health

Good and bad health are life's gift and burden. What really shapes our uniqueness is the attitude to health. What is your attitude? Are you pro-active or passive? Do you complain or actively seek healing?

22. Hormones

Hormonal patterns determine whether we are tired, or hungry, or irritated, or lustful.
What hormonal patterns or surges are noticeable in your life and how do they influence you?

23. Age

Age is a biological factor. But it is also influenced by the mind. Do you feel old and unfit, as well as low on energy and drive? Or do you feel vitally alive, energetic and youthful? If you want to feel youthful, you need to put effort into keeping your mind and body in good shape. How do you keep in good shape?

24. Intelligence

Being intelligent is not only having a high IQ. Intelligence is now seen to include social, emotional, and physical aptitude. Your mix of these strands of intelligence is what makes you unique. How do you maintain and develop your intelligence?

25. Life experience

Each of us has a unique experience of life. Used wisely, experience is valuable because we can recognise patterns and respond appropriately. Which life experience has shaped you most?

26. Childhood

The childhood we experienced in the past makes us unique today. What was your childhood like? How has it shaped you? If your childhood included traumatic experiences, what have you undertaken in order to heal from them?

27. Trauma

What kind of life crises have you experienced? Have you integrated them, or are they still unresolved? (My upcoming Ebook From Tragedy to Triumph: How to Win Through a Life Crisis explains how to integrate difficult experiences).

28. Opportunities

We have all encountered different opportunities in life. What kind of opportunities have you encountered or created? How have you responded to them? What we make of opportunities is part of what makes us special.

29. Relationships

Whom and what we relate to makes us who we are. Which human beings do you love or feel connected to? Whom do you feel disconnected with? What about the environment - do you love nature, or the city? What is your relationship to animals - which are your favourite animals?

30. Learning

Your stance towards learning makes you unique. Is continuous learning important to you or not? Do you like formal study or informal learning? What kind of learning environments work best for you?

31. Habits

How do you spend your time on a regular basis? How much time to you spend on passive recreation, such as TV? Do you have an unpaid activity that you enjoy? How important is this activity to you?

32. Work

Most people spend more time at work than asleep. How we spend this big chunk of our life makes us unique. What do you define as your main work? Do you work for yourself or work for others? Do you work mostly alone or with a team of others?
Are you passionate about your work or is it a chore? Do you earn enough to keep yourself going or are you struggling financially?

33. Quirks and foibles

What are your quirky habits? As I said in the introduction, these foibles can be the thing that people enjoy about us.

34. Communication style

Psychologists pinpoint four different communication styles. Are you a Relater, Socialiser, Thinker, or Director?

35. The life journey

Each of us is on a unique life path. Which path we follow defines a part of our uniqueness. What path have you chosen?

What strikes me is that we are able to change most of these variables! What makes us truly special is how we spend our energy, thoughts, and time, as well as how we respond to whom and what we encounter.

It's in your power to evolve and bring forth the unique, special person that you are. That's an awesome responsibility

When you read this list, what did you realise about your life? Please share you thoughts in the comments.

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What do people remember about you when you walk out of the room? In my case, I may think it's my background and knowledge that makes me special, but it's more likely that what's really memorable is seeing food magically transports itself from my plate onto the floor or onto other laps when I'm excited...