Kim Philipp
Approaches to Teaching Writing
Mondays: 7:00- 9:30PM
Draft 6
It was my senior year of high school. I was still blonde then and working at a local Italian restaurant that had the best fettuccine alfredo in town and the craziest owners with the biggest hearts. I loved my job. I had already applied to The University of Iowa and had been accepted, so although school wasn’t my first priority, I still made an effort to get my work done. During those weekdays that I would head to work to hostess for the night, I would drag along some books to get a little bit of work done, or attempt to because I rarely had the time due to the fabulous business we did. It was a cool crisp Thursday in October and before I left for work that afternoon I checked my Mom’s work schedule on the fridge. It read: Cynthia Philipp 11:00AM – 8PM. My content calm mood immediately shifted into despair and as I sunk down in the driver’s seat of my brother’ black Honda and reversed out of the driveway, I tried to consider a happy ending to my evening. But I knew how it would go, and even though Mr. Block freshman year told me I had one of the most imaginative minds ever, my imagery and creativity couldn’t block out the reality of the day’s ending that would come too soon like it always did.
I was driving home. Work went well and I enjoyed flirting my co-worker Mark all night. He had the brightest green eyes you’ve ever seen and I had quite the crush on him, so working with him was always a plus. As I turned down Buffalo Grove Road my happy thoughts turned grave and the all too familiar empty, numb shell that I learned to surround myself with began to form as I realized how close to home I was. I saw her car in the driveway as I pulled into our cold a sack. I already knew. I felt it. I could hear it now because it was all too common. (Door opening)”Mom?”…..(response in baby voice)……”HHHHIIIII”…..”Wha..What’s happening” (she stutters when she’s drunk)….”Just gone done with work”….it would usually start with that and go something like “Mom, please leave me alone……you’ve been drinking and I don’t want to talk to you”….”I DIDN”T DO ANYTHING YA BITCH”….and shed slam her bedroom door for the evening. Her answer, her response, and reasoning was always the same. “I didn’t do anything!!!” You could say you were craving a milk shake and that’s what’d she tell you because deep down beneath the intoxicated women full of hate she was a sad and ashamed because she was struggling with an alcohol addiction that she couldn’t shake or accept.
I came in from the garage. “Mom?” No answer. I figured she was upstairs however I didn’t have to go very far within the house to find her. I made a left into the kitchen and there she was. Passed out on the kitchen floor. The birds were screeching as soon as they saw me, their entire cage knocked over with birdseed, water, and feathers everywhere. She didn’t do anything.
Okay – So a bit of an intense beginning but the story from there leads into my high school, sophomore health class that opened many windows for my in terms of writing. Later on in the paper, in one paragraph I say: “No doubt, I hesitated when it came time for me to decide whether I would share this information about my mother. I decided that I would just start writing down everything that came to mind regarding her alcohol addiction and as the words flowed the reassurance that I wanted to put it my journal was made. I took a leap and shared that personal, once closed off, information with a personal stranger who I knew as my instructor” - - - Basically, this beginning will tie together in the end I promise, it is there for a reason, but let me know your thoughts!
