After receiving feedback, my primary focus was adapting my story into a well rounded and focused narrative that portrayed my experiences with language. I did this by first fixing simple punctuation and also rearranging my paragraphs to allow for my story to flow better. After fixing my structure, I moved on to the content of my narrative. I was able to focus more on the personal factor by reflecting on my mother and how much she helped me, as well as getting my message across towards the end of my narrative rather than just simply stating my message.
First Draft
When I was little, English class was the worst part of my day. I’d love doing math and working on problems, or science where we would do fun experiments, but English made me hate school. Writing long essays and reading boring books so that we had to write even more, felt like punishment. I would sit at my desk staring at the ceiling, wishing I could be anywhere else, because no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t be good at English.
On top of that I could never get the simple things right, especially my grammar. No matter how many essays I wrote, I’d constantly mess up my their, there and they’re. To little 8 year old me, it all sounded the same so it had to mean the same thing too. In almost every essay I wrote, it was the same mistake, and my papers always came back with red circles around the mistakes. Every circle was another hit in my confidence, making me hit English even more.
At home my mom wouldn’t be okay with all these mistakes. So almost every night, she would make me sit in front of the big computer and make me watch a 15 minute video explaining what was wrong. One time it was the difference between their, there, and they’re. As if I was back in school, my mom brought out a quiz for me to do, making me write out sentences until I got them all right. It was torture, after going to school all day the last thing I wanted to do was do more work. But my mom was strict, she threatened to take away all my stuff if I didn’t keep practicing.
Some nights it was like the only thing I could do was work. My mom would hover over me making sure I was holding the pencil the write way, checking if my handwriting was neat. Her presence was suffocating, the pressure to not make a certain mistake would make me make other ones. She was too busy watching me for mistakes that I could hear the timer ringing and smell the food burning all the way in the kitchen. I would beg and plead to be done but she wouldn’t allow me, she wasn’t ready to give up on me.
After weeks and weeks of nonstop practice, my nights ended up getting shorter and shorter until one day I get my paper back and saw that there were no red circles littering my paper. For the first time, I had written a well worded essay with no big mistakes. I didn’t mess up any spelling or grammar, especially the their, there, and they’re that I practiced so many times for. For the first time, I was excited to come home and show my mom my essay where instead of red circles, my teacher was complimenting me on my good work. All the long nights of quizzes and burned food finally paid off. For the first time I felt like I could be in English class and not absolutely hate it and give up.
That essay wasn’t the last, everything I learned stuck with me. I started understanding how to write better essays, and with each year and more and more practice, my grammar and stories started to make more sense before I turned it in. With each year that foundation that I learned off, guided me through middle school and high school, with longer and harder assignments with more complicated rules. But, I wasn’t scared of English anymore, I had the confidence to learn and grow each time I write a new essay.
Final Draft
Red Ink the Missing Link
Did you ever have something that could ruin a perfect day? For me, it was English class. I’d love doing Math and working on problems, or Science where we would do fun experiments, but English made me hate school. Writing long essays and reading boring books so that we had to write even more, felt like punishment. I would sit at my desk staring at the ceiling, wishing I could be anywhere else, because no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t be good at English. On top of that, I could never get the simple things right, especially my grammar. No matter how many essays I wrote, I’d constantly mess up my their, there and they’re. To the shy distracted eight year old me, it all sounded the same, so it had to mean the same thing too. In almost every essay I wrote, it was the same mistake, and my papers always came back with red circles around the mistakes. Every circle was another hit in my confidence, making me hate English even more.
At home my mom would not be okay with all these mistakes. Coming from Russia at 18, she was thrown into college, barely knowing any English. She studied and worked hard just so she could catch up, and she did not want me to fall behind. So almost every night, she would make me sit in front of the big computer and make me watch a 15 minute video explaining what was wrong. One time it was the difference between their, there, and they’re. As if I was back in school, my mom brought out a quiz for me to do, making me write out sentences until I got them all right. No matter how many times I wrote the same sentence, it was never enough. It was torture.
After spending all day at school, the last thing I wanted to do was do more work. But my mom was strict, she threatened to take away all my stuff if I didn’t keep practicing. Some nights, it felt like the only thing I could do was work. My mom would hover over me, her jet black hair tickling my face. She would make sure I was holding the pencil the right way, and check if my handwriting was neat. Her presence was suffocating, the pressure to not make certain mistakes would make other “careless” ones. She was so busy watching me for mistakes that I could hear the timer ringing and smell the pelmeni burning all the way in the kitchen. I would beg and plead to be done but she wouldn’t allow it; she wasn’t ready to give up on me.
After weeks and weeks of nonstop practice, my nights ended up getting shorter and shorter until one day I got my paper back. I looked, expecting to see the red circles that usually littered my paper, but this time the page was clear. No mistakes. No ink shouting what I did wrong. Instead, compliments praising my work and how much I had improved. For the first time, I had created a well-written essay with no big mistakes. I didn’t mess up any spelling or grammar, including those around their, there, and they’re. All the long nights of quizzes and burned food finally paid off. For the first time, I felt like I could be in English class and not absolutely hate it and give up.
Everything I learned stuck with me. I started understanding how to write better essays, and with each year and more and more practice, my grammar and stories started to make more sense before I turned them in. With each year, the foundation my mother taught me, guided my writing throughout middle and high school, with longer and harder assignments with more complicated rules. I wasn’t scared of English anymore, I had the confidence to learn and grow each time I wrote a new essay. Something I’ve realized is that not everyone will have a parent like my mom, who became motivated to help me through her own challenges. So we need teachers to mentor students in a way that motivates them to learn, which can only happen if teachers have the time and the resources to help each student personally. So that every student can have the support they need to excel and feel confident in themselves at school.
Translation 1
