Respuesta :
It is correct to state that the essay referenced above has a purpose. The purpose of the essay is to use his mom's story as a girl to inspire the audience.
The story is motivational because, it ends with the following sentence:
"Every time I’m in trouble in my art, I try to think of that girl. I think of that thirst, of that courage. I think of her." Thus, the essay has a purpose.
What is purpose in literature?
The purpose of a text is the key reason for which the author of such a text has written down their thoughts.
It could be:
- To entertain:
- To Inform
- For expression
- To Forewarn
- To educate, etc.
How can you identify the purpose of a text?
To identify the purpose of a text, you want to first look at the central idea.
The central idea is usually stated in the opening paragraph of the text.
Learn more about purpose:
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Full Question:
Read the essay below and answer the following question:
Does this essay have a stated purpose or is Diaz just trying to share his memories with reader?
"The Dreamer" by Junot Díaz
An essay about my mom as a girl trying to her her education.
"I think of my mother, of course. She’s one of those ironwill rarely speak figures that haunt. See her in New Jersey, in the house with the squirrels in the back that she feeds sparingly (they shouldn’t get fat) and that she chides when she thinks they’re acting up. You wouldn’t know it looking at her in that kitchen, but she grew up one of those poor Third World–country girls. The brutalized backbone of our world. The kind of Dominican girl who was destined never to get off the mountain or out of the campo. Her own mother a straight-haired terror. Expected her to work on the family farm until she died or was married off, but my mother in those small spaces between the work cultivated dreams, that unbreakable habit of the young. When the field hands were hurt or fell ill, she was the one who cared for them. Opened in her a horizon. A dream of being a nurse in the capital, where she heard that every block had electricity. But to be a nurse, you needed education, and while there were some girls who attended the one-room school at the base of the hill, my mother was not one of them. Her mother, my grandmother, demanded that she stay on the farm, that she stay a mule. No one more threatened by the thought of an educated girl than my grandmother. Any time my mother was caught near the schoolhouse, my grandmother gave her a beating. And not the beatings of the First World but the beatings of the Third—which you do not so easily shake off....
And when she tried to drag my mother up to the hills, the police put her in handcuffs, and that was that.
“Your grandmother beat me almost every day,” my mother explained, “but I got my education.”
She never did become a nurse, my mother. Immigration got in the way of that horizon—once in the United States, my mother never could master English, no matter how hard she tried, and my God, did she try. But strange how things work—her son became a reader and a writer, practices she encouraged as much as possible. I write professionally now, and life is long and complicated, and who knows how things might have turned out under different circumstances, but I do believe that who I am as an artist, everything that I’ve ever written, was possible because a seven-year-old girl up in the hills of Azua knelt before a puddle, found courage in herself and drank. Every time I’m in trouble in my art, I try to think of that girl. I think of that thirst, of that courage. I think of her.
