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Church

‌ ‌Joyce‌ ‌Carol‌ ‌Oates’s‌ ‌short‌ ‌story‌ ‌“Where‌ ‌Are‌ ‌ You‌ ‌Going,‌ ‌Where‌ ‌Have‌ ‌You‌ ‌Been?”‌

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‌ ‌Joyce‌ ‌Carol‌ ‌Oates’s‌ ‌short‌ ‌story‌ ‌“Where‌ ‌Are‌ ‌ You‌ ‌Going,‌ ‌Where‌ ‌Have‌ ‌You‌ ‌Been?”‌

THESIS MUST BE HIGHLIGHTED YELLOW. B) SOPHISTICATED THOUGHTS MUST BE UNDERLINED C) EVIDENCE MUST BE BOLD to back up the sophisticated sentences (QUOTES) ‌ Read‌ ‌carefully‌ ‌the‌ ‌following‌ ‌passage‌ ‌from‌ ‌Joyce‌ ‌Carol‌ ‌Oates’s‌ ‌short‌ ‌story‌ ‌“Where‌ ‌Are‌ ‌ You‌ ‌Going,‌ ‌Where‌ ‌Have‌ ‌You‌ ‌Been?”‌ ‌Then‌ ‌write‌ ‌a‌ ‌well-organized‌ ‌essay‌ ‌in‌ ‌which‌ ‌you‌ ‌ analyze‌ ‌how‌ ‌Oates‌ ‌uses‌ ‌literary‌ ‌techniques‌ ‌to‌ ‌build‌ ‌tension‌ ‌in‌ ‌the‌ ‌scene.‌ ‌ ‌ One‌ ‌Sunday‌ ‌Connie‌ ‌got‌ ‌up‌ ‌at‌ ‌eleven—none‌ ‌of‌ ‌them‌ ‌bothered‌ ‌with‌ ‌church—and‌ ‌washed‌ ‌ her‌ ‌hair‌ ‌so‌ ‌that‌ ‌it‌ ‌could‌ ‌dry‌ ‌all‌ ‌day‌ ‌long‌ ‌in‌ ‌the‌ ‌sun.‌ ‌Her‌ ‌parents‌ ‌and‌ ‌sister‌ ‌were‌ ‌going‌ ‌to‌ ‌a‌ ‌ barbecue‌ ‌at‌ ‌an‌ ‌aunt’s‌ ‌house‌ ‌and‌ ‌Connie‌ ‌said‌ ‌no,‌ ‌she‌ ‌wasn’t‌ ‌interested,‌ ‌rolling‌ ‌her‌ ‌eyes‌ ‌to‌ ‌let‌ ‌her‌ ‌ mother‌ ‌know‌ ‌just‌ ‌what‌ ‌she‌ ‌thought‌ ‌of‌ ‌it.‌ ‌“Stay‌ ‌home‌ ‌alone‌ ‌then,”‌ ‌her‌ ‌mother‌ ‌said‌ ‌sharply.‌ ‌ Connie‌ ‌sat‌ ‌out‌ ‌back‌ ‌in‌ ‌a‌ ‌lawn‌ ‌chair‌ ‌and‌ ‌watched‌ ‌them‌ ‌drive‌ ‌away,‌ ‌her‌ ‌father‌ ‌quiet‌ ‌and‌ ‌bald,‌ ‌ hunched‌ ‌around‌ ‌so‌ ‌that‌ ‌he‌ ‌could‌ ‌back‌ ‌the‌ ‌car‌ ‌out,‌ ‌her‌ ‌mother‌ ‌with‌ ‌a‌ ‌look‌ ‌that‌ ‌was‌ ‌still‌ ‌angry‌ ‌ and‌ ‌not‌ ‌at‌ ‌all‌ ‌softened‌ ‌through‌ ‌the‌ ‌windshield,‌ ‌and‌ ‌in‌ ‌the‌ ‌back‌ ‌seat‌ ‌poor‌ ‌old‌ ‌June,‌ ‌all‌ ‌dressed‌ ‌up‌ ‌ as‌ ‌if‌ ‌she‌ ‌didn’t‌ ‌know‌ ‌what‌ ‌a‌ ‌barbecue‌ ‌was,‌ ‌with‌ ‌all‌ ‌the‌ ‌running‌ ‌yelling‌ ‌kids‌ ‌and‌ ‌the‌ ‌flies.‌ ‌ [unique_solution]Connie‌ ‌sat‌ ‌with‌ ‌her‌ ‌eyes‌ ‌closed‌ ‌in‌ ‌the‌ ‌sun,‌ ‌dreaming‌ ‌and‌ ‌dazed‌ ‌with‌ ‌the‌ ‌warmth‌ ‌about‌ ‌her‌ ‌as‌ ‌if‌ ‌ this‌ ‌were‌ ‌a‌ ‌kind‌ ‌of‌ ‌love,‌ ‌the‌ ‌caresses‌ ‌of‌ ‌love,‌ ‌and‌ ‌her‌ ‌mind‌ ‌slipped‌ ‌over‌ ‌onto‌ ‌thoughts‌ ‌of‌ ‌the‌ ‌ boy‌ ‌she‌ ‌had‌ ‌been‌ ‌with‌ ‌the‌ ‌night‌ ‌before‌ ‌and‌ ‌how‌ ‌nice‌ ‌he‌ ‌had‌ ‌been,‌ ‌how‌ ‌sweet‌ ‌it‌ ‌always‌ ‌was,‌ ‌not‌ ‌ the‌ ‌way‌ ‌someone‌ ‌like‌ ‌June‌ ‌would‌ ‌suppose‌ ‌but‌ ‌sweet,‌ ‌gentle,‌ ‌the‌ ‌way‌ ‌it‌ ‌was‌ ‌in‌ ‌movies‌ ‌and‌ ‌ promised‌ ‌in‌ ‌songs;‌ ‌and‌ ‌when‌ ‌she‌ ‌opened‌ ‌her‌ ‌eyes‌ ‌she‌ ‌hardly‌ ‌knew‌ ‌where‌ ‌she‌ ‌was,‌ ‌the‌ ‌back‌ ‌ yard‌ ‌ran‌ ‌off‌ ‌into‌ ‌weeds‌ ‌and‌ ‌a‌ ‌fence-like‌ ‌line‌ ‌of‌ ‌trees‌ ‌and‌ ‌behind‌ ‌it‌ ‌the‌ ‌sky‌ ‌was‌ ‌perfectly‌ ‌blue‌ ‌ and‌ ‌still.‌ ‌The‌ ‌asbestos‌ ‌ranch‌ ‌house‌ ‌that‌ ‌was‌ ‌now‌ ‌three‌ ‌years‌ ‌old‌ ‌startled‌ ‌her—it‌ ‌looked‌ ‌small.‌ ‌ She‌ ‌shook‌ ‌her‌ ‌head‌ ‌as‌ ‌if‌ ‌to‌ ‌get‌ ‌awake.‌ ‌ ‌ It‌ ‌was‌ ‌too‌ ‌hot.‌ ‌She‌ ‌went‌ ‌inside‌ ‌the‌ ‌house‌ ‌and‌ ‌turned‌ ‌on‌ ‌the‌ ‌radio‌ ‌to‌ ‌drown‌ ‌out‌ ‌the‌ ‌quiet.‌ ‌ She‌ ‌sat‌ ‌on‌ ‌the‌ ‌edge‌ ‌of‌ ‌her‌ ‌bed,‌ ‌barefoot,‌ ‌and‌ ‌listened‌ ‌for‌ ‌an‌ ‌hour‌ ‌and‌ ‌a‌ ‌half‌ ‌to‌ ‌a‌ ‌program‌ ‌called‌ ‌ XYZ‌ ‌Sunday‌ ‌Jamboree,‌ ‌record‌ ‌after‌ ‌record‌ ‌of‌ ‌hard,‌ ‌fast,‌ ‌shrieking‌ ‌songs‌ ‌she‌ ‌sang‌ ‌along‌ ‌with,‌ ‌ interspersed‌ ‌by‌ ‌exclamations‌ ‌from‌ ‌“Bobby‌ ‌King”:‌ ‌“An’‌ ‌look‌ ‌here,‌ ‌you‌ ‌girls‌ ‌at‌ ‌ Napoleon’s—Son‌ ‌and‌ ‌Charley‌ ‌want‌ ‌you‌ ‌to‌ ‌pay‌ ‌real‌ ‌close‌ ‌attention‌ ‌to‌ ‌this‌ ‌song‌ ‌coming‌ ‌up!”‌ ‌ And‌ ‌Connie‌ ‌paid‌ ‌close‌ ‌attention‌ ‌herself,‌ ‌bathed‌ ‌in‌ ‌a‌ ‌glow‌ ‌of‌ ‌slow-pulsed‌ ‌joy‌ ‌that‌ ‌seemed‌ ‌to‌ ‌ rise‌ ‌mysteriously‌ ‌out‌ ‌of‌ ‌the‌ ‌music‌ ‌itself‌ ‌and‌ ‌lay‌ ‌languidly‌ ‌about‌ ‌the‌ ‌airless‌ ‌little‌ ‌room,‌ ‌breathed‌ ‌ in‌ ‌and‌ ‌breathed‌ ‌out‌ ‌with‌ ‌each‌ ‌gentle‌ ‌rise‌ ‌and‌ ‌fall‌ ‌of‌ ‌her‌ ‌chest.‌ ‌ After‌ ‌a‌ ‌while‌ ‌she‌ ‌heard‌ ‌a‌ ‌car‌ ‌coming‌ ‌up‌ ‌the‌ ‌drive.‌ ‌She‌ ‌sat‌ ‌up‌ ‌at‌ ‌once,‌ ‌startled,‌ ‌because‌ ‌ it‌ ‌couldn’t‌ ‌be‌ ‌her‌ ‌father‌ ‌so‌ ‌soon.‌ ‌The‌ ‌gravel‌ ‌kept‌ ‌crunching‌ ‌all‌ ‌the‌ ‌way‌ ‌in‌ ‌from‌ ‌the‌ ‌road—the‌ ‌ driveway‌ ‌was‌ ‌long—and‌ ‌Connie‌ ‌ran‌ ‌to‌ ‌the‌ ‌window.‌ ‌It‌ ‌was‌ ‌a‌ ‌car‌ ‌she‌ ‌didn’t‌ ‌know.‌ ‌It‌ ‌was‌ ‌an‌ ‌ open‌ ‌jalopy,‌ ‌painted‌ ‌a‌ ‌bright‌ ‌gold‌ ‌that‌ ‌caught‌ ‌the‌ ‌sunlight‌ ‌opaquely.‌ ‌Her‌ ‌heart‌ ‌began‌ ‌to‌ ‌pound‌ ‌ and‌ ‌her‌ ‌fingers‌ ‌snatched‌ ‌at‌ ‌her‌ ‌hair,‌ ‌checking‌ ‌it,‌ ‌and‌ ‌she‌ ‌whispered,‌ ‌“Christ.‌ ‌Christ,”‌ ‌wondering‌ ‌ how‌ ‌bad‌ ‌she‌ ‌looked.‌ ‌The‌ ‌car‌ ‌came‌ ‌to‌ ‌a‌ ‌stop‌ ‌at‌ ‌the‌ ‌side‌ ‌door‌ ‌and‌ ‌the‌ ‌horn‌ ‌sounded‌ ‌four‌ ‌short‌ ‌ taps,‌ ‌as‌ ‌if‌ ‌this‌ ‌were‌ ‌a‌ ‌signal‌ ‌Connie‌ ‌knew.‌ ‌She‌ ‌went‌ ‌into‌ ‌the‌ ‌kitchen‌ ‌and‌ ‌approached‌ ‌the‌ ‌door‌ ‌ slowly,‌ ‌then‌ ‌hung‌ ‌out‌ ‌the‌ ‌screen‌ ‌door,‌ ‌her‌ ‌bare‌ ‌toes‌ ‌curling‌ ‌down‌ ‌off‌ ‌the‌ ‌step.‌ ‌There‌ ‌were‌ ‌two‌ ‌ boys‌ ‌in‌ ‌the‌ ‌car‌ ‌and‌ ‌now‌ ‌she‌ ‌recognized‌ ‌the‌ ‌driver:‌ ‌he‌ ‌had‌ ‌shaggy,‌ ‌shabby‌ ‌black‌ ‌hair‌ ‌that‌ ‌looked‌ ‌ crazy‌ ‌as‌ ‌a‌ ‌wig‌ ‌and‌ ‌he‌ ‌was‌ ‌grinning‌ ‌at‌ ‌her.‌ ‌ “I‌ ‌ain’t‌ ‌late,‌ ‌am‌ ‌I?”‌ ‌he‌ ‌said.‌ ‌ “Who‌ ‌the‌ ‌hell‌ ‌do‌ ‌you‌ ‌think‌ ‌you‌ ‌are?”‌ ‌Connie‌ ‌said.‌ ‌ “Toldja‌ ‌I’d‌ ‌be‌ ‌out,‌ ‌didn’t‌ ‌I?”‌ ‌ “I‌ ‌don’t‌ ‌even‌ ‌know‌ ‌who‌ ‌you‌ ‌are.”‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ Thesis‌ ‌statement

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