Personal Narrative: Raymond's Inspiration

Raymond’s Inspiration

            People come in and out of our lives, each making their own individual mark on us; some marks are

deeper than others are. Nevertheless, what happens when you have never met the person who left one of the

deepest marks? What happens when that person died when you were still developing in the womb? How is it

that their legacy still affects you even after eighteen years? For me it was being told story after story and

comment after comment, each one making the original mark deeper and more meaningful.

Livermore, California is the place I called home for the first thirteen years of my life, living in the back corner of a court in a white four-bedroom house. Walking through the entrance hallway there was a family room to the right, a kitchen and dining ahead with the entrance to the living room. Right before the kitchen there was a long hallway leading to the master bedroom and bath, three other bedrooms and a single bathroom. In the living room on the wall shared by the kitchen, hung some of our family pictures and they covered the upper half of the colorless white wall. The room as I recall always smelled of homemade cooking mixed with chlorine, the pool and spa being just out the back door.

For an eight year old, the living room was my second favorite place to be, the first being the library which would later become my room. I would sit on the three-cushioned couch staring at the family wall marveling over the different shapes and sizes of the frames encasing the photos and my massive family. One day, I looked up from the book I was reading and my eye caught on a photo that I assumed was of my father holding my brother. He had dark brown hair, relatively thin, with a mustache and scratchy beard. The baby was covered in a light blue blanket and was staring at the tender smile on the man’s face. After taking in the photo for a couple of minutes I got up off the couch and moved forward stopping a couple feet from the wall, so I could still see the photo. A man a little heavier than in the photo and with a touch of gray hair scooped me and started tickling me.

“Daddy, I was looking at your photo with the baby!” I said between giggles.

“And what photo would that be K.C.” my dad inquired with a smile. In response I pointed to the photo, I looked up just in time to see a change of expression on his face, being eight I could not even began to describe what I saw. Now, I would call a mixture of surprise and sadness. “That is not me princess, that’s Raymond with your brother Gregory Jr.”

Looking at this scene from a window, one would just see a tender family moment, but to me that moment was the turning point, the opening of a path that would lead me on an expedition into the culinary world and a college far away from that comfortable place. My face scrunched up with confusion, trying to remember that name and coming up with a blank. I saw my dad bite back a chuckle when he saw my expression, “Raymond was my second oldest brother, and he died before you were born.”

Numbers started to flicker through my head, counting my father’s siblings, finally realizing he was the seventh I never really heard about before. “How did he die daddy? And why does he look like you?”

“Raymond died of a cancer that spread throughout his body; he was too weak from the AIDS to fight it off. And all Shreeve brothers look alike, our family traits are strong.” I nodded as if I understood what any of this meant, but I did not fool my dad. “You will understand when you are older.” My face puckered and I wished I could understand now and meet this uncle this man, I had never had the chance to know.

Dad walked me to the couch and began to tell me about Raymond, a man who died too young.

His voice was gruff with a tint of softness, “Raymond was a self taught chef who worked in major restaurants at one point and cooked for senators at another.” Dad looked at the family wall when he told the story, occasionally sneaking peeks at me to see if I was following the story. That day, my ideas of life changed, I finally understood life had to end at some point, no matter how good the person is. This first story of my Uncle Raymond also planted the seed of culinary arts in my soul.

Ten years later, after many, more stories and comments about Uncle Raymond, I was in the car with my mom and dad driving home. Home for me then was a two-story house in Discovery Bay, California approximately one hour away from my original home. It was May, the weather starting to warm up even at night, the road only lit up by the cars headlights, trees lining the road. Darkness began to envelop us as our conversation became deeper and more emotional. I had already been accepted to Johnson and Wales University in the Honors Program for Culinary Arts and Food Service Management, already counting the days until I left for college. My parents and I were discussing my career choice and my inspirations, including that my parents meeting while working in a restaurant.

Dad turned around in the passenger seat, “Raymond would have loved you, and you two would have become friends quickly. I smile in return, sadness once again climbing its way to the surface, wishing Raymond did not die so young, wishing he could be my mentor. Anger rose up inside me at the AIDS and the cancer that took his life excessively soon.

            “He is one of my biggest inspirations to becoming a chef, besides it being in my blood with all the other family member who are or were in the business at some point. I hope he is proud of me and knows how much he means to me.” My voice became a tender sadness, tears in my eyes.

            Mom smiled, “I am sure he is sweetie.” However, I was not so sure, both my parents believe in a higher power, but I am currently still not sure. Her voice was soft and endearing, “You know, Raymond made your father and me dinner on our honeymoon at the high end restaurant he was working at. Raymond took care of the whole thing, his generous wedding present. This story had been told hundreds of times to me before, but each time with a different light.

            Raymond’s mark on me is deep and only surpassed by those of my parents, siblings, and Alan’s’ marks. Every story told about him makes Raymond seem all the more alive to me as if he were still alive here, and only estranged. For me, my own culinary story begins with Raymond, no matter that I will never be able to meet him. Every person that enters our life leaves a mark, leaving us forever changed just the way Raymond did for me.

Assignment #2: Article Summary & Response: Does Your Language Shape How You Think? By Guy Deutscher The New York Times

     In 1940, Benjamin Lee Whorf wrote an article revolving around the concept that language has power over one’s mind. In the coming years, people began to believe that their native language actual restrict our ability to think. Whorf’s idea was that each language created a different reality, which would then hinder one’s ability to understand the difference between objects and actions, or the flow of time depending on the language. Years later Whorf was discredited on the account there was no proof his theory was right. In the twenty-first century, however, research is now editing Whorf’s idea as more evidence is collected. Today they are not looking at it as language restricts one’s understanding, but that language obliges one to think about only certain things. For example, many European languages give objects genders, whereas in the English language we do not. In a study done, when Spanish think of bridges they think of masculine traits, because it is el Puente, whereas Germans think of bridges they identify feminine characteristics since a bridge is known as dies Brucke. Another example is the way languages approach space, some use egocentric coordinates, or geographic directions, or both. If a language only uses geographic directions, the people of that mother language will began to think in geographic terms even when retelling stories. Geographic directions are how you remember events and situations. In addition, languages determine how we look at art or our surroundings. If the language does not have a word for blue, that person would see the artwork different from a person whose mother language does have blue. People do not think the same way and their mother language does have some effect on how and what they think.

     This article captures interest due to its critical thinking aspect. One normally does not think about how their mother language effects how they think. Since communication involves language it is a good idea to broaden your mind and see the way you speak and think and why that is. Whorf’s idea opened up a portal of knowledge that is just now being really discovered and widened. However, Whorf’s idea was not completely accurate it did relate language to mind for the first time. Personally, I think there needs to be more scientific research on the brain from people of different languages. Yet, I do believe there is a strong correlation between language and people’s minds. The difference between the ways people think is obvious when listening and understanding different cultures. Most people however, relate it to the culture difference, but when looking closer it could be the language itself. The power of language is not just spoken, but also written, which makes it relevant to any English class. This New York Times article does give a base for changing the way one understands the power of language, at least it did for me.  

This article was found at:

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/08/29/magazine/29language-t.html?_r=1&sq=Does%20Your%20Language%20SHape%20Your%20How%20You%20think&st=cse&scp=1&pagewanted=print

Assignment #1: Personal Prompts to White's Once More to the Lake

Page 469: Journal Prompt #1. Describe a place that has special meaning to you. Why is it special?

     The digital clock on the dashboard approached noon just as our van turned off the main road. My mother sung along to the CD player, my two siblings talked amongst themselves about the coming two weeks, while I started fidgeting. We were almost to the legendary Boy Scouts of America Camp Royaneh, to everyone else this was a standard summer, but to me this was an adventure. Gregory Jr, my oldest sibling would be attending as a Webelo, my parents cooking, and my sister Carrie and me would be getting in the way.

     Trees lined the last road to Camp Royaneh, rolling down my window I breathed in the fresh scent of oak and horses. Eventually, the trees break and the Dining Hall and Office comes into view, mom slows down to let a car by making me more impatient. Already, I want to call my father to tell him of the ride up here and my first impressions of camp, but he is working. After parking and unpacking our belongings, we say goodbye to Jr. so he can find his campsite and the three of us head to the kitchen.

    Staring up at the steel kitchen appliances, I felt tiny, unimportant. Barely five years old I was expected to read and color all day long. However, as my mom started preparing the welcoming feast for the staff with her kitchen staff I slyly strolled to her side. Her hazel eyes stared into mine before smiling and moving and a chair to the stove so I could stir the pots. I spent the next two weeks in the kitchen from dawn to past dusk helping my mother in the kitchen. All the kitchen staff members learned to walk around me or let me assist them in their chores, most preferring the latter.

     So while Jr. attending camp and Carrie ran around playing, I stayed inside the kitchen, eagerly learning from my mother. Those two weeks flew by much too quickly for little me. Sadly, in such a short time the van was leaving the forest rode behind itself with me staring back at camp.

     Twelve months later, however, my family was making the drive up to Camp Royaneh again this time my father accompanied us. The whole ride there, there was a little girl in the back of the van fidgeting eager to begin her two weeks of fun.

     Camp Royaneh is special to me, even now thirteen years later, because it was my first experience in a kitchen outside of the home. Three summer ago I had the privilege to work at Camp Royaneh as their Dining Hall Steward for Webelos Camp. Around two months after camp I decided to attend Johnson and Wales University for a bachelors in Culinary Arts. Looking back now I believe Royaneh helped make  my career path decision.