Audio Bio | mysite

Audio Bio -- Draft 1

I am from the bright orange and the deep, leafy green of the patch at the Strawberry Hallow Farm, cool autumn air rustling through the dull, crinkled leaves crunching with every step.

I am from the thick guttural rasp of my grandfather’s voice masked by white whiskers, and the soft spoken spanglish of my grandmother’s broken accent.

I am from the sound of cold ocean waves pounding against weathered rocks, salty ocean spray in the air, and the gentle creak of a hammock swaying back and forth as patches of light seep through the sturdy branches softly warming my skin.

I am from Oops, because its my mother’s favorite word, where making mistakes is the best way to learn.

I am from the racing tires of endless fun on rainy days, from toy tracks, legos, and imaginary lands, where the sky is the limit.

I am from the smell of charred wood after a roaring fire, from the radiating heat of the glowing coals on a cold winter night, snuggled up in a fuzzy blanket, with the beat of a small heart in my lap.

I am from exploring the world and taking risks

I am from the patch at the Strawberry Hallow Farm, cool autumn air rustling through the dull, crinkled leaves crunching with every step.

Process and Reflection

At the beginning of the process, I thought that I wanted to continue with the format of the"I am from" poem, so I decided that it would be interesting to record a version of my poem, and try adding some slight background noises (which seem to be too subtle in this recording)

I then revised my previous draft of the recording by editing my poem, adding different background noises (making them a bit louder too), and then re-recording.

Although I may have added more content to the entirety of the poem, I am still lacking something that is revealing about myself- or something that I can use to tell my audience more about myself without revealing too much.

I realized that it might be better to steer clear from using the "I am from" poem template because I am struggling to weave in a truth or understanding about myself, and that my story would be better told with a simple memory of my relationship with my grandparents.

I think that one of the hardest parts about the recording and editing process is finding suitable background music to fit the tone of my voice and the rhythm at which I speak.

I think that the overall feeling of the sound of the story would have been more authentic had it not been scripted or previously thought about- almost as if someone asks you to tell them a story- there is something that just sounds "real" about it being unedited or scripted because you don't really have time to think about it- it just flows

Audio Bio -- Draft 2

I am from the bright orange and the deep, leafy green of the patch at the Strawberry Hallow Farm, cool autumn air rustling through the dull, crinkled leaves crunching with every step.

(crunch of leaves in fall)

I am from the thick guttural rasp of my grandfather’s voice masked by white whiskers, and the soft spoken spanglish of my grandmother’s broken accent.

(record pop’s voice from messages and play in background)

(crashing waves and creak of hammock)

I am from the racing tires of endless fun on rainy days, from toy tracks, legos, and imaginary lands, where the sky is the limit.

(kids playing with hot wheels and imaginary play)

(crack and pop of a fire and heart beat)

I am from the endless pinches of the Novocain needle numbing my mouth, from the hum of a metallic drill, and the screech as it scrapes against my teeth, from inexhaustible hours in a chair restoring a broken smile

(dentist drill)

I am from exploring the world and taking risks

I am from Oops, because its my mother’s favorite word, where making mistakes is the best way to learn.

I am from the sails of newspaper boats drifting down streams, fighting to stay afloat in the rushing water, driven by the powerful current, praying to avoid the anchored rocks looking to sink them

(running stream)

I am from all these memories and many more...

I am from the patch at the Strawberry Hallow Farm, cool autumn air rustling through the dull, crinkled leaves crunching with every step.

(crunch of leaves in fall)

Audio Bio -- Final Draft

They were living in a weathered house in Milford, Connecticut, a suburban beach city-with its shopping malls and rocky beaches- to the train tracks we rode into New York City when we had a weekend here or there. They lived in Woodstock, in a big green-shingled house that overlooked the Sound, and by the park that my brother and I would play at when we came to visit. It did not look like much, but it was the thread that tied together a close-nit family, a bond that not many people shared.

I walked into the house and saw my grandfather on his plaid couch reading the paper. "Hi Pops," I exclaimed whole heartedly, though I was tired from a long day of high school. As he moved the paper, I made out a smile from the white whiskers and wrinkles that covered his face. "Hello my amazing grandson," he joked as he stood with open arms, ready to greet me as he did every Thursday afternoon when I arrived for dinner. As I turned the corner, I saw my grandmother by the stove, "hi Irms," I said as I wrapped my arms around her short figure. "How was your day," she asked in soft broken-English, with an argentine accent. "It was good," I replied, then she kissed me on the cheek.

After my grandmother filled or plates with Guiso, the three of us sat at the table talking and laughing. Gosh they were so sweet and so much fun to be around. I learned so much about life and culture from the stories that they would tell me at our weekly dinners, just the three of us.

“Thanks Irms, it was delicious” I said, as I stood up to clean my plate that was smeared in what was left over of a devoured Guiso. As I turned away from the sink, my scruffy, wild-haired, skin-and-boned grandfather, who had gone back to reading on his couch, looked up from one of his weathered encyclopedias. He stood with excitement as his thick guttural German voice exclaimed in a Spanish accent, “C’mon, I invite you to a cup of coffee!” Knowing that I had much homework to do that would surely last the rest of the night and run into the early hours of the morning, I was hesitant, but I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to share another little moment with someone who I admired and looked up to so much. “Alright, let’s go!” I answered, as we walked out to the car.

As we pulled into the lot of the plaza his face lit up with joy as he saw his “office,” or as most people would see it, the local Dunkin’ Donuts. The crisp smell of freshly ground coffee beans and sweet scent of sugar filled the air as we walked through the door. Pops ordered his usual, “coffee, small, cream and sugar, poppy seed bagel, light butter.” After I ordered too, he asked for the senior citizen discount as he always did, and then he fumbled around in his wallet for a few dollars. Before he looked up, I had already given my card to the woman at the counter. He was almost eighty years old, and still working. Tool-and-die-maker by trade, he worked in a junk yard, selling scrap parts to put food on the table, and to enjoy his little Dunkin' Donuts moments. It did not feel right to let him pay, and I was a young, eighteen year-old, who made some money bussing tables all summer, so I only thought it right to treat him. When he looked up from his wallet to see that I had already paid, he looked at me with grateful eyes, whispered thank you, and put his arm around me. Before we sat, he introduced me to practically everyone in the place, no matter if he knew them or not, so that they all knew that I was his grandson.

"How's your brother?" he asked as we sat at a hi-top by the window. "He's good," I said, "he's doing his engineering co-op in Maryland." "Ahh, that's right," he said, then paused to take a sip out of his steaming coffee. He took a moment, stared out the window, and then took a bite out of his bagel. "How I miss Argentina" he exclaimed in a longing tone. "Ahh you would love it there, I wanna take you. We would sneak out early before anyone would wake up and would walk to the bakery to buy some medialunas for the girls, and then stop and have a cup of coffee, you and me. I have to take you to el Tigre too- and we also have to take the little boat across the river," then he made a sound of a boat engine to further my imagination. He could talk for hours about Argentina, and anything that popped into his mind. Where most would be in a rush, I didn't mind, I loved listening to him. It was like getting a window into his crazy mind that not many people understood. As he took his last sip of coffee, I cleaned our little spot, where the poppy seeds had fallen from his bagel. Then we headed back to the car.

When we got back to the house I said my goodbyes to both Pops and Irms. As I got in the car and buckled my seatbelt, I began thinking about the night, and the moments that I got to share with my grandparents. Although I still had so much work to do, I realized that it wasn't worth the time that I got to spend with pops and Irms. They were getting old and I wasn't sure how much longer they would be around, but by taking the time to be with them, I would be able to hold on to the memories of the moments that I shared with them, so that when they would pass, I wouldn't need any possession to remember them by. I would never give up all the time in the world to do homework, for the memories that I now possessed, and long after they would be gone, these would be the memories that would give me the strength to continue living without them.

By the time I finished thinking to myself, I had pulled in the driveway, turned off the car, smiled, and headed inside to tackle the mountain of homework that waited my arrival.