Let's call the boy "Alex". When Alex was young he wanted a pet. Many of his friends had dogs, some had cats, a few had hermit crabs, and one even had an iguana that lived in a Jacuzzi. (Note: Florida isn't like other states.) Alex begged and pleaded for a pet but when he was asked what kind of pet he wanted, he fell silent. He didn't want a dog; his parents were allergic to cats. What else was acceptable in the humidity of the tropics? A bird? Too noisy. A gerbil? Too messy. He took a couple trips to the pet store before deciding. Rabbits. He wanted a rabbit.
Out back of his house was a screened-in porch with an in-ground pool which provided the perfect place for the rabbit to run around during the day. Alex would play with the rabbit (as much as rabbits "play"). He would drive his Hot Wheels cars all over that creature. When he played Star Wars the rabbit was often the creature that the Empire and Rebellion fought over to attain control of the galaxy. Then, at some point, the rabbit would unceremoniously hop away during a key battle and most of the combatants would die horrible rabbit-related deaths. It was a dark time for the Rebellion.
One evening the rabbit, maybe his name was Scruffy, refused to go back in his cage at night. He had always gone back in his cage but tonight he was more ornery, more contemptuous of the humans. He ran around the pool, taunting them. Finally, well after Alex's bedtime, the family decided to just let the rabbit stay out that night. It was an enclosed area; it was not in danger from animals outside. It could find a corner and sleep when it got tired. What's the worse that could happen?
The next morning the blinds to the back deck were drawn closed even though the sun was starting to peek up. It was a school day so Alex was ferreted around getting fed and books in order and clothes on right so that he didn't think to ask about the Scruffy. It was like any other day, right? The thing that Alex never saw was the the result of Scruffy running crazily around the pool and missing a corner by the smallest margin. No one heard the splash because no windows were open. Later, when it was being explained, the body already disposed of, he could only imagine - with that mind that would later fuel a love of writing and speaking and creating - what the horrific sight must have been.
Why would your AP Lang teacher tell you such a gut-wrenchingly sad story as a way to motivate you for tomorrow's argument test? What good could possibly come from traveling through such grief? Two things. First, Shakespeare teaches us that sadness is a part of being human. We can either learn from our grief or be haunted by it forever. Whether our sadness is telescoped out, meaning we see it coming but are powerless to stop it, or it blindsides us on a Tuesday afternoon, it seeks to be reckoned with. We cannot do other. I fear some of you face writing with much that same grief - like it is something to be avoided at all costs and when it does come it's like orcs overrunning the Shire. Writing - even writing that is graded or otherwise critiqued - is not something to be feared. I will always think fondly of that rabbit but what I learned about responsibility and care, among other things, are such an indelible part of me now that I owe part of who I am to that experience.
Second, and no less important, when we think of writing (especially arguments - which are maybe the most important writing we will ever do for what is argument but you putting yourself out there in the most vulnerable way possible?) these events that make up lives are the things that give reason to our beliefs, our arguments. Why do you believe the things you believe? Because of what you have succeeded at? Because of what you have failed at? Because of what you have learned? Argument doesn't have to be clinical. It's not just "what do you believe about this prompt?". It's what do you want to say - TODAY - that is important and interesting and relevant to this topic that will make your reader sit up and pay attention? Our last prompt was about ownership: I don't believe I have ever "owned" a pet, for example, but I believe their time with me has made me a better person.
I believe your time this year has made you a better writer.
And tomorrow, you get to prove it.
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