CCSS.ELA-LITERACY.RL.9-10.3

By Anonymous (not verified), 12 March, 2026

Warm-Up for Analyzing Literature

You arrive at the lunch table only to discover that your friends are chattering excitedly about something that happened in class. You, of course, want "the full story": Who was involved? What happened? Where and when? Why did it happen? How?

Every story, whether told around the lunch table or written in a work of literature, contains those basic elements:

By Anonymous (not verified), 12 March, 2026

Reading a Personal Essay

You've probably written many personal narratives over the course of your schooling, but this may be your first personal essay. Instead of focusing on one brief event in your life, you will focus on a series of events over a longer period. As a result, you'll need to be selective about what events you report, and you'll need to tie them together so that they create a clear narrative arc. You can get a sense of how to do so by reading another student's personal essay.

Reading a Student Model

Read the following personal essay, in which Carson reflects on a winter of discontent and the surprising creative outlet that he discovered. Note how he zooms in to specific events with description and dialogue before zooming out with transition sentences to show the progress of time. Click on the side notes to see the different features of this personal essay.

Teaching Tip

This is a long personal essay, and some less-experienced students might feel daunted by it. They are often worried about what the page count or word count should be for their own writing. Put them at ease. The length of the narrative doesn't matter, only that it tells a compelling story about a significant period that changed who they are. Tell students to take as much—or as little—space as they need to tell their stories. Also encourage them to dig in to the events, showing readers just what this time period meant to them.

The Climb

The Climb I have this fear. It causes my legs to shake. I break out in a cold sweat. I start jabbering to anyone who is nearby. As thoughts of certain death run through my mind, the world appears a precious, treasured place. I imagine my own funeral, then shrink back at the implications of where my thoughts are taking me. My stomach feels strange. My palms are clammy. I am terrified of heights. Of course, it’s not really a fear of being in a high place. Rather, it is the view of a long way to fall, of rocks far below me and no firm wall between me and the edge.

The Boy with Chris Pine Blue Eyes

The Boy with Chris Pine Blue Eyes High school alone is the hardest part of any teenager’s life, but when it gets mixed in with an awkward adolescent’s idea of liking someone, life turns into a whirlwind emotional adventure. Like my plate wasn’t overflowing already with a chemistry teacher who called me “Crash” (a name I acquired after dropping a beaker during our first lab), a sassy algebra teacher who said that I didn't have the aptitude for the subject, or a French teacher who flirted with the class and laughed at her own jokes.

It’s a Boy!

It’s a Boy! “Congratulations, you have a new baby boy!” my child-development teacher said as she handed over the 10-pound bundle. Last year in my high school child-development class, each student had to take the “Think-It-Over” baby home for a night to get a taste of parenthood. Even before I received the baby, I knew I was not ready to be a parent as a senior in high school. I could still remember when my brother and sister were little and I would have to take care of them all the time.

Take Me to Casablanca

Take Me to Casablanca My day in Africa was one I’ll not soon forget. I toured two major cities of Morocco—land of mystery, enticement, and enchantment. I was expecting belly dancers, snake charmers, and many exotic sights filled with color and intricate decoration. While I did see some of what I expected, the majority of what I saw was totally unexpected and will haunt me forever. As I boarded the ship that was to take me across the Mediterranean Sea to the northern shores of Morocco, I felt an array of mixed emotions. Mainly, I was excited.

My Greatest Instrument

My Greatest Instrument Some people express themselves through beautiful art; others are masters of the page and speak silently through writing. I, on the other hand, express myself with the greatest instrument I have, my voice. I make my living by speaking to groups large and small. Nothing gives me more satisfaction than public speaking, and my interest in public speaking began when I was quite young. At age eight I realized that I belonged in front of an audience.

Snapshots

Snapshots Most of the snapshots of my life are held in the photo albums of my mind. Some were captured by a camera, and those pictures I keep in a shoebox under my bed. I’m lucky to have “shoebox photos” of the earliest things I can remember. For example, three days after my third birthday, Katherine Emily arrived. I remember my dad taking me to see my new baby sister; we stopped at a gas station on the way to the hospital and bought my mom candy and a cola. That day, the camera caught the tiny smile only a big sister could have as she holds one of the best birthday presents ever.

H’s Hickory Chips

H’s Hickory Chips I look at the old tin building; it seems to have been there since the beginning of time. Its strong posts and nonchalant slouch make me wonder if it will be rooted in the same place forever. As soon as I walk in, the strong, rustic smell of hickory wood assails me. It takes me back to my family’s last Fourth of July barbeque, when the hickory chips smoking the ribs gave off their thick aroma. I wait for my eyes to adjust in the dark, humid place, not taking a step until they do because of the ageless spider that could have made its home in my path.

The House on Medford Avenue

The House on Medford Avenue I have lived in three places in my entire life. The first home I remember living in was mis abuelos house. I lived in the upper flat of their duplex until I was three years old. My brother was fifteen years old, and my sister was six years old. I am the youngest in my small family. We moved out of that house because mi abuela and my mother were not getting along very well. They argued constantly, screaming so loudly that the neighbor’s windows started to shake. When we left, we only moved 20 blocks away.

CCSS.ELA-LITERACY.RL.9-10.3