Autobiographical Incident Essay Essays

Autobiographical Incident Essay Essays Autobiographical Incident Essay Paper Autobiographical Incident Essay Paper The little boy looked no more than five years old, his dark-shaded skin glowing against the last bit of sunlight, illuminating the black-eyes that were inlayer in his angelic face. He Jumped again and again, trying to make the apparatus shift, however in vain. The apparatus that spun obediently under my control was now adamant to standstill. I watched quietly, afraid that my heavy breathing would scare the little creature. The boy bounced about, like a rider unable to order his horse forward. The horse whined under him, but that was all it did. Go! My brother yelled t me in Chinese, he was perched on the very top of the climbing equipment, trapped between countless ropes and cords, help him out! I din t know whether I should move or not, the air inhaled hurt my nostrils and punctured my lungs. The boys seeking eyes wandered between me and my brother, the latter too far to reach. I did not dare meet his glance, so I buried myself back in my book, pretending to suddenly be engrossed i n the details of the pale pages. The words drained off, like someone abruptly flushing the toilet, wink, wink, and then everything was gone. What are you waiting for?! he yelled again. My head snapped up. I saw his legs dangling in the wind with a brisk swiftness. Wordless, I shot the little boy a quick glance. He was staring at me. But I had other Concerns. But what if his parents see-? -Just go! he Jerked his head in the boys direction with a sudden fierceness, frowning, his lips stretched tight. I was afraid, not of the boy, neither my little brother. The angel is Indian, I, however, am Chinese. What would others think if I walked towards the baby? Do you need any help? Eating aside the book that weighted hundreds and hundreds of pounds, way too heavy to bear any longer, I stood up as the little boy nodded. Muff. Clear was his voice, limpid in the cacophony of shouts and cheers from the other side of the park. I put my hands on the iron bar, it was cold and slippery. Tense was the child, and so were l. The Jarring sounds the apparatus made under his weight was harsh. The disobedient animal was pushed forward, whini ng, but had no strength to push back. And so faster it went. Whoa! the dark angel giggled, slow down! And so it did. Oh have to tell me. I said, not too loud, at the ball of fur under me. I could feel a smile tingling at the corner of my lips. He did not look up, but grabbed the bar firmly. I turned and turned and turned. He spun and spun and spun. Do you want to go a bit faster? I asked after a while, the tension between us was unnerving. He nodded, miss Kelly! My brother bellowed. He frightened me, Mom at 8 oclock! My body stiffened, but the hand spinning the bar continued, mechanically. Vaguely, I could smell a dim fragrance of perfume approaching, gradually getting stronger. My back faced the closing mother, and I acted as if I din t know her existence. The sore sensation in my back grew as I tried to maintain my position. Spun and spun and spun. The sound of nervous but urgent footsteps haunted my thoughts, the fragile pieces of wood smashed and crumpled, like my frozen brain breaking into pieces, leaving nothing but clatters echoing my hallow mind. Turned and turned and turned. My heart thundered under my bones. How would she think of me? Suddenly, a pair of hands dropped on the little boys arms, grabbing him firmly. A women in black appeared next to me. Involuntarily, my hand closed tightly on the bar to stop it, the screechy sounds made me even more strained than I was. Taking a step back, the invisible force seemed to reduce a little. I felt my breath return, but mist blurred everything. Say thank you, honey. The women carried the little boy off the apparatus, despite his complaints of dizziness; she held him firm and close, say thank you. Thank you. The little boy mumbled, rubbing his temple, he din t look at me, neither did his mother. I saw her face; it was the combination of a smile, wrinkles, and panic. Like a canvas smeared with clashing colors. My eyes rested on the books in the shadows, a few feet away from where I stood now. I retreated carefully, turning to say you re welcome every few steps. My eyes were like cameras unable to focus, every time I look back, everything seems to blur like ink dipped in water, swirling in shades of blue, gold and green. Letting out a pungent smell of women s perfume. The once beautiful and delicate canvas turned into a mess. Everything was churning together, forming colors the artist never meant to make, destroying the integrated artistic conception. People, like colors that clash, still have much fear toward others with different skins. Not only once have I thought, would it turn out differently if it was t me who stood there by the baby? Would the mother sit smiling and watch another girl play with her child, whose skin was anything other than yellow? This sin t discrimination, he said, biting into an apple, it s Just a lack of trust. its Just that simple.