Pastiche
Alexander Giarracco
Ms Hellie
AP Lang
Period 2
Pastiche
Some background into the Pastiche: Malik is the father of three boys, who lived in the projects, and have become pushers (gangsters). Malik is reminiscing on the times when his boys were young and naive unaware of the poverty and hopelessness that surrounded them. At midnight the pushers were exhausted and weary, he missed the pleasure of joking with them with his own late night unwilted spirit and jubilance, telling vivid stories, giving food stamps on frightened fellows who could barely stomach the real world. The projects gave a singular diffuse light at night, fifty different street cars screeching at once, gunshots rang, loud yells echoed in the neighborhood, the faint cries of many families huddled all together.
Malik
always stopped to listen when he looked over his shoulder, as another man might linger in the echo of a distant shot. He missed the warmness in the house, between rooms. How his boys used to run to him when he got home. He missed their gapped tooth smiles and the smell of the dryer sheets coming off their clothes and the never ending ruckus in the house. He missed their good manners. He missed helping them up when they got discouraged or dismayed and surprised him with delight and cheerfulness when they giggledhadn’t they figured out life in the projects, after all these years? He missed how his boys were ecstatic during christmas, and broke into jingle at any excuse, and lost themselves in the stories of his childhood, especially if Malik was there to see it all. He nostalgically recalled all of that, and not being estranged from his kids, and having them know him. He longed for his kids’ glances in which he saw hope and love and even some idolization. Malik wanted that back, as much as the rest. He wanted it all back.
Ms Hellie
AP Lang
Period 2
Pastiche
Some background into the Pastiche: Malik is the father of three boys, who lived in the projects, and have become pushers (gangsters). Malik is reminiscing on the times when his boys were young and naive unaware of the poverty and hopelessness that surrounded them. At midnight the pushers were exhausted and weary, he missed the pleasure of joking with them with his own late night unwilted spirit and jubilance, telling vivid stories, giving food stamps on frightened fellows who could barely stomach the real world. The projects gave a singular diffuse light at night, fifty different street cars screeching at once, gunshots rang, loud yells echoed in the neighborhood, the faint cries of many families huddled all together.
Malik
always stopped to listen when he looked over his shoulder, as another man might linger in the echo of a distant shot. He missed the warmness in the house, between rooms. How his boys used to run to him when he got home. He missed their gapped tooth smiles and the smell of the dryer sheets coming off their clothes and the never ending ruckus in the house. He missed their good manners. He missed helping them up when they got discouraged or dismayed and surprised him with delight and cheerfulness when they giggledhadn’t they figured out life in the projects, after all these years? He missed how his boys were ecstatic during christmas, and broke into jingle at any excuse, and lost themselves in the stories of his childhood, especially if Malik was there to see it all. He nostalgically recalled all of that, and not being estranged from his kids, and having them know him. He longed for his kids’ glances in which he saw hope and love and even some idolization. Malik wanted that back, as much as the rest. He wanted it all back.