Bronchitis

Apparently, I have bronchitis. It has settled deep in my lungs. Now that I know it is there, I can almost feel it. I try to take in a deep breath, but my lungs constrict before I can. A cough forces its way out my throat, sending a burning through my lungs. I slap a hand to my collarbone as if that will somehow heal me. Swallowing the burning, I wince. Swim practice has been especially difficult. The chlorine floods down my throat, adding to the burning. I gasp in air after a swim set, my rasping breaths capturing the attention of the people around me. I awkwardly glance down at the water and try to get my breathing under control. My face gets hot, from embarrassment, fever, or lack of oxygen I have no idea. I can tell that my skin is turning a brilliant shade of red.

"You doing okay?" my friend asks.

"Yep, I'm fine," I try to say, but my words come out in a harsh whisper. I try again, flashing a smile that I hope is convincing. She nods uncertainly. Gulping in another breath of air, I force the smile to stay plastered on my face, reminding myself that I will be just fine later.

Ethnography Culture

The culture of El Burrito Mercado is definitely Mexican. Pinatas twirl from the ceiling and Spanish works of art hang from the walls. The designs on the tiles behind the counter have a Hispanic look to them. As I looked closer, I notice that the design is a cross. Perhaps this is because a predominant religion in Spanish culture is Catholicism. Some of the workers have Catholic crosses dangling from their necks. In the background, a meat saw can be heard from the Deli. I remind myself to go look at it, but as usual, I forget. I'm too caught up in the wild color of the place. Yellows, oranges, and reds are splashed everywhere. In fact, the whole store itself is yellow. And outside, a Linus statue stands proudly. A sombrero is perched on Linus's head, and his blanket and clothing have been decorated. Even the tabletops at El Burrito Mercado are decorated. And the metal of the chairs has been twisted into ornate patterns. An archway marks the entrance to the Cafe, with the silhouettes of the signature El Burrito Mercado donkey pressed into it.

Laughter

Many people say that laughter is special. That it is the best medicine. That it can heal. That it is powerful. I guess I see that. It always feels good to laugh. That is, unless you are laughing so hard you honestly think you are going to die. Laughter is something to be shared with friends and family. Or maybe you share it with someone who isn't necessarily your friend, but through that experience, the two of you become closer friends than you were before. People have different ways of laughing, I've noticed. Some laugh silently, with just their shoulders shaking. Others have shrieking laughs that bounce off the corners of walls. Some people laugh under their breath, and some people laugh uncontrollably. And sometimes, people laugh until they cry. I've always wondered why that is. Why are tears produced? Because you are laughing so hard that your stomach hurts to the point of tears? The tears are worth it, though, because laughter really is a special thing. It can change a day from good to bad, if you let it.

Setting Description Practice

I glance around my living room, searching for my Calculus book. The piano in the corner holds many textbooks, but not mine. Piano sheets and Geography books litter the smooth black piano bench. The white keys shine, slightly dulled by many fingerprints. The card table in the center of the room has the equipment for my brother's science experiment covering almost every inch of the dark surface. A small windmill and voltmeter are displayed, and cardboard boxes and sheets of paper are strewn about. The white and brown string of carpet on the floor stretch toward the ceiling. The Champlin Park Red Hot Rebel Read book is laying in the corner and my brother's homework has been tossed beside it. I sigh and prepare to move down the stairs. No Calculus book here.

Character Description Practice

My little brother smashes into me from behind. I spin around, a retort ready to slip off my tongue. He grins up at me, smiling so hard his eyes are squeezed shut. His braces, which he recently had put on, reflect the nearby lamp. His blond hair is, as usual, sticking up in places, despite the careful effort of my mother get it to lay flat. His sweatshirt is zipped up to his neck, and it definitely does not match his black pants. His socks have holes ripped through the toes, but he still refuses to throw them away. He creates such a ridiculous picture that my retort is instantly lost.

"What?" I ask simply, reaching to continue typing.

"Hi," he shrieks before bounding away. I shake my head and position my fingers back on the keyboard, wondering how long it will be before he does the same thing again. Sure enough, two minutes later, I feel something barrel into me, nearly knocking me off my chair. He blinks innocently up at me, and once again, I lose my retort.

Enthnography Practice

"Nice to meet you," Ana nods at us warily. She watches us through large eyes under her tight bun. She seems shy as she speaks with us, but as she steps back behind the counter, she instantly appears to be comfortable. She laughs with the other workers throughout the night, and seems to get over the awkwardness of having us watch her and her co-workers. In fact, it is Maria and I who feel more awkward by the end of the night; we have spent an hour staring at them. We cringe a bit in our metal seats, but they laugh easily. I trace the shining tiles on the tabletops, trying to avoid making awkward eye contact with anyone. Ana sweeps crumbs off of her red El Burrito Mercado shirt, glancing over at us as if she had forgotten we were there.

Ethnography Practice

I glance at the hundreds of skeleton decorations lining the shelves of El Burrito Mercado, symbols of El Dia de los Muertos. Beside them are tables set up for eating, their tiled surfaces polished and pristine. I slide into one of the elaborate dark metal chairs, trying to take in everything. The aroma of rice, beans, and meat slips through the air along with the smoke from behind the cafe counter. Colorful pinatas hang from the ceiling in neat rows. Hispanic artwork, such as pottery and paintings, lines the walls. Cheerful Spanish music plays in the background, calling everyone to clap their hands. Underneath my fingertips are delicately designed tiles that have been pressed into the table. The tiles catch the glint of the warm lights above, reflecting it back at me. Behind the counter of the cafe, the workers joke with each other in Spanish. Their laughter sounds over the music, causing me to look back up. They have a short break, as there are no customers. Even as they are washing dishes, they are smiling and talking excitedly. Even my four years of Spanish do not allow me to follow their animated conversation. A costumer approaches the counter and the workers automatically switch modes. They are now still smiling, but focused on the costumer. As soon as he takes his food and leaves, the mood changes back to jokes and laughter. A worker in the standard red shirt and black pants calls to another worker as he washes out a tray. Another worker dressed in all black scoops up the floor rug, still snickering as she walks past. It's almost as if they don't notice they are working!