Essay on Passion Essay

Economics Research Paper Example | Topics and Well Written Essays - 1000 words

Financial matters - Research Paper Example At the end of the day, 1% of individuals in America controls mutiple/5 th of the all out pay produce in America. This is a striking certainty. The creator contends that financial imbalance isn't about the amount you make †it’s about the amount you have (Rampell). For instance, it is very conceivable that a normal American brings in considerable cash from his calling or business. Anyway it isn't fundamental that the sum he makes might be adequate enough for his consumption on the off chance that he may have all the more relatives. At the end of the day, an American who has just 3 individuals in his family and another who have 5 or 6 individuals in his family can't be considered similarly regarding monetary fairness, regardless of whether they procure same salary. The followi9ng diagram delineates this contention more clear. (Rampell) From the above diagram, obviously despite the fact that the best 1 percent of workers get about a fifth of all American pay; they hold about 33% of American riches. As it were, the salary got and the pay constrained by the top 1% is inconsistent. Truth be told the top 1% controls more riches than the genuine riches they got or earned. From the above reality, obviously the most extravagant individuals in America can spare more than what the normal Americans spare. The ongoing downturn underlined the above actuality. Most extravagant individuals in America prevailing with regards to getting away from the ongoing downturn without making numerous harms their financial advantages though the normal American endured a great deal in view of the downturn. As it were, the investment funds of the normal Americans were not sufficient enough to meet any surprising monetary calamities. Most elevated acquiring Americans spare more though the least gaining Americans spare less. At the end of the day, over the long haul, increasingly more riches will be constrained by the most elevated winning individuals contrasted with the least procur ing individuals which is the significant explanation behind financial disparity in America. Alongside the expanding monetary influence, the haggling influence and the impacts of the rich individuals may likewise increment. At the end of the day, a greater amount of the portions of the administrative sponsorships, help bundles, discounts and so forth will come in the hands of the rich individuals as opposed to going under the control of the destitute individuals. For instance, President Obama has as of late enormous upgrade bundles to assist the individuals with coming out from the monetary emergency. Be that as it may, dominant part of the portions of these improvement bundles went in the hands of the most noteworthy acquiring individuals. Wolf (2009) has brought up that the improvement plan will fortify the economy by making a great many great paying employments; convey charge alleviation for 95% of laborers and put resources into America’s future by fixing our networks' str eets and scaffolds, improving our kids' instruction and making America more vitality free (Wolf). In any case, according to the measurements accessible, it is very evident that these improvement plans neglected to produce a lot of effect in the lives of normal individuals. When Obama proposed the 700 billion bailout bundle to the battling businesses in America, numerous individuals have caused a stir. Significant portion of this colossal cash was gone under the control of the personal representatives. At the end of the day, Obama gathered the cash from the taxpayer’s pocket and conveyed it to the private specialists. At the end of the day, the rich individuals became significant recipients of these boost bundles moreover. Under the above conditions, Rampell’

Analysis of New TOEFL Preparation Materials

Analysis of New TOEFL Preparation Materials To get a better sense of the distribution of questions on the new version of the TOEFL, I have compared the new versions of the TOEFL Reading Practice Sets released by ETS to their old versions. Note that the three sets in the above link are modified versions of the old TPO 7 and 8 sets. The articles are the same, but certain questions have been removed. Heres what I found out about the question types on the new version of the test.Old Set 1Old Set 2Old Set 3New Set 1New Set 2New Set 3Factual Information4433 (-1)3 (-1)3Negative Factual Information2211 (-1)1 (-1)1Rhetorical Purpose112112Vocabulary4432 (-2)2 (-2)1 (-2)Sentence Simplification111111Insert a Sentence111111Inference001000 (-1)Summary111111This confirms my earlier reports that the new test has far fewer vocabulary questions. Factual and Negative Factual questions have also been reduced, it would seem.This also confirms that Reference and Fill in a Table questions will probably not appear on the test much nowadays, as they a re totally absent from the practice materials. Note that even though the single Inference question has been removed from the test, it is still being used quite frequently, according to reports.Next up, Ive done the same analysis of the Free Practice Test provided by ETS. The results are as follows.Old Set 1Old Set 2Old Set 3New Set 1New Set 2New Set 3Factual Information3142 (-1)13 (-1)Negative Factual Information221222Rhetorical Purpose011011Vocabulary4432 (-2)2 (-2)1 (-2)Sentence Simplification11110 (-1)0 (-1)Insert a Sentence111111Function of Paragraph1000 (-1)00Inference13112 (-1)1Summary111111Again, we can see that there are far fewer vocabulary questions. But we can also see that all of the question types are affected, except for the Insert Sentence and Summary types.The odd function of paragraph entry refers to a non-standard question that isnt mentioned in the Official Guide or any other ETS resources. On the original set it was phrased as What function does paragraph 3 serve in the organization of the passage as a whole?. I guess this is sort of like a rhetorical purpose question, but it really surprises students when it comes up. Note that although it has been removed from the practice test, I have had reports that it has appeared on the real test since August 1.

The Kite Runner By Khaled Hosseini - 1655 Words

AP English Name: Sarah Singer Major Works Data Form Title: The Kite Runner Author: Khaled Hosseini Date of Publication: 2003 Genre: Historical Fiction Historical information about the period of publication: Since the September 11th attacks in 2001, the United States has been at war with Afghanistan. Their goals were to remove the Taliban, track down those in charge of the attacks, and destroy Al-Qaeda. Biographical information about the author: Khaled Hosseini was born in Kabul, Afghanistan, in 1965. HIs mother taught high school and his father was a diplomat for the Afghan Foreign Ministry. They were forced to relocate to Paris, and later the United States, all because because of a communist coup in Kabul. Hosseini enrolled at Santa Clara University and graduated as a biology major in 1988. He then went on to earn a medical degree in 1993. He became a practicing intern at the Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in Los Angeles from 1996 to 2004. In 2001, Hosseini began to write his first novel, The Kite Runner, and later published it in 2003. Plot summary: Amir flashbacks to when he was twelve years old in Afghanistan. He lives with his father, Baba, and has two servants, Ali and Hassan, who are also a father and son duo. The latter two are Hazaras, Afghan’s minority, and as such, are subjected to racial slurs and cruelty. Amir and Hassan are playing when Assef, Kamal, andShow MoreRelatedThe Kite Runner, by Khaled Hosseini883 Words   |  4 Pagesregret from past encounters and usually feel guilty and bitter about the situation. The Kite Runner, by Khaled Hosseini, revolves around the theme of redemption. Redemption can be used as a cure for guilt. Throughout the novel, the author shows that redemption requires some sort of sacrifice and the only way that is possible is if you can forgive yourself from the mistakes you have made in the past. Khaled Hosseini effectively portrays redemption through motifs such as rape, irony and flashbacks, symbolismRead MoreThe Kite Runner By Khaled Hosseini1651 Words   |  7 P ages  Ã‚  Ã‚   The novel â€Å"The Kite Runner† by Khaled Hosseini describes the life of a boy, Amir. Amir’s best friend and brother (although that part isn’t known until towards the end), Hassan, plays a major role in Amir’s life and how he grows up. Hosseini portrays many sacrifices that are made by Hassan and Amir. Additionally, Amir seeks redemption throughout much of the novel. By using first person point of view, readers are able to connect with Amir and understand his pain and yearning for a way to be redeemedRead MoreThe Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini1098 Words   |  5 PagesIn The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini, we learn a lot about Amir the main character, and Hassan his servant/brother. In the beginning Hassan and Amir’s relationship was one of brotherly love despite the fact that Hassan was a Hazara and Amir a Pashtun. Back in the 1970’s race and religion played a big part in Kabul and these two races were not suppose to have relationships unless it was owner (Pashtun) and servant (Hazara). Baba Amir’s father had an affair with Hassan’s mother, but it was kept aRead MoreThe Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini1313 Words   |  5 Pagesis not unique to just J.K. Rowling. Khaled Hosseini also incorporates life experiences into some of his novels. A prime example of this is The Kite Runner. The storyline of this novel reflects his past to create a journey of a young Afghanistan boy, whose name is Amir. This boy changes drastically throughout his lifetime from a close minded, considerably arrogant boy to an open hearted and minded man. This emotional and mental trip is partially based on Khaled Hosseini’s own life. Throughout Hosseini’sRead MoreThe Kite Runner By Khaled Hosseini1908 Words   |  8 Pages​In the novel, â€Å"The Kite Runner†, written by Khaled Hosseini, was taken place in Afghanistan during the 1970’s to the year of 2002. Many historical events ha ppened during this time period and Hosseini portrayed it into his novel. Kabul, the capitol of Afghanistan, was a free, living area for many Afghanistan families to enjoy the life they were given. Until one day, Afghanistan was then taken over and attacked. In the novel, Amir, the protagonist, must redeem himself and the history behind his actionsRead MoreThe Kite Runner By Khaled Hosseini1050 Words   |  5 Pagesâ€Å"There is a way to be good again.† (Hosseini 334). This quote given by Rahim Khan to Amir holds a great amount of force and symbolism. In theory, this quote symbolizes the beginning of Amir’s path to redemption. The eye-opening Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini tells about the struggles of Afghanistan before and during the Taliban, and one’s struggle for redemption and acceptance. With regards to the opening quote, some see Amir’s actions as selfish. However, others may believe that Amir truly changedRead MoreThe Kite Runner By Khaled Hossein i1583 Words   |  7 Pagesnovel the Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini, Amir, the main character, shares his thoughts and actions due to his poor decisions. The problems he encountered were all because of the sin committed in his youth. His sins taunted the beginning of his life and gave him a troublesome memory full of guilt. As the novel continued, Amir attempted to disengage the memory of his sin and forget about it. Amir then faced the long bumpy road to redemption. Khaled Hosseini’s novel the Kite Runner is about sinRead MoreThe Kite Runner, by Khaled Hosseini871 Words   |  4 Pagesthat person is trying to fix that mistake. This also applies to the novel The Kite Runner. The story revolves around the main character Amir, and his childhood friend, Hassan. After Amir came to America with Baba, his father, he still regrets the things he had done to his childhood friend. He left Hassan getting raped by Assef in a small alley in 1975. Thereafter, Amir always feel regret and seeks for redemption. Hosseini -the author, argues that redemption can be achieved by helping others, teachRead MoreThe Kite Runner By Khaled Hosseini3402 Words   |  14 Pagestitle â€Å"The Kite Runner† is symbolic as fighting kites and the kite runnings are impacting moments in the novel. Hassan was the best kite runner in Kabul, if not the whole country, after Amir won the kite fighting the running of that last blue kite triggered the monumental changes for Amir. For the beginning of the story the kite running was associated with Hassan’s rape and Amir’s grief. As kites appear throughout the story, they begin Amir’s story and also end it. Amir flying the kite with SohrabRead MoreThe Kite Runner By Khaled Hosseini2522 Words   |  11 PagesIn The Kite Runner, Khaled Hosseini creates an awareness and humanization of Afghanistan as a nation and as a culture. Through a postcolonial perspective, the main character, Amir resembles the internal conflicts and external tribulations that a country and its citizens’ face when living in a war-torn region. Postcolonial criticism offers a unique perspective by highlighting the destructive events that lead to death and misery, rather than glorifying the exploratory nature of colonists as they

Ethnocentrism in America - 1186 Words

The United States of America was founded on July 4, 1776. Seeking a life free of the British Government, a host of immigrants founded a new nation. Because the United States was created by the migration of people from various parts of the world, it is sometimes described as a â€Å"melting pot.† Along with their personal possessions, these immigrants brought their respective cultures and traditions as they meshed together into a new society. Despite being categorized together as citizens of the same country, the independent traditions and lifestyles of humankind have created challenges throughout history. It is important for Americans to share a sense of pride, patriotism and loyalty. Equally important, however, is the need for respect regarding differences and individualism. Ethnocentrism is a barrier between understanding culture and diversity. Ethnocentrism is defined as, â€Å"having or based on the idea that your own group or culture is better or more important than others.† Society is impacted by everything from media exposure to political agendas. A good example of this can be found in America’s recent history with countries in the Middle East. Issues ranging from energy and oil to a campaign against terrorism have created strained relationships between the United States and countries such as Iraq and Afghanistan. As a result, it is nearly impossible to watch an evening news program on American television that does not contain a story related to current events in the MiddleShow MoreRelatedEssay about Ethnocentrism: Race and Violence958 Words   |  4 Pagesdefines ethnocentrism as The tendency to evaluate other groups according to the values and standards of ones own ethnic group, especially with the conviction that ones own ethnic group is superior to the other groups. When first reading this definition , one would naturally agree that ethnocentrism does exist in our world and society, often confusing it with patriotism. However, many do not realize that ethnocentrism is, has been, and continues to be a leading cause for violence in America. DifferentRead MoreEssay about Ethnocentrism968 Words   |  4 Pagesdefines ethnocentrism as â€Å"The tendency to evaluate other groups according to the values and standards of ones own ethnic group, especially with the conviction that ones own ethnic group is superior to the other groups.† When first reading this definition, one would naturally agree that ethnocentrism does exist in our world and society, often confusing it with patriotism. However, many do not realize that ethnocentrism is, has been, and continues to be a leading cause for violence in America. DifferentRead MoreEthnocentrism : The World s Leading Super Power1067 Words   |  5 PagesWhat is ethnocentrism, the definition is evaluation of other cultures according to preconceptions originating in the standards and customs of one s own culture. Which is broken down to mean the higher valuing of one’s self culture nature and origin compared to others. This can be expressed in action and words, as Americans we exude we are number one. As the world’s leading super power we have become full of our self and almost to the point of narcissism. All over the world people flock to our shoresRead More Ethnocentrism and Cultural Relativism Essay example506 Words   |  3 PagesEthnocentrism and Cultural Relativism Ethnocentrism and cultural relativism are two contrasting terms that are displayed by different people all over the world. Simply put, ethnocentrism is defined as â€Å"judging other groups from the perspective of one’s own cultural point of view.† Cultural relativism, on the other hand, is defined as â€Å"the view that all beliefs are equally valid and that truth itself is relative, depending on the situation, environment, and individual.† Each of these ideasRead MoreEthnocentrism: Culture and Social Integration Essay example725 Words   |  3 PagesEthnocentrism Ethnocentrism is the tendency to look at the world primarily from the perspective of ones own culture. Ethnocentrism often bring about the belief that ones own race or ethnic group is the most important and/or are superior to those of other groups. Ethnocentrism can have both a positive and negative effect in one’s personal life. â€Å"On the positive side, it creates in-group loyalties. On the negative side, ethnocentrism can lead to discrimination against people whose ways differRead MoreEthnocentrism As Defined By The Osu Department Of Anthropology984 Words   |  4 PagesEthnocentrism, as defined by the OSU Department of Anthropology, is â€Å"an attitude that is centered on one’s own culture, values, and ways of acting and thinking †¦[and] may lead to unfair criticism of other cultures† (Rosenburger 8). Ethnocentrism is a natural response for people who experience or become immersed in a culture where values, customs, and shared practices are differe nt from their own. It is the difficulty or inability to understand other ways of acting, thinking, or feeling; when oneRead MoreThe Human Race Essay1669 Words   |  7 Pagesconflicts, genocide and hate crimes, holy wars and threats of global war happening every day. What is the underlying cause of such passionate dislike, mistrust and an obsessive need to dominate and control other people? This paper will look at Ethnocentrism, its elements, its motivation and its influence, if any, as a catalyst for violence. Total world peace is an elusive unicorn in many ways for the human race. Even in the absence of physical war, there is always a competitive motivation betweenRead MoreComparing Stereotyping And Ethnocentrism1557 Words   |  7 PagesStereotyping and ethnocentrism both have concepts that are intertwined in some type of way in society. Both concepts of stereotyping and ethnocentrism has been identified as being superior, dogmatic, bigotry, and can be harmful and hurtful to the human spirit. Although stereotyping and ethnocentrism attitudes are different in ways of harmfulness, but they are both problems in our society today, and that needs to be addressed and brought to attention. In this essay, it targets to explain and makeRead MoreStereotyping And Ethnocentrism1565 Words   |  7 Pages Cultural Communication values and Communication Challenges in Muslims Stereotyping and ethnocentrism both have concepts that are intertwined in some type of way in society. Both concepts of stereotyping and ethnocentrism has been identified as being superior, dogmatic, bigotry, and can be harmful and hurtful to the human spirit. Although stereotyping and ethnocentrism attitudes are different in ways of harmfulness, but they are both problems in our society today, and that needs to be addressed andRead MoreRemarks Concerning The Savages Of North America, By Benjamin Franklin1176 Words   |  5 PagesFrom its title, â€Å"Remarks Concerning the Savages of North America, to its end, Benjamin Franklin’s essay uses satire to how that the Indians are anything but savage. Franklin’s satire uses humor to make readers question the way whites view and treat the Indians. He begins his essay saying, Savages we call them, because their manners differ from ours, which we think the perfection of civility; they think the same of theirs(Franklin476). H e goes on to illustrate the absurdity of thinking Euro-American

Sunshine Chapter 24 Free Essays

string(185) " get jobs as cooks in coffeehouses, or jive with their old motorcycle gang – occasionally they hang with other sorcerers, but usually for some specific and time-limited purpose\." â€Å"Yes,† I said. â€Å"Mel, d’you suppose anyone is exactly who they say they are?† â€Å"Charlie, maybe,† he answered, after a little pause, of surprise or consideration. â€Å"Can’t think of anyone else. We will write a custom essay sample on Sunshine Chapter 24 or any similar topic only for you Order Now Hmm.† I watched his hand lift off the table and rub one of his tattoos. Maybe I should have been thinking about tattoos myself, but there’s a real big drawback to them. Any charm can be turned against you, if you run into the thing it’s supposed to be protecting you from, and the thing is enough stronger than the protection. A powerful enough demon adept or magic handler can overwhelm one too, although that’s serious feud stuff and not common. A tattoo feeds itself on you, so tattoos do tend to be a lot more stable and longer-lived than the ordinary charms you set around and hang up, including the ones you wear next to your skin; but a charm that isn’t living off you can be destroyed a lot more easily if it does go – or is sent – rogue. A rogue tattoo can eat you up. It happens occasionally. Before five months ago I didn’t figure I needed any heavy warding. Now that I did, tattoos were the last thing I was going to try. â€Å"Charlie,† I said. â€Å"I can’t think of anyone else either.† Not Mel. Not me. â€Å"Not Mrs. B,† said Mel, smiling. â€Å"Sunshine, I don’t like metaphysics unless I’m drunk, it’s only three-thirty in the afternoon, and I’m working tonight. What’s up?† If Mel had really been trying to pass as a motorcycle hoodlum, his tattoos wouldn’t be as beautiful or as elaborate. Lots of sorcerers go in for a superabundance of tattoos, but they mostly keep them hidden – they’re harder to rogue that way. Hence the long enveloping robe and deep hood technique with inked-up sorcerers when they’re actually handling magic. (For day-to-day, walking-the-dog, doing-the-shopping use, a lot of sorcerers disguise the real shape of their tattoos with cosmetics. Long sleeves and high collars are hot in the summer – and there are favorite sorcerer tattoos that go on your lips and cheeks and forehead too. But – I love this – magic can apparently be a bit perfunctory about certain things in the heat of a transaction. Any tattoo a sorcerer wants working while he or she handles magic can’t be distorted with face paint or pancake foundation because it may turn out to be the apparent figure that performs. Or doesn’t.) My dad didn’t have any tattoos. That I remembered. But I didn’t remember my dad very well, and not all sorcerers have tattoos. But sorcerers are sorcerers. Tattooists mostly make their livings punching charms in leather, not live skin, and they’ll try to talk an ordinary member of the public out of it if you already have, say, three magic-bearing tattoos, even little boring ones, and they’ll tell you why. In vivid detail. It isn’t just the rogue possibility: a lot of magic-bearing tattoos can sort of unbalance you. You start not being quite sure where the real-world lines are with a lot of tattoos whispering in your dreams. Of course having lots of magic-bearing tattoos is one way of saying you’re a tough guy – first because the implication is that you need all that charm and ward power, and second because you’re hardy enough to bear the drain and the disorientation. But there are better ways of showing you are a tough guy than having lots of tattoos, partly because no tattooist who wants to keep his or her license is likely to cooperate, and the ones who don’t have licenses are too likely to make a mess of it. There is only one small secondary quarter-circle’s difference between a ward against drunkenness and another one against eyestrain, for example, and the latter won’t get you home safely with a load on. And that’s one of the common, simple wards, and most of Mel’s tattoos weren’t common or simple. But they were magic bearers, not ornamental. You could smell it, like ozone when a storm is coming. And besides, nobody who had any pretensions to hanging out with a biker gang would dare have ornamental tattoos. Ornies are for wusses. Mel couldn’t be a sorcerer – sorcery isn’t something you can successfully hide for long – but he did have a lot of tattoos. It was typical of him too that when he had come to talk to Charlie about a job the first time he had his sleeves rolled up above the elbows and his shirt open at the neck, in spite of the fact that it was January and freezing. Although maybe he just had a good take on Charlie, who in his affable, openhearted way, enjoys Charlie’s reputation as a place slightly on the edge. I said, â€Å"Mel, who are you?† Mel picked up both my hands and kissed them. His lips were warm. When he laid them back on the table he didn’t let go. I watched the sunlight twinkle among the fine hairs on the backs of his hands, and the red and gold and black of the tattoos there. Both the hairs and the tattoos had an unusually bright red edge, as if there was firelight on them. Or in them. His hands were warm too. Human temperature. The temperature of the fire of human life. Speaking of metaphysics. â€Å"I’m your friend, Sunshine,† he said. â€Å"Everything else is just static on the line.† I wondered if he’d heard what Pat had said. I wondered who had done his tattoos. Maybe what I thought I knew about magic-bearing tattoos was from the same script as the disquisition about how masturbating will make you blind and a cretin. (Even ‘ubis don’t damage your sight.) Maybe I should ask him. But then I’d have to tell him why I wanted to know. Even if you could successfully hide being a sorcerer, Mel still couldn’t be one. Sorcerers are loners – they don’t do things like get jobs as cooks in coffeehouses, or jive with their old motorcycle gang – occasionally they hang with other sorcerers, but usually for some specific and time-limited purpose. You read "Sunshine Chapter 24" in category "Essay examples" Sorcerers are too paranoid to have ordinary human friends and too competitive to have sorcerer friends. The street version about sorcerers is that they are basically not to be trusted: humans aren’t meant to be that mixed up with magic. Not even magic-handling humans. Where did sorcerers get their tattoos? Maybe I didn’t know anything any more. I drove home thinking about that Watch your back. I was already watching my back, and Pat knew it. Was he warning me to watch my back against SOF? Was a loyal – if partblood – member of SOF warning me that SOF itself was not to be trusted? Okay, lately I’d heard about partbloods needing to stick together for mutual defense, and I’d heard a long time ago about the goddess of pain, and I knew none of our SOFs liked her; but I thought – I assumed – this was only because she was a hardass bitch who was more concerned with her own career path than with making humanity safe from the Others. Was Pat suggesting something more ominous? And if he was, was he suggesting it about one overambitious gorgon with skewed priorities, or about a treacherous vein, you should forgive the term, running through all of SOF? Gods and angels, wasn’t Bo enough? At a stoplight I flipped open the glove compartment and looked at the clutter. A few of the charms twitched. Poor Mom. At least she was trying. I realized that I was grateful for the useless tangle, even if it was useless. Because she was doing something. She hadn’t averted her eyes from the fact that I needed help. She merely had no clue how much help, or what kind. Only Con really knew, only he didn’t know, because he wasn’t human, so he didn’t know what he knew. Or something. When I got home I sat staring at the shadows the leaves from the trees threw on the driveway. They glinted and did strange things with perspective like all shadows did now, but they were beautiful and they didn’t mean anything. They were what happened when light fell on leaves. It wasn’t late summer any more; it was autumn, and the leaves were beginning to turn. A pale yellow one like a big flat blanched almond skittered across the hood of the Wreck. I opened my knapsack and swept the thatch of charms into it, including one spark plug, quite a lot of string, and a few rubber bands, from back in the days when the glove compartment performed the usual function. I was pretty sure I felt a tiny penetrating buzz when my skin connected with one of the charms, but I had no idea which one. Then I went and knocked on Yolande’s front door. She opened it almost at once. â€Å"Come in,† she said. â€Å"I have spoken to my old master.† I sighed. I followed her in. She took me to a room I had not been in before, next to the kitchen, also overlooking the garden. I knew at once that not many people came here – first because if she wished no one to know that she had been a wardskeeper, or at least to believe she was a retired wardskeeper, this room would give the show away; second because the privateness of it radiated from everything in it, like heat or light. I brushed one hand across my face, as if it was a veil I had difficulty breathing through. She noticed this and said, â€Å"Oh! Pardon,† and lifted something down from over the door we’d come in. The sense of private space invaded lessened – sank – like water. I looked down, bemused. The shadows on the floor were very active. She laid the thing she had moved down on the desk. I sat in the chair in front of it, I leaned forward, held a hand over it: something beat at my palm. It wasn’t heat any more than my dark vision had to do with my eyes, but it was perhaps related to heat, and it manifested itself a bit like heat against the skin. I moved my hand and looked at the thing. It was a tiny round piece of what looked like stained glass. I could see the leading of it, but I could not see if the fragments made up a picture, or if any of the bits were painted. The shadows swam in it very strangely. Wardskeeper. It sounded so†¦solid. Even if you blew up the occasional workshop, at least you knew you were in training, and for what. Your master told you what to do, what to do next. Yolande, watching my face, said, â€Å"I’m sorry, my dear. I know this is one of the last things you want to hear, but I think you are in over your head in exactly what you are best suited to be in over your head in – my grammar grows confused – and you are doing very well.† She was getting almost as bad as Con. What happened to random chat? I wanted to say, â€Å"All I wanted was to bake cinnamon rolls for the rest of my life,† but I knew it wasn’t true, and besides, I was tired of whining. So I didn’t say it. I picked up my knapsack, out of the seething not-wetness still roaming about the floor, and set it on her desk. As I lifted it I had felt the charm-thatch inside it scrambling to stay away from the not-wetness; as I set it down, it seemed to be trying to escape contact with the top of the desk. Well, I thought, I guess at least one of them is live. Her eyes widened, and then she frowned. â€Å"Lift it up again, if you would,† she said. I did, and she took something out of a drawer, and spread it out, and then gestured for me to put the knapsack on it. I did. Whatever was going on subsided. â€Å"What have you brought me to look at?† she said. I opened the knapsack, but had a sudden reluctance to touch the charms. â€Å"Wait,† she said, and brought something else out of another drawer: a pair of wooden tongs. They had symbols scrawled up their flat sides. I groped around, grasped an end of the tangle, and hauled it out. It seemed to have half-unraveled itself: it came out looking like crochet gone very, very wrong. As it came free of the knapsack one end snaked around as if seeking something, and then began climbing up one arm of the tongs. Toward my hand. â€Å"Drop it,† said Yolande sharply. I dropped. It landed on the desk; there was a hiss and a bad smell – a really bad smell – and then there was a forlorn little heap of bad crochet work (plus one spark plug) with a torn-out hole in it, edged by a purply brown stain. The stain writhed. â€Å"Ugh,† I said. â€Å"Ugh indeed,† Yolande said mildly. â€Å"That was no ward; that was a fetch. Where was it?† â€Å"In the W – in my car,† I said. â€Å"Do you keep your car locked?† â€Å"Not here,† I said, cold needling up my spine. â€Å"No,† she said. â€Å"If whatever had placed this had come here, I would have known it.† â€Å"Then it – they – someone – something can get into a locked car,† I said, the coldness continuing to climb. Something, I thought. No, wait – vampires didn’t do fetches. Did they? â€Å"Where do these other items come from?† â€Å"Oh – since I was missing those two days, my mother has taken to buying charms for me. They’re supposed to be wards. It occurred to me to ask you if any of them was, um, live.† â€Å"Have you no wards on your car at all?† â€Å"Only standard issue – the axles, the steering wheel.† Every car manufacturer in the world had a ward sign worked into its logo, and every car company in the world stamped the center of its steering wheels with its logo. â€Å"I did have the door locks warded by the guy who sold it to me, but I guess it didn’t work.† I scowled. Oh well. Dave had never claimed to be a ward specialist: he only promised the Wreck would run. â€Å"And the car is fifteen years old – they hadn’t invented the alloy yet.† Which enabled car manufacturers to ward almost everything. There was a big difference in used car prices pre-and post-alloy. Some of us, including Mel, Dave, and me, thought that the alloy was the latest vehicular version of those skin creams that guarantee no wrinkles, those diet plans that guarantee a figure like this year’s reigning vidstar in thirty days. Lately the commercial labs were working on a ward that would dissolve in paint, like salt in water, and make every painted surface warded too. When they got it there would be a huge advertising campaign, but it wouldn’t be that useful really. Like salt water. If you needed to melt some triffids it was great, but there hadn’t been a triffid outbreak in generations. If you had mouth ulcers or a sore throat you were better off with alum or aspirin. If you had vampires the paint on your car might give them a few friction burns, but it wasn’t going to stop them breaking the windscreen and dragging you out. Your best traveling ward unfortunately was still the motion of traveling itself. I didn’t like it that Yolande wasn’t saying the usual things about the warding power of motion, not to worry, etc., etc. Well: but we’d just proved there was something to worry about. That fetch sure hadn’t been undone by riding around in a car. Yolande had picked up something that looked a lot like a knitting needle – it even had a tiny hook on the end – and was poking at the mess of crochet. There was one pale blue bead that still had a bit of glimmer to it. â€Å"I think some of these were live quite recently,† she said. â€Å"I think what they have warded is the usefulness of the fetch, which has worn them out. You don’t have any idea when you acquired it, I don’t suppose? How long have you been stuffing charms into – ?† â€Å"The glove compartment,† I said absently. A fetch was usually roughly the shape of the thing to be fetched – something that was trying to find or fetch a person was often a sort of elongated star shape, with a bead or a crystal or a chip at its center for the heart, and smaller beads or crystals or chips for the head, hands, and feet. I was sure I would have noticed my mother giving me a fetch†¦and besides, she wasn’t that stupid. Eight years with my dad had made her less easy to fool than most ordinary people about anything to do with magic, and she was constitutionally hard to fool about anything anyway. When had I noticed that the clutter, including eight or a dozen loose charms, in the glove compartment had turned into a matted snarl? I’d opened it – when? – to look at a map. I’d been sitting in the driver’s seat. Several things had plopped out onto the floor. I’d heard them rustling around, the way charms will, and, still looking at my map, I’d groped around on the floor for them. I picked up one or two, but I could still hear the rustling. They were creeping across the floor under the passenger seat, humping themselves over the drive shaft, and one or two of them had made it under the driver’s seat, which was fast moving for charms. I still hadn’t paid a lot of attention. I’d scavenged around under the driver’s seat and pulled out anything that squirmed, and shoved the whole lot back into the glove compartment without looking at any of it. But if there’d been a fetch under the driver’s seat, then the wards would have mobbed and then tried to disable it. That had been a day or two or three after I’d taken that inconclusive ride to No Town with Pat and Jesse. Watch your back, Pat had said. â€Å"SOF,† I said in disbelief. No, in what I wished was disbelief. In a belief that made me feel like I’d been dropped down an elevator shaft into icy water. â€Å"Someone in SOF did this to me. In SOF.† And whoever it was wasn’t going to like it at all that it hadn’t worked. No genuinely innocent member of the human public should be able to denature a fetch. â€Å"My dear,† said Yolande. â€Å"Large organizations are inevitably corrupt. The more powerful the organization, the more dangerous the corruption. When I was young I wanted to belong to one of the big wardcraft corporations – Zammit, or Drusilla, if I proved skillful enough. Several of my master’s apprentices went to such places, and he was always gloomy and preoccupied for weeks – months – after he’d ‘lost’ one of us. That was always how he’d describe it – that he’d lost Benedict, he’d lost Ancilla. I was lucky; I was a slow learner. By the time I was ready to choose how I would pursue my vocation, I was ready to stay where I was, and go on working with my master. There were only three of us for many years: Chrysogon, Hippolyte, and myself, other than our master, and a few apprentices who came and went.† Note, I thought, the next time I meet someone with a really strange name, ask them if they’re a wardskeeper. â€Å"It is still better that SOF exist than it not exist. One must also earn a living; there is no equivalent in the SOF world for my master’s small group of wardskeepers.† She was right there. The Sentinel Guild are pretty sad and the Vindicators are worse. â€Å"The SOF fellow who came here once: he is your friend.† â€Å"Pat,† I said. â€Å"Is he?† â€Å"He is not perfect,† she said. â€Å"But nor am I. Nor are you. Nor is your dark companion. But yes, he is your friend. He wishes the defeat of the evil of the dark, as do we all.† Depends, I thought, on what you mean by the evil of the dark. Or maybe by â€Å"we.† â€Å"Pat is not only interested in – in what you can do for SOF. Or for his career.† â€Å"Don’t forget my cinnamon rolls, which make strong men weak and strong women run from the bus station in high heels over our cobblestones to get to Charlie’s in time. If you know all that, can you tell me who planted the fetch?† â€Å"No, I’m afraid not. I know about Pat because he sat in one place waiting for you for twenty minutes once, and that place happens to lie under the remit of one of my more ambitious wardings, and it went on taking – er – notes as long as he sat there.† I doubted I could persuade the goddess to come sit quietly under the oak at the end of Yolande’s drive for twenty minutes. â€Å"I told you I had spoken to my master about you. I also spoke to Chrysogon. We believe we can create something for you but it would be better, stronger, if – â€Å" â€Å"You want blood,† I said, resignedly. Most wardcrafters made do with something like a dirty apron, which I was sure was what my mother had been using. A few of the more determined or well-established ones will ask for hair or fingernail clippings. But there’s an enormous black market in things like hair and fingernail clippings and the more you’re likely to want a charm the less safe you’re going to feel passing out bits of yourself. Blood’s the worst. Not only is it blood, which is by far the most powerful bit you can hand over for all sorts of purposes, but any concept that contains â€Å"magic† and â€Å"blood† together makes the majority of the human population think â€Å"vampires† and freak out. This is actually totally stupid, since vampires aren’t interested in teeny wardcrafter vials of blood, and a vampire that wipes out a ward-crafter’s shop isn’t going to jones for you because they’ve had this tiny hit like an ice cream stand flavor-of-the-month sample and cross continents till they’ve found you and had the rest of you. But the paranoia behind the general principle is valid. â€Å"Yes,† said Yolande. I’d never met a wardskeeper, though, let alone had one do up a personalized ward for me. And as concepts go, one that contains â€Å"Yolande† and â€Å"black market† is going to disintegrate on contact. So that should be fine, right? Except I have this thing about blood, and Con’s little healing number on me hadn’t helped it. â€Å"Um,† I said. Yolande was smiling. â€Å"You may close your eyes,† she said. â€Å"Okay.† â€Å"If you would hold out your hands palm up, and extend both forefingers, and then I am going to prick the center of your forehead.† The chain round my neck had begun to warm up before I closed my eyes, and I could feel a gentle warmth against both legs as well. Oh, gods, guys, I said to my talismans, isn’t this way below your dignity? I flinched at the sting in my forehead, but the fingers were easy, even for me. I touched the warm chain with one hand, and fished in my pocket with the other. â€Å"Maybe you can translate something else for me. I found this at the bottom of a crumbly box of old books at a garage sale.† â€Å"Well! How extraordinary. This is a – a Straight Way: very clear and plain. Clean and – old – very untainted for a ward so old. It represents the forces of day, of daylight. The sun itself is at the top, then an animal, then a tree. Interesting – the animal is a deer, I think; usually it is a fierce creature, a lion is the most common. This is not only a deer, it has no antlers, and is therefore perhaps a doe. And then round it, round the edge of the seal, do you see the thin wavy line? That is water. With these things you can resist the forces of darkness, or they cannot defeat you. Of course this is only a ward.† â€Å"The peanut-butter sandwich you throw over your shoulder at the ogre,† I said. â€Å"So maybe you’ll make it over the fence if he stops to eat it.† â€Å"But this found you. That is important. The forces of day is not a very uncommon ward, but this is simply and exquisitely done and – it found you. Keep it near you and keep it safe. My heart lifts that this thing found you. It is good news.† Don’t tell me how much I need some good news, I thought. â€Å"When do you think your, um, ward will be ready?† â€Å"Soon. Please – please ask your dark ally to wait till it is ready. It will not be more than a day or two.† Back to the bad news. Yolande and her wardskeeper friends thought Con and I were going to face Bo that soon. Well, I suppose I thought so too. Later. Upstairs. The balcony door open; candles burning; I sat cross-legged, hands on knees. I wasn’t going anywhere. I just wanted a word. How soon. Not tonight. Not†¦next night. Then†¦ No sooner. Yolande†¦ward†¦me It was going to take a lot of work before this alignment business replaced the telephone. But I wouldn’t be around to see it, since it looked like I had two days to live. And I’d been complaining about waiting. So, what do you do when you know you have two days to live? Wait a minute, haven’t I been here before? No. I was only pretending, last time. I hadn’t known that I was sure Con would save me, last time, till this time, when I knew he wouldn’t. But I had been here before: I was still finding out I had more stuff to lose by losing it. And I already knew I thought this was a triple Carthaginian hell of a system. So, where was I? Right. What you do when you know you have two days to live. Not a lot different than if you didn’t know. Six months you could do something with. Two days? Hmph. Eat an entire Bitter Chocolate Death all by yourself. (Actually I bombed on this. Mel had to eat the last slab. A pan of Bitter Chocolate Death isn’t very large, but it is intense.) Reread your favorite novel, the one you only let yourself read any more when you’re sick in bed. I might have enjoyed this more, since I’m never sick, if death didn’t seem like a very bad trade-off. Buy eight dozen roses from the best florist in town – the super expensive ones, the ones that smell like roses rather than merely looking like them – and put them all over your apartment. I bought five dozen red and three dozen white. I have one vase and one iced tea pitcher, which has regularly spent more of its time holding cut flowers than iced tea. After I used these, and the two twi nkly-gold-flecked tumblers and two cheap champagne flutes plus the best of my limited and motley collection of water and wine glasses, I emptied out my shampoo bottle – which was tall and rather a nice shape, even if it was plastic – into a jam jar, and put a few in it. I cut most of the rest of them off at the base of the flower and floated them in whatever else I had that would hold water, including the bathtub. I decided this had been one of my better ideas. The last three – two red, one white – I tied together and hung upside down from the rear-view mirror of the Wreck. Better than fuzzy dice. Take a good long look at everyone you love – everyone local; you’ve only got two days. And don’t tell anybody. You don’t need to be surrounded by a lot of depressed people; you’re already depressed enough for everybody. Of course in my case I couldn’t tell anybody because either they wouldn’t believe me or they’d try to stop me. I thought about being rude to Mr. Cagney. It was something I had been longing to do for years, and I somehow managed to be behind the counter on the second morning when he needed someone to complain to. But I looked at his scrunched-up, petulant face and decided, rather regretfully, that I had better things to do with my last morning on earth. So I said â€Å"mm-hmm† a few times, refilled his coffee cup (which he changed tack to tell me was cold: okay, I’m not Mary, but it was not cold) and left him to Charlie, who didn’t know it was my last morning on earth, and was hastening over from cranking down the awning to stop me from being rude. Other things I didn’t do included waste any time trying to find out who’d planted that fetch on me. Yolande did a sweep on the Wreck for me and didn’t find anything but two new wards tucked under the front bumper and a ticker behind the rear license plate. She was quite taken with the wards, saying she was falling behind on research faster than she knew, that they were a whole new design of traveling ward and by far the most effective she’d seen. They had to be SOF too. An example of a large corrupt organization getting it right. She left all of them alone. I had been hoping to see Pat. I could promise anything he liked for tomorrow or the day after that. But he didn’t show up, as he mostly hadn’t been showing up since the night we blew out HQ. He must be getting his cinnamon roll fix by white bakery bag. In a world where I was less and less sure of anything, I was sure that that jones was real. I was sorry not to have a chance to say good-bye, except of course I wouldn’t have said good-bye. When Mary came into the bakery to ask if there was anything hot out of the oven she didn’t know about to tell Jesse and Theo I said, carelessly, â€Å"Oh, I’ll bring it: I’ll try my new whatever-these-are on them.† I liked the idea of inventing a new recipe on my last day on earth, and I’ve always liked to see my guinea pigs’ faces when they first bite down. I said, â€Å"So, say hi to Pat for me,† and they both looked at me as if there was a hidden message, which there was, altho ugh I doubted they were going to guess it. They were distracted quickly enough by the whatever-these-were: I’d have to do the unthinkable and write out the recipe, so Paulie could have it. And maybe Aimil would come up with a good name. Sunshine’s Eschatology. Hey, my eschatology would have butter, heavy cream, pecans, and three kinds of chocolate in it. I’d miss feeding my SOFs: they were good eaters. I’d miss being alive. I had been due to work through the early-supper split shift but I decided I wanted to see the sun set from my balcony once more so I wheedled Emmy into it. Didn’t want her to lose all her bakery skills just because she’d been made assistant cook next door – Paulie was going to need her. I’d already bent Paulie’s arm into a pretzel till he’d agreed to take the dawn shift tomorrow. The Thursday morning system had broken down so completely I no longer remembered if I owed him some four a.m.s or he owed me some. The confusion was probably good for him. He was about to have to learn to be chief baker real fast. There were some people it was too difficult to say good-bye to, so I didn’t try. Mom, of course. If I’d made a point of going into the office to say good-bye to her that day, however casually, she’d’ve been calling the cops and the hospital before I got the words out of my mouth. Once a mother, always a mother, and I’d have to have some spectacular reason for breaking the awkward but practical truce that we never spoke to each other unless on specific coffeehouse business. Kenny was bussing tables; we exchanged â€Å"Hey†s. I’d never said goodbye to Kenny and this wasn’t the time to start. I had seen Billy for about two-thirds of a second earlier in the afternoon, when he blasted into Charlie’s long enough to fling over his shoulder at the nearest parent the information that he was spending the rest of the day with the equally hyperactive friend accompanying him. He did not acknowledge me; I was part of the family backdro p. What was to acknowledge? My importance lay in the availability of the eight muffins and two-each-from-every-bin-and-four-if-they-were-chocolate cookies they took with them as they blasted out again. Mary and Kyoko I said â€Å"See you† to. I waved to Emmy, who was in the main kitchen looking harassed, but I was beginning to suspect that her harassed look was covering up the fact that she was having a really good time and didn’t quite believe her luck. I always checked out with Charlie, to make sure there weren’t any last-minute gaps I might be able to fill, to make sure our schedules for tomorrow matched. I’d told him about the swap with Paulie; I only said I was tired, and I know I looked it. We didn’t say good-bye either. Our ritual went, â€Å"See you tomorrow, Sunshine,† and â€Å"Yeah.† I said â€Å"Yeah†, as usual. Even on days off he said â€Å"See you tomorrow† because even on days off he usually did. I hadn’t realized that I never said good-bye to anyone about anything. Mel. He was on break when I left, and he wasn’t jiving with some guy or guys in greasy denim about overhead cam shifts through hot pastrami or meatloaf sandwiches – or for that matter discussing world news with one of our more coherent derelicts. Mel was leaning against the corner of the building drinking coffee and muttering to himself. I knew what he was muttering about: he’d given up smoking ten years ago but he still wanted a cigarette every time he drank coffee, and he drank a lot of coffee. Sometimes his fingers twitched, not from the caffeine jag but from the memory of doing his own roll-ups. This made him drink more coffee. One day he was going to wake up and discover he’d turned into a coffee plantation, and then Charlie’s would have its own fresh home-grown beans even if we had to replace our chief cook. There are worse things to wake up and discover you’ve turned into. A vampire, for example. Although the books say you’ll kn ow it’s coming. Mel looked up and saw me, and his face eased into his good-old-boy smile. Mel used his charm as deliberately as laying an ace on the table, so you could see exactly what it was. It was one of the good things about him. Whatever he might not be telling you, what he did tell you was the truth. I’m your friend, Sunshine. He still looked like someone who should be wearing greasy denims rather than an apron, although the tattoos confused the issue: greasy denims and a long hooded cloak? Hmm. I wondered if sorcerers ever used food splotches instead of cosmetics. â€Å"Hey Sunshine.† â€Å"Hey.† â€Å"We still on for Friday afternoon?† How to cite Sunshine Chapter 24, Essay examples

My First Experience with Prostitute Essay Example

My First Experience with Prostitute Essay I had been at a concert in San Francisco when I found myself out of cigarettes, an affliction I suffered perhaps every other day, my habit being less severe than those that had taken the lives of so many people I’d known. My friend and I had met at the theater, and we had split up after the performance, so I was alone in my truck when she approached me. My new pack was in my hands, and I was fiddling with the wrapper when she appeared, silhouetted against the bright lights of the corner liquor store. She said, â€Å"Hey, handsome, do you want a date? † She was a pretty black woman of about 30, but her eyes were distant, as if she too had recently satisfied an addiction. My first thought was heroin. My second thought was of my girlfriend safe and warm in my bed. I took the plastic wrap off of my fresh pack. She had no way of knowing who I was, or that I worked as a psychologist at a mother and children’s drug treatment facility in Oakland. Only a few nights before, I had stayed late and listened to the story of Patrice, one of my adult clients: how her daughter had recently turned six, and how this was bringing up issues for her, as six was the age at which her own mother’s boyfriend had started sexually abusing her. Patrice had explained how she didn’t want to be like her mother, who had sometimes been in the same bed when the abuse took place, doing nothing, and how little bits and pieces of long-repressed memory were returning to her, seeing in her daughter a young an innocent version of herself. We will write a custom essay sample on My First Experience with Prostitute specifically for you for only $16.38 $13.9/page Order now We will write a custom essay sample on My First Experience with Prostitute specifically for you FOR ONLY $16.38 $13.9/page Hire Writer We will write a custom essay sample on My First Experience with Prostitute specifically for you FOR ONLY $16.38 $13.9/page Hire Writer My client was always laughing and joking around, and this was the first time I’d seen her cry. I said, â€Å"No, I have to get home. † The woman lingered at my open window, and I looked again at her face. She was attractive, and quietly wasted at first, but then she started to get fidgety, which made me feel a little nervous as well. My motor was running, but I didn’t pull away. I wondered who this young woman was, and what she had done before she took up her current profession. I knew that some of my adult clients had been telephone operators, receptionists, and even drug counselors before their habits took them to the street. About 70% had sold their bodies for drug money while in their addictions. Patrice was very bright, but had been relatively young when she took to the streets. The emotions she had processed the other night were deep, and sometimes conflicting. Not only did she want to protect her daughter from what had happened to her, but she also felt jealous of her daughter: jealous that her daughter could be six years old in a mother and children’s drug treatment program where she was protected from abuse. And then she felt guilty about feeling jealous of her daughter. And she was mad at her mother, wishing that her mother, also an addict, could have found a program like the one at which she was a resident, and I a counselor. The woman said, â€Å"Well then, hey, could you just drive me a couple of blocks down the street? I just gotta get a couple of blocks down the street. † She was getting more antsy, and this made me a bit fearful, but I was surprised by the thought that went through my head. My fear was not that this young woman would have a weapon, and try to mug me, nor was it that some large â€Å"pimp† would emerge from the darkness and hassle me. It was that the police would suddenly emerge from nowhere and arrest me. Arrest me for what? I hadn’t offered her any money, and I hadn’t invited her into my car. But I was still afraid. And then I suddenly smiled at the irony: How funny it was that a part of my job was to help former prostitutes and drug dealers learn to lead the â€Å"straight† life, yet I was more fearful of entrapment by the police than of a prostitute and the unsavory company that might surround her. A couple of frivolous traffic stops over a ten year period had been enough to undermine y feeling of safety around Officers of the Law. She said, â€Å"Come on, Baby, just a couple of blocks down the street. † I had noticed at work that many of the women I worked with were good in the area of sales. They could keep you involved in a conversation, or convince you to give them a privilege that the rules did not allow, with great skill. In fact, in counselors meetings we had spoken of the im portance of helping our adult clients â€Å"sublimate† their sales skills into what we considered legitimate work. And there I was, mostly a prisoner of my own thoughts, but also of her persistence, actually contemplating giving her a ride. I said, â€Å"No, I really got to get across the bridge. † And at that point I gave her a look, I remember, of something like disbelief, as if to say, â€Å"What the hell are we doing out here having this conversation? And who are you, really? † I remember feeling kind of choked up, and like I wanted to tell her who I was, and what I did for a living. And then her face softened, and she smiled, though just for a couple of seconds. She knew in that moment that I wasn’t a potential John, and I think she knew that I didn’t judge her either. When she said, â€Å"Just a couple of blocks? † there was no conviction in her voice. â€Å"I’m just looking for a date,† sort of trailed off into the night. I pulled a cigarette out of my pack but I didn’t offer her one. I suppose I was putting my boundaries back up. I said, â€Å"I hope you find a man who treats you right tonight,† and I looked her straight in the face because I meant it. Then I threw the truck into first and pulled off. On the bridge, the Bay Bridge which takes me back to the East Bay, I wondered if I’d see her in our Program one day, or if she’d wind up dead, or just keep on doing what’s she’s doing. At work the next day, I wanted to mention my experience to Partice, but I did not, as it is not appropriate to discuss our personal lives with clients. This all happened about three years ago. Last I heard, Patrice was still clean and sober, had a good job, and her daughter was doing well. As for the prostitute, I don’t think I’d recognize her if I saw her today. My First Experience with Prostitute Essay Example My First Experience with Prostitute Essay I had been at a concert in San Francisco when I found myself out of cigarettes, an affliction I suffered perhaps every other day, my habit being less severe than those that had taken the lives of so many people I’d known. My friend and I had met at the theater, and we had split up after the performance, so I was alone in my truck when she approached me. My new pack was in my hands, and I was fiddling with the wrapper when she appeared, silhouetted against the bright lights of the corner liquor store. She said, â€Å"Hey, handsome, do you want a date? † She was a pretty black woman of about 30, but her eyes were distant, as if she too had recently satisfied an addiction. My first thought was heroin. My second thought was of my girlfriend safe and warm in my bed. I took the plastic wrap off of my fresh pack. She had no way of knowing who I was, or that I worked as a psychologist at a mother and children’s drug treatment facility in Oakland. Only a few nights before, I had stayed late and listened to the story of Patrice, one of my adult clients: how her daughter had recently turned six, and how this was bringing up issues for her, as six was the age at which her own mother’s boyfriend had started sexually abusing her. Patrice had explained how she didn’t want to be like her mother, who had sometimes been in the same bed when the abuse took place, doing nothing, and how little bits and pieces of long-repressed memory were returning to her, seeing in her daughter a young an innocent version of herself. We will write a custom essay sample on My First Experience with Prostitute specifically for you for only $16.38 $13.9/page Order now We will write a custom essay sample on My First Experience with Prostitute specifically for you FOR ONLY $16.38 $13.9/page Hire Writer We will write a custom essay sample on My First Experience with Prostitute specifically for you FOR ONLY $16.38 $13.9/page Hire Writer My client was always laughing and joking around, and this was the first time I’d seen her cry. I said, â€Å"No, I have to get home. † The woman lingered at my open window, and I looked again at her face. She was attractive, and quietly wasted at first, but then she started to get fidgety, which made me feel a little nervous as well. My motor was running, but I didn’t pull away. I wondered who this young woman was, and what she had done before she took up her current profession. I knew that some of my adult clients had been telephone operators, receptionists, and even drug counselors before their habits took them to the street. About 70% had sold their bodies for drug money while in their addictions. Patrice was very bright, but had been relatively young when she took to the streets. The emotions she had processed the other night were deep, and sometimes conflicting. Not only did she want to protect her daughter from what had happened to her, but she also felt jealous of her daughter: jealous that her daughter could be six years old in a mother and children’s drug treatment program where she was protected from abuse. And then she felt guilty about feeling jealous of her daughter. And she was mad at her mother, wishing that her mother, also an addict, could have found a program like the one at which she was a resident, and I a counselor. The woman said, â€Å"Well then, hey, could you just drive me a couple of blocks down the street? I just gotta get a couple of blocks down the street. † She was getting more antsy, and this made me a bit fearful, but I was surprised by the thought that went through my head. My fear was not that this young woman would have a weapon, and try to mug me, nor was it that some large â€Å"pimp† would emerge from the darkness and hassle me. It was that the police would suddenly emerge from nowhere and arrest me. Arrest me for what? I hadn’t offered her any money, and I hadn’t invited her into my car. But I was still afraid. And then I suddenly smiled at the irony: How funny it was that a part of my job was to help former prostitutes and drug dealers learn to lead the â€Å"straight† life, yet I was more fearful of entrapment by the police than of a prostitute and the unsavory company that might surround her. A couple of frivolous traffic stops over a ten year period had been enough to undermine y feeling of safety around Officers of the Law. She said, â€Å"Come on, Baby, just a couple of blocks down the street. † I had noticed at work that many of the women I worked with were good in the area of sales. They could keep you involved in a conversation, or convince you to give them a privilege that the rules did not allow, with great skill. In fact, in counselors meetings we had spoken of the im portance of helping our adult clients â€Å"sublimate† their sales skills into what we considered legitimate work. And there I was, mostly a prisoner of my own thoughts, but also of her persistence, actually contemplating giving her a ride. I said, â€Å"No, I really got to get across the bridge. † And at that point I gave her a look, I remember, of something like disbelief, as if to say, â€Å"What the hell are we doing out here having this conversation? And who are you, really? † I remember feeling kind of choked up, and like I wanted to tell her who I was, and what I did for a living. And then her face softened, and she smiled, though just for a couple of seconds. She knew in that moment that I wasn’t a potential John, and I think she knew that I didn’t judge her either. When she said, â€Å"Just a couple of blocks? † there was no conviction in her voice. â€Å"I’m just looking for a date,† sort of trailed off into the night. I pulled a cigarette out of my pack but I didn’t offer her one. I suppose I was putting my boundaries back up. I said, â€Å"I hope you find a man who treats you right tonight,† and I looked her straight in the face because I meant it. Then I threw the truck into first and pulled off. On the bridge, the Bay Bridge which takes me back to the East Bay, I wondered if I’d see her in our Program one day, or if she’d wind up dead, or just keep on doing what’s she’s doing. At work the next day, I wanted to mention my experience to Partice, but I did not, as it is not appropriate to discuss our personal lives with clients. This all happened about three years ago. Last I heard, Patrice was still clean and sober, had a good job, and her daughter was doing well. As for the prostitute, I don’t think I’d recognize her if I saw her today.