Write a personal essay, entitled “_ and Me.” (Fill in the blank

Write a personal essay, entitled “_ and Me.” (Fill in the blank with whatever you choose to write about).
This assignment calls for some personal creativity and life writing (or autobiographical storytelling).
Remember, we (the class) are your audience. You need to give us enough details, and express enough of your interiority, for us to feel what you were feeling, and care about your experience. Remember to appeal to pathos.
When possible, use dialogue (so that readers experience a specific conversation that you had, related to the experience).
Remember to use descriptive details and concrete images. What other effective devices did you notice Alexie using in “Superman and Me”?
You should annotate “Superman and Me” but you do not have to (and should not) write about these readings.
You are writing your own personal essay, about something slightly humorous (a hero, an actor, a character, a pet, a food, a product, a game, and so on) that has had an impact on your sense of identity.
First do the readings (“Superman and Me” and “Orange Crush”). These are examples of the kind of personal essay you are expected to write. 
Write a personal essay same as “Superman and me” with your own experience of childhood
You can create any situation between “me and ______”.
Write 1250 words.
No references are required but must follow APA style format.
Use your own words do not copy and paste from someone work.
“Superman and me” essay is attached below.
Superman and Me  
Sherman Alexie  
I learned to read with a Superman comic book. Simple enough, I suppose. I  cannot recall which particular Superman comic book I read, nor can I remember which  villain he fought in that issue. I cannot remember the plot, nor the means by which I  obtained the comic book. What I can remember is this: I was 3 years old, a Spokane  Indian boy living with his family on the Spokane Indian Reservation in eastern  Washington state. We were poor by most standards, but one of my parents usually  managed to find some minimum-wage job or another, which made us middle-class by  reservation standards. I had a brother and three sisters. We lived on a combination of  irregular paychecks, hope, fear and government surplus food.  
 My father, who is one of the few Indians who went to Catholic school on purpose,  was an avid reader of westerns, spy thrillers, murder mysteries, gangster epics,  basketball player biographies and anything else he could find. He bought his books by  the pound at Dutch’s Pawn Shop, Goodwill, Salvation Army and Value Village. When he  had extra money, he bought new novels at supermarkets, convenience stores and  hospital gift shops. Our house was filled with books. They were stacked in crazy piles in  the bathroom, bedrooms and living room. In a fit of unemployment-inspired creative  energy, my father built a set of bookshelves and soon filled them with a random  assortment of books about the Kennedy assassination, Watergate, the Vietnam War and  the entire 23-book series of the Apache westerns. My father loved books, and since I  loved my father with an aching devotion, I decided to love books as well.  
 I can remember picking up my father’s books before I could read. The words  themselves were mostly foreign, but I still remember the exact moment when I first  understood, with a sudden clarity, the purpose of a paragraph. I didn’t have the  vocabulary to say “paragraph,” but I realized that a paragraph was a fence that held  words. The words inside a paragraph worked together for a common purpose. They had  some specific reason for being inside the same fence. This knowledge delighted me. I  began to think of everything in terms of paragraphs. Our reservation was a small  paragraph within the United States. My family’s house was a paragraph, distinct from the  other paragraphs of the LeBrets to the north, the Fords to our south and the Tribal  School to the west. Inside our house, each family member existed as a separate  paragraph but still had genetics and common experiences to link us. Now, using this 
logic, I can see my changed family as an essay of seven paragraphs: mother, father,  older brother, the deceased sister, my younger twin sisters and our adopted little brother.  
 At the same time I was seeing the world in paragraphs, I also picked up that  Superman comic book. Each panel, complete with picture, dialogue and narrative was a  three-dimensional paragraph. In one panel, Superman breaks through a door. His suit is  red, blue and yellow. The brown door shatters into many pieces. I look at the narrative  above the picture. I cannot read the words, but I assume it tells me that “Superman is  breaking down the door.” Aloud, I pretend to read the words and say, “Superman is  breaking down the door.” Words, dialogue, also float out of Superman’s mouth. Because  he is breaking down the door, I assume he says, “I am breaking down the door.” Once  again, I pretend to read the words and say aloud, “I am breaking down the door” In this  way, I learned to read.  
 This might be an interesting story all by itself. A little Indian boy teaches himself  to read at an early age and advances quickly. He reads “Grapes of Wrath” in  kindergarten when other children are struggling through “Dick and Jane.” If he’d been  anything but an Indian boy living on the reservation, he might have been called a  prodigy. But he is an Indian boy living on the reservation and is simply an oddity. He  grows into a man who often speaks of his childhood in the third-person, as if it will  somehow dull the pain and make him sound more modest about his talents.  
 A smart Indian is a dangerous person, widely feared and ridiculed by Indians and  non-Indians alike. I fought with my classmates on a daily basis. They wanted me to stay  quiet when the non-Indian teacher asked for answers, for volunteers, for help. We were  Indian children who were expected to be stupid. Most lived up to those expectations  inside the classroom but subverted them on the outside. They struggled with basic  reading in school but could remember how to sing a few dozen powwow songs. They  were monosyllabic in front of their non-Indian teachers but could tell complicated stories  and jokes at the dinner table. They submissively ducked their heads when confronted by  a non-Indian adult but would slug it out with the Indian bully who was 10 years older. As  Indian children, we were expected to fail in the non-Indian world. Those who failed were  ceremonially accepted by other Indians and appropriately pitied by non-Indians.  
 I refused to fail. I was smart. I was arrogant. I was lucky. I read books late into  the night, until I could barely keep my eyes open. I read books at recess, then during  lunch, and in the few minutes left after I had finished my classroom assignments. I read 
books in the car when my family traveled to powwows or basketball games. In shopping  malls, I ran to the bookstores and read bits and pieces of as many books as I could. I  read the books my father brought home from the pawnshops and secondhand. I read the  books I borrowed from the library. I read the backs of cereal boxes. I read the  newspaper. I read the bulletins posted on the walls of the school, the clinic, the tribal  offices, the post office. I read junk mail. I read auto-repair manuals. I read magazines. I  read anything that had words and paragraphs. I read with equal parts joy and  desperation. I loved those books, but I also knew that love had only one purpose. I was  trying to save my life.  
 Despite all the books I read, I am still surprised I became a writer. I was going to  be a pediatrician. These days, I write novels, short stories, and poems. I visit schools  and teach creative writing to Indian kids. In all my years in the reservation school  system, I was never taught how to write poetry, short stories or novels. I was certainly  never taught that Indians wrote poetry, short stories and novels. Writing was something  beyond Indians. I cannot recall a single time that a guest teacher visited the reservation.  There must have been visiting teachers. Who were they? Where are they now? Do they  exist? I visit the schools as often as possible. The Indian kids crowd the classroom.  Many are writing their own poems, short stories and novels. They have read my books.  They have read many other books. They look at me with bright eyes and arrogant  wonder. They are trying to save their lives. Then there are the sullen and already  defeated Indian kids who sit in the back rows and ignore me with theatrical precision.  The pages of their notebooks are empty. They carry neither pencil nor pen. They stare  out the window. They refuse and resist. “Books,” I say to them. “Books,” I say. I throw  my weight against their locked doors. The door holds. I am smart. I am arrogant. I am  lucky. I am trying to save our lives.

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