1.You are then to compare and contrast the two essays in a 700 word essay. This comparison and contrast of the two essays should be in relation to two or more of the following: thesis, purpose, point of view, style, language, tone, methods of development, and or figurative language. Write an introductory paragraph that includes a thesis. Then, write body paragraphs that develop the points of the comparison and contrast of your thesis and use paraphrases, summaries andor directly quoted material from the two essays that you are comparing and contrasting to support the main points of your thesis. 2.Make sure that your essay has a heading, a title, MLA documentation of the material used from the essays and an MLA Works Cited Page. Fish Cheeks. By: Amy Tan I fell in love with the ministers son the winter I turned fourteen. He was not Chinese, but as white as Mary in the manger. For Christmas I prayed for this blond-haired boy, Robert, and a slim new American nose. When I found out that my parents had invited the ministers family over for Christmas Eve dinner, I cried. What would Robert think of our shabby Chinese Christmas? What would he think of our noisy Chinese relatives who lacked proper American manners? What terrible disappoint-ment would he feel upon seeing not a roasted turkey and sweet potatoes but Chinese food? On Christmas Eve I saw that my mother had outdone herself in creating a strange menu. She was pulling black veins out of the backs of fleshy prawns. The kitchen was littered with appalling mounds of raw food: A slimy rock cod with bulging eyes that pleaded not to be thrown into a pan of hot oil. Tofu, which looked like stacked wedges of rubbery white sponges. A bowl soaking dried fungus back to life. A plate of squid, their backs crisscrossed with knife markings so they resembled bicycle tires. And then they arrived the ministers family and all my relatives in a clamor of doorbells and rumpled Christmas packages. Robert grunted hello, and I pretended he was not worthy of existence. Dinner threw me deeper into despair. My relatives licked the ends of their chopsticks and reached across the table, dipping them into the dozen or so plates of food. Robert and his family waited patiently for platters to be passed to them. My relatives murmured with pleasure when my mother brought out the whole steamed fish. Robert grimaced. Then my father poked his chopsticks just below the fish eye and plucked out the soft meat. Amy, your favorite, he said, offering me the tender fish cheek. I wanted to disappear. At the end of the meal my father leaned back and belched loudly, thanking my mother for her fine cooking. Its a polite Chinese custom to show you are satisfied, explained my father to our astonished guests. Robert was looking down at his plate with a reddened face. The minister managed to muster up a quiet burp. I was stunned into silence for the rest of the night. After everyone had gone, my mother said to me, You want to be the same as American girls on the outside. She handed me an early gift. It was a miniskirt in beige tweed. But inside you must always be Chinese. You must be proud you are different. Your only shame is to have shame. And even though I didnt agree with her then, I knew that she understood how much I had suffered during the evenings dinner. It wasnt until many year later long after I had gotten over my crush on Robert that I was able to fully appreciate her lesson and the true purpose behind our particular menu. For Christmas Eve that year, she had chosen all my favorite foods. Champion of the World. By: Maya Angelou The last inch of space was filled, yet people continued to wedge themselves along the walls of the Store. Uncle Willie had turned the radio up to its last notch so that youngsters on the porch wouldnt miss a word. Women sat on kitchen chairs, dining-room chairs, stools, and upturned wooden boxes. Small children and babies perched on every lap available and men leaned on the shelves or on each other. The apprehensive mood was shot through with shafts of gaiety, as a black sky is streaked with lightning. I aint worried bout this fight. Joes gonna whip that cracker like its open season. He gone whip him till that white boy call him Momma. At last the talking finished and the string-along songs about razor blades were over and the fight began. A quick jab to the head. In the Store the crowd grunted. A left to the head and a right and another left. One of the listeners cackled like a hen and was quieted. Theyre in a clinch, Louis is trying to fight his way out. Some bitter comedian on the porch said, That white man dont mind hugging that nigger now, I betcha. The referee is moving in to break them up, but Louis finally pushed the contender away and its an uppercut to the chin. The contender is hanging on, now hes backing away. Louis catches him with a short left to the jaw. A tide of murmuring assent poured out the door and into the yard.Another left and another left. Louis is saving that mighty right . . . The mutter in the store had grown into a baby roar and it was pierced by the clang of a bell and the announcers Thats the bell for round three, ladies and gentlemen. As I pushed my way into the Store I wondered if the announcer gave any thought to the fact that he was addressing as ladies and gentlemen all the Negroes around the world who sat sweating and praying, glued to their Masters voice. There were only a few calls for RC Colas, Dr Peppers, and Hires root beer. The real festivities would begin after the fight. Then even the old Christian ladies who taught their children and tried themselves to practice turning the other cheek would buy soft drinks, and if the Brown Bombers victory was a particularly bloody one they would order peanut patties and Baby Ruths also. Bailey and I laid the coins on top of the cash register. Uncle Willie didnt allow us to ring up sales during a fight. It was too noisy and might shake up the atmosphere. When the gong rang for the next round we pushed through the near-sacred quiet to the herd of children outside. Hes got Louis against the ropes and now its a left to the body and a right to the ribs. Another right to the body, it looks like it was low . . . Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the referee is signaling but the contender keeps raining the blows on Louis. Its another to the body, and it looks like Louis is going down. My race groaned. It was our people falling. It was another lynching, yet another Black man hanging on a tree. One more woman ambushed and raped. A Black boy whipped and maimed. It was hounds on the trail of a man running through slimy swamps. It was a white woman slapping her maid for being forgetful. The men in the Store stood away from the walls and at attention. Women greedily clutched the babes on their laps while on the porch the shufflings and smiles, flirtings and pinchings of a few minutes before were gone. This might be the end of the world. If Joe lost we were back in slavery and beyond help. It would all be true; the accusations that we were lower types of human beings. Only a little higher than apes. True that we were stupid and ugly and lazy and dirty and unlucky and worst of all, that God himself hated us and ordained us to be hewers of wood and drawers of water, forever and ever, world without end. We didnt breathe. We didnt hope. We waited. Hes off the ropes, ladies and gentlemen. Hes moving towards the corner of the ring. There was no time to be relieved. The worst might still happen. His masters voice, accompanied by a picture of a little dog listening to a phonograph, was a familiar advertising slogan. (The picture still spears on some RCA recordings.) And now it looks like Joe is mad. Hes caught Carnera with a left hook to the head and a right to the head. Its a left jab to the body and another left to the head. Theres a left cross and a right to the head. The contenders right eye is bleeding and he cant seem to keep his block up. Louis is penetrating every block. The referee is moving in, but Louis sends a left to the body and its an uppercut to the chin and the contender is dropping. Hes on the canvas, ladies and gentlemen. Babies slid to the floor as women stood up and men leaned toward the radio. Heres the referee. Hes counting. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven . . . Is the contender trying to get up again? All the men in the store shouted, NO. ?eight, nine, ten. There were a few sounds from the audience, but they seemed to be holding themselves in against tremendous pressure. The fight is all over, ladies and gentlemen. Lets get the microphone over to the referee . . . Here he is. Hes got the Brown Bombers hand, hes holding it up . . . Here he is . . . Then the voice, husky and familiar, came to wash over us?The winnah, and still heavyweight champeen of the world . . . Joe Louis. Champion of the world. A Black boy. Some Black mothers son. He was the strongest man in the world. People drank Coca-Colas like ambrosia and ate candy bars like Christmas. Some of the men went behind the Store and poured white lightning in their soft-drink bottles, and a few of the bigger boys followed them. Those who were not chased away came back blowing their breath in front of themselves like proud smokers. It would take an hour or more before the people would leave the Store and head for home. Those who lived too far had made arrangements to stay in town. It wouldnt be fit for a Black man and his family to be caught on a lonely country road on a night when Joe Louis had proved that we were the strongest people in the world. Do you want your assignment written by the best essay experts? Order now, for an amazing discount.
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