Asked by 1230
Julia Alvarez’s short story "Snow” uses a traditional narrative technique, while Jamaica Kincaid’s prose poem "Girl” uses a stylistic narrative technique called stream of consciousness. You will write an adaptation of each story. Write one to three paragraphs that adapt Jamaica Kincaid’s "Girl” to follow the style used by Julia Alvarez in "Snow.” Then write two to three paragraphs that adapt Julia Alvarez’s "Snow” to follow the style used by Jamaica Kincaid in "Girl.”
Read both stories here.
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Adaptation 1 — Jamaica Kincaid’s "Girl" written in the traditional narrative style of Julia Alvarez
On a bright Saturday in a small kitchen that smelled of coffee and citrus, the mother sat at the table and watched her daughter fumble with a button on a favorite blouse. She spoke slowly at first, as if setting down each instruction would steady the morning, then faster as the list inside her tumbled out. “Start by sorting the laundry,” she said, folding a napkin as she spoke. “Don’t leave the shirts damp in the sink; hang them straight so they won’t warp. When you speak to your aunts, look them in the eye and answer clearly. If a man calls late, close the door and tell him you are busy—never invite trouble into the house.” The daughter, who had learned to read faces as much as books, nodded and practiced the small, sensible movements her mother described: smoothing the sleeve, tying a knot, arranging the bread on a plate.
The conversation wandered between practical tasks and the lessons seeded by years of worry: how to braid hair so it did not tangle at night, which herbs to boil for a fever, where to keep coins for the market. Sometimes the mother’s voice softened into a recollection—her own mother’s reprimands, a day when rain ruined a crop—and sometimes it hardened into a command. The daughter answered, not merely from habit but with an eye toward the life she was building: she wanted to try a new haircut someday, to stay out late with friends, to cook a dish her mother had never made. When the mother paused, the room filled with ordinary noises—the kettle, a radio playing softly—and what remained unsaid hung between them like the light through the window: protection, expectation, love.
Adaptation 2 — Julia Alvarez’s "Snow" written in the stream-of-consciousness style of Jamaica Kincaid
You wake to the whiteness pressing at the window and think first of cold, think of the ways your fingers forget how to stir coffee without the heat, remember your mother’s hands always red at the knuckles from the wash and you should wear gloves you should wrap the scarf twice around your neck and do not let the children run ahead in that white that hides holes, shovel the path before dawn, sweep the stoop clear so the neighbor’s old dog does not slip, and do not say yes to the man who wants to fix the fence until you have asked three times what the price is, and do not laugh at the small slights even if they sting because people will say you are proud if you answer sharply, and when they ask about the place you came from say it was difficult but we managed, no need to explain the nights when your father left the windows open and the wind would carry away the sound of the radio, remember the time snow bent the branches until they snapped and you and your sister dragged the pots inside and the fire smelled of sap and someone cried, you must teach the children to carry wood and to close the door softly and to wipe their feet, and if they ask about the sky tell them it has no memory here, it only keeps cold, and if a stranger offers warmth do not go with him unless you see the shape of his hands.
Keep your hands in your pockets when you go down to the market because someone will reach for your purse otherwise, remind the eldest to feed the cat before school because the sound of an empty bowl wakes up worry in the house, tell the youngest to tie his boots tight so no snow gets in and to whistle when he crosses the yard, and when the doctor says it is only a sprain do not let him downplay the ache that lives in your side from years of shouldering things you should never have had to carry, and when the mail comes look quickly for the letter that might change everything but do not let hope make you careless, do not throw away the old photograph even if the edges are yellowing because memory is a small, fragile thing to be kept in a drawer, and when the evening comes and the lamps are lit sit by the window and watch the slow, patient fall of white and learn to name each flake differently so you will know the world is still making things even when it seems to stop.
On a bright Saturday in a small kitchen that smelled of coffee and citrus, the mother sat at the table and watched her daughter fumble with a button on a favorite blouse. She spoke slowly at first, as if setting down each instruction would steady the morning, then faster as the list inside her tumbled out. “Start by sorting the laundry,” she said, folding a napkin as she spoke. “Don’t leave the shirts damp in the sink; hang them straight so they won’t warp. When you speak to your aunts, look them in the eye and answer clearly. If a man calls late, close the door and tell him you are busy—never invite trouble into the house.” The daughter, who had learned to read faces as much as books, nodded and practiced the small, sensible movements her mother described: smoothing the sleeve, tying a knot, arranging the bread on a plate.
The conversation wandered between practical tasks and the lessons seeded by years of worry: how to braid hair so it did not tangle at night, which herbs to boil for a fever, where to keep coins for the market. Sometimes the mother’s voice softened into a recollection—her own mother’s reprimands, a day when rain ruined a crop—and sometimes it hardened into a command. The daughter answered, not merely from habit but with an eye toward the life she was building: she wanted to try a new haircut someday, to stay out late with friends, to cook a dish her mother had never made. When the mother paused, the room filled with ordinary noises—the kettle, a radio playing softly—and what remained unsaid hung between them like the light through the window: protection, expectation, love.
Adaptation 2 — Julia Alvarez’s "Snow" written in the stream-of-consciousness style of Jamaica Kincaid
You wake to the whiteness pressing at the window and think first of cold, think of the ways your fingers forget how to stir coffee without the heat, remember your mother’s hands always red at the knuckles from the wash and you should wear gloves you should wrap the scarf twice around your neck and do not let the children run ahead in that white that hides holes, shovel the path before dawn, sweep the stoop clear so the neighbor’s old dog does not slip, and do not say yes to the man who wants to fix the fence until you have asked three times what the price is, and do not laugh at the small slights even if they sting because people will say you are proud if you answer sharply, and when they ask about the place you came from say it was difficult but we managed, no need to explain the nights when your father left the windows open and the wind would carry away the sound of the radio, remember the time snow bent the branches until they snapped and you and your sister dragged the pots inside and the fire smelled of sap and someone cried, you must teach the children to carry wood and to close the door softly and to wipe their feet, and if they ask about the sky tell them it has no memory here, it only keeps cold, and if a stranger offers warmth do not go with him unless you see the shape of his hands.
Keep your hands in your pockets when you go down to the market because someone will reach for your purse otherwise, remind the eldest to feed the cat before school because the sound of an empty bowl wakes up worry in the house, tell the youngest to tie his boots tight so no snow gets in and to whistle when he crosses the yard, and when the doctor says it is only a sprain do not let him downplay the ache that lives in your side from years of shouldering things you should never have had to carry, and when the mail comes look quickly for the letter that might change everything but do not let hope make you careless, do not throw away the old photograph even if the edges are yellowing because memory is a small, fragile thing to be kept in a drawer, and when the evening comes and the lamps are lit sit by the window and watch the slow, patient fall of white and learn to name each flake differently so you will know the world is still making things even when it seems to stop.
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