12.21.23

(1) When the doctor suggested surgery and 

a brace for all my youngest years, 

my parents scrambled to take me 

to massage therapy, deep tissue work,

(5) osteopathy, 1 and soon my crooked spine unspooled a bit, I could breathe again, 

and move more in a body unclouded 

by pain. My mom would tell me to sing 

songs to her the whole forty-five minute 

(10) drive to Middle Two Rock Road and forty five minutes back from physical therapy.

In lines 9-11, what is the effect on the speaker repeating the phrase "forty-five minute(s)?"

• It reveals that the speaker was an observant child.

• It illustrates how slowly the speaker's mother had to drive.

• It shows how hard it was for the family to find good medical care.

• It emphasizes how long and routine the drives became for the family.

She’d say, even my voice sounded unfettered2 by my spine afterward. So I sang and sang, 

because I thought she liked it. I never 

(15) asked her what she gave up to drive me, 

or how her day was before this chore. Today, 

at her age, I was driving myself home from yet 

another spine appointment, singing along 

to some maudlin3 but solid song on the radio, 

(20) and I saw a mom take her raincoat off 

and give it to her young daughter when 

a storm took over the afternoon. My god, 

I thought, my whole life I’ve been under her 

raincoat thinking it was somehow a marvel4

that I never got wet.

Which line(s) from the poem most likely support the mother’s efforts to care for her daughter? Choose 2 options.   

• When the doctor suggested surgery (lines 1-2)

• I thought, my whole life I’ve been under her raincoat (lines 23-24)

• My mom would tell me to sing songs to her the whole forty-five minutes drive (lines 8-10)

• I saw a mom take her raincoat off. (line 20)

(1) When the doctor suggested surgery and 

a brace for all my youngest years, 

my parents scrambled to take me 

to massage therapy, deep tissue work,

(5) osteopathy, 1 and soon my crooked spine unspooled a bit, I could breathe again, 

and move more in a body unclouded 

by pain. My mom would tell me to sing 

songs to her the whole forty-five minute 

(10) drive to Middle Two Rock Road and forty five minutes back from physical therapy. She’d say, even my voice sounded unfettered2 by my spine afterward. So I sang and sang, 

because I thought she liked it. I never 

(15) asked her what she gave up to drive me, 

or how her day was before this chore. Today, 

at her age, I was driving myself home from yet 

another spine appointment, singing along 

to some maudlin3 but solid song on the radio, 

(20) and I saw a mom take her raincoat off 

and give it to her young daughter when 

a storm took over the afternoon. My god, 

I thought, my whole life I’ve been under her 

raincoat thinking it was somehow a marvel4

that I never got wet.

Explain how the speaker portrays the role of the mother in “The Raincoat.” Use evidence from the text to support your answer.

Sentence Frame- The author portrays the role of the mother as…

Answer explanation

The author portrays the role of the mother as someone who made sacrifices for her daughter.

(1) I don’t like turkey. I mean, I do. But I don’t like it on Thanksgiving. I don’t need it. There are about 20 other dishes that get put on a table or a counter or that stay warming on the stove that I’d rather eat than turkey. 

But every year, there the turkey is. And every year, I fork some into a valley I built for it amid hillocks of the other (better) food on my plate. I have to, for this symbol, this trussed monument to guilt. The turkey lived. A farmer took the turkey’s life. (You at least hope a farmer did it.) Now I must eat it. 

A week before Thanksgiving, my mother bought the turkey, frozen. Then she froze it some more. Then she let it thaw and cleaned it — and I mean really cleaned it, because nobody wanted a “dirty bird.” She salt-and-peppered the turkey, buttered, paprika-ed and nominally1 stuffed it. 

This was Wednesday morning. Afterward, she’d let it sit and get to work on the dozen and a half dishes that I like more than turkey. It was a grueling trial for one woman. Eventually she acquired a helper, and the trial became grueling for one woman and her son. But Stephanie Mills was on. “The Price Is Right” was on. “Mrs. Miniver” was on. (“Mrs. Miniver” was always on.)2 They were anesthesia for the dicing and quartering and halving and grinding and shredding and peeling and smashing and lifting and stirring and tasting and washing and rinsing (and rinsing, and rinsing). 

(5) My mother didn’t bother with too much nonprocedural speaking. Over the years the rhythms of her knifework spoke to the nervous violence of mine. She’d sing, “I Feel Good All Over.” She’d tell contestants they overbid on their showcase. She’d make me re-mince piles of onions. 

By the way: all of this for a party of, really, who knows how many people, since large family meals tend to operate within a teeth-sucking margin of error. Aunt Carol might bring Cousin Johnny. Cynthia might bring her boyfriend and his kids. Granny might mash some turnips. “Might” mutated into the four-letter word of Thanksgiving cooking. And my mother neither forgave nor forgot the profanity. I came to understand cooking as relentless busyness in pursuit of results — results that people might show up to enjoy. A turkey had little to do with all of that activity. All a turkey does is sit: fridge, counter, oven, plate, stomach. Yet its importance to the resulting meal mocks the effort expended to produce it. 

Meanwhile, there are few shortcuts that you can’t taste. We don’t yet call it “Thxgvng,” because any holiday whose centerpiece sits in an oven for four to six hours, after having sat out for as long to reach room temperature, must be spelled all the way out. Cook a turkey. You’ll see. This is to say that, you’re not just roasting a turkey, obviously. You’re roasting history and tradition and hope and civility. You’re roasting gratitude and all of that. But history is a crapshoot. 

My mother very rarely skipped a Thanksgiving turkey. And yet none of them ever tasted quite the same, landing somewhere on a sliding scale of succulence. She’d try new methods. She bought a roasting oven just for this turkey. We were a family of recipe-users. But the cookbooks were in our genes. My mother was never satisfied with the entry she inherited for this one. 

Every other dish, every single year — gravy, coleslaw, macaroni and cheese, creamed pearl onions, greens, candied sweet potatoes, stuffing, a ham (I could go on) — had an address that never changed. You could rely on them for the comfort certain foods provide. Her brother Aamir would take a couple of bites and pretend to be dying — of happiness. (Fifteen minutes later, he’d be sunk into an armchair, felled by deliciousness.)

Which paragraph from the passage supports a common theme found in both texts?

• 1. It was a grueling trial for one woman. (para 4) 

• 1. My mother didn’t bother with too much nonprocedural speaking. (para 5) 

• I don’t like turkey. (para 1)

• Every other dish, every single year — gravy, coleslaw, macaroni and cheese, creamed pearl onions, greens, candied sweet potatoes, stuffing, a ham (I could go on) — had an address that never changed. (para 9)

Which statement best describes a theme found in the poem that is NOT found in the passage?

• Sacrifices for Those We Love

• New Perspectives

• Mother-Daughter Relationship

• Spending time with family

Explain how the poem and passage are similar in their exploration on the idea of appreciating mothers.    

Sentence Frame- The poem and passage are similar in their exploration on the idea of appreciating mothers because…

Answer explanation

The poem and passage are similar in their exploration on the idea of appreciating mothers, because both the poem and passage explain interactions with mother’s through certain events during childhood. Those interactions eventually lead to a deeper understanding and appreciation of mothers and their sacrifices.

The Raincoat 

By Ada Limón 

Ada Limón's poem "The Raincoat" is included in her book of poetry, The Carrying. In this poem, she describes her experiences and time spent with her mother. As you read, take notes on how the poet’s use of diction, or word choice, informs the speaker’s perspective. 

(1) When the doctor suggested surgery and a brace for all my youngest years, my parents scrambled to take me 

to massage therapy, deep tissue work,

(5) osteopathy, 1 and soon my crooked spine unspooled a bit, I could breathe again, 

and move more in a body unclouded 

by pain. My mom would tell me to sing 

songs to her the whole forty-five minute 

(10) drive to Middle Two Rock Road and forty five minutes back from physical therapy. She’d say, even my voice sounded unfettered2 by my spine afterward. So I sang and sang, 

because I thought she liked it. I never 

(15) asked her what she gave up to drive me, 

or how her day was before this chore. Today, 

at her age, I was driving myself home from yet 

another spine appointment, singing along 

to some maudlin3 but solid song on the radio, 

(20) and I saw a mom take her raincoat off 

and give it to her young daughter when 

a storm took over the afternoon. My god, 

I thought, my whole life I’ve been under her 

raincoat thinking it was somehow a marvel4

that I never got wet. 

Turkey: The One Essential Guest 

By Wesley Morris 

Wesley Morris is an American film critic for The New York Times. In this essay, he reflects on an important part of his family's Thanksgiving celebration. As you read, take notes on how the author feels about the Thanksgiving turkey. (1) I don’t like turkey. I mean, I do. But I don’t like it on Thanksgiving. I don’t need it. There are about 20 other dishes that get put on a table or a counter or that stay warming on the stove that I’d rather eat than turkey.  But every year, there the turkey is. And every year, I fork some into a valley I built for it amid hillocks of the other (better) food on my plate. I have to, for this symbol, this trussed monument to guilt. The turkey lived. A farmer took the turkey’s life. (You at least hope a farmer did it.) Now I must eat it.  A week before Thanksgiving, my mother bought the turkey, frozen. Then she froze it some more. Then she let it thaw and cleaned it — and I mean really cleaned it, because nobody wanted a “dirty bird.” She salt-and-peppered the turkey, buttered, paprika-ed and nominally1 stuffed it. This was Wednesday morning. Afterward, she’d let it sit and get to work on the dozen and a half dishes that I like more than turkey. It was a grueling trial for one woman. Eventually she acquired a helper, and the trial became grueling for one woman and her son. But Stephanie Mills was on. “The Price Is Right” was on. “Mrs. Miniver” was on. (“Mrs. Miniver” was always on.)2 They were anesthesia for the dicing and quartering and halving and grinding and shredding and peeling and smashing and lifting and stirring and tasting and washing and rinsing (and rinsing, and rinsing).  (5) My mother didn’t bother with too much nonprocedural speaking. Over the years the rhythms of her knifework spoke to the nervous violence of mine. She’d sing, “I Feel Good All Over.” She’d tell contestants they overbid on their showcase. She’d make me re-mince piles of onions. By the way: all of this for a party of, really, who knows how many people, since large family meals tend to operate within a teeth-sucking margin of error. Aunt Carol might bring Cousin Johnny. Cynthia might bring her boyfriend and his kids. Granny might mash some turnips. “Might” mutated into the four-letter word of Thanksgiving cooking. And my mother neither forgave nor forgot the profanity. I came to understand cooking as relentless busyness in pursuit of results — results that people might show up to enjoy. A turkey had little to do with all of that activity. All a turkey does is sit: fridge, counter, oven, plate, stomach. Yet its importance to the resulting meal mocks the effort expended to produce it. 

Meanwhile, there are few shortcuts that you can’t taste. We don’t yet call it “Thxgvng,” because any holiday whose centerpiece sits in an oven for four to six hours, after having sat out for as long to reach room temperature, must be spelled all the way out. Cook a turkey. You’ll see. This is to say that, you’re not just roasting a turkey, obviously. You’re roasting history and tradition and hope and civility. You’re roasting gratitude and all of that. But history is a crapshoot.  My mother very rarely skipped a Thanksgiving turkey. And yet none of them ever tasted quite the same, landing somewhere on a sliding scale of succulence. She’d try new methods. She bought a roasting oven just for this turkey. We were a family of recipe-users. But the cookbooks were in our genes. My mother was never satisfied with the entry she inherited for this one. 

Every other dish, every single year — gravy, coleslaw, macaroni and cheese, creamed pearl onions, greens, candied sweet potatoes, stuffing, a ham (I could go on) — had an address that never changed. You could rely on them for the comfort certain foods provide. Her brother Aamir would take a couple of bites and pretend to be dying — of happiness. (Fifteen minutes later, he’d be sunk into an armchair, felled by deliciousness.)  (10) What you say to the maker of such a well-cooked meal is that she put her foot in it. Somebody would say my mother put her foot in the string beans. You don’t put your foot into a Thanksgiving turkey. That turkey, you put an arm into. There’s no expression for that. Your literal arm goes inside, to excavate and install. Everything else is prayer. And clocks. 

My mother would wake Thursday at 4 a.m. to feed the bird to the oven. More cooking would follow. She would resume sleeping for another couple of hours and keep going. Eventually, I kept her hours and absorbed her worry. Will the skin crisp? Will the breast moisten? Will her mother complain when she inspects the pre-carved bird before scraping meat from the neck for gravy? It was always too much stress, too much risk, too much judgment, too many hours, too much table space for so little passion. From me.  My mother loved a Thanksgiving turkey. She loved the meat for the Frank Gehry3 sandwich tower she’d eat for every single meal after the holiday until a crucial ingredient was no more. She loved the turkey as a physical and emotional centerpiece — as an object of American lore and a metaphor of sacrifice. She wasn’t one to make a point of ceremony. The war over dark meat versus light should be considered in all the ways one could, although never by her. That was taking the metaphor too far. Really, she just liked that she’d never mastered the Thanksgiving turkey. A perfectly cooked bird one year guaranteed nothing going forward but my failure to understand the ritual of bothering to try in the first place.  She’s gone now, my mother. But Thanksgiving remains. Most of me still doesn’t know why we bother with turkey when you could go with ham or fry some chicken and probably be a lot happier. Yet I’ll wake up at dawn and start the oven. My mother loved a Thanksgiving turkey. And I am her son.

Which of the following characteristics illustrate commonalities between the roles of both mothers? Choose 2 answers.

• Compassionate

• Disciplinarians

• Hostile

• Nurturing

• Indifferent

1. How do the authors DIFFER in the portrayal of the mothers’ actions in both passages?

• 1. Passage 1 portrays the mother's actions as emotionally supportive, while Passage 2 emphasizes the physical labor involved.

• Passage 1 highlights the mother's love for cooking, while Passage 2 emphasizes the medical complexities.

• Passage 1 portrays the mother's emotional support, while Passage 2 focuses on providing external support through a “village.”.

• Both passages depict similar roles and actions of the mothers.

1. Which phrase best conveys a common theme in both passages? 

• 1. Sacrifice and devotion of a parent for their child or family

• Dislike for a specific type of food

• The importance of traditional holiday meals

• The challenges of medical treatments for spinal issues

What is the main reason the speaker dislikes turkey on Thanksgiving?

• Because it takes too long to cook.

• Because it is not as tasty as the other dishes.

• Because it is a symbol of guilt.

• Because it is too heavy to eat.