|Perfect Number of Pages to Order||5-10 Pages|
Randy Travis Uses Hexagonal Thinking
To access the shared Google doc, click on this link: ( when you working on this google slide, please do for Thao, I write down the name already, just need to find and to the hexagonal, thanks)
https://docs.google.com/presentation/d/1M-EgI-ac7tTMRs8pto6CBjvqtSDAFwC0PEHuQn49hS4/edit#slide=id.gda7a8cf595 0 65
Randy Travis is a short story that you should read.
Make a list of ten terms that are related to the short story (you can use characters, symbols, themes, important words).
On a hexagonal thinking template, write these terms (like the one we have used, over the past two weeks, in class).
Choose one of your links (two terms that are related to one another) and describe it in a paragraph. A mark breakdown can be found in the Dropbox.
Please save your paragraph in the Hexagonal Thinking Dropbox once you’ve finished it.
Souvankham Thammavongsa’s “Randy Travis”
How to Pronounce Knife (from the Short Story Collection)
1. My mother’s sole positive impression of the new country we were living in was its music. As part of the refugee resettlement program’s welcome gift, we were given a little radio. Snow leggings, mi@ens, and new underwear were among the other goods in the box, but it was the radio that she treasured the most. A metal box with a dial for tuning in to a few stations. There were only three 7cks left on the volume bu@on before it couldn’t move any further to the right. She listened to the radio by holding it up to her ear like a seashell. Between songs, the host would say a few words and perhaps laugh. A chuckle was a laugh in any language. His laugh was soft, private, and inviting. You got the impression that he, too, was alone. She listened to the radio regularly when I was at school and my father was at work, grateful for the sound of a human voice and the music that kept her company.
2. My mother particularly enjoyed American country music because it reminded her of the way her family’s women conversed. It was strangely familiar. The pleadings, the gossip, the big city fantasies, and what it was like to come from a place that no one had ever heard of. The songs always told a story, whether it was about heartbreak or love, and how someone can swear to love you forever and ever, Amen. My mother had no idea what Amen meant, but she assumed it was a phrase used at the end of a sentence to indicate that it was ended. At the corner grocery store, she would exclaim, “Three apples, Amen.” Because of this, our neighbors mistook my mother for a religious figure, and despite the fact that our family was Buddhist, she rode with them to church every Sunday. She was easy to make friends with, quick to grin, and never shied away from practicing her English.
3. She told us that during church, they ate one cracker and drank one drink of red wine, and that for the rest of the 7me, a man was talking. He stated something that she didn’t understand, but he said it for a long 7me. She would take up the thick book in front of her seat and open it sometimes merely to keep her hands occupied. Despite the fact that she didn’t comprehend what they were singing, she moved her lips. It was just as it had been at the ci7zenship ceremony. You had to move your lips whether or not you comprehended the oath you took.
4. After a while, she seemed to lose interest in going for some reason. She didn’t explain why.
5. My father wanted to buy something that wasn’t a necessity when he got his first income. We had relocated to a new country. We might fantasize of owning something lavish. My mother recommended getting him a car so he wouldn’t have to ride the bus to work, but it was out of our budget. They considered going to a posh restaurant like the ones their friends recommended, but they decided against it.
The manner the steaks were cooked, large slabs fried in bu@er, was not to my liking. At the meal, there was no fish sauce with spicy spices and herbs. They discussed getting a wooden bed frame to set their ma@ress on, but beds were meant to be used for sleeping, not for display. My father could have purchased a variety of items with his first salary, but he ultimately chose a record player. It was a luxury item in Laos that only the wealthy could afford.
6. My mother adored the amount of control she had over the record player. She had to wait for what she wanted to hear on the radio. She might not hear her favorite music again for days. She could now place the needle on the black disc and watch it spin, listening to her favorite music whenever she wished. She didn’t listen to the radio again after that.
7. She filmed the country music award events later, when we could afford a TV and a VCR. She’d cry out her choice for the winner once the nominations were read. If she got any of the winners wrong, she would memorize them and watch the broadcast again, yelling out the correct names. Dolly Parton always chose the nominee she was nominated for, and she was always correct. I won! she’d exclaim. I couldn’t figure out why she did that. She’d only succeeded in being correct.
8. Randy Travis’ songs were among my mother’s favorites. She would rapidly press the Record button whenever she saw a new Randy Travis music video on television, and everything else would fade from her thoughts. She’d kneel with her face against the screen, then reach over and press the Rewind and Play buttons, watching him sing over and over. The labels on the bu@ons started to fade and disappear after a while.
9. She didn’t care for the things she did around the house at the time. The laundry would be done, but the clothing would still be hanging out, and the dishes would be scrubbed but not dried or put away. Then she came across frozen dinners. They might be warmed up in a matter of minutes. And for a 7me, these dinners were my favorites. At home, it was what all of my buddies ate. Mash potatoes and corn, as well as steak and roast chicken, were all favorites of mine. My father, however, did not. Papaya salad, padaek, pickled cabbage, blood sausage, and s7cky rice were on his menu. However, those delicacies took days to create, and procuring the materials necessitated long bus excursions to Chinatown’s market. Fermenting fish sauce, pickling, chopping up a whole chicken into its parts, and soaking rice to soWen it all took 7 minutes. My mother had set aside time to listen to Randy Travis sing.
10. Randy Travis was nothing like my father. No one knew who he was or what he made a living doing. He never said the word “love” or displayed any emotion. He gave my mum a few twenty-dollar bills for her birthday. There wasn’t even a birthday card or a night out planned. He believed that simply being present was enough to demonstrate his affection. He mistook his silence for love, just as he mistook his control for love. It was shameless to speak it out loud, to flaunt it so blatantly. He thought it was silly that she was whining so much about love. With his health, what type of man was Randy Travis?
that he should ever have anything to grieve about because of his looks, fame, and wealth?
11. My mother gave me some money one morning to go out and buy one of those adolescent Bop magazines so we could discover Randy Travis’ mailing address in the back. She pulled out a card with a pink heart on the front, but she urged me to write a greeting to him for her because she couldn’t read or write English. I couldn’t think of anything to say. I was maybe seven years old at the time. What could I possibly know about the language of grownup love at that point? I remained there, unable to even begin a reply to him, while she wrapped a few strands of her hair around a finger and burst into little fits of laughter. I didn’t like how she was acting, and I was worried about what would happen if Randy Travis responded.
12. As a result, I wrote, “I don’t like you.”
13. My mum would have no idea what I’d written.
14. I informed her that, like his song, I’d written I love you forever and ever.
15. She gave a small smile and then signed her name beneath it.
16. We kept sending these cards to Randy Travis, even though no one ever responded, and my mother urged we keep sending them. I was trying to come up with anything to write when I remembered what individuals had written in the restroom at school or spray-painted on the brick outside our building. You’re unattractive. Return to your home. Loser. Before she signed her name on the card, sealed it inside an envelope, and dropped it down into the dark slot of the mailbox at the corner of our street, I didn’t even get a chance to write anything. My mother was always hoping to receive something back, so we must have sent out hundreds of these cards, spending money on stamps and envelopes. She claimed that it was no different than what she had done to enter the country.
17. Of course, I told my father about our plans, hoping that he would be able to put an end to her fixation. It had gotten out of hand, geYng. I had declined to help her any longer, claiming I had homework in the hopes of stopping the le@ers, but she continued to mail them on her own, with only her name on the envelope. One of the cards was shown to my father. He made a gesture toward her signature. He smiled and remarked to my mother, “Randy Travis reads English.” It looked like pretzels, loopy and kno@ed. When he looks at your name, he’ll see a doodle. Who knows what they truly do at the address you got. For all we know, the cards may end up in the trash.
18. My mother, on the other hand, continued to send such cards with her name written in Lao. Randy Travis was all she could think about, and she couldn’t stop talking about him. Oh, I suppose Randy Travis knows how to fix that, my mother replied when the pipe in the kitchen sink blocked and my father couldn’t figure out how to fix it.
I bet Randy Travis would like to have supper with me, she’d say aloud over dinner as she gazed out the window at the sky, the moon, the sun, or a cloud, thinking, Randy Travis could be looking at the very same thing I’m looking at right now. ‘Wherever he is,’ I say.
19. My father eventually grew tired of hearing about Randy Travis, and he finally told her that the man was famous and that our paths would never cross. He doesn’t even know who I am.