Please read term 3 and 4 .Follow the instruction of file doc
Speak Quotation Term 3 and 4 1. Find the context of the term and I have separate 2 quotation each box , you need to do interpretation and connect for each one of those ( minimum 25 words for each box) 2. You will find full quotation in term 3 (95-119) and do same exactly format of #1 ( speaker , context, 2 quote to quote ( from full quotation), interpretation and connection) Term 4 : You will do same exactly format with 2 of these .However you will find another and analysis 1. "But you got it wrong. The suffragettes were all about speaking up, screaming for their rights. You can't speak up for your right to be silent. That's letting the bad guys win." 2. "He's not chopping it down. He's saving it. Those branches were long dead from disease. All plants are like that. By cutting off the damage, you make it possible for the tree to grow again. You watch--by the end of summer, this tree will be the strongest on the block. Here some requirement: Novels by Laurie Halse Anderson Speak Fever 1793 Catalyst Prom S P E A K LAURIE H A L S E A N D E R S O N T F I R S T M A R K I N G P E R I O D W E L C O M E T O M E R R Y W E A T H E R H I G H It is my first morning of high school. I have seven new note- books, a skirt I hate, and a stomachache. The school bus wheezes to my corner. The door opens and I step up. I am the first pickup of the day. The driver pulls away from the curb while I stand in the aisle. Where to sit? I've never been a backseat wasteease. If I sit in the middle, a stranger could sit next to me. If I sit in the front, it will make me look like a little kid, but I figure it's the best chance I have to make eye contact with one of my friends, if any of them have decided to talk to me yet. The bus picks up students in groups of four or five. As they walk down the aisle, people who were my middle-school lab partners or gym buddies glare at me. I close my eyes. This is what I've been dreading. As we leave the last stop, I am the only person sitting alone. The driver downshifts to drag us over the hills. The engine clanks, which makes the guys in the back holler something obscene. Someone is wearing too much cologne. I try to open my window, but the little latches won't move. A guy behind me unwraps his breakfast and shoots the wrapper at the back of my head. It bounces into my lap—a Ho-Ho. We pass janitors painting over the sign in front of the high school. The school board has decided that "Merryweather 3 High—Home of the Trojans" didn't send a strong abstinence message, so they have transformed us into the Blue Devils. Better the Devil you know than the Trojan you don't, I guess. School colors will stay purple and gray. The board didn't want to spring for new uniforms. Older students are allowed to roam until the bell, but ninth- graders are herded into the auditorium. We fall into clans: Jocks, Country Clubbers, Idiot Savants, Cheerleaders, Human Waste, Eurotrash, Future Fascists of America, Big Hair Chix, the Marthas, Suffering Artists, Thespians, Goths, Shredders. I am clanless. I wasted the last weeks of August watching bad cartoons. I didn't go to the mall, the lake, or the pool, or an- swer the phone. I have entered high school with the wrong hair, the wrong clothes, the wrong attitude. And I don't have anyone to sit with. I am Outcast. There is no point looking for my ex-friends. Our clan, the Plain Janes, has splintered and the pieces are being absorbed by rival factions. Nicole lounges with the Jocks, comparing scars from summer league sports. Ivy floats between the Suf- fering Artists on one side of the aisle and the Thespians on the other. She has enough personality to travel with two packs. Jessica has moved to Nevada. No real loss. She was mostly Ivy's friend, anyway. The kids behind me laugh so loud I know they're laughing about me. I can't help myself. I turn around. It's Rachel, sur- rounded by a bunch of kids wearing clothes that most defi- nitely did not come from the EastSide Mall. Rachel Bruin, my 4 ex-best friend. She stares at something above my left ear. Words climb up my throat. This was the girl who suffered through Brownies with me, who taught me how to swim, who understood about my parents, who didn't make fun of my bedroom. If there is anyone in the entire galaxy I am dying to tell what really happened, it's Rachel. My throat burns. Her eyes meet mine for a second. "I hate you," she mouths silently. She turns her back to me and laughs with her friends. I bite my lip. I am not going to think about it. It was ugly, but it's over, and I'm not going to think about it. My lip bleeds a little. It tastes like metal. I need to sit down. I stand in the center aisle of the auditorium, a wounded zebra in a National Geographic special, looking for someone, any- one, to sit next to. A predator approaches: gray jock buzz cut, whistle around a neck thicker than his head. Probably a social studies teacher, hired to coach a blood sport. Mr. Neck: "Sit ." I grab a seat. Another wounded zebra turns and smiles at me. She's packing at least five grand worth of orthodontia, but has great shoes. "I 'm Heather from Ohio," she says. "I 'm new here. Are you?" I don't have time to answer. The lights dim and the indoctrination begins. T H E FIRST T E N LIES T H E Y T E L L Y O U IN HIGH S C H O O L 1. We are here to help you. 2. You will have enough time to get to your class before the bell rings. 3. The dress code will be enforced. 5 4. No smoking is allowed on school grounds. 5. Our football team will win the championship this year. 6. We expect more of you here. 7. Guidance counselors are always available to listen. 8. Your schedule was created with your needs in mind. 9. Your locker combination is private. 10. These will be the years you look back on fondly. My first class is biology. I can't find it and get my first demerit for wandering the hall. It is 8:50 in the morning. Only 6 9 9 days and 7 class periods until graduation. O U R T E A C H E R S A R E T H E B E S T . . . My English teacher has no face. She has uncombed stringy hair that droops on her shoulders. The hair is black from her part to her ears and then neon orange to the frizzy ends. I can't decide if she had pissed off her hairdresser or is morph- ing into a monarch butterfly. I call her Hairwoman. Hairwoman wastes twenty minutes taking attendance because she won't look at us. She keeps her head bent over her desk so the hair flops in front of her face. She spends the rest of class writing on the board and speaking to the flag about our re- quired reading. She wants us to write in our class journals every day, but promises not to read them. I write about how weird she is. We have journals in social studies, too. The school must have gotten a good price on journals. We are studying American 6 history for the ninth time in nine years. Another review of map skills, one week of Native Americans, Christ- opher Columbus in time for Columbus Day, the Pilgrims in time for Thanksgiving. Every year they say we're going to get right up to the present, but we always get stuck in the Indus- trial Revolution. We got to World War I in seventh grade— who knew there had been a war with the whole world? We need more holidays to keep the social studies teachers on track. My social studies teacher is Mr. Neck, the same guy who growled at me to sit down in the auditorium. He remembers me fondly. "I got my eye on you. Front row." Nice seeing you again, too. I bet he suffers from post-traumatic stress disorder. Vietnam or Iraq—one of those TV wars. S P O T L I G H T I find my locker after social studies. The lock sticks a little, but I open it. I dive into the stream of fourth-period lunch stu- dents and swim down the hall to the cafeteria. I know enough not to bring lunch on the first day of high school. There is no way of telling what the acceptable fashion will be. Brown bags—humble testament to suburbia, or ter- minal geek gear? Insulated lunch bags—hip way to save the planet, or sign of an overinvolved mother? Buying is the only solution. And it gives me time to scan the cafeteria for a friendly face or an inconspicuous corner. 7 The hot lunch is turkey with reconstituted dried mashed pota- toes and gravy, a damp green vegetable, and a cookie. I'm not sure how to order anything else, so I just slide my tray along and let the lunch drones fill it. This eight-foot