Other works by me
These don't exactly fit together. It's a big mashup of different papers I have written or drawings I have made.
This paper was written in high school. The assignment was to create a short story using a name. It's pretty long so for layout purposes I'll put half of it on this pages and the download link.
My name was supposed to be Dominik. But it’s not, it’s Patrick. My mother was all for Dominik, she thought it sounded unique and would help me stand out from the crowd. Even though she’s Italian she grew up surrounded by Mikes, Toms and Dans. So she was putting a lot of thought into my name, my identity, the impression someone would form when they saw my name on paper, before they met me.
My mom, she’s like most, given the stuff mom’s have to deal with practically qualified them for sainthood. She has this ability to get her way almost all of the time, without ever raising her voice and making the other person feel as though it was their idea. You can often hear her say, “Well, I’m sure you would agree you would want the same thing, if you were in my position.” Almost everyone, almost every time agrees with her.
When my parents were discussing my name, my father agreed it was unique and that it would help me stand out, but not in a good way. He saw this as a bad thing. Now, you haven’t met my dad. You haven’t met the olive-skinned, bald-headed, Italian that I get to call my dad. He goes by Robert, however his birth name is Roberto. I’m not really sure why he goes by Robert instead of Roberto, maybe because it sounds to ethnic, too specific to one heritage. Maybe he just wants to “fit in” with the American culture. He’s pretty hot headed. He doesn’t take much shit from anyone. You cut him off on the freeway?
“Do that again you piece of shit and see where that gets you,” as he gives you the finger.
“Do that again you piece of shit and see where that gets you,” as he gives you the finger.
His father, my grandpa even though I never met him, was an Italian immigrant looking for a better life. His name was Angelo, his closest friends called him Angie. If you didn’t know what part of Italy he came from or his story in making his way across the Atlantic, then you needed to stick with Angelo. Now I know it seems cliché but this was the typical “American Dream” story where a poor man comes from a poor part of a country and wants the white picket fence with the house and the family. He worked at the old Ford Plant in Detroit. What a cool city that is there in the Midwest. Skyscrapers jutting out from the street to the sky, hot dog vendors on every block, the only thing I can think of that I don’t like in the city is the faces of these people. I mean, they all look depressed or something. Maybe they hate themselves for doing the same thing everyone else is doing or maybe they just didn’t have breakfast, you can’t look too deep into these things.
I have to cut it here because if you have to scroll too long that just isn't fun but heres the link
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my_name_short_story.docx | |
File Size: | 9 kb |
File Type: | docx |
I took an art class in high school. I wasn't very good at it but you might like some of my drawings.
This was supposed to be a self portrait but it didn't turn out as one. I ended up getting a C in art for the year.