Humanities Passage 1 – Outschool
Humanities Passage 1 Quiz
HUMANITIES: This passage is adapted from the short story “A New York Minute” by Arlene Ledbetter (© Arlene Ledbetter, 2015). Used with permission.
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Question 1 of 10
1. Question
Now that I have rubbed shoulders with a sprinkling of New York City’s eight million residents, I believe words like aloof or distant characterize them better than unfriendly. Besides, who has time to be friendly to that many people? Especially in light of the diversity.
Living in Los Angeles, Rachel rubbed shoulders with folks of other nationalities and ethnicities on a daily basis. In Georgia, though, most faces look a lot like mine, and even my Hispanic and Indian friends speak English as well as I do. The faces and languages in New York are as varied as the clothing they wear. As I stood in line, sat on the subway, and walked the streets, I heard French, Spanish, Chinese, Italian – lots of languages and dialects I didn’t understand.
(7) New York is an American city with an international feel. I loved every moment Rachel and I were there, every memory we made. Way too soon, though, it was time to say goodbye to New York. And to each other.
Rachel and I bounced along in the airport tram, stopping periodically for folks to step off to make flight connections. My daughter and I had laughed and talked and snapped pictures all week long. In those final moments, though, I couldn’t think of a thing to say so we rode in silence. Three women stood near us but, as usual, we all avoided eye contact.
The tram was about to pause for Rachel’s connection to California. I had a few more stops before mine. I wouldn’t see her for at least six months and desperately wanted to say something – “I love you,” “I’ll miss you,” “it was a great trip” – but my throat had squeezed shut and tears threatened to spill down my cheeks.
(15) Rachel reached for a hug. I wanted to give her a long, sway back and forth kind of embrace. I wanted to hold her forever, but the sliding glass doors would soon close. We separated. She stepped out. As the doors slid together, she called out, “We’ll talk soon, Mama!” I nodded. The tram pulled away. My daughter and I waved until we could no longer see each other.
I turned my back to the doors but cast my eyes downward. I didn’t want strangers to see me cry. I dug in my purse for a handkerchief, a necessity as often as I cry. By the time I realized I’d stuffed all my hankies in my dirty-clothes bag, a puddle of tears had formed at my feet.
(20) My head still bowed, tissues appeared inches below my nose. White ones and blue ones extended by hands of various hues. I lifted my head and looked at the women around me. A young Indian, elegantly layered in garments of red and gold. A Chinese lady of advancing years, clad in an emerald green suit. A raven-haired woman about my age, dressed in an old tee-shirt and jeans.
The woman in jeans addressed me. “Su hija?”
I recognized the words as Spanish, but I couldn’t recall what they meant. I managed to ask, “Excuse me?”
She repeated “Su hija?” Then she provided the translation, “Your daughter?”
(26) My jaw tensed as I nodded. If I had tried to say anything, it would have come out as a loud sob, and my face was already a wreck. Tears rolled down the cheeks of the Chinese lady in an attitude of “no one cries alone when I’m around.”
Each face trembled with emotion. I wondered if the young woman missed a mother in India and if the other two wept over faraway daughters of their own.
The elderly lady pressed an unopened travel-pack of tissues into my hand as if she expected I would need them all. I laughed, she laughed, and so did the others. Then I cried again, catching the tears with the tissues each of them had offered. Their nods told me they understood. Sympathetic hands lightly touched my shoulders, but we exchanged no other words.
(33) The tram stopped. I stepped off. They waved to me and I waved back for as long as I could see them. As they disappeared in the distance, I thought about how fast things happen in New York City. Four women. Four cultures. Four different languages. But we had connected and understood each other in a deep, intimate way.
All in a brief New York minute.
The point of view from which the passage is told is best described as that of a:
CorrectIncorrectHint
Question type: Point of View
Find clues about the narrator throughout the passage.
-
Question 2 of 10
2. Question
Now that I have rubbed shoulders with a sprinkling of New York City’s eight million residents, I believe words like aloof or distant characterize them better than unfriendly. Besides, who has time to be friendly to that many people? Especially in light of the diversity.
Living in Los Angeles, Rachel rubbed shoulders with folks of other nationalities and ethnicities on a daily basis. In Georgia, though, most faces look a lot like mine, and even my Hispanic and Indian friends speak English as well as I do. The faces and languages in New York are as varied as the clothing they wear. As I stood in line, sat on the subway, and walked the streets, I heard French, Spanish, Chinese, Italian – lots of languages and dialects I didn’t understand.
(7) New York is an American city with an international feel. I loved every moment Rachel and I were there, every memory we made. Way too soon, though, it was time to say goodbye to New York. And to each other.
Rachel and I bounced along in the airport tram, stopping periodically for folks to step off to make flight connections. My daughter and I had laughed and talked and snapped pictures all week long. In those final moments, though, I couldn’t think of a thing to say so we rode in silence. Three women stood near us but, as usual, we all avoided eye contact.
The tram was about to pause for Rachel’s connection to California. I had a few more stops before mine. I wouldn’t see her for at least six months and desperately wanted to say something – “I love you,” “I’ll miss you,” “it was a great trip” – but my throat had squeezed shut and tears threatened to spill down my cheeks.
(15) Rachel reached for a hug. I wanted to give her a long, sway back and forth kind of embrace. I wanted to hold her forever, but the sliding glass doors would soon close. We separated. She stepped out. As the doors slid together, she called out, “We’ll talk soon, Mama!” I nodded. The tram pulled away. My daughter and I waved until we could no longer see each other.
I turned my back to the doors but cast my eyes downward. I didn’t want strangers to see me cry. I dug in my purse for a handkerchief, a necessity as often as I cry. By the time I realized I’d stuffed all my hankies in my dirty-clothes bag, a puddle of tears had formed at my feet.
(20) My head still bowed, tissues appeared inches below my nose. White ones and blue ones extended by hands of various hues. I lifted my head and looked at the women around me. A young Indian, elegantly layered in garments of red and gold. A Chinese lady of advancing years, clad in an emerald green suit. A raven-haired woman about my age, dressed in an old tee-shirt and jeans.
The woman in jeans addressed me. “Su hija?”
I recognized the words as Spanish, but I couldn’t recall what they meant. I managed to ask, “Excuse me?”
She repeated “Su hija?” Then she provided the translation, “Your daughter?”
(26) My jaw tensed as I nodded. If I had tried to say anything, it would have come out as a loud sob, and my face was already a wreck. Tears rolled down the cheeks of the Chinese lady in an attitude of “no one cries alone when I’m around.”
Each face trembled with emotion. I wondered if the young woman missed a mother in India and if the other two wept over faraway daughters of their own.
The elderly lady pressed an unopened travel-pack of tissues into my hand as if she expected I would need them all. I laughed, she laughed, and so did the others. Then I cried again, catching the tears with the tissues each of them had offered. Their nods told me they understood. Sympathetic hands lightly touched my shoulders, but we exchanged no other words.
(33) The tram stopped. I stepped off. They waved to me and I waved back for as long as I could see them. As they disappeared in the distance, I thought about how fast things happen in New York City. Four women. Four cultures. Four different languages. But we had connected and understood each other in a deep, intimate way.
All in a brief New York minute.
The narrator speculates that New Yorkers may not be friendly because of:
CorrectIncorrectHint
Question type: Direct from Text
Search the first paragraph.
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Question 3 of 10
3. Question
Now that I have rubbed shoulders with a sprinkling of New York City’s eight million residents, I believe words like aloof or distant characterize them better than unfriendly. Besides, who has time to be friendly to that many people? Especially in light of the diversity.
Living in Los Angeles, Rachel rubbed shoulders with folks of other nationalities and ethnicities on a daily basis. In Georgia, though, most faces look a lot like mine, and even my Hispanic and Indian friends speak English as well as I do. The faces and languages in New York are as varied as the clothing they wear. As I stood in line, sat on the subway, and walked the streets, I heard French, Spanish, Chinese, Italian – lots of languages and dialects I didn’t understand.
(7) New York is an American city with an international feel. I loved every moment Rachel and I were there, every memory we made. Way too soon, though, it was time to say goodbye to New York. And to each other.
Rachel and I bounced along in the airport tram, stopping periodically for folks to step off to make flight connections. My daughter and I had laughed and talked and snapped pictures all week long. In those final moments, though, I couldn’t think of a thing to say so we rode in silence. Three women stood near us but, as usual, we all avoided eye contact.
The tram was about to pause for Rachel’s connection to California. I had a few more stops before mine. I wouldn’t see her for at least six months and desperately wanted to say something – “I love you,” “I’ll miss you,” “it was a great trip” – but my throat had squeezed shut and tears threatened to spill down my cheeks.
(15) Rachel reached for a hug. I wanted to give her a long, sway back and forth kind of embrace. I wanted to hold her forever, but the sliding glass doors would soon close. We separated. She stepped out. As the doors slid together, she called out, “We’ll talk soon, Mama!” I nodded. The tram pulled away. My daughter and I waved until we could no longer see each other.
I turned my back to the doors but cast my eyes downward. I didn’t want strangers to see me cry. I dug in my purse for a handkerchief, a necessity as often as I cry. By the time I realized I’d stuffed all my hankies in my dirty-clothes bag, a puddle of tears had formed at my feet.
(20) My head still bowed, tissues appeared inches below my nose. White ones and blue ones extended by hands of various hues. I lifted my head and looked at the women around me. A young Indian, elegantly layered in garments of red and gold. A Chinese lady of advancing years, clad in an emerald green suit. A raven-haired woman about my age, dressed in an old tee-shirt and jeans.
The woman in jeans addressed me. “Su hija?”
I recognized the words as Spanish, but I couldn’t recall what they meant. I managed to ask, “Excuse me?”
She repeated “Su hija?” Then she provided the translation, “Your daughter?”
(26) My jaw tensed as I nodded. If I had tried to say anything, it would have come out as a loud sob, and my face was already a wreck. Tears rolled down the cheeks of the Chinese lady in an attitude of “no one cries alone when I’m around.”
Each face trembled with emotion. I wondered if the young woman missed a mother in India and if the other two wept over faraway daughters of their own.
The elderly lady pressed an unopened travel-pack of tissues into my hand as if she expected I would need them all. I laughed, she laughed, and so did the others. Then I cried again, catching the tears with the tissues each of them had offered. Their nods told me they understood. Sympathetic hands lightly touched my shoulders, but we exchanged no other words.
(33) The tram stopped. I stepped off. They waved to me and I waved back for as long as I could see them. As they disappeared in the distance, I thought about how fast things happen in New York City. Four women. Four cultures. Four different languages. But we had connected and understood each other in a deep, intimate way.
All in a brief New York minute.
According to the narrator, she did all of the following in New York City EXCEPT:
CorrectIncorrectHint
Question type: Everything EXCEPT
Search the second and third paragraphs.
-
Question 4 of 10
4. Question
Now that I have rubbed shoulders with a sprinkling of New York City’s eight million residents, I believe words like aloof or distant characterize them better than unfriendly. Besides, who has time to be friendly to that many people? Especially in light of the diversity.
Living in Los Angeles, Rachel rubbed shoulders with folks of other nationalities and ethnicities on a daily basis. In Georgia, though, most faces look a lot like mine, and even my Hispanic and Indian friends speak English as well as I do. The faces and languages in New York are as varied as the clothing they wear. As I stood in line, sat on the subway, and walked the streets, I heard French, Spanish, Chinese, Italian – lots of languages and dialects I didn’t understand.
(7) New York is an American city with an international feel. I loved every moment Rachel and I were there, every memory we made. Way too soon, though, it was time to say goodbye to New York. And to each other.
Rachel and I bounced along in the airport tram, stopping periodically for folks to step off to make flight connections. My daughter and I had laughed and talked and snapped pictures all week long. In those final moments, though, I couldn’t think of a thing to say so we rode in silence. Three women stood near us but, as usual, we all avoided eye contact.
The tram was about to pause for Rachel’s connection to California. I had a few more stops before mine. I wouldn’t see her for at least six months and desperately wanted to say something – “I love you,” “I’ll miss you,” “it was a great trip” – but my throat had squeezed shut and tears threatened to spill down my cheeks.
(15) Rachel reached for a hug. I wanted to give her a long, sway back and forth kind of embrace. I wanted to hold her forever, but the sliding glass doors would soon close. We separated. She stepped out. As the doors slid together, she called out, “We’ll talk soon, Mama!” I nodded. The tram pulled away. My daughter and I waved until we could no longer see each other.
I turned my back to the doors but cast my eyes downward. I didn’t want strangers to see me cry. I dug in my purse for a handkerchief, a necessity as often as I cry. By the time I realized I’d stuffed all my hankies in my dirty-clothes bag, a puddle of tears had formed at my feet.
(20) My head still bowed, tissues appeared inches below my nose. White ones and blue ones extended by hands of various hues. I lifted my head and looked at the women around me. A young Indian, elegantly layered in garments of red and gold. A Chinese lady of advancing years, clad in an emerald green suit. A raven-haired woman about my age, dressed in an old tee-shirt and jeans.
The woman in jeans addressed me. “Su hija?”
I recognized the words as Spanish, but I couldn’t recall what they meant. I managed to ask, “Excuse me?”
She repeated “Su hija?” Then she provided the translation, “Your daughter?”
(26) My jaw tensed as I nodded. If I had tried to say anything, it would have come out as a loud sob, and my face was already a wreck. Tears rolled down the cheeks of the Chinese lady in an attitude of “no one cries alone when I’m around.”
Each face trembled with emotion. I wondered if the young woman missed a mother in India and if the other two wept over faraway daughters of their own.
The elderly lady pressed an unopened travel-pack of tissues into my hand as if she expected I would need them all. I laughed, she laughed, and so did the others. Then I cried again, catching the tears with the tissues each of them had offered. Their nods told me they understood. Sympathetic hands lightly touched my shoulders, but we exchanged no other words.
(33) The tram stopped. I stepped off. They waved to me and I waved back for as long as I could see them. As they disappeared in the distance, I thought about how fast things happen in New York City. Four women. Four cultures. Four different languages. But we had connected and understood each other in a deep, intimate way.
All in a brief New York minute.
Most of the story takes place:
CorrectIncorrectHint
Question type: Summary
Search the paragraphs to find the setting.
-
Question 5 of 10
5. Question
Now that I have rubbed shoulders with a sprinkling of New York City’s eight million residents, I believe words like aloof or distant characterize them better than unfriendly. Besides, who has time to be friendly to that many people? Especially in light of the diversity.
Living in Los Angeles, Rachel rubbed shoulders with folks of other nationalities and ethnicities on a daily basis. In Georgia, though, most faces look a lot like mine, and even my Hispanic and Indian friends speak English as well as I do. The faces and languages in New York are as varied as the clothing they wear. As I stood in line, sat on the subway, and walked the streets, I heard French, Spanish, Chinese, Italian – lots of languages and dialects I didn’t understand.
(7) New York is an American city with an international feel. I loved every moment Rachel and I were there, every memory we made. Way too soon, though, it was time to say goodbye to New York. And to each other.
Rachel and I bounced along in the airport tram, stopping periodically for folks to step off to make flight connections. My daughter and I had laughed and talked and snapped pictures all week long. In those final moments, though, I couldn’t think of a thing to say so we rode in silence. Three women stood near us but, as usual, we all avoided eye contact.
The tram was about to pause for Rachel’s connection to California. I had a few more stops before mine. I wouldn’t see her for at least six months and desperately wanted to say something – “I love you,” “I’ll miss you,” “it was a great trip” – but my throat had squeezed shut and tears threatened to spill down my cheeks.
(15) Rachel reached for a hug. I wanted to give her a long, sway back and forth kind of embrace. I wanted to hold her forever, but the sliding glass doors would soon close. We separated. She stepped out. As the doors slid together, she called out, “We’ll talk soon, Mama!” I nodded. The tram pulled away. My daughter and I waved until we could no longer see each other.
I turned my back to the doors but cast my eyes downward. I didn’t want strangers to see me cry. I dug in my purse for a handkerchief, a necessity as often as I cry. By the time I realized I’d stuffed all my hankies in my dirty-clothes bag, a puddle of tears had formed at my feet.
(20) My head still bowed, tissues appeared inches below my nose. White ones and blue ones extended by hands of various hues. I lifted my head and looked at the women around me. A young Indian, elegantly layered in garments of red and gold. A Chinese lady of advancing years, clad in an emerald green suit. A raven-haired woman about my age, dressed in an old tee-shirt and jeans.
The woman in jeans addressed me. “Su hija?”
I recognized the words as Spanish, but I couldn’t recall what they meant. I managed to ask, “Excuse me?”
She repeated “Su hija?” Then she provided the translation, “Your daughter?”
(26) My jaw tensed as I nodded. If I had tried to say anything, it would have come out as a loud sob, and my face was already a wreck. Tears rolled down the cheeks of the Chinese lady in an attitude of “no one cries alone when I’m around.”
Each face trembled with emotion. I wondered if the young woman missed a mother in India and if the other two wept over faraway daughters of their own.
The elderly lady pressed an unopened travel-pack of tissues into my hand as if she expected I would need them all. I laughed, she laughed, and so did the others. Then I cried again, catching the tears with the tissues each of them had offered. Their nods told me they understood. Sympathetic hands lightly touched my shoulders, but we exchanged no other words.
(33) The tram stopped. I stepped off. They waved to me and I waved back for as long as I could see them. As they disappeared in the distance, I thought about how fast things happen in New York City. Four women. Four cultures. Four different languages. But we had connected and understood each other in a deep, intimate way.
All in a brief New York minute.
Which of the following is imagined by the narrator?
CorrectIncorrectHint
Question type: Inference
Refer to lines 28 and 29.
-
Question 6 of 10
6. Question
Now that I have rubbed shoulders with a sprinkling of New York City’s eight million residents, I believe words like aloof or distant characterize them better than unfriendly. Besides, who has time to be friendly to that many people? Especially in light of the diversity.
Living in Los Angeles, Rachel rubbed shoulders with folks of other nationalities and ethnicities on a daily basis. In Georgia, though, most faces look a lot like mine, and even my Hispanic and Indian friends speak English as well as I do. The faces and languages in New York are as varied as the clothing they wear. As I stood in line, sat on the subway, and walked the streets, I heard French, Spanish, Chinese, Italian – lots of languages and dialects I didn’t understand.
(7) New York is an American city with an international feel. I loved every moment Rachel and I were there, every memory we made. Way too soon, though, it was time to say goodbye to New York. And to each other.
Rachel and I bounced along in the airport tram, stopping periodically for folks to step off to make flight connections. My daughter and I had laughed and talked and snapped pictures all week long. In those final moments, though, I couldn’t think of a thing to say so we rode in silence. Three women stood near us but, as usual, we all avoided eye contact.
The tram was about to pause for Rachel’s connection to California. I had a few more stops before mine. I wouldn’t see her for at least six months and desperately wanted to say something – “I love you,” “I’ll miss you,” “it was a great trip” – but my throat had squeezed shut and tears threatened to spill down my cheeks.
(15) Rachel reached for a hug. I wanted to give her a long, sway back and forth kind of embrace. I wanted to hold her forever, but the sliding glass doors would soon close. We separated. She stepped out. As the doors slid together, she called out, “We’ll talk soon, Mama!” I nodded. The tram pulled away. My daughter and I waved until we could no longer see each other.
I turned my back to the doors but cast my eyes downward. I didn’t want strangers to see me cry. I dug in my purse for a handkerchief, a necessity as often as I cry. By the time I realized I’d stuffed all my hankies in my dirty-clothes bag, a puddle of tears had formed at my feet.
(20) My head still bowed, tissues appeared inches below my nose. White ones and blue ones extended by hands of various hues. I lifted my head and looked at the women around me. A young Indian, elegantly layered in garments of red and gold. A Chinese lady of advancing years, clad in an emerald green suit. A raven-haired woman about my age, dressed in an old tee-shirt and jeans.
The woman in jeans addressed me. “Su hija?”
I recognized the words as Spanish, but I couldn’t recall what they meant. I managed to ask, “Excuse me?”
She repeated “Su hija?” Then she provided the translation, “Your daughter?”
(26) My jaw tensed as I nodded. If I had tried to say anything, it would have come out as a loud sob, and my face was already a wreck. Tears rolled down the cheeks of the Chinese lady in an attitude of “no one cries alone when I’m around.”
Each face trembled with emotion. I wondered if the young woman missed a mother in India and if the other two wept over faraway daughters of their own.
The elderly lady pressed an unopened travel-pack of tissues into my hand as if she expected I would need them all. I laughed, she laughed, and so did the others. Then I cried again, catching the tears with the tissues each of them had offered. Their nods told me they understood. Sympathetic hands lightly touched my shoulders, but we exchanged no other words.
(33) The tram stopped. I stepped off. They waved to me and I waved back for as long as I could see them. As they disappeared in the distance, I thought about how fast things happen in New York City. Four women. Four cultures. Four different languages. But we had connected and understood each other in a deep, intimate way.
All in a brief New York minute.
The primary purpose of the eighth paragraph (lines 20-22) is to:
CorrectIncorrectHint
Question type: Summary
Use details from the paragraph to find the purpose.
-
Question 7 of 10
7. Question
Now that I have rubbed shoulders with a sprinkling of New York City’s eight million residents, I believe words like aloof or distant characterize them better than unfriendly. Besides, who has time to be friendly to that many people? Especially in light of the diversity.
Living in Los Angeles, Rachel rubbed shoulders with folks of other nationalities and ethnicities on a daily basis. In Georgia, though, most faces look a lot like mine, and even my Hispanic and Indian friends speak English as well as I do. The faces and languages in New York are as varied as the clothing they wear. As I stood in line, sat on the subway, and walked the streets, I heard French, Spanish, Chinese, Italian – lots of languages and dialects I didn’t understand.
(7) New York is an American city with an international feel. I loved every moment Rachel and I were there, every memory we made. Way too soon, though, it was time to say goodbye to New York. And to each other.
Rachel and I bounced along in the airport tram, stopping periodically for folks to step off to make flight connections. My daughter and I had laughed and talked and snapped pictures all week long. In those final moments, though, I couldn’t think of a thing to say so we rode in silence. Three women stood near us but, as usual, we all avoided eye contact.
The tram was about to pause for Rachel’s connection to California. I had a few more stops before mine. I wouldn’t see her for at least six months and desperately wanted to say something – “I love you,” “I’ll miss you,” “it was a great trip” – but my throat had squeezed shut and tears threatened to spill down my cheeks.
(15) Rachel reached for a hug. I wanted to give her a long, sway back and forth kind of embrace. I wanted to hold her forever, but the sliding glass doors would soon close. We separated. She stepped out. As the doors slid together, she called out, “We’ll talk soon, Mama!” I nodded. The tram pulled away. My daughter and I waved until we could no longer see each other.
I turned my back to the doors but cast my eyes downward. I didn’t want strangers to see me cry. I dug in my purse for a handkerchief, a necessity as often as I cry. By the time I realized I’d stuffed all my hankies in my dirty-clothes bag, a puddle of tears had formed at my feet.
(20) My head still bowed, tissues appeared inches below my nose. White ones and blue ones extended by hands of various hues. I lifted my head and looked at the women around me. A young Indian, elegantly layered in garments of red and gold. A Chinese lady of advancing years, clad in an emerald green suit. A raven-haired woman about my age, dressed in an old tee-shirt and jeans.
The woman in jeans addressed me. “Su hija?”
I recognized the words as Spanish, but I couldn’t recall what they meant. I managed to ask, “Excuse me?”
She repeated “Su hija?” Then she provided the translation, “Your daughter?”
(26) My jaw tensed as I nodded. If I had tried to say anything, it would have come out as a loud sob, and my face was already a wreck. Tears rolled down the cheeks of the Chinese lady in an attitude of “no one cries alone when I’m around.”
Each face trembled with emotion. I wondered if the young woman missed a mother in India and if the other two wept over faraway daughters of their own.
The elderly lady pressed an unopened travel-pack of tissues into my hand as if she expected I would need them all. I laughed, she laughed, and so did the others. Then I cried again, catching the tears with the tissues each of them had offered. Their nods told me they understood. Sympathetic hands lightly touched my shoulders, but we exchanged no other words.
(33) The tram stopped. I stepped off. They waved to me and I waved back for as long as I could see them. As they disappeared in the distance, I thought about how fast things happen in New York City. Four women. Four cultures. Four different languages. But we had connected and understood each other in a deep, intimate way.
All in a brief New York minute.
In line 26, the narrator nodded to:
CorrectIncorrectHint
Question type: Meaning from Context
Refer to the preceding text to find the answer.
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Question 8 of 10
8. Question
Now that I have rubbed shoulders with a sprinkling of New York City’s eight million residents, I believe words like aloof or distant characterize them better than unfriendly. Besides, who has time to be friendly to that many people? Especially in light of the diversity.
Living in Los Angeles, Rachel rubbed shoulders with folks of other nationalities and ethnicities on a daily basis. In Georgia, though, most faces look a lot like mine, and even my Hispanic and Indian friends speak English as well as I do. The faces and languages in New York are as varied as the clothing they wear. As I stood in line, sat on the subway, and walked the streets, I heard French, Spanish, Chinese, Italian – lots of languages and dialects I didn’t understand.
(7) New York is an American city with an international feel. I loved every moment Rachel and I were there, every memory we made. Way too soon, though, it was time to say goodbye to New York. And to each other.
Rachel and I bounced along in the airport tram, stopping periodically for folks to step off to make flight connections. My daughter and I had laughed and talked and snapped pictures all week long. In those final moments, though, I couldn’t think of a thing to say so we rode in silence. Three women stood near us but, as usual, we all avoided eye contact.
The tram was about to pause for Rachel’s connection to California. I had a few more stops before mine. I wouldn’t see her for at least six months and desperately wanted to say something – “I love you,” “I’ll miss you,” “it was a great trip” – but my throat had squeezed shut and tears threatened to spill down my cheeks.
(15) Rachel reached for a hug. I wanted to give her a long, sway back and forth kind of embrace. I wanted to hold her forever, but the sliding glass doors would soon close. We separated. She stepped out. As the doors slid together, she called out, “We’ll talk soon, Mama!” I nodded. The tram pulled away. My daughter and I waved until we could no longer see each other.
I turned my back to the doors but cast my eyes downward. I didn’t want strangers to see me cry. I dug in my purse for a handkerchief, a necessity as often as I cry. By the time I realized I’d stuffed all my hankies in my dirty-clothes bag, a puddle of tears had formed at my feet.
(20) My head still bowed, tissues appeared inches below my nose. White ones and blue ones extended by hands of various hues. I lifted my head and looked at the women around me. A young Indian, elegantly layered in garments of red and gold. A Chinese lady of advancing years, clad in an emerald green suit. A raven-haired woman about my age, dressed in an old tee-shirt and jeans.
The woman in jeans addressed me. “Su hija?”
I recognized the words as Spanish, but I couldn’t recall what they meant. I managed to ask, “Excuse me?”
She repeated “Su hija?” Then she provided the translation, “Your daughter?”
(26) My jaw tensed as I nodded. If I had tried to say anything, it would have come out as a loud sob, and my face was already a wreck. Tears rolled down the cheeks of the Chinese lady in an attitude of “no one cries alone when I’m around.”
Each face trembled with emotion. I wondered if the young woman missed a mother in India and if the other two wept over faraway daughters of their own.
The elderly lady pressed an unopened travel-pack of tissues into my hand as if she expected I would need them all. I laughed, she laughed, and so did the others. Then I cried again, catching the tears with the tissues each of them had offered. Their nods told me they understood. Sympathetic hands lightly touched my shoulders, but we exchanged no other words.
(33) The tram stopped. I stepped off. They waved to me and I waved back for as long as I could see them. As they disappeared in the distance, I thought about how fast things happen in New York City. Four women. Four cultures. Four different languages. But we had connected and understood each other in a deep, intimate way.
All in a brief New York minute.
In line 35, the narrator states that she connected in a “deep, intimate way” with the other women. Which of the following reasons is NOT given by the narrator for reaching that conclusion?
CorrectIncorrectHint
Question type: Everything EXCEPT
Refer to lines 26–35.
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Question 9 of 10
9. Question
Now that I have rubbed shoulders with a sprinkling of New York City’s eight million residents, I believe words like aloof or distant characterize them better than unfriendly. Besides, who has time to be friendly to that many people? Especially in light of the diversity.
Living in Los Angeles, Rachel rubbed shoulders with folks of other nationalities and ethnicities on a daily basis. In Georgia, though, most faces look a lot like mine, and even my Hispanic and Indian friends speak English as well as I do. The faces and languages in New York are as varied as the clothing they wear. As I stood in line, sat on the subway, and walked the streets, I heard French, Spanish, Chinese, Italian – lots of languages and dialects I didn’t understand.
(7) New York is an American city with an international feel. I loved every moment Rachel and I were there, every memory we made. Way too soon, though, it was time to say goodbye to New York. And to each other.
Rachel and I bounced along in the airport tram, stopping periodically for folks to step off to make flight connections. My daughter and I had laughed and talked and snapped pictures all week long. In those final moments, though, I couldn’t think of a thing to say so we rode in silence. Three women stood near us but, as usual, we all avoided eye contact.
The tram was about to pause for Rachel’s connection to California. I had a few more stops before mine. I wouldn’t see her for at least six months and desperately wanted to say something – “I love you,” “I’ll miss you,” “it was a great trip” – but my throat had squeezed shut and tears threatened to spill down my cheeks.
(15) Rachel reached for a hug. I wanted to give her a long, sway back and forth kind of embrace. I wanted to hold her forever, but the sliding glass doors would soon close. We separated. She stepped out. As the doors slid together, she called out, “We’ll talk soon, Mama!” I nodded. The tram pulled away. My daughter and I waved until we could no longer see each other.
I turned my back to the doors but cast my eyes downward. I didn’t want strangers to see me cry. I dug in my purse for a handkerchief, a necessity as often as I cry. By the time I realized I’d stuffed all my hankies in my dirty-clothes bag, a puddle of tears had formed at my feet.
(20) My head still bowed, tissues appeared inches below my nose. White ones and blue ones extended by hands of various hues. I lifted my head and looked at the women around me. A young Indian, elegantly layered in garments of red and gold. A Chinese lady of advancing years, clad in an emerald green suit. A raven-haired woman about my age, dressed in an old tee-shirt and jeans.
The woman in jeans addressed me. “Su hija?”
I recognized the words as Spanish, but I couldn’t recall what they meant. I managed to ask, “Excuse me?”
She repeated “Su hija?” Then she provided the translation, “Your daughter?”
(26) My jaw tensed as I nodded. If I had tried to say anything, it would have come out as a loud sob, and my face was already a wreck. Tears rolled down the cheeks of the Chinese lady in an attitude of “no one cries alone when I’m around.”
Each face trembled with emotion. I wondered if the young woman missed a mother in India and if the other two wept over faraway daughters of their own.
The elderly lady pressed an unopened travel-pack of tissues into my hand as if she expected I would need them all. I laughed, she laughed, and so did the others. Then I cried again, catching the tears with the tissues each of them had offered. Their nods told me they understood. Sympathetic hands lightly touched my shoulders, but we exchanged no other words.
(33) The tram stopped. I stepped off. They waved to me and I waved back for as long as I could see them. As they disappeared in the distance, I thought about how fast things happen in New York City. Four women. Four cultures. Four different languages. But we had connected and understood each other in a deep, intimate way.
All in a brief New York minute.
It can reasonably be inferred from the passage that the narrator thinks that:
CorrectIncorrectHint
Question type: Point of View
Draw conclusions about the author’s perceptions by piecing together details from the narrative.
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Question 10 of 10
10. Question
Now that I have rubbed shoulders with a sprinkling of New York City’s eight million residents, I believe words like aloof or distant characterize them better than unfriendly. Besides, who has time to be friendly to that many people? Especially in light of the diversity.
Living in Los Angeles, Rachel rubbed shoulders with folks of other nationalities and ethnicities on a daily basis. In Georgia, though, most faces look a lot like mine, and even my Hispanic and Indian friends speak English as well as I do. The faces and languages in New York are as varied as the clothing they wear. As I stood in line, sat on the subway, and walked the streets, I heard French, Spanish, Chinese, Italian – lots of languages and dialects I didn’t understand.
(7) New York is an American city with an international feel. I loved every moment Rachel and I were there, every memory we made. Way too soon, though, it was time to say goodbye to New York. And to each other.
Rachel and I bounced along in the airport tram, stopping periodically for folks to step off to make flight connections. My daughter and I had laughed and talked and snapped pictures all week long. In those final moments, though, I couldn’t think of a thing to say so we rode in silence. Three women stood near us but, as usual, we all avoided eye contact.
The tram was about to pause for Rachel’s connection to California. I had a few more stops before mine. I wouldn’t see her for at least six months and desperately wanted to say something – “I love you,” “I’ll miss you,” “it was a great trip” – but my throat had squeezed shut and tears threatened to spill down my cheeks.
(15) Rachel reached for a hug. I wanted to give her a long, sway back and forth kind of embrace. I wanted to hold her forever, but the sliding glass doors would soon close. We separated. She stepped out. As the doors slid together, she called out, “We’ll talk soon, Mama!” I nodded. The tram pulled away. My daughter and I waved until we could no longer see each other.
I turned my back to the doors but cast my eyes downward. I didn’t want strangers to see me cry. I dug in my purse for a handkerchief, a necessity as often as I cry. By the time I realized I’d stuffed all my hankies in my dirty-clothes bag, a puddle of tears had formed at my feet.
(20) My head still bowed, tissues appeared inches below my nose. White ones and blue ones extended by hands of various hues. I lifted my head and looked at the women around me. A young Indian, elegantly layered in garments of red and gold. A Chinese lady of advancing years, clad in an emerald green suit. A raven-haired woman about my age, dressed in an old tee-shirt and jeans.
The woman in jeans addressed me. “Su hija?”
I recognized the words as Spanish, but I couldn’t recall what they meant. I managed to ask, “Excuse me?”
She repeated “Su hija?” Then she provided the translation, “Your daughter?”
(26) My jaw tensed as I nodded. If I had tried to say anything, it would have come out as a loud sob, and my face was already a wreck. Tears rolled down the cheeks of the Chinese lady in an attitude of “no one cries alone when I’m around.”
Each face trembled with emotion. I wondered if the young woman missed a mother in India and if the other two wept over faraway daughters of their own.
The elderly lady pressed an unopened travel-pack of tissues into my hand as if she expected I would need them all. I laughed, she laughed, and so did the others. Then I cried again, catching the tears with the tissues each of them had offered. Their nods told me they understood. Sympathetic hands lightly touched my shoulders, but we exchanged no other words.
(33) The tram stopped. I stepped off. They waved to me and I waved back for as long as I could see them. As they disappeared in the distance, I thought about how fast things happen in New York City. Four women. Four cultures. Four different languages. But we had connected and understood each other in a deep, intimate way.
All in a brief New York minute.
The narrator’s time with the other women on the tram can be described as:
CorrectIncorrectHint
Question type: Direct from Text
Search the final two paragraphs.