Personal Narrative

“Oh no,” whispered mother with her handed across her mouth. “What are we going to do?”

"Why can't we discuss this tomorrow so the children can sleep Elizabeth?" Father retorted, hoping not to hear another complaint. Silence filled the boudoir once again as I finally drifted to sleep.

I procrastinate for an hour or two but then push myself to do my homework. After 3 hours of hell, I finally completed all of it and decide to take a shower. Once I get out, I get out my speakers and begin to play 'I like it when you sleep for you are beautiful yet so unaware of it' probably one of the best albums ever released. Over all of the loud music I hear a loud bang from downstairs. I quickly shut off the music and wait to see if I will be able to hear the noise again. Yep, there it is. I swiftly open my door and walk downstairs and see my mom on a rampage. She screaming and throwing things and I am bewildered.

In Adrienne Rich’s “Storm Warnings,” the progressive structure details the storm’s advancement, the imagery illustrates the surrounding environment, and the calm diction presents the speaker’s state of mind, depicting an actual storm as it nears and the metaphorical turmoil the speaker is experiencing. People hear storm warnings, however, as the storm unfolds, one can merely brace themselves since the storm is inevitable and light hope within them.

Beep Beep Beep!!! Goes my alarm. It was time for school. Stuck in my bed not wanting to move from this warm comfortable spot, I started digging at the crust in the corners of my eyes. The smell of bacon filled the air in my room pushing me out of the bed and leading me to the hallway. I head to the kitchen where I find my mother

As I went downstairs the tone of the room felt hot, humid, and empty. Hot, because of the burning Atlanta temperatures of ninety-eight degrees or higher. Humid, caused by the broken air conditioning and affecting the density of the atmosphere. Finally empty. The furniture was missing and minimal sounds can bounce off to make echoes. I was departing from a place that I called home. I lived at the address 353 Leisure Court for almost a year; the identity of the street brings back smiles to my face because of its pleasantry. Living here has made me feel secure like a dog to his owner. Moving away from this security brought feelings of uncertainty. My lack of confidence was about the new beginnings my family would experience after the move. But

“Okay sweetie, get some rest, and we will get there soon, just wanted to check on you.” said my Mom.

(Mrs. Hawkins is tearful and picks up a broom and while sweeping talks to herself)

“Okay let's get in the car,” my dad says walking towards the garage. We start to follow

A morbid melancholy stole over me. Anxiety gnawed at my heart. I was a living corpse. There was a feeling of chill in the air every day as I felt. I faked illness so as not to go to school. Despair hangs heavy in the stifling air. It was a dreary day for me , cold and without sunshine. I dread people and always avoid people. The door was locked from the inside. A cold grey light crept under the curtains. The windows were secured with locks and bars. The room felt cold and sterile.The flowers faded for want of water. A single lamp was suspended from the ceiling. The clock ticked louder and louder in a quiet room. I regarded the room as a refuge from the outside

“She slept pretty well last night too. Like a rock. For the first time in weeks she didn't have a nightmare.”

I woke up to my dad yelling to my dad yelling from the top of the steps. "Hey, it's slippery and the trucks haven't salted yet. Drive slow and be careful!"

“Storm Warnings,” true to its literal subject matter, possesses flowy sweeping syntax created by the strategic use of commas and phrasing to draw parallels between the physical oncoming winds and the gales of life. The author crafts a long run-on sentence that spans the first stanza and carries on into the latter portion of the second to mirror the continuous flowing of windy weather and the forward motion of life. Once the speaker notices the brewing storm, they “walk from window to closed window, watching boughs strain against the sky.” In this portion of the affromented run-on sentence, alliteration, rhythm, and the repetition of words all contribute to the impression of movement. The various “w” sounds at the beginnings of words and the repetition of the word “window” create a sensation of continuously flowing forward, especially when read aloud; the comma adds a small swirling pause to the rhythm, which is then soon after resumed with the word “watching.” Just as the poem rhythmically moves forward with its long phrases connected with frequent commas, so must life carry on with each additional experience, whether it be misfortunes or joys. The elongated syntax allows all these elements to work together within sentences to highlight the similarities between physical storms and emotional struggle and to stress the inevitability of predicaments in life.

The construction of barriers between the storm and the individual is our only defense. We must assume some degree of helplessness in this universe that forces a resignation of humanly powers, while holding onto even the smallest elements of hope within. Rich finds it crucial to create differentiation between the environments on the interior and exterior of the home that the poem is set in, and drawing comparisons between the two, specifically how the two environments are becoming increasingly similar. Through the physical barriers, including our meager ability to “only close the shutters”(21) or “draw the curtains as the sky goes black”(22), these means of closure from the exterior seem somewhat pathetic when compared to the total immensity of the storm. Through Rich drawing attention on only one house throughout the entirety of the poem, she begins to draw singular connections between the home that the narrator resides in, and the heart that meekly sags under the weight of emotion. The home is a place of comfort, a place that wholeheartedly deserves to be protected. The home is a similar vestibule to that of the heart in terms that it is a gathering of emotions, memories, and of sentiment. In order to weather the storms that we all face, we must adjunctually be able to focus on our own liberation and protection before we concern ourselves with

I waked up and I looked to my left to see my parents were watching the sunrise on