Question
Unit 10B: Writing a Narrative Portfolio
Follow the instructions below:
Your narrative will be based on the story, Home, by Gwendolyn Brooks.
Your narrative portfolio is worth 20 points.
4 Multiple Choice Questions (1 pt for each question) you will answer in Connexus.
1 Narrative response (16 points)
For the Rubric, click here
For the Writer’s Checklist, click here
Your narrative should be at least 300 words in length.
Your narrative must be typed.
Be mindful of conventions, so that they do not interfere with meaning.
For an example, click here
Read the passage, Home by Gwendolyn Brooks below:
Gwendolyn Brooks (1917-2000) was an American poet, author, and teacher. In this short story, a family contemplates losing their house.
[1] What had been wanted was this always, this always to last, the talking softly on this porch, with the snake plant in the jardinière(1) in the southwest corner, and the obstinate(2) slip from Aunt Eppie’s magnificent Michigan fern at the left side of the friendly door. Mama, Maud Martha, and Helen rocked slowly in their rocking chairs, and looked at the late afternoon light on the lawn and at the emphatic(3) iron of the fence and at the poplar tree(4). These things might soon be theirs no longer. Those shafts and pools of light, the tree, the graceful iron, might soon be viewed passively by different eyes.
Papa was to have gone that noon, during his lunch hour, to the office of the Home Owners’ Loan. If he had not succeeded in getting another extension, they would be leaving this house in which they had lived for more than fourteen years. There was little hope. The Home Owners’ Loan was hard. They sat, making their plans.
“We’ll be moving into a nice flat somewhere,” said Mama. “Somewhere on South Park, or Michigan, or in Washington Park Court.” Those flats, as the girls and Mama knew well, were burdens on wages twice the size of Papa’s. This was not mentioned now.
“They’re much prettier than this old house,” said Helen. “I have friends I’d just as soon not bring here. And I have other friends that wouldn’t come down this far for anything, unless they were in a taxi.”
[5] Yesterday, Maud Martha would have attacked her. Tomorrow she might. Today she said nothing. She merely gazed at a little hopping robin in the tree, her tree, and tried to keep the fronts of her eyes dry.
“Well, I do know,” said Mama, turning her hands over and over, “that I’ve been getting tireder and tireder of doing that firing. From October to April, there’s firing to be done.”
“But lately we’ve been helping, Harry and I,” said Maud Martha. “And sometimes in March and April and in October, and even in November, we could build a little fire in the fireplace. Sometimes the weather was just right for that.”
She knew, from the way they looked at her, that this had been a mistake. They did not want to cry.
But she felt that the little line of white, sometimes ridged with smoked purple, and all that cream-shot saffron(5) would never drift across any western sky except that in back of this house. The rain would drum with as sweet a dullness nowhere but here. The birds on South Park were mechanical birds, no better than the poor caught canaries in those “rich” women’s sun parlors.
[10] “It’s just going to kill Papa!” burst out Maud Martha. “He loves this house! He lives for this house!”
He lives for us,” said Helen. “It’s us he loves. He wouldn’t want the house, except for us.”
“And he’ll have us,” added Mama, “wherever.”
“You know,” Helen sighed, “if you want to know the truth, this is a relief. If this hadn’t come up, we would have gone on, just dragged on, hanging out here forever.”
“It might,” allowed Mama, “be an act of God. God may just have reached down and picked up the reins.”
[15] “Yes,” Maud Martha cracked in, “that’s what you always say — that God knows best.”
Her mother looked at her quickly, decided the statement was not suspect, looked away.
Helen saw Papa coming. “There’s Papa,” said Helen.
They could not tell a thing from the way Papa was walking. It was that same dear little staccato(6) walk, one shoulder down, then the other, then repeat, and repeat. They watched his progress. He passed the Kennedys’, he passed the vacant(7) lot, he passed Mrs. Blakemore’s. They wanted to hurl themselves over the fence, into the street, and shake the truth out of his collar. He opened his gate — the gate — and still his stride and face told them nothing.
“Hello,” he said.
[20] Mama got up and followed him through the front door. The girls knew better than to go in too.
Presently Mama’s head emerged. Her eyes were lamps turned on.
“It’s all right,” she exclaimed. “He got it. It’s all over. Everything is all right.”
The door slammed shut. Mama’s footsteps hurried away.
“I think,” said Helen, rocking rapidly, “I think I’ll give a party. I haven’t given a party since I was 11. I’d like some of my friends to just casually see that we’re homeowners.”
Footnotes:
1. French for “planter”
2. Obstinate (adjective) stubbornly refusing to change
3. Emphatic (adjective) attracting special attention
4. A type of quick-growing tree
5. An orange to orange-yellow
6. Short, quick, and separate
7. Vacant (adjective) not filled, used, or lived in
Follow the instructions below:
Your narrative will be based on the story, Home, by Gwendolyn Brooks.
Your narrative portfolio is worth 20 points.
4 Multiple Choice Questions (1 pt for each question) you will answer in Connexus.
1 Narrative response (16 points)
For the Rubric, click here
For the Writer’s Checklist, click here
Your narrative should be at least 300 words in length.
Your narrative must be typed.
Be mindful of conventions, so that they do not interfere with meaning.
For an example, click here
Read the passage, Home by Gwendolyn Brooks below:
Gwendolyn Brooks (1917-2000) was an American poet, author, and teacher. In this short story, a family contemplates losing their house.
[1] What had been wanted was this always, this always to last, the talking softly on this porch, with the snake plant in the jardinière(1) in the southwest corner, and the obstinate(2) slip from Aunt Eppie’s magnificent Michigan fern at the left side of the friendly door. Mama, Maud Martha, and Helen rocked slowly in their rocking chairs, and looked at the late afternoon light on the lawn and at the emphatic(3) iron of the fence and at the poplar tree(4). These things might soon be theirs no longer. Those shafts and pools of light, the tree, the graceful iron, might soon be viewed passively by different eyes.
Papa was to have gone that noon, during his lunch hour, to the office of the Home Owners’ Loan. If he had not succeeded in getting another extension, they would be leaving this house in which they had lived for more than fourteen years. There was little hope. The Home Owners’ Loan was hard. They sat, making their plans.
“We’ll be moving into a nice flat somewhere,” said Mama. “Somewhere on South Park, or Michigan, or in Washington Park Court.” Those flats, as the girls and Mama knew well, were burdens on wages twice the size of Papa’s. This was not mentioned now.
“They’re much prettier than this old house,” said Helen. “I have friends I’d just as soon not bring here. And I have other friends that wouldn’t come down this far for anything, unless they were in a taxi.”
[5] Yesterday, Maud Martha would have attacked her. Tomorrow she might. Today she said nothing. She merely gazed at a little hopping robin in the tree, her tree, and tried to keep the fronts of her eyes dry.
“Well, I do know,” said Mama, turning her hands over and over, “that I’ve been getting tireder and tireder of doing that firing. From October to April, there’s firing to be done.”
“But lately we’ve been helping, Harry and I,” said Maud Martha. “And sometimes in March and April and in October, and even in November, we could build a little fire in the fireplace. Sometimes the weather was just right for that.”
She knew, from the way they looked at her, that this had been a mistake. They did not want to cry.
But she felt that the little line of white, sometimes ridged with smoked purple, and all that cream-shot saffron(5) would never drift across any western sky except that in back of this house. The rain would drum with as sweet a dullness nowhere but here. The birds on South Park were mechanical birds, no better than the poor caught canaries in those “rich” women’s sun parlors.
[10] “It’s just going to kill Papa!” burst out Maud Martha. “He loves this house! He lives for this house!”
He lives for us,” said Helen. “It’s us he loves. He wouldn’t want the house, except for us.”
“And he’ll have us,” added Mama, “wherever.”
“You know,” Helen sighed, “if you want to know the truth, this is a relief. If this hadn’t come up, we would have gone on, just dragged on, hanging out here forever.”
“It might,” allowed Mama, “be an act of God. God may just have reached down and picked up the reins.”
[15] “Yes,” Maud Martha cracked in, “that’s what you always say — that God knows best.”
Her mother looked at her quickly, decided the statement was not suspect, looked away.
Helen saw Papa coming. “There’s Papa,” said Helen.
They could not tell a thing from the way Papa was walking. It was that same dear little staccato(6) walk, one shoulder down, then the other, then repeat, and repeat. They watched his progress. He passed the Kennedys’, he passed the vacant(7) lot, he passed Mrs. Blakemore’s. They wanted to hurl themselves over the fence, into the street, and shake the truth out of his collar. He opened his gate — the gate — and still his stride and face told them nothing.
“Hello,” he said.
[20] Mama got up and followed him through the front door. The girls knew better than to go in too.
Presently Mama’s head emerged. Her eyes were lamps turned on.
“It’s all right,” she exclaimed. “He got it. It’s all over. Everything is all right.”
The door slammed shut. Mama’s footsteps hurried away.
“I think,” said Helen, rocking rapidly, “I think I’ll give a party. I haven’t given a party since I was 11. I’d like some of my friends to just casually see that we’re homeowners.”
Footnotes:
1. French for “planter”
2. Obstinate (adjective) stubbornly refusing to change
3. Emphatic (adjective) attracting special attention
4. A type of quick-growing tree
5. An orange to orange-yellow
6. Short, quick, and separate
7. Vacant (adjective) not filled, used, or lived in
Answers
GPT-4o mini
### Narrative Portfolio: The Ties That Bind
In the quiet reflections of twilight, memories wash over me like the gentle sway of leaves in a late summer breeze. I can almost feel the splinters from the old porch beneath my fingers as I sit there, right where my mother and I used to talk about life. Each creak of the rocking chair would echo our hopes, desires, and sometimes fears, but mostly it was just my mother’s laughter that made that place feel alive.
I remember the snake plant that sat proudly in its jardinière beside us, the way it stood resilient and unwavering against the winds that swept through, just as we had to be; tough and stubborn like that obstinate fern Aunt Eppie had gifted us. It flourished in our care, much like our family did in that cozy home. But change loomed, casting a shadow that threatened to overshadow all of it.
That afternoon, the air was thick with the unspoken as my father left for the Home Owners’ Loan office. We knew, even if we dared not voice it, that today was crucial. Would the chain that held our family together be tested again? Mama’s voice broke the silence, talking about the “nice flat” we might move to, her dreams masking the reality that we could not escape: a flat where laughter echoed differently, where our roots couldn't dig into the ground as deeply as they had in our home.
Each word fell heavier than the last. Helen shared her concerns about friends who wouldn’t dare visit the new place, and I sat and listened, fighting against the tears that threatened to spill over. I could see the vibrant memories cloaked beneath the calm facade—a little robin that danced on the poplar branches, the sweet, dull thrum of rain against our roof, and the sense of belonging that filled every corner of our home. “It’s just going to kill Papa!” I cried suddenly, breaking the thick tension wrapping around us. I knew then that our house was more than walls and a roof; it was the home we had built—a testament of our love and resilience.
When my father returned, the outcome of his mission was yet to be revealed. We watched him approach, that familiar staccato walk filling us with a mix of hope and dread. The moment his face broke into a smile, relief washed over us like a sudden summer rain transforming the dry earth. He had succeeded; everything was alright. The door slammed shut behind him, and laughter bubbled up from within me—a desire to throw a celebration, to bring our friends into the warmth of our home once more.
At that moment, surrounded by echoes of past laughter and the promise of future joys, I realized that home wasn't just about a roof over our heads. It was about the bonds that tie us together, the spaces where our lives intertwine, and the love that makes a house a home. And as I sat back in that old rocking chair, I felt it deep within—it was our memories, our stories, our laughter that truly made our house a place filled with life, one that I would carry in my heart forever.
In the quiet reflections of twilight, memories wash over me like the gentle sway of leaves in a late summer breeze. I can almost feel the splinters from the old porch beneath my fingers as I sit there, right where my mother and I used to talk about life. Each creak of the rocking chair would echo our hopes, desires, and sometimes fears, but mostly it was just my mother’s laughter that made that place feel alive.
I remember the snake plant that sat proudly in its jardinière beside us, the way it stood resilient and unwavering against the winds that swept through, just as we had to be; tough and stubborn like that obstinate fern Aunt Eppie had gifted us. It flourished in our care, much like our family did in that cozy home. But change loomed, casting a shadow that threatened to overshadow all of it.
That afternoon, the air was thick with the unspoken as my father left for the Home Owners’ Loan office. We knew, even if we dared not voice it, that today was crucial. Would the chain that held our family together be tested again? Mama’s voice broke the silence, talking about the “nice flat” we might move to, her dreams masking the reality that we could not escape: a flat where laughter echoed differently, where our roots couldn't dig into the ground as deeply as they had in our home.
Each word fell heavier than the last. Helen shared her concerns about friends who wouldn’t dare visit the new place, and I sat and listened, fighting against the tears that threatened to spill over. I could see the vibrant memories cloaked beneath the calm facade—a little robin that danced on the poplar branches, the sweet, dull thrum of rain against our roof, and the sense of belonging that filled every corner of our home. “It’s just going to kill Papa!” I cried suddenly, breaking the thick tension wrapping around us. I knew then that our house was more than walls and a roof; it was the home we had built—a testament of our love and resilience.
When my father returned, the outcome of his mission was yet to be revealed. We watched him approach, that familiar staccato walk filling us with a mix of hope and dread. The moment his face broke into a smile, relief washed over us like a sudden summer rain transforming the dry earth. He had succeeded; everything was alright. The door slammed shut behind him, and laughter bubbled up from within me—a desire to throw a celebration, to bring our friends into the warmth of our home once more.
At that moment, surrounded by echoes of past laughter and the promise of future joys, I realized that home wasn't just about a roof over our heads. It was about the bonds that tie us together, the spaces where our lives intertwine, and the love that makes a house a home. And as I sat back in that old rocking chair, I felt it deep within—it was our memories, our stories, our laughter that truly made our house a place filled with life, one that I would carry in my heart forever.