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Final Exam test will be in four part to be taken in the computerlab. The first two parts are on "Cyrano de Bergerac". The third part is creating a SOAPStone for Luis Rodriguez's poem "Meeting the Animal in Washington Square Park" that we read a couple of weeks ago. Finally the last part of the exam is an old quizlab on Muhammad Ali.
We will all do well!
I am so proud of everyone in the class. 100% of the class passed the EOCT!
Today in class we finished quizlabs. We will work on completing Act IV of "Cyrano de Bergerac" tomorrow in class. We will also complete "Roxanne".
Today in class we were in the computer lab. After lunch we began "Walkout". We will continue viewing and discussing this tomorrow.
| I am Joaquin, , Lost in a world of confusion, Caught up in a whirl of a gringo society, Confused by the rules, Scorned by attitudes, Suppressed by manipulations, And destroyed by modern society. My fathers have lost the economic battle and won the struggle of cultural survival. And now! I must choose Between the paradox of Victory of the spirit, despite physical hunger Or to exist in the grasp of American social neurosis, sterilization of the soul and a full stomach. Yes, I have come a long way to nowhere, Unwillingly dragged by that monstrous, technical industrial giant called Progress and Anglo success… I look at myself. I watch my brothers. I shed tears of sorrow. I sow seeds of hate. I withdraw to the safety within the Circle of life . . . MY OWN PEOPLE I am Cuauhtemoc, Proud and Noble Leader of men, King of an empire, civilized beyond the dreams of the Gachupin Cortez, Who also is the blood, the image of myself. I am the Maya Prince. I am Netzahualcoyotl, Great leader of the Chichimecas. I am the sword and flame of Cortez the despot. And I am the Eagle and Serpent of the Aztec civilization. I owned the land as far as the eye could see under the crown of Spain, and I toiled on my earth and gave my Indian sweat and blood for the Spanish master, Who ruled with tyranny over man and beast and all that he could trample But . . . THE GROUND WAS MINE. I was both tyrant and slave. As Christian church took its place in God's good name, to take and use my Virgin strength and Trusting faith, The priests both good and bad, took But gave a lasting truth that Spaniard, Indian, Mestizo Were all God's children And from these words grew men who prayed and fought for their own worth as human beings, for that GOLDEN MOMENT Of FREEDOM. I was part in blood and spirit of that courageous village priest Hidalgo in the year eighteen hundred and ten who rang the bell of independence and gave out that lasting cry: "El Grito de Dolores, Que mueran los Gachupines y que viva la Virgin de Guadalupe" I sentenced him who was me. I excommunicated him my blood. I drove him from the Pulpit to lead a bloody revolution for him and me I killed him. His head, which is mine and all of those who have conic this way, I placed on that fortress wall to wall for Independence. Morelos! Matamoros! Guerrero! All Compañeros in the act, STOOD AGAINST THAT WALL OF INFAMY to feel the hot gouge of lead which my hands made. I died with them . . . I lived with them I lived to see our country free. Free from Spanish rule in eighteen -hundred- twenty-one. Mexico was Free The crown was gone but all his parasites remained and ruled and taught with gun and flame and mystic power. I worked, I sweated, I bled, I prayed and waited silently for life to again commence. I fought and died for Don Benito Juarez Guardian of the Constitution. I was him on clusty roads on barren land as he protected his archives as Moses did his sacraments. He held his Mexico in his hand on the most desolate and remote ground which was his country And this Giant Little Zapotec gave not one palm's breadth of his country's land to Kings or Monarchs or Presidents of foreign powers. I am Joaquin. I rode with Pancho Villa, crude and warm. A tornado at full strength, nourished and inspired by the passion and the fire of all his earth, people. I am Emillano Zapata. "This Land This Earth Is OURS" The Villages The Mountains The Streams belong to Zapatistas. Our life Or yours is the only trade for soft brown earth .and maiz. All of which is our reward, A creed that formed a constitution for all who dare live free! "This land is ours . . . Father, I give it back to you. Mexico must be free . . .' I ride with Revolutionists against myself. I am Rural Course and brutal, I am the mountain Indian, superior over all. The thundering hoof beats are my horses. The chattering of machine guns' are death to all of me: Yaqui Tarahumara Chamula Zapotec Mestizo Español I have been the Bloody Revolution, The Victor, The Vanquished, I have killed and been killed. I am despots Diaz and Huerta and the apostle of democracy Francisco Madero. I am the black shawled faithful women who die with me or live depending on the time and place. I am faithful, humble, Juan Diego, the Virgen de Guadalupe, Tonatzin, Aztec Goddess too. I rode the mountains of San Joaquin. I rode as far East and North as the Rocky Mountains and all men feared the guns of Joaquin Murrietta. I killed those men who dared to steal my mine, who raped and Killed my Love my Wife Then I Killed to stay alive. I was Alfego. Baca, living my nine lives fully. I was the Espinoza brothers of the Valle de San Luis. All, were added to the number of heads that in the name of civilization were placed on the wall of independence. Heads of brave men who died for cause or principle. Good or Bad. Hidalgo! Zapata! Murrietta! Espinozas! are but a few. They dared to face The force of tyranny of men who rule By farce and hypocrisy I stand here looking back, and now I see the present and still I arn the campesino I am the fat political coyote I, of the same name, Joaquin. In a country that has wiped out AI my history, stiffled all my pride. In a country that has placed a different weight of indignity upon my age old burdened back. Inferiority is the new load . . . The Indian has endured and still emerged the winner, The Mestizo must yet overcome, And the Gachupin will just ignore. I look at myself and see part of me who rejects my father and my mother and dissolves into the melting pot to disappear in shame. I sometimes sell my brother out and reclaim him for my own when society, gives me token leadership in society's own name. I am Joaquin, who bleeds in many ways. The altars of Moctezuma I stained a bloody red. My back of Indian Slavery was stripped crimson from the whips of masters who would lose their blood so pure when Revolution made them pay Standing against the walls of Retribution, Blood . . . Has flowed from me on every battlefield between Campesino, Hacendado Slave and Master and Revolution. I jumped from the tower of Chapultepec into the sea of fame; My country's flag my burial shroud; With Los Niños, whose pride and courage could not surrender with indignity their country's flag . . . in their land. To strangers Now I bleed in some smelly cell from club. or gun. or tyranny. I bleed as the vicious gloves of hunger cut my face and eyes, as I fight my way from stinking Barrios to the glamour of the Ring and lights of fame or mutilated sorrow. My blood runs pure on the ice caked hills of the Alaskan Isles, on the corpse strewn beach of Normandy, the foreign land of Korea and now Viet Nam. Here I stand before the Court of justice Guilty for all the glory of my Raza to be sentenced to despair. Here I stand Poor in money Arrogant with pride Bold with Machismo Rich in courage and Wealthy in spirit and faith My knees are caked with mud. My hands calloused from the hoe. I have made the Anglo rich yet Equality is but a word, the Treaty of Hidalgo has been broken and is but another treacherous promise. My land is lost and stolen, My culture has been raped, lengthen the line at the welfare door and fill the jails with crime. These then are the rewards this society has For sons of Chiefs and Kings and bloody Revolutionists. Who gave a foreign people all their skills and ingenuity to pave the way with Brains and Blood for those hordes of Gold starved Strangers Who changed our language and plagiarized our deeds as feats of valor of their own. They frowned upon our way of life and took what they could use. Our Art Our Literature Our music, they ignored so they left the real things of value and grabbed at their own destruction by their Greed and Avarice They overlooked that cleansing fountain of nature and brotherhood Which is Joaquin. The art of our great señors Diego Rivera Siqueiros Orozco is but another act of revolution for the Salvation of mankind. Mariachi music, the heart and soul of the people of the earth, the life of child, and the happiness of love The Corridos tell the tales of life and death, of tradition, Legends old and new, of Joy of passion and sorrow of the people: who I am. I am in the eyes of woman, sheltered beneath her shawl of black, deep and sorrowful eyes, That bear the pain of sons long buried or dying, Dead on the battlefield or on the barbwire of social strife. Her rosary she prays and fingers endlessly like the family working down a row of beets to turn around and work and work There is no end. Her eyes a mirror of all the warmth and all the love for me, And I am her And she is me. We face life together in sorrow. anger, joy faith and wishful thoughts. I shed tears of anguish as I see my children disappear behind the shroud of mediocrity never to look back to remember me. I am Joaquin. I must fight And win this struggle for my sons, and they must know from me Who I am. Part of the blood that runs deep in me Could not be vanquished by the Moors I defeated them after five hundred years, and I endured. The part of blood that is mine has labored endlessly five-hundred years under the heel of lustful Europeans I am still here! I have endured in the rugged mountains of our country I have survived the toils and slavery, of the fields. I have existed in the barrios of the city, in the suburbs of bigotry, in the mines of social snobbery, in the prisons of dejection, in the muck of exploitation and in the fierce heat of racial hatred. And now the trumpet sounds, The music of the people stirs the Revolution, Like a sleeping giant it slowly rears its head to the sound of Tramping feet Clamouring voices Marlachi strains Fiery tequila explosions The smell of chile verde and Soft brown eyes of expectation for a better life And in all the fertile farm lands, the barren plains, the mountain villages, smoke smeared cities We start to MOVE. La Raza! Mejicano! Español! Latino! Hispano! Chicano! or whatever I call myself, I look the same I feel the same I cry and Sing the same I am the masses of my people and I refuse to be absorbed. I am Joaquin The odds are great but my spirit is strong My faith unbreakable My blood is pure I am Aztec Prince and Christian Christ I SHALL ENDURE! I WILL ENDURE! |
On Monday we will be in the computer lab for 1/2 a period and we will begin viewing a film entitled "Walkout" which we will conclude on Tuesday.
from: http://www.hbo.com/films/walkout/synopsis/
A film with a powerful message that resonates 38 years after the events it depicts occurred, Walkout is the stirring true story of the Chicano students of East LA, who in 1968 staged several dramatic walkouts in their high schools to protest academic prejudice and dire school conditions. Aided by a popular and progressive young teacher, Sal Castro, Paula Crisostomo and a group of young Chicano activists battle parents, teachers, bureaucrats, the police and public opinion to make their point. Along the way, the students learn profound lessons about embracing their own identity and standing up for what they believe in. Set in 1968, a tumultuous year that shook America to its foundation, Walkout is a vivid reminder that people can change the world.
The producers of Walkout have a very personal reason for bringing the drama to the screen. Edward James Olmos was born and raised in East LA, and has long been a strong and supportive advocate for reform among the Mexican-American community. Executive producer Moctesuma Esparza was one of the original 1968 protesters; he is portrayed in this film by Bodie Olmos, Edward James Olmos' son. Several cast members are children of the original protesters, including Esparza's daughter Tonantzin.
A high-profile producer, director, actor and community activist, Edward James Olmos (who directed and appears briefly in the film) has a long history of being involved in film and TV projects that tackle themes of diversity, especially in the Latino community.
The appealing young cast of Walkout is headed by Alexa Vega, who won fame for her role in 2001's hit Spy Kids, as well as the film's two sequels. Walkout also stars Michael Peña (Million Dollar Baby) as Sal Castro, Yancey Arias (Kingpin) as Paula's father Panfilo, and Efren Ramirez (Napoleon Dynamite) as her friend Bobby. Marcus De Leon (The Big Squeeze), Ernie Contreras (Fairy Tale: A True Story) and Timothy J. Sexton (HBO's For Love or Country: The Arturo Sandoval Story) wrote the script; executive producers are Moctesuma Esparza (Selena, The Milagro Beanfield War) and Robert Katz (Gods and Generals); the producer is Lisa Bruce.
We read, viewed, discussed up to the end of Act III of Cyrano de Bergercac.
We will be in the computerlab on Monday to work on making up any missing quizlabs.
In class today, we viewed clips of "The Ballad of Gregorio Cortez" and further read the story. You are now in group that is creating a plot chart/poster for the story. You will have to finish the story on your own to complete the chart.
Monday we will be in the computer lab for 1/2 a class.
"El Corrido de Gregorio Cortez" by Anonymous Translated by Américo Paredes
In the county of El Carmen A great misfortune befell; The major sheriff is dead; Who killed him no one can tell. At two in the afternoon, In half an hour or less, They knew that the man who killed him Had been Gregorio Cortez. They let loose the bloodhound dogs; They followed him from afar. But trying to catch Cortez Was like following a star. All the rangers of the county Were flying, they rode so hard; What they wanted was to get The thousand-dollar reward. And in the county of Kiansis They cornered him after all; Though they were more than three hundred He leaped out of their corral. Then the Major Sheriff said, As if he was going to cry, “Cortez, hand over your weapons; We want to take you alive.” Then said Gregorio Cortez, And his voice was like a bell, “You will never get my weapons Till you put me in a cell.” Then said Gregorio Cortez With his pistol in his hand, “Ah, so many mounted Rangers Just to take one Mexican!” Source:
Reprinted with permission from the University of Texas Press, Austin. From Paredes, Américo. With His Pistol in His Hand
. Austin: University of Texas Press, 1958.
Today in Class we will read two poems:
"The Black Heralds" by Peruvian poet Cesar Vallejo
from "Heights of Machu Picchu" by Pablo Neruda
from "Heights of Macchu Pichu" by Pablo Neruda
From air into air, like an empty net,
I wandered between the streets and the atmosphere, arriving and saying goodbye
in the coming of autumn with its scattered coins
of leaves, and between spring and the ripe wheat,
What the greatest love, as inside a falling
glove, hands over to us like endless moonlight.
Days of live shining in the storminess
of bodies: sharp steel abraded
to acidic silence:
night unraveled down to the last floor:
assaulted stamens in the country of sex.)
Someone awaiting me among the violins
encountered a world like a buried tower
its spiral stairs corkscrewing into the earth
beneath all those leaves the color of hoarse sulfur:
and deeper still, into geologic gold
like a sword sheathed in meteors,
I plunged my turbulent and tender hand
into the most genital of earthly places.
I pressed my face down through the deepest waves,
I sank like a drop through sulfuric stillness
and, as if blind, I groped my way back to the jasmine
of the exhausted springtime of humanity.
-Pablo Neruda
The following is a poem by César Vallejo:
The Black Heralds
There are blows in life, so powerful . . . I don’t know!
Blows as from the hatred of God; as if, facing them,
the undertow of everything suffered
welled up in the soul . . . I don’t know!They are few; but they are . . . They open dark trenches
in the fiercest face and in the strongest back.
Perhaps they are the colts of barbaric Attilas;
or the black heralds sent to us by Death.They are the deep falls of the Christs of the soul,
of some adored faith blasphemed by Destiny.
Those bloodstained blows are the crackling of
bread burning up at the oven door.And man . . . Poor . . . poor! He turns his eyes, as
when a slap on the shoulder summons us;
turns his crazed eyes, and everything lived
wells up, like a pool of guilt, in his look.There are blows in life, so powerful . . . I don’t know!
Monday and Tuesday:
We will be taking the EOCT. The Vietnam War unit assignment extension ends tonight on quizlab.
Wednesday: We will begin reading "The Ballad of Gregorio Cortez"
Monday-We will be in the computer lab today. Today is progress report day. Look over assignments from the Julius Caesar" and "Immigrant Poetry" unit and complete these today.
Tuesday- We will begin studying the play Cyrano de Bergerac.
A synopsis of the play appears below, as well as the files for each act's study guide.
CYRANO DE BERGERAC
A synopsis of the play by Edmond Rostand
| This document was originally published in Minute History of the Drama. Alice B. Fort & Herbert S. Kates. New York: Grosset & Dunlap, 1935. p. 101. |
Download Cyrano de Bergerac
CYRANO DE BERGERAC was produced December 28, 1897, at the Théâtre de la Porte Saint-Martin, Paris, with Constant Coquelin in the title rôle. The American premiere took place on October 3, 1898, in the Garden Theater, New York City, with Richard Mansfield as Cyrano.
CYRANO DE BERGERAC, guardsman and poet, is cursed with an enormous, bulbous, blossoming beak of a nose. To compensate for his fixed belief that no woman can ever love him on account of this affliction, he has made himself renowned in Paris for his personal bravery and the charm of his verse.
Cyrano's beautiful and wealthy cousin, Roxane, is much sought after. When, after a spectacular duel with a man who has been annoying her, Cyrano receives an urgent message from Roxanne, he is encouraged to believe she may actually love him. He finds, however, that she imagines herself in love with the handsome Christian de Neuvillette, newly enlisted brother guardsman in the company of Captain de Castel-Jaloux, and wants Cyrano to bring them together.
Putting aside his own love, Cyrano offers his powers of expression to Christian to assist in winning Roxane. Cyrano's eloquence in the many letters signed by Christian's name and the feeling in his voice as he declares his love under Roxane's balcony one dark night, bring about the marriage of Christian and Roxane just a few minutes before the company is ordered away to the siege of Arras.
Although their company is outnumbered, starving, and facing almost certain death, Roxane daily receives a letter signed with Christian's name. Irresistibly drawn by these letters, Roxane dares to drive through the enemies' lines to reach her Christian's side. When Christian sees the power that another's letters have had over Roxane he suddenly realizes that it is Cyrano and not himself that she really loves. He insists that Cyrano shall tell her the truth and leaves the scene. Before Cyrano has divulged the secret, however, Christian is carried in mortally wounded. When Cyrano whispers in his ear: "I have told her; it is you she loves," Christian dies happy.
After Christian's death Roxane goes to live in a convent and for some fifteen years it has been Cyrano's custom to call each Saturday afternoon on the stroke of three. In spite of innummerable enemies and abject poverty his gay invincible spirit shines forth at these meetings. Then one Saturday as he proceeds to his call, an enemy pushes a log from a window causing it to fall onto his head, breaking his skull. He hides his injury from Roxane, but begs to be allowed to read Christian's last letter which she carries always next to her heart. Only when in the gathering darkness he reads it through unfalteringly does Roxane realize that he was the writer and that through all the years it has been Cyrano that she loved.
Here are the study guides to dowload for each of the five acts:
Download Cyrano_Act_1_guide.doc Act 1
Download Cyrano_Act_2.doc Act 2
Download Cyrano_Act_3.doc Act 3
Today in Class we will read two poems:
"The Black Heralds" by Peruvian poet Cesar Vallejo
from "Heights of Machu Picchu" by Pablo Neruda
from "Heights of Macchu Pichu" by Pablo Neruda
From air into air, like an empty net,
I wandered between the streets and the atmosphere, arriving and saying goodbye
in the coming of autumn with its scattered coins
of leaves, and between spring and the ripe wheat,
What the greatest love, as inside a falling
glove, hands over to us like endless moonlight.
Days of live shining in the storminess
of bodies: sharp steel abraded
to acidic silence:
night unraveled down to the last floor:
assaulted stamens in the country of sex.)
Someone awaiting me among the violins
encountered a world like a buried tower
its spiral stairs corkscrewing into the earth
beneath all those leaves the color of hoarse sulfur:
and deeper still, into geologic gold
like a sword sheathed in meteors,
I plunged my turbulent and tender hand
into the most genital of earthly places.
I pressed my face down through the deepest waves,
I sank like a drop through sulfuric stillness
and, as if blind, I groped my way back to the jasmine
of the exhausted springtime of humanity.
-Pablo Neruda
The following is a poem by César Vallejo:
The Black Heralds
There are blows in life, so powerful . . . I don’t know!
Blows as from the hatred of God; as if, facing them,
the undertow of everything suffered
welled up in the soul . . . I don’t know!They are few; but they are . . . They open dark trenches
in the fiercest face and in the strongest back.
Perhaps they are the colts of barbaric Attilas;
or the black heralds sent to us by Death.They are the deep falls of the Christs of the soul,
of some adored faith blasphemed by Destiny.
Those bloodstained blows are the crackling of
bread burning up at the oven door.And man . . . Poor . . . poor! He turns his eyes, as
when a slap on the shoulder summons us;
turns his crazed eyes, and everything lived
wells up, like a pool of guilt, in his look.There are blows in life, so powerful . . . I don’t know!
We read Luis Rodriguez's poem "Meeting the Animal in Washington Square Park" and viewed another segment of "Real Women Have Curves".
Tommorow we read a poem by Martin Espada:
Smuggled in boxcars through fields of dark morning,
tied to bundles at railroad crossings,
the brown grain of faces dissolved in bus station dim,
immigrants: mexicano, dominicano,
guatemalteco, puertorriqueño, orphans and travelers,
refused permission to use gas station toilets,
beaten for a beer in unseen towns with white porches,
or evaporated without a tombstone in the peaceful grass,
a centipede of hands moving,
hands clutching infants that grieve,
fingers to the crucifix,
hands that labor.
Long past backroads paved with solitude,
hands in the thousands reach for the crop-ground together,
the countless roots of a tree lightning-torn,
capillaries running to a heart of hunger,
tobaccopicker, grapepicker, lettucepicker.
Obscured in the towering white clouds of cities in winter,
thousands are bowing to assembly lines,
frenzied in kitchens and sweatshops,
mopping the vomit of others' children,
leaning into the iron's steam
and the steel mill glowing.
Let there is a pilgrimage,
a history straining its arms and legs,
an inexorable striving,
shouting in Spanish
at the police of city jails
and border checkpoints,
mexicano, dominicano,
guatemalteco, puertorriqueño,
fishermen wading into the North American gloom
to pull a fierce gasping life
from the polluted current.
Martin Espada
We read Luis Rodriguez's poem "Meeting the Animal in Washington Square Park" and viewed another segment of "Real Women Have Curves".
Tomorrow we are in the computer lab prepping for the EOCT.
There is an End of Course Test Review available for American Literature-
go to
The Home page of USA Test Prep appears
go to member log in
User Name: osborne
Password: newton18
A license agreement appears, click agree
Select "English" (on the top right of screen).
We will go to the computer lab on Thursday to review. Lunch A that day.
On Tuesday, we begin a poetry unit focusing on:
the Immigrant experience!
We will also begin studying
"Real Women Have Curves"
Two poems by Pat Mora are available on:
www.quizlab.com or download here:
Download two_poems_by_pat_mora.doc
1st poem- Immigrants
2nd poem-Legal Alien
TPCASTT Template:
On Tuesday, we begin a poetry unit focusing on:
the Immigrant experience!
We will also begin studying
"Real Women Have Curves"
Two poems by Pat Mora are available on:
www.quizlab.com or download here:
Download two_poems_by_pat_mora.doc
1st poem- Immigrants
2nd poem-Legal Alien
TPCASTT Template:
Download the poem by clicking on the lick below:
The plan on Friday was to view two video clips of Julius Caesar's assassination:
one from ABC TV's "Empire" and the other from TNT's "Caesar". Then we were to go outside to practice our Julius Caesar's scripts.
It didn't work out Friday. Block 2-you were not focused outside. Block 4-circumstances dicated that we could not practice.
I am not going to go ahead with a filmed script. We will be going for another type of assessment. Details in class on Monday.
On Monday we will be in the computer lab-Block 2 (full block)/Block 4(1/2 block).
We will be writing a paragraph on the assassination of Julius Caesar.
We read the story "How to Tell a True War Story" in class.
We also saw about 30 minutes of (edited)Platoon in class. We viewed the scene when the platoon explored fox holes and assaulted a Vietnamese village.
Monday we will be in the computerlab.
These documents are to review for the upcoming EOCT:
Download amer_lit_study_guidea_120806.pdf Study Guide A
Download amer20lit20study20guideb20120806.pdf Study Guide B
