Jillian+Osedacz

__My Own Coming Into Language__

When I was a young girl I used to dream of becoming a teacher. The world of pencils, papers, and books fascinated me. My mother was a teacher and when I was old enough to start preschool she decided to turn our basement into my very own learning abode. From the day that I turned the first page to my alphabet book, I had no inkling into how much hard work and dedication school would become. Thankfully my mom started the basic building blocks to my journey. Once the time came to enter kindergarten my parents enrolled me into a private school. My teachers name was Mrs. Paasch. She reminded me of little Old Mother Goose. As I entered her vibrant classroom she greeted me with a warm smile and instantly made me feel comfortable. I liked all the subjects but my favorite time of day besides recess was group reading. Each week our group the //Patriots,// would receive a five-page paper book with big bold letters. Once the book and homework was completed Mrs. Paasch allowed us to put a sticker on the bulletin board. Although I could read three word sentences I still had a long way to go. Things started to pick up as soon as I entered the first grade. My spunky first grade teacher, Miss Noel used to stress the importance of English to us. I enjoyed the reading aspect of it, but was not so fond of the grammar and phonics. The class was broken up into reading groups. Everyone would take a turn to read out loud while the teacher graded us. I became a little intimidated and would start to stumble over my words pausing often. Suddenly it was not as enjoyable as it had been. I began to take an interest in the writing assignments. It was more personal and an excellent way to express myself. I would write small simple poems that rhymed every other word. As I matured through the years I have had positive memories of my own coming into language. I am very fortunate for all the wonderful teachers and mentors I have had in my life, and am thankful to them for investing their time in my life. It is a privilege to be able to read and write in such an exquisite language.

** My Best Job **

We have all heard the horror stories of the obnoxious bosses and catty coworkers. You know, the jobs that make every Friday seem like a holiday and Monday the start of another monotonous workweek. Thankfully, I have yet to have one of those stereotype work environments. My very first job was at Roger Williams Park Zoo. I was offered a position in the Admissions Department by a friend from High School and snatched the opportunity. My position was ticket sales as well as an event ambassador. The zoo offered parties, everything from birthday parties, showers, business meetings, and even one wedding. My job was to greet the party, give them a tour of the zoo, and lead them to their private party location. Once they were situated, the ambassadors were then responsible for making sure the entire event ran without a glitch. Another job I was responsible for was selling the tickets and zoo memberships. That was one of my favorite parts because when I would hand a ticket to a child they would be grinning from ear to ear. It was like giving them the key to an adventure. It is easy to say that there was never a dull moment. Along with our regular duties and responsibilities we also had special behind the scenes tours. I was able to wash a camel, feed a moon-bear, and witness the baby giraffes being born; the zoo staff is truly a family and will always have a special place in my heart. It was a privilege to have the opportunity to be part of so any people's lives, and help out in making cherished memories that will last a lifetime. ** The Best Time of Year ** The crimson red and burnt orange leaves dangling from the trees, fresh baked pumpkin pies, and hot apple cider are the staples of fall. There is nothing like it, fall is my favorite season. For one, it is the kick off to the holiday season. The crisp cool air means it is just about time to start the preparations of Thanksgiving. The holiday season is an exciting time; it is a time when you enjoy a different pace of life that only comes once a year. Somehow, the fall time always has a way of bringing my family closer together. When fall comes around there are many seasonal activities to take part in. Weather it is baking in the kitchen or raking leaves, I am always doing it with family and friends. I have many fond memories of the cool October months. We always have an annual harvest extravaganza. Our weekend usually starts with a trip to the farm to pick apples in the orchards. Once the bags are filled, my family stops to get homemade fudge and candy apples for the way home. As our weekend continues my brother and I each pick out a pumpkin to carve while my mom is making her famous homemade pumpkin pie. We end the weekend all together on the couch sipping hot coffee, and watching the wood crackle in the fireplace.

My Cultural Misunderstanding Cultural misunderstandings are inevitable. I have had one incident that I will never forget. My family and I moved into a new home a few years ago. The first day we moved in we met our neighbors, Mike and Mary. They are full-blooded Italians. My parents immediately began mingling with them, and they invited us over to their home for dinner later that evening. When I walked into their home the entire upstairs was the dining room. The table was adorned with china and long-stemmed glasses. Mary was scurrying to and from the kitchen bringing out plates of salad, olives, breads, and soups. We started eating and Mary rushed off again to bring out her famous pizza, spaghetti, and meatballs; everything was absolutely fabulous. I was stuffed. I barley had time to blink my eyes when the next course was coming out. I could not believe it; I could feel myself getting blue in the face. She started passing out the next item which was a pink strip rolled tightly. She began to place the meat on my plate, and I politely refrained. Mary stopped immediately and laid her tongs on the table. Right away she wanted to know what was wrong, and why I was not eating the food. She took it as an insult that I did not try at least one of everything on the table. Staring at the platter I asked her what it was, she would not tell me. She stuck it on my plate and said, “Eat, eat baby…eat.” I glanced at my mom and she gave me the eyes. I obeyed and took a bite of the spongy textured meat. Mike and Mary both watched with anticipation to see my reaction. Once again, I was polite, raving how delicious it was. Everyone was smiling and laughing when Mike reached for his glass and told my parents that I should have been born Italian ,because I enjoyed eating pigs tongue.