What Did the Speaker Learn from Alfonso?
Alfonso I am not the first poet born to my family. We have painters and singers, actors and carpenters.
I inherited my trade from my zio, Alfonso. Zio maybe was the tallest man in the village, he certainly was the widest. He lost his voice to cigarettes before I was born, but still he roared with his hands, his eyes, with his brow, and his deafening
smile.
He worked the sea with my nonno fishing in silence among the grottoes so my father could learn to write and read and not speak like the guaglione, filled with curses and empty pockets.
He would watch me write with wonder, I could hear him on the couch, he looked at the lines over my shoulder, tried to teach himself to read late in the soft Adriatic darkness. Wine-stained pages gave him away.
But I learned to write from Zio He didnt need words, still he taught me the language of silence, the way the sun can describe a shadow, a gesture can paint a moment, a scent could fill an entire village with words and color and sound, a
perfect little grape tomato can be the most beautiful thing in the world, seen through the right eyes.
Marco A. Annunziata (2002)
Reprinted by permission of the author.
In line 5, the speaker says, "I inherited my trade from my zio, Alfonso."What trade did the speaker inherit?
A. paintingWhy Are the Characters Arguing?
[Sophie, the narrator, is talking with Tante Atie.
The first line is spoken by Tante Atie.]
"Do you know why I always wished I could read?" Her teary eyes gazed directly into mine. "I don't know why." I tried to answer as politely as I could. "It was always my dream to read," she said, "so I could read that old Bible under my pillow
and find the answers to everything right there between those pages. What do you think that old Bible would have us do right now, about this moment?" "I don't know," I said.
"How can you not know?" she asked. "You try to tell me there is all wisdom in reading but at a time like this you disappoint me." "You lied!" I shouted. She grabbed both my ears and twisted them until they burned. I stomped my feet and
walked away. As I rushed to bed, I began to take off my clothes so quickly that I almost tore them off my body. The smell of lemon perfume stung my nose as I pulled the sheet over my head. "I did not lie," she said, "I kept a secret, which is
different. I wanted to tell you. I needed time to reconcile myself, to accept it. It was very sudden, just a cassette from Martine saying, I want my daughter, and then as fast as you can put two fingers together to snap, she sends me a plane
ticket with a date on it. I am not even certain that she is doing this properly. Alls he tells me is that she arranged it with a woman who works on the airplane." "Was I ever going to know?" I asked. "I was going to put you to sleep, put you in a
suitcase, and send you to her. One day you would wake up there and you would feel like your whole life here with me was a dream." She tried to force out a laugh, but it didn't make it past her throat.
Edwidge Danticat, from Breath, Eyes, Memory (1998)
What is the relationship between the narrator and Tante Atie?
A. They are sisters.What Is the New Dress Code Policy?
MEMORANDUM
TO:All Employees FROM:Helen Suskind, Director,
Human Resources Department
DATE:March 22, 2005 RE: Implementation of New Dress Code
A new dress code for all employees will take effect on September 1. All employees will be required to wear professional business attire while in the office. In this context, professional business attire excludes T-shirts, sleeveless shirts, shorts,
jeans, athletic attire, miniskirts, sandals, flip-flops, and sneakers. The attached sheet provides a complete list of attire that is inappropriate for the office. Please be sure to review this list carefully.
Violations of the new dress code will be handled as follows:
If you have any questions about the parameters of the dress code, please contact Martin Lamb in Human Resources immediately to schedule an appointment.
It is important that all employees understand the seriousness of this policy. Management based its decision to implement this code upon evidence that the lack of a dress code leads to a decrease in productivity. Our new dress code will help
maintain the reputation and integrity of our company by keeping us aware of the need for professionalism. Thank you for your cooperation.
According to the new policy, employees
A. can wear sandals but not flip-flops.What Has Mrs. Mallard Realized?
[Mrs. Mallard has locked herself in a room and is crying.]
She sat with her head thrown back upon the cushion of the chair, quite motionless, except when a sob came up into her throat and shook her, as a child who has cried itself to sleep continues to sob in its dreams.
She was young, with a fair, calm face, whose lines bespoke repression and even a certain strength. But now there was a dull stare in her eyes, whose gaze was fixed away off yonder on one of those patches of blue sky. It was not a glance of
reflection, but rather indicated a suspension of intelligent thought.
There was something coming to her and she was waiting for it, fearfully. What was it? She did not know; it was too subtle and elusive to name. But she felt it, creeping out of the sky, reaching toward her through the sounds, the scents, the
color that filled the air.
Now her bosom rose and fell tumultuously. She was beginning to recognize this thing that was approaching to possess her, and she was striving to beat it back with her will as powerless as her two white slender hands would have been.
When she abandoned herself a little whispered word escaped her slightly parted lips. She said it over and over under her breath: "free, free, free!" The vacant stare and the look of terror that had followed it went from her eyes. They stayed
keen and bright. Her pulses beat fast, and the coursing blood warmed and relaxed every inch of her body. She did not stop to ask if it were or were not a monstrous joy that held her. A clear and exalted perception enabled her to dismiss the
suggestion as trivial.
She knew that she would weep again when she saw the kind, tender hands folded in death; the face that had never looked save with love upon her, fixed and gray and dead. But she saw beyond that bitter moment a long procession of years
to come that would belong to her absolutely. And she opened and spread her arms out to them in welcome. There would be no one to live for during those coming years; she would live for herself. There would be no powerful will bending hers
in that blind persistence with which men and women believe they have a right to impose a private will upon a fellow-creature. A kind intention or a cruel intention made the act seem no less a crime as she looked upon it in that brief moment of
illumination.
-
Kate Chopin, from "The Story of an Hour" (1894) Why does Mrs. Mallard stop crying and feel joy?
A. She learns her husband is not dead after all.What Happened When He Came to America? My parents lost friends, lost family ties and patterns of mutual assistance, lost rituals and habits and favorite foods, lost any link to an ongoing social milieu, lost a good part of the sense they had of themselves. We lost a house, several towns, various landscapes. We lost documents and pictures and heirlooms, as well as most of our breakable belongings, smashed in the nine packing cases that we took with us to America. We lost connection to a thing larger than ourselves, and as a family failed to make any significant new connection in exchange, so that we were left aground on a sandbar barely big enough for our feet. I lost friends and relatives and stories and familiar comforts and a sense of continuity between home and outside and any sense that I was normal. I lost half a language through want of use and eventually, in my late teens, even lost French as the language of my internal monologue. And I lost a whole network of routes through life that I had just barely glimpsed. Hastening on toward some idea of a future, I only half-realized these losses, and when I did realize I didnt disapprove, and sometimes I actively colluded. At some point, though, I was bound to notice that there was a gulf inside me, with a blanketed form on the other side that hadnt been uncovered in decades. My project of self-invention had been successful, so much so that I had become a sort of hydroponic vegetable, growing soil-free. But I had been formed in another world; everything in me that was essential was owed to immersion in that place, and that time, that I had so effectively renounced. [ . . . . ] Like it or not, each of us is made, less by blood or genes than by a process that is largely accidental, the impact of things seen and heard and smelled and tasted and endured in those few years before our clay hardens. Offhand remarks, things glimpsed in passing, jokes and commonplaces, shop displays and climate and flickering light and textures of walls are all consumed by us and become part of our fiber, just as much as the more obvious effects of upbringing and socialization and intimacy and learning. Every human being is an archeological site. Luc Sante, from The Factory of Facts (1998) In the last sentence of the excerpt, the author writes that "Every human being is an archeological site."What does he mean by this?
A. The environment that formed us is a permanent, if buried, part of us.Why Is the Man Screaming?
Edvard Munch's 1893 painting "The Scream" is a powerful work of art that has true aesthetic value. In its raw depiction of the unavoidable human emotions of alienation, anxiety and fear, "The Scream" invites meaningful introspection as the
viewer internalizes its message of the vulnerability of the human psyche.
"The Scream" is a very dynamic and yet frightening painting. The blood-red sky and eerie water/air seem to be moving and twirling, even enveloping the screaming mans mind as he stands on a bridge completely disregarded by passers-by
who do not share in his horror. Viewers of the painting cannot help but ask:
Why is the man screaming? And why is he alone in is scream? What is he afraid of? Or, what has he realized or seen that is making him scream?
Why arent the others as affected as he? The threat must be internal, yet the brushstrokes, colors and perspective seem to indicate that the horror is also bound to something in nature, something outside of the man. In any case, the agony
and alienation are inescapable. Something horrible has happened or been realized by the man who cannot contain his horror, but has not affected the others on the bridge.
That the people in the background are calm and do not share this horror conveys a truth regarding the ownership of our own feelings. We are often alone in our feelings, as can be especially noticed when we are in pain. The horror is the
mans own; he must carry it himself. In this expressionist piece, the black, red, and orange colors are both bold and dark, illuminating and haunting at the same time. Remarkably, the light from the blood-reds and vibrant oranges in the distant
sky seem to be somewhat detached from the figure in the forefront, failing to reach his persona, suggesting that there is little to illuminate his (and the viewers) fears.
The mans face is nondescript; in fact, it almost looks more like a skull than a living mans face, hollow with two simple dots to indicate the nostrils, no hair, no wrinkles of the skin. This could be any man or woman, left to deal with his or her
own horrors.
According to the author, what is the main effect of viewing this painting?
A. We feel sorry for the screamer.What Is the Author Asking for?
The President in Washington sends word that he wishes to buy our land. But how can you buy or sell the sky? The land? The idea is strange to us. If we do not own the freshness of the air and the sparkle of the water, how can you buy them?
Every part of this earth is sacred to my people. Every shining pine needle, every sandy shore, every mist in dark woods, every meadow, every humming insect. All are holy in the memory and experience of my people.
We know the sap which courses through the trees as we know the blood that courses through our veins. We are part of the earth and it is part of us. The perfumed flowers are our sisters. The bear, the deer, the great eagle, these are our
brothers. The rocky crests, the juices in the meadow, the body heat of the pony, and man, all belong to the same family.
The shining water that moves in the streams and rivers is not just water, but the blood of our ancestors. If we sell you our land, you must remember that it is sacred. Each ghostly reflection in the clear water of the lakes tells of events and
memories in the life of my people. The waters murmur is the voice of my fathers father.
The rivers are our brothers. They quench our thirst. They carry out canoes and feed our children. So you must give to the rivers the kindness you would give any brother. If we sell you our land, remember that the air is precious to us, that the
air shares its spirit with all the life it supports. The wind that gave our grandfather his first breath also receives his last sigh. The wind also gives our children the spirit of life. So, if we sell you our land, you must keep it apart and sacred, as a
place where man can go to taste the wind that is sweetened by the meadow flowers.
Will you teach your children what we have taught our children? That the earth is our mother? What befalls the earth, befalls all sons of the earth. This we know:
The earth does not belong to man, man belongs to the earth. All things are connected like the blood which unites us all.
-
Chief Seattle, from "This We Know" (1854) What is the authors main goal in this essay?
A. to convince the American government not to buy the landHow Does the Speaker Feel about War?
War Is Kind Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind. Because your lover threw wild hands toward the sky And the affrighted steed ran on alone, Do not weep. War is kind.
Hoarse, booming drums of the regiment Little souls who thirst for fight, These men were born to drill and die The unexplained glory flies above them Great is the battle-god, great, and his kingdom
A field where a thousand corpses lie. Do not weep, babe, for war is kind. Because your father tumbled in the yellow trenches, Raged at his breast, gulped and died, Do not weep. War is kind. Swift, blazing flag of the regiment Eagle with crest
of red and gold, These men were born to drill and die Point for them the virtue of slaughter Make plain to them the excellence of killing And a field where a thousand corpses lie.
Mother whose heart hung humble as a button On the bright splendid shroud of your son, Do not weep. War is kind.
Stephen Crane, 1899
Which of the following best conveys the theme of the poem?
A. War is unkind, but necessary.What Happened When He Came to America? My parents lost friends, lost family ties and patterns of mutual assistance, lost rituals and habits and favorite foods, lost any link to an ongoing social milieu, lost a good part of the sense they had of themselves. We lost a house, several towns, various landscapes. We lost documents and pictures and heirlooms, as well as most of our breakable belongings, smashed in the nine packing cases that we took with us to America. We lost connection to a thing larger than ourselves, and as a family failed to make any significant new connection in exchange, so that we were left aground on a sandbar barely big enough for our feet. I lost friends and relatives and stories and familiar comforts and a sense of continuity between home and outside and any sense that I was normal. I lost half a language through want of use and eventually, in my late teens, even lost French as the language of my internal monologue. And I lost a whole network of routes through life that I had just barely glimpsed. Hastening on toward some idea of a future, I only half-realized these losses, and when I did realize I didnt disapprove, and sometimes I actively colluded. At some point, though, I was bound to notice that there was a gulf inside me, with a blanketed form on the other side that hadnt been uncovered in decades. My project of self-invention had been successful, so much so that I had become a sort of hydroponic vegetable, growing soil-free. But I had been formed in another world; everything in me that was essential was owed to immersion in that place, and that time, that I had so effectively renounced. [ . . . . ] Like it or not, each of us is made, less by blood or genes than by a process that is largely accidental, the impact of things seen and heard and smelled and tasted and endured in those few years before our clay hardens. Offhand remarks, things glimpsed in passing, jokes and commonplaces, shop displays and climate and flickering light and textures of walls are all consumed by us and become part of our fiber, just as much as the more obvious effects of upbringing and socialization and intimacy and learning. Every human being is an archeological site. Luc Sante, from The Factory of Facts (1998) When the author came to America, he
A. embraced American culture.What Happened When He Came to America? My parents lost friends, lost family ties and patterns of mutual assistance, lost rituals and habits and favorite foods, lost any link to an ongoing social milieu, lost a good part of the sense they had of themselves. We lost a house, several towns, various landscapes. We lost documents and pictures and heirlooms, as well as most of our breakable belongings, smashed in the nine packing cases that we took with us to America. We lost connection to a thing larger than ourselves, and as a family failed to make any significant new connection in exchange, so that we were left aground on a sandbar barely big enough for our feet. I lost friends and relatives and stories and familiar comforts and a sense of continuity between home and outside and any sense that I was normal. I lost half a language through want of use and eventually, in my late teens, even lost French as the language of my internal monologue. And I lost a whole network of routes through life that I had just barely glimpsed. Hastening on toward some idea of a future, I only half-realized these losses, and when I did realize I didnt disapprove, and sometimes I actively colluded. At some point, though, I was bound to notice that there was a gulf inside me, with a blanketed form on the other side that hadnt been uncovered in decades.My project of self-invention had been successful, so much so that I had become a sort of hydroponic vegetable, growing soil-free. But I had been formed in another world; everything in me that was essential was owed to immersion in that place, and that time, that I had so effectively renounced. [ . . . . ] Like it or not, each of us is made, less by blood or genes than by a process that is largely accidental, the impact of things seen and heard and smelled and tasted and endured in those few years before our clay hardens. Offhand remarks, things glimpsed in passing, jokes and commonplaces, shop displays and climate and flickering light and textures of walls are all consumed by us and become part of our fiber, just as much as the more obvious effects of upbringing and socialization and intimacy and learning. Every human being is an archeological site. Luc Sante, from The Factory of Facts (1998) The author came to America when he was
A. an infant.Nowadays, the certification exams become more and more important and required by more and more enterprises when applying for a job. But how to prepare for the exam effectively? How to prepare for the exam in a short time with less efforts? How to get a ideal result and how to find the most reliable resources? Here on Vcedump.com, you will find all the answers. Vcedump.com provide not only Test Prep exam questions, answers and explanations but also complete assistance on your exam preparation and certification application. If you are confused on your GED-SECTION-4 exam preparations and Test Prep certification application, do not hesitate to visit our Vcedump.com to find your solutions here.