McIntosh 1
Austin
Kimberly Covington
Eng 101
2/27/25
[Title]: [Subtitle]
Response 1
The seniors or those of 8th grade graduates get to experience what many American high
school graduates experience every early summer. The anticipation, fear and showering of gifts to
those who have accomplished their academic goals and move forward into their next stage of
life. The chaos of ceremony preparations, academic stress is diverted away from those who will
sit in places of honor and respect of that graduation day. The women fuss over newly procured
clothing and hair styles, the men relaxed and confident as they can glide through the last days of
school. Even the general process of the ceremony follows suit in today’s world. Entrance,
National Anthem, followed by a prayer and the ceremony itself drumming to the tempo of feet
walking to a new life.
What struck me as different were the distinct aspects of the African American culture
being implemented into this graduation in which segregation still was so prevalent. The Negro
National Anthem, the downplaying of this accomplishment by the white men in attendance, and
primarily how this was viewed as the end of education for the large major of African Americans
at this time. While it may have surprised me to read these things I also found a dark sense of
familiarity as most of my life in America has been within the deep south and a haunting feeling
of racism still sits uncomfortably within these woods.
McIntosh 2
Response 2
One of my most memorable traditional experiences I have had was my senior
prom night. It was one of the last nights I spent with many friends, teachers and mentors whom I
haven’t seen since that day. It was set as a “Dreamy Night in Paris”. Eiffel Tower miniatures
were displayed around the room, fancy “mocktails” and hors d'oeuvres were served while jazz
played in the background. It was such a serene moment entering the venue. Everyone was
dressed to the nines and the mood was high. I danced with my many friends for hours to all the
mainstream songs at the time. My date and I slow danced to the softer music which played as the
night dipped into the deep hours and we all sang our graduation song of “We are the World” as
we ended the fantastic night.
Response 3
In E. B. White’s short story of “Once more to the Lake”, He writes of his return with his
son to a childhood vacation place he had once traversed with his father. He notes how the
landscape, the lake itself, the weathered boat and dock, even the people of the community seem
unchanged in their distinct existence. All of these aspects of the lake seemingly undisturbed apart
from two key exceptions. The physical change was the increase in motorboats, the loud
humming they expelled when sending wakes cascading across an otherwise glassy body of
water. The other, and far more important change for White, was his experience. As he relived the
experience of many childhood adventures in this place in became apparent that now he was the
father guiding his son along for the journey. A journey that we wished to relive exactly was
shattered, knowing it was not the same for in fact, he was not the same. The traces of his father
appearing through his actions, words and demeanor drew out an entirely new experience and
reshaped what the lake would forever be to White.
McIntosh 3
Response 4
I grew up traveling extensively, and more than once have I returned to a place in
which I suddenly felt as if it had completely changed. The most dramatic of these instances was
my return to my parents’ house after four years in the military. While The home itself rarely
changed in terms of aesthetic there was an emptiness about it that struck me so vividly. During
my late high school and early college days, the house had been constantly filled with teenagers,
parties and sleepovers galore. The house lived and breathed the energy of youth, young love,
freedom and life.
After the years away, the house seemed empty, cold and quiet. My parents were still
loving and enjoyed every moment spent with guests and new friends they had made in recent
years. The house still lived in them. But to my eyes, it was if some part of my childhood had died
during those years. A past to which I can never go. Friends that I’ll never see again, meals never
again had by so many. So many firsts were held in those walls, yet the wood appeared to have
dried and the memories only a thin layer of dust upon the beams of that old house.
