This essay is supposed to be a process analysis paper, and there is supposed to be a larger underlying symbol or metaphor behind this essay. My process analysis is how to dress well, and I wrote this process through a personal narrative. My underlying message is that people are too quick too judge on appearance. I would really appreciate it if you can proofread this essay for grammatical errors and say if my underlying message is clear in the essay.
We had always attended several Indian weddings in conventions centers located all throughout Louisiana. Everyone usually wore traditional Indian clothing. The males had worn a kurta, a two-piece relaxed outfit that consisted of trousers and a thin shirt extending down to the the knees. However, I have never owned a kurta. I was more engrossed in American culture than Indian culture and didn't mind wearing a westernized outfit -the suit-for formal occasions. Little did I know that what was considered normal apparel by me would be considered strange apparel by other Indian boys, whom all later judged me rather quickly from my first appearance.
My mother knew how to dress well because she was a careful observer of the gamut of styles. She knew which clothing matched and, conversely, what clothing didn't match. She had pointed out numerous times to other family members of their conflicting outfit. "It is important to dress well; people will judge you based on how you look." my mother said. To me, my appearance mattered very little. I still played, ran, got dirty regardless of the clothing I wore.
She juxtaposed the two button dress-down shirts in the air by her hands, deciding which she liked better. She placed my blue, oxford dress-shirt back in the closet and laid my white shirt on the side of my bed. Then, she instinctively took out my khaki and black slacks and placed them side-by-side beneath my shirt. Taking a step back, she looks at the combinations. Slowly, she took both pants and placed my pants my waist level one at a time. She faintly whispered to herself, but I could still hear her. "Which looks better on youuuuuu...?" she repeatedly whispered to herself. A short burst of "Ahhh!!" subsequently followed. She had chosen the black slacks and immediately discarded my khaki pants back into the closet. I watched my mother in confusion all-throughout the process; she knew what she was doing, though she acted weird in the process. If I lost interest in her process to choose clothing, then she would make certain to gain my attention again. I quickly grew tired of watching her; I ran to the corner of my room, where my box of toys was located, and pulled out my remote-controlled car. Abruptly a loud voice in Guajarati rings in the room, "No, Sagar come back here!" She was serious; she only talks in Gujarati when something needs to be heard. Without hesitation, I gloomily walked to my mom, dragging my feet. I disliked watching my mom choose my clothing, especially if she took her time in the process. She stopped looking at me and resumed her work, as if nothing had happened. She took two ties out of the closer and placed them at my arms. "Momma, what are you doing?" I asked in bewilderment. She claimed to observe which tie complements my skin color. She chose the red tie and placed it on top of my white oxford shirt. She then looked at the combination of clothing and nodded; she had liked the outfit. A few seconds later, she took a hangar from my closet and hung my pants and then hung my shirt and tie on it, later placing the hangar back on the rack. She looked at me. "Tomorrow, I will wake you up and you will take a shower. Scrub good. Goodnight." She turned off the lights, and I walked into bed. I was thinking about tomorrow's wedding; they are a sure way of destroying any kid's liveliness. I dreaded the wedding. But, at least I was done picking my clothing for tomorrow.
The lights immediately turn-on; my mother had woken me up. I pleaded for five more minutes of sleep, but I was not granted such permission. I got out of bed and felt groggy. Walking to my bathroom with my eyes closed, I turned on the shower and denuded my clothes. I lavishly dabbed shampoo on my hair and again soap on my body. When I finished, I jumped out of the tub and wrapped my waist with a towel. I zoomed to my room and put on my white briefs. Then, I walked back to the bathroom, got a toothbrush, and brushed my teeth. I moved the brush in small circular motions. I did not want to be seen with remnants of food between my teeth. After I finished brushing, I took my deodorant stick and applied it to my underarms. Finally, I took out my special cologne: the Superman cologne. This cologne had always done wonders for me. Done with cleaning myself up, I was ready to dress myself.
I fastened half of the buttons on my shirt, when my mom came in and corrected me. "No, Sagar, button it right." she told me. She again emphasized the importance of dress well-it was for making good first impressions with others. She didn't give me time to fix my shirt; she fastened all the buttons on my dress shirt, including the top-collar button. She checked if she had missed any buttons and then buttoned my cuffs. I took my pants off the hangar and put them on me, tucking in my shirt inside my pants and then finally clipped on my red tie. She handed me a pair of black socks and I put them on, extending them as high as they allowed. She handed me my final apparel: my blazer. I put both my arms in the jacket and pulled it one me. Sometimes, the jacket didn't fit right, so I rotated my arms in a circular motion, making sure I was comfortable in it. With my outfit ready, only a few things remained.
My Mickey Mouse watch had sentimental value; everywhere I went, my watch went too. I needed the watch for this occasion too, so I went to my nightstand and took my Mickey Mouse watch, strapping it around my arm. My mother came into my room and put in an Indian gold bracelet around my other free wrist. As she put it on me, she accentuated to never take off the bracelet. She tightened the small buckle clip on the brace and then attempted to lightly take it off my wrist by pulling it. We were done and she brought me over to the bathroom mirror. "Are your pants zipped? Are all the buttons buttoned? Are your shoe laces tied? Smile." I disregarded her statements and just nodded. We were off to the wedding.
When my family and I arrived at a big community center, my parents separated from me. I knew they had wanted me to play with the other kids, but I wasn't in the mood to play just yet. I walked slowly over to the other kids, all of whom were wearing kutras. As I slowly crept up to them, they all stopped talking to each other and looked at me. I immediately noticed the bold contrast of my attire with their attire -all of them had worn traditional kutras. I had heard a girl ask a boy why I was wearing a suit. Feeling isolated, I casually walked away. My hands were in my pocket and I looked down to the ground. I had thought that my apparel didn't match their qualification for being Indian enough. After merely walking away for a couple of seconds, one boy nicely invited me to throw a football with him outside of the center. I excitedly agreed; I loved football. The other Indian kids stared at us in discontent. Moments into throwing the football with each other, we talked about what our favorite sport is and what class we liked at school -the general get-to-know questions. We both immediately found out that we had several interests in common and started to enjoy each other's company. Within fifth teen minutes, another boy asked to join. And another boy. And another boy. And several more. We had enough boys to start a touch-football game. I played as wide-receiver and amazed the boys. As we played further into the game, the other boys realized, that despite their quick first judgement of me, I was like them, like Indian.
We had always attended several Indian weddings in conventions centers located all throughout Louisiana. Everyone usually wore traditional Indian clothing. The males had worn a kurta, a two-piece relaxed outfit that consisted of trousers and a thin shirt extending down to the the knees. However, I have never owned a kurta. I was more engrossed in American culture than Indian culture and didn't mind wearing a westernized outfit -the suit-for formal occasions. Little did I know that what was considered normal apparel by me would be considered strange apparel by other Indian boys, whom all later judged me rather quickly from my first appearance.
My mother knew how to dress well because she was a careful observer of the gamut of styles. She knew which clothing matched and, conversely, what clothing didn't match. She had pointed out numerous times to other family members of their conflicting outfit. "It is important to dress well; people will judge you based on how you look." my mother said. To me, my appearance mattered very little. I still played, ran, got dirty regardless of the clothing I wore.
She juxtaposed the two button dress-down shirts in the air by her hands, deciding which she liked better. She placed my blue, oxford dress-shirt back in the closet and laid my white shirt on the side of my bed. Then, she instinctively took out my khaki and black slacks and placed them side-by-side beneath my shirt. Taking a step back, she looks at the combinations. Slowly, she took both pants and placed my pants my waist level one at a time. She faintly whispered to herself, but I could still hear her. "Which looks better on youuuuuu...?" she repeatedly whispered to herself. A short burst of "Ahhh!!" subsequently followed. She had chosen the black slacks and immediately discarded my khaki pants back into the closet. I watched my mother in confusion all-throughout the process; she knew what she was doing, though she acted weird in the process. If I lost interest in her process to choose clothing, then she would make certain to gain my attention again. I quickly grew tired of watching her; I ran to the corner of my room, where my box of toys was located, and pulled out my remote-controlled car. Abruptly a loud voice in Guajarati rings in the room, "No, Sagar come back here!" She was serious; she only talks in Gujarati when something needs to be heard. Without hesitation, I gloomily walked to my mom, dragging my feet. I disliked watching my mom choose my clothing, especially if she took her time in the process. She stopped looking at me and resumed her work, as if nothing had happened. She took two ties out of the closer and placed them at my arms. "Momma, what are you doing?" I asked in bewilderment. She claimed to observe which tie complements my skin color. She chose the red tie and placed it on top of my white oxford shirt. She then looked at the combination of clothing and nodded; she had liked the outfit. A few seconds later, she took a hangar from my closet and hung my pants and then hung my shirt and tie on it, later placing the hangar back on the rack. She looked at me. "Tomorrow, I will wake you up and you will take a shower. Scrub good. Goodnight." She turned off the lights, and I walked into bed. I was thinking about tomorrow's wedding; they are a sure way of destroying any kid's liveliness. I dreaded the wedding. But, at least I was done picking my clothing for tomorrow.
The lights immediately turn-on; my mother had woken me up. I pleaded for five more minutes of sleep, but I was not granted such permission. I got out of bed and felt groggy. Walking to my bathroom with my eyes closed, I turned on the shower and denuded my clothes. I lavishly dabbed shampoo on my hair and again soap on my body. When I finished, I jumped out of the tub and wrapped my waist with a towel. I zoomed to my room and put on my white briefs. Then, I walked back to the bathroom, got a toothbrush, and brushed my teeth. I moved the brush in small circular motions. I did not want to be seen with remnants of food between my teeth. After I finished brushing, I took my deodorant stick and applied it to my underarms. Finally, I took out my special cologne: the Superman cologne. This cologne had always done wonders for me. Done with cleaning myself up, I was ready to dress myself.
I fastened half of the buttons on my shirt, when my mom came in and corrected me. "No, Sagar, button it right." she told me. She again emphasized the importance of dress well-it was for making good first impressions with others. She didn't give me time to fix my shirt; she fastened all the buttons on my dress shirt, including the top-collar button. She checked if she had missed any buttons and then buttoned my cuffs. I took my pants off the hangar and put them on me, tucking in my shirt inside my pants and then finally clipped on my red tie. She handed me a pair of black socks and I put them on, extending them as high as they allowed. She handed me my final apparel: my blazer. I put both my arms in the jacket and pulled it one me. Sometimes, the jacket didn't fit right, so I rotated my arms in a circular motion, making sure I was comfortable in it. With my outfit ready, only a few things remained.
My Mickey Mouse watch had sentimental value; everywhere I went, my watch went too. I needed the watch for this occasion too, so I went to my nightstand and took my Mickey Mouse watch, strapping it around my arm. My mother came into my room and put in an Indian gold bracelet around my other free wrist. As she put it on me, she accentuated to never take off the bracelet. She tightened the small buckle clip on the brace and then attempted to lightly take it off my wrist by pulling it. We were done and she brought me over to the bathroom mirror. "Are your pants zipped? Are all the buttons buttoned? Are your shoe laces tied? Smile." I disregarded her statements and just nodded. We were off to the wedding.
When my family and I arrived at a big community center, my parents separated from me. I knew they had wanted me to play with the other kids, but I wasn't in the mood to play just yet. I walked slowly over to the other kids, all of whom were wearing kutras. As I slowly crept up to them, they all stopped talking to each other and looked at me. I immediately noticed the bold contrast of my attire with their attire -all of them had worn traditional kutras. I had heard a girl ask a boy why I was wearing a suit. Feeling isolated, I casually walked away. My hands were in my pocket and I looked down to the ground. I had thought that my apparel didn't match their qualification for being Indian enough. After merely walking away for a couple of seconds, one boy nicely invited me to throw a football with him outside of the center. I excitedly agreed; I loved football. The other Indian kids stared at us in discontent. Moments into throwing the football with each other, we talked about what our favorite sport is and what class we liked at school -the general get-to-know questions. We both immediately found out that we had several interests in common and started to enjoy each other's company. Within fifth teen minutes, another boy asked to join. And another boy. And another boy. And several more. We had enough boys to start a touch-football game. I played as wide-receiver and amazed the boys. As we played further into the game, the other boys realized, that despite their quick first judgement of me, I was like them, like Indian.
