The Things I Carry Essay
As usual every day of my life I must carry something in my wallet somewhere of my bag, they might be some utensils, as an eraser, books, etc. But among the most important things, I carry with me are those things, which I keep great respect, or some things that their value has a great meaning in my life.
On a normal school day, a bulk of books and a collection of special things can be found in my bag, including textbooks, folders, a calculator, papers, and color pens. My bag on a good day my weight about 4 pounds, but on a bad one, up to 8 pounds.
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Prices start at $12
The things I carry are classified by a grade of importance. One of the commonest things I carry in my daily life is a medal, that was a present of my sixth-grade promotion which reminds me all my old friends from my primary school, those beautiful times so unforgettable where I did not have to worry about anything. The only things I had to worry about where to play and to make sure my mom loved me.
They were indeed beautiful times. The time passes very fast and never forgives. I just can remember as if it was yesterday when I went on vacation to Disney Land with my friends from my Peru’s school in 2002.
I also carry something like a collar somewhat silvered, which is a present from my second brother, Marco, who is living in Peru. That collar reminds me of my brother because it belonged to him. He had earned it in his school; because he obtained one of the first places in the honor roll.
But what reminds me most about my family, are the pictures I carry in my wallet. I carry memories, memories of people who I loved and love, memories of places that I will never forget as the old left house where I went with the friends of my childhood to play, and to tell stories about the ghosts that lived in that house. Sometimes when I am lonely or feel very bad.
I take my pictures out from my wallet and try to remember those beautiful times when I enjoyed the company of my dear beings. Those times that will never come back. It is so hard to face reality, my new reality that is so different and painful. Each time I try to remember those happy days, I find myself crying of heartache for being so far from my family.
My mind is a rare world, full of complications and thoughts that can not always be expressed. I carry emotions that I can not take out from my mind, emotions of love and hatred that I try to release telling my parents what is going on with me, but to call by phone is not the same than to talk face to face. I carry with me a feeling of worry, the worry of not knowing how my family is because I can feel that they do not tell all the truth when they talk to me by phone.
I carry fears, fears that I may not know what tomorrow may bring, fears of rejection, fear of not succeeding, fear of what it hopes to me in the future. I fear things that I do not even know as the day of tomorrow and yesterday. I carry loneliness in my heart. The loneliness is like a friend that goes everywhere with me but also makes me feel bad. I carry a very heavy burden over my shoulders.
I carry responsibility, the responsibility of being the oldest brother of 4 brothers, and at the same time as being an example for my brothers, which is difficult work. I carry so much in my life that sometimes I think that I going to give up and let my problems win me.
I carry this all every day with a head of scrambled hair black hair, a big face with black-brown eyes, a regular mouth, a big nose, broad shoulders, and a pair of legs that try to maintain my body in balance, all that everything added weight around 200 pounds.
The things people carry generally reveal a significant part of their character. Tiny, seemingly unimportant objects can carry the most symbolic weight to them, and yet we rarely discuss why we carry such things—extreme materialism and consumerism aside. In my recent fit of writer’s block (I blame it on the simple fact that I am lazy slob without a rigorous school schedule to keep me in place), I read back on one of my favorite essays I wrote my last year of high school.
Having been in rigorous classes that expected long-winded written explanations of my every thought, I learned very well the act of constructing words in such a way to make the things I write seem more intelligent and hard to conceptualize than they actually are; however, for this one essay, I didn’t need as much fluff as I generally stuff my essays with.
I wrote on the complexity and depth of emotions the simple objects I carried meant to me. Due to my writer’s block and appreciation for the topic I wrote on, I would like to share with you what 17-year-old me prized, and why. Hopefully it leads to your own internal examination of your external wear.
I carry two woven bracelets on my wrist. I made them myself, and they remind me of certain things; the bright yellow, brown, red, and green bracelet reminds me of Native American cornfields just near the Rio Grande. Whether this is geologically or agriculturally accurate or not, this is what the badly-woven, the too-big bracelet is to me—it is a tie to my past, to my ancestors and all they have done to land me here, a high school student sitting at her computer, facing the bright window, hearing cars go by and children play in the neighbor’s yard.
This bracelet also reminds me of Earth and nature, and that segways into wholesomeness and safety. I have always had a profound respect for nature, I can’t remember a time when I thought the Earth wasn’t something I was connected to, mind, body, and whatever a soul might be. I don’t believe in the twenty-something gram wisp of white mist that seems to come to mind when one thinks of the soul, but instead I believe that each person has something incredibly unique to them, that is almost an invisible fingerprint to the universe.
But I digress. Although I suppose that is, in a way, the point to this essay; describe what you carry, not just physically, but what each thing represents. I feel the best way to get to the abstract concept of a bracelet being tied to a whole part of who I am is to simply talk until I find the truth. I know what some of the things I carry mean to me—that’s why I carry them—but to put such a thing into words requires that I get lost in myself, in my own words and memories, until I can’t remember what I had wanted to say in the first place.
I carry another bracelet. This one is blue, thin, like a blade of rolled-up grass. This bracelet means something to me, but I’m not quite sure what it is. It almost has a resigned feel to it, a parent-like, watchful feel. This bracelet might represent the less adventurous, more introverted, and judgmental side of me. I really tend not to judge people, so much so that it has become a bit of a fault of mine. Even when I was a kid, I would say a cheery “hello!” to the vagabonds sitting outside Albertson’s grocery store. It’s not that I don’t realize that stranger-danger is a real thing, I just tend to be nice, while also being cautious.
I carry an old black Jansport backpack with a ripped strap and several openings cut into the top of the small pocket. I’ve had this backpack since at least sophomore year, though I’m not sure exactly when I got it. Even though it’s ripped, I use it, because I worry about money a lot. My parents tell me not to, and we aren’t in bad shape as far as financials go, but the knowledge that every dollar I spend is two minutes of my dad’s toil in burning asphalt and unrelenting conditions haunts me. My mom also works, but because I grew up with just my dad bringing home the bacon, I never forget that he pays for it, not with money, but with sweat, blood, and cataracts.
The slits in my backpack? Well, I made those on purpose. Junior year I saw that one of my classmates had a solar-powered USB charger hooked on his backpack, and being the environmentalist and the ever-curious person I am, decided to make one. After going to radio shack, tearing apart my old computer, and recruiting my friend to help record the process, I made a solar-powered USB charger from things my father bought at radio shack and computer parts. I sewed a clear Ziploc plastic bag onto the front of my backpack and cut holes in the top lip of the small pocket to accommodate my new device.
As of right now, however, the charger sits on my bookshelf, after two USB ports broke from light usage. It is still something I am proud of because I created something of use that could have potentially helped the planet, little-bit by little-bit.
I carry buttons and keychains on my backpack. I collect them, somewhat. I have one button from my favorite TV show, a favorite childhood movie, some from band competitions. One was a gift. Many were collections from a Southern California college tour with my mom, along with an astronaut keychain. There’s an old metal keychain of a broken boot that my father gave to me in passing.
All of these are memories, snapshots, of my short life, and they all carry their own feelings and lessons within those memories. Memories are a big thing with me—I love memories—my memories, my parent’s memories, the check-out guy at Lucky’s memories, they are all important to me. I think this is, in part, why I loved Tim O’Brien’s The Things They Carried, on which this essay is modeled after. I loved that all those stories were memories, and I was fascinated that O’Brien communicated what I have always felt to be true—in memories, what actually happened is not so important as what you felt.
Most of my memories are less what factually happened and more what I felt, and that is why I connected to O’Brien’s story so well, I felt as if he had bridged the gap between what I could feel and what I could communicate.
Most of the time, I carry a book, a sweater, and my cell phone. These things seem to have less philosophical meaning than the aforementioned items, but who knows, I didn’t think I’d have a lot to say on two small bracelets either. I carry a book because I truly love reading. If you ask someone why they love reading, some will tell you it’s an escape, or an adventure, or they read Judy B. Jones’s books with their mother growing up, but for me there is no definite answer.
If ever I could describe to someone what reading is to me, it would be along the lines of seeing a world through someone else’s eyes or being able to gain the knowledge and experience and vivid life from a good character, but even that doesn’t sit right—it’s too simple, too little for such a complex idea. Reading is more of a part of life, a branch of life if you will, and to not read would be to not experience all life had to offer. To be in the middle of a good book is paramount to….
Even now, there are no words. I simply do not have the capacity to compare reading to anything else in life that would accurately describe how I feel to be a part of the characters’ lives, maybe because reading is a form of storytelling, and stories are a part of life that cannot be interchanged for another part as if they were identical Pokémon cards on an elementary school playground—instead, trying to describe storytelling is equivalent to trying to explain color to a blind person.
I am so addicted to reading that my favorite thing on my phone, save music and photos, is my reading app. It’s called Wattpad, and essentially, people from all walks of life write and post their works; some are incredibly poorly written, and some change the way I look at life, even if by the tiniest bit.
The sweaters I carry are easy enough to explain—I get cold easily, and I like the cozy feeling of being wrapped up in cloth. I thoroughly enjoy burrowing under a mountain of blankets as the gentle drumming of rain massages the roof and the windows and the concrete outside, and as I remain under my fortress, the world I live in seems both near and far; the heat of my skin under the feet of blankets and the constant rhythm of mother nature reminds me of where I am, but it is the same exact things that take me somewhere else, into my own mind perhaps, where everything is more than it seems.
In these moments I feel both safe and alive; I feel empathy for the critters outside and gratitude for the big critters I call Mom and Dad. When I am far from these moments, stuck in a classroom at the end of August, I can at least feel grateful for the AC system that lets me wrap up in my sweater and think of similarly pleasant days to come.
Of all the things I carry, some are more important than others, but they all makeup who I am. The things I carry make me, and I carry them because I am me—a wonderfully confusing cycle that would give any therapist a field day. In a way, I like my confusing life, because it is my life, and that is something I am immensely appreciative of. This crazy little length of time I’ve been given excites me, and that is something I always carry, something profound like a heart on a sleeve, and like a ridge of a fingerprint.
The things I carry varies by the day. Sometimes the things I carry can be of great importance, other times not so much. For example, when I go to the gym, I need to carry my inhaler. Even having mild asthma, I’ve had asthma attacks before because I forgot it and exercises anyway. It’s a crucial item I need to have. I also carry my phone and headphones.
If I am not able to listen to music, I just can’t work out. It helps make the time go by a lot faster and acts as a type of motivation. To keep my bag safe, I bring a lock so it can be locked up while I workout. I know from experience and working at a gym, that there are those rare times when someone actually decides to go through unlocked lockers and take others stuff.
For school, there are definitely things I need to carry with me to be able to get through a class. I find it that even though I’m not taking a math course, having a calculator with me for all my classes can come in handy and it never hurts to have it. It’s also essential to have some kind of writing utensil and something to write on. I found out that even if you bring your laptop to class, it’s a good idea to bring a notebook and pen because sometimes you may need it to accomplish an assignment. There are things that I carry on an everyday basis too. These are my most important items.
For example, I carry a journal almost everywhere. Having it with me allows me to write any thoughts I may have and it releases any stress. Rather than lash out about something, it’s always there for me to write my problems down, rather than act upon it. I use it daily and it has never failed me. Another thing I carry with me every day is a picture of my family: my mom, my dad, and my older brother.
Being adopted, it’s important for me to carry a picture of my family because I can look at that picture and always remember how lucky I am to have been given to such a loving and caring family. And, like almost everyone else, I carry my phone with me daily.
In the novel The Things, They Carried by Tim O’Brien the author tells about his experiences in the Vietnam war by telling various war stories. The quote, “It has been said of war that it is a world where the past has a strong grip on the present, where machines seemed sometimes to have more will power than me, where nice boys (girls) were attracted to them, where bodies ruptured and burned and stand, where the evil thing trying to kill you could look disconnecting human and where except in your imagination it was impossible to be heroic.” relates to each of his stories.
The first part of the quote matches the first story, The Things They Carried. The story told about the items that each soldier took with them to the war.
He calls himself a coward for going to war which sounds very weird. The quote means it is very hard to be brave during a war like Vietnam. Since the author turned in to a coward right when he was on the edge of the border, this quote relates well to this story. As you have read war is a very different type of world everything is turned around and it confuses people.
The author of the book The Things They Carried and the writer of the quote “It has been said of war that it is a world where the past has a strong grip on the present, where machines seemed sometimes to have more will power than me, where nice boys (girls) were attracted to them, where bodies ruptured and burned and stand, where the evil thing trying to kill you could look disconnecting human and where except in your imagination it was impossible to be heroic.” relates to each of his stories. Wrote about war so people could have a better understanding of…
As normally every twenty-four hours of my life I must transport something in my billfold in somewhere of my bag. they might be some utensils. as an eraser. books. etc. But among the most of import things, I carry with me are those things. which I keep great regard. or some things that their value has a great significance in my life.
On a normal school twenty-four hours. a majority of books and an aggregation of particular things can be found in my bag. including text editions. booklets. a reckoner. documents. and color pens. My bag on a good twenty-four hours may burden about 4 lbs. but on a bad 1. up to 8 lbs.
The things I carry are classified by class of importance. One of the commonest things I carry in my day-to-day life. is a decoration. that was a present from my 6th class publicity which reminds me of all my old friends from my primary school. those beautiful times so unforgettable where I did non hold to worry about anything. The lone things I had to worry were to play and to do certain my ma loved me.
They were such beautiful times. The clip passes really fast and ne’er forgives. I merely can retrieve it as if it was yesterday when I went on holiday to Disney Land with my friends from my Peru’s school in 2002.
I besides carry something like a neckband slightly silvered. which is a present from my 2nd brother. Marco. who is populating in Peru? That collar reminds me of my brother because it belonged to him. He had earned it in his school; because he obtained one of the first topographic points in the award axial rotation. But what reminds me most about my household. are the images I carry in my billfold.
I carry memories. memories of people who I loved and love. memories of topographic points that I will ne’er bury as the old left house where I went with the friends of my childhood to play and to state narratives about the shades that lived in that house. Sometimes when I am lonely or experience really bad.
I take my images out from my billfold and seek to retrieve those beautiful times when I enjoyed the company of my beloved existence. Those times that will ne’er come back. It is so difficult to confront the world. my new world that is so different and painful. Each clip I try to retrieve that happy year. I find myself shouting of grief for being so far from my household.
My head is a rare universe. full of complications and ideas that can non ever be expressed. I carry emotions that I can non take out from my head. emotions of love and hatred that I try to let go of stating to my parents what is traveling on with me. but to name by phone is non the same as to speak face to face. I carry with me a feeling of concern. the concern of noncognizing how my household is. because I can experience that they do non-state all the truth when they talk to me by phone.
I carry frights. frights that I may non cognize what tomorrow may convey. frights of rejection the fright of nonwinning the fright of what it hopes to me in the hereafter. I fear things that I do non even know as the twenty-four hours of tomorrow and yesterday. I carry loneliness in my bosom.
The solitariness is like a friend that goes everyplace with me but besides makes me experience bad. I carry a really heavy load over my shoulders. I carry duty the duty of being the oldest brother of 4 brothers and at the same clip of being an illustration for my brothers which is a hard job. I carry so much in my life that sometimes I think that I traveling to give up and allow my jobs to win me.
I carry this all every twenty-four hours with a caput of scrambled hair black hair. a large face with black-brown eyes. a regular oral cavity. a large olfactory organ. wide shoulders. and a brace of legs that try to keep my organic structure in balance. all that everything added weight around 200 lbs.
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