Final Draft Essay 1

Crystal Miranda

Professor Hayes

English 1A.15

08 October 2013

Essay 1: Placing Oneself, Final Draft

Word Count: 843

After the After Party

The Sunday after a party at my Aunt Josy’s and Uncle Luis’ house in Atwater is always lazy and relaxed. It begins as the morning glow starts to peek through the battered, red drapes and into the living room, exposing makeshift beds in which my cousins and I will nurse our hangovers until noon. From here, I have a clear view of the kitchen because there is no wall to separate it from the living room. My Aunt Josy is always the first one awake and the kitchen is her first destination. She spends all morning compulsively making eggs, French toast, and reheating the dinner from the night before. Around 8:30 am, my dad emerges from one of the bedrooms and quietly makes his way to the door, closing it slowly behind him so no one is woken up. When he returns, he will have two pink boxes filled with doughnuts, a tradition he started and continues to honor. The people who have to work that day hastily try to step around us as they prepare for the two-hour drive back to the Bay Area.

As the frosty morning fades into a humid afternoon, the last of us finally wake up. Some of us gather around the counter table, reliving the night before through each other’s vicarious tales over milk, doughnuts, and anything else we might find on the cluttered countertop. The counter table is surrounded by only three wooden stools, so most of us stand while we eat. Two Yorkies scavenge the area around our feet, hoping for the careless among us to spill a few crumbs. My cousin Alonzo, their owner, has to keep calling them away from us, fearing that they might ingest something that could make them sick. Eventually, he gets up from the couch he has been monopolizing, scoops them both into one of his arms, and lays back on the couch with them. When we are finished eating, some of us lay down on our blankets again while the rest of us sit on the other couch. Both couches are worn down, not from maltreatment, but from years of my aunt and uncle’s generous hospitality.

The house remains dim throughout most of the afternoon, with the only light sources shining from the windows and a single light in the kitchen. The dull lighting makes the temperature of the house seem cooler, a refuge from the sweltering Central Valley weather for us Bay Area natives. Outside, the children play in the pool. My brother Christian and some of my cousins usually join them. A couple of my aunts and uncles sit under the shade of a tree and chat while they babysit the younger children. My two other brothers, Bruno and Raffi, sit on the old porch swing that leans against the house and faces the pool. Bruno gently tickles the strings of an acoustic guitar as he attempts to figure out the chords to the Mexican songs my uncles drunkenly wailed the night before. Raffi helps him by softly humming the melodies.

Figure 1. Bruno plays guitar.

I spend the rest of the afternoon in the living room, accompanied by the others who chose not to spend their day baking under the scorching sun. The television is turned on, but no one is watching because our conversations are more entertaining. I remember lying on the couch once with my legs propped up on my cousin Ruby’s thighs. I was clutching my stomach on the off chance that it would keep me from vomiting. The night before, we had been celebrating my cousin Janette’s graduation from San Francisco State University, making her the second person in our extended family to earn a bachelor’s degree. I had also turned twenty-one only a month and a half prior to the event, making it the first time I was able to drink with my family. Naturally, I overdid it, and was paying for it the next day. My cousin Renato told us all about how I had eaten carnitas, which is roasted pork, and cried for the pig who had given its life just so that I could enjoy one meal. My Aunt Lleya mentioned that we had formed a mosh pit in which only a few of us were able to keep our balance. I was able to forge a rough picture of the previous night as more people offered their humorous anecdotes, but that was the day I decided that I would enjoy these moments more if I could actually remember the stories myself.

As the afternoon drifts into early evening, more people start heading home. The house slowly becomes quieter and lonelier. My dad, brothers, and I are usually among the last to leave. Reluctantly, we stuff our backpacks and suitcases in our car and thank my aunt and uncle for everything they have done for us. As we drive away and their house is hidden behind an array of trees, I am already looking forward to the next party that will be followed by the Sundays like these.

Works Cited

Avelar, Renato. "Bruno and his Guitar." 2012. JPEG file.