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English 111 Portfolio
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English 111 Portfolio
Sarah Goodrum
English 111
03 December 2012
Table of Contents
Self-Assessment__________________________________________________ Pg. 1-2 “Grazing Past Mrs. Day’s Class” Revised______________________________ Pg. 3-7 “Grazing Past Mrs. Day’s Class” Original______________________________ Pg.8-12 Writing Critique__________________________________________________ Pg. 13
Self-Assessment
This semester in English 111 with Mrs. Jones, I have learned several different methods of
writing. We covered the various ways of adding color to a body of writing, but we also explored
the ways to undress writing. Sometimes when writing a paper, we try to sound to intellectual or
formal when it is not necessary. This semester, I learned how to tell the time for intellectual
writing and personal writings. Perhaps the most influential essay that I read this semester was
How to Say nothing in 500 Words by Paul McHenry Roberts. I felt that this author’s guidance to
college students was an essential part of my writing skills this semester. It emphasized the
importance of having a strong sentence structure instead of having a weak, colorless sentence. In
class, we discussed several different forms of writing that are very important throughout college
life. I learned about informational reports, memoirs, literacy narratives, and argumentative
essays.
When studying informational reports with my classmates, I learned what an informational
report must consist of. One of the most important parts of an essay like this is giving enough
background knowledge. A writer must consider his or her audience when trying to explain facts
because some crowds may know more than others. When relaying information to the general
public, it is important to be thorough; however, when addressing a group of doctors about the
side-effects of a certain medicine, you may not have to be as descriptive. Writers also must use
credible sources and let the reader know who and why these sources should be believed if the
essay is to be credible. Most of all these papers should stay on point throughout the entirety of
the paper. Writers must be careful not to get side-tracked while writing. However, staying on
topic is important in all forms of writing, especially in a memoir.
Writing a memoir this semester was very difficult. It is extremely hard to choose one life
experience and not veer off to another memorable experience. Memoir’s often contain strong
emotions that enable the reader to relate to the subject. Vivid sensory details and strong verb
usage make memoirs stick in the reader’s mind. Memoirs, unlike most stories, do not include a
moral. It is simply a story. The moral is more symbolic throughout the story and never clearly
stated in the end like you might find in Aesop’s fables. Throughout the memoirs I read this
semester, a key significance that I observed was reflection. Each author seemed to be reflect
upon their past. In Us and Them by David Sedaris, Sedaris seems to be reflecting upon how his
selfishness influenced him. In Our Mother’s Face by Valerie Steiker, Steiker reflects on the last
time she has with her mother and leaves room for reflecting on what could have happened in the
future. Steiker didn’t reflect in such a way because memoirs are not what could have happened,
but what actually happened in reality. Similar to a memoir, a literacy narrative draws on the same
skills for good writing.
Textual Analysis are very different from the writing styles previously mentioned. They
require the breaking down of a writing to find a hidden message. Throughout a textual analysis,
it is important to point out the factor that keeps presenting itself while you’re writing to
emphasize the point. In an argumentative essay, the same thing could be said. However, in an
argumentative report, it is important that all sides of the argument to thoroughly create an
understanding of the subject. Arguments include a strong position on a subject that has
dependable sources and facts. Pointing out the credibility of these sources increases the strength
of your paper. Arguments should be made using research that is not opinionated. Facts and
statistics are an important part of arguing an issue with colleagues. When writing an argument,
consider where the information came from. Sources that are blogs are mainly just a public
opinion and are doomed to be considered not credible. In retrospect, a source that is publicized
directly to a governmental agency is going to be considered reputable, making your argument
even stronger.
Implementing these ideas into your papers can lead to more success as a writer. One
author that was read in class this semester said that sometimes the better essay will come from
the opposite perspective. Challenging oneself to capture the attention of others by taking the path
less trodden will lead to a test of the mind and test of writing skills altogether. Writing should not
always be a formality for school or work, but a way to experience and share the feelings that we
have endured and the memories made. Sometimes when writing, it is important to keep our own
heritage alive through our words and descriptions. Following the guidelines learned in English
this semester can open doorways of the mind to express a writer’s full potential.
Sarah Goodrum
Professor Jones
English 111
24 September 2012
“Grazing Past Mrs. Day’s Class”
I walked towards the heavy wooden door nervously. It seemed so normal when I first
gazed at it from down the long corridor, but began expanding and contracting as I became closer.
The concrete doorway was enormous by the time I finally reached the cold metal handle leading
to Mrs. Gail Day’s advanced English, a two year course that spanned throughout the 7th and 8th
grade. Entering the classroom, the door slammed shut sounding as though a prison cell had been
locked down behind me. Then there I was; a transfer student from Florida in a class where
everyone knew me and I didn’t know anybody. I recall how peculiar everything seemed in my
hometown. I had moved back to Tennessee because I was nostalgic for the quiet town I was
raised in, yet nothing in this place felt like home. Of the entire classroom, I took a seat next to a
strange girl sitting by herself, who looked as friendly as a pond full of starving alligators. She
wore all black, over-sized clothing with her eyeliner imitating the eyes of a panda bear. Those
eyes, caked with deep purple eye shadow, looked up at me with so much suspicion of my
motives. Soon we were joined by two equally awkward girls, who appeared to be from the same
lower-class homes as we did. The four of us magnetically banded together, representing a
minority in an assembly that was unmistakably overwhelmed by wealthy upper class students.
As the two girls slouched into their seats, the rustling of papers against rough plastic tables
settled and the room fell silent as Mrs. Day sauntered in.
Mrs. Day, to my recollection, was always perfectly poised with the stiff, haughty
demeanor of a queen, always appearing with her head held high lest a student dare to question
her teachings, and woe unto the student that captured the frost-bitten lecture that was guaranteed
to follow once he or she did. She held so much pride in her knowledge. She appeared as though
she detested the thought of teaching another year of tenacious youth. Pacing stiffly around the
square tables, she passed out row upon row of the fresh, shiny new book that her students would
come to hold no higher reverence for than any other book, save for the Bible itself. The Writer’s
Inc. was to be carried on our person at all times for all assignments given in her class or any
other class for that matter. Upon calling roll, she realized that I was not listed and would be
unable to participate in class for the next few weeks because, being a transfer student, I was
unaware of the summer reading list. Essentially, I was over joyed by that fact because the
thought of reading Huckleberry Finn was nowhere near as engaging as finding myself diving
from a lofty oak tree into the dangerous Florida fishponds I found myself in that summer. I
should have read the book nonetheless since, after listening to the rest of the class discuss it for a
month, I certainly learned the story. Casting those strict raccoon eyes upon me, it struck us
simultaneously that I was undeniably not going to be the teacher’s pet for the next two years. Her
stern policies on punctuation and punctuality were a far cry from my appalling parsing and
absenteeism.
For the first three weeks of class, I squandered my days correcting improper sentences
and copying guidelines; testifying as to why the sentences were incorrect from our young
writer’s bible repetitively. Day upon day, my classmates and I would walk into the dungeon and
religiously find a single grammatically incorrect sentence posted on the dry-erase board awaiting
correction. The thin, yellow pages were painted so vividly in my mind that I still find myself able
to recite them. Rule 99.6: “`I’ before `E’ except after `C” or rule 99.8, “drop the `Y’ and add an
`ies.” Eager to prepare her students for the world, Mrs. Day placed many college level literary
novels into our course, such as Great Expectations, The Odyssey, and The Iliad. Every pupil was
required to read at least two books a week and test on the accelerated reading program, a
program that my friends and I often attempted to cheat on. Each of us would read a book and try
to take the test for the others, only to find ourselves planted in in-school suspension for a week
afterwards. Being the foolish youth that we were, the gravest challenge my new-found comrades
and I had discovered was creating innovative ways to revolt against my unanimously disliked
teacher. Mrs. Day, never the dupe, was always prepared for any precocious schemes we had
concocted to disrupt her course. Although she carried the authority of a general and the social
grace equivalent to that of Darth Vader, one needed only to listen to a single lecture to know her
passion came from reaching that one impossible student that fought knowledge as hard as she
taught it. Unfortunately, I found myself being that impossible one. After all, I was a whole
thirteen years old that year, and so it stands to reason that I knew everything.
During my first year, after I had missed twelve days of school in a month, she approached me
with her hazel eyes full of genuine concern, wanting to know if I was terminally ill or perhaps
something was wrong in my home-life, which was apparent considering no normal adolescent
misses that much school. Like any other troubled student, I told her absolutely nothing and tried
to ignore the fact that my absences had drawn the dragon’s glare to me. Making a mental note
that if I came to class she could possibly forget my existence, I soldiered on enduring the
daunting classes. She never allowed me to slip past her nose after that, and the more she
sincerely attempted to help me, the lower my average plummeted. By the time I reached my
second year in her class, the air of hope she had once held for me was gone; an expression of
disdain had taken its place. The passion the woman had for teaching was frozen somewhere deep
within those eyes. Rounding into my last term, I recollect pondering why I cared if she was so
unpleasant, because I wouldn’t have to see her much longer.
She handed our final assignment two months prior to school end. The assignment was 80
percent of our final grade and failing it meant failing the course. She addressed the class,
focusing mainly on me, stating that she expected the best any of us would score on the
assignment was a C. She knew that if I botched the assignment with my already C average, I was
going to summer school. I can’t discern my true inspiration, but what I would come to believe is
that the way she looked at me, as if there was no way that I could ever pass the assignment,
obligated me to show her that I could. Every evening I went home researched, read, and
summarized until my eyes felt as if they were going to tumble out of their sockets and onto the
pages before me. In reality, I did fall asleep during one of my evening studies once, only to arise
in a puddle of drool on the pages of the newspaper article I was attempting to cut out. I rehearsed
my presentation in the mirror with the confidence of an attorney. My files were organized
perfectly as if my life was on trial and I was defending it. My visual aids were my evidence,
chosen specifically for their rhythmic flow with the presentation. Never before had I
demonstrated such ambition in any of my scholarly endeavors before. The day of the
presentation my execution was flawless. While the other students timidly walked to the front to
give presentations, I ambled to the front with certainty. Recalling every tip and trick I had heard
Mrs. Day mention, I used hand gestures, pointed out details, and explained the relationships
between my visuals and speech. While using my specific charts and pointing out statistics, I
observed my teacher’s face change. As the presentation went on, she became more and more
enthused. She handed my grade out with pride. I received a 95, which was the highest grade
anyone in the class had received.
Recalling it now, my teacher’s determination to teach me led me to the realization that I
was capable of anything. Without her constant drills, I’d never have learned how to say what I
needed to say properly or why it was important to know how to address others in writing. It
amazes me how she knew that insinuating that I couldn’t do something only made me that much
more resolute in completing the task at hand. Realizing everything she expected of me, I can
honestly state that through our rivalry, we grew to respect one another. She showed me that hard
work achieves goals; that writing was an escape, a way to communicate when mere words fall on
deaf ears. She showed me that reading is a new journey each time I turn a page. She passed the
confidence she carried in her own knowledge down to each of her pupils. Each student that left
her class carried that same proud knowledge, regal confidence, and majestic power of language
that prepared us for life’s journey in today’s increasingly competitive world.
Sarah Goodrum
Professor Jones
English 111
24 September 2012
“Grazing Past Mrs. Day’s Class”
I walked towards the heavy wooden door nervously. It seemed so normal as I first gazed
at it from down the long corridor, but began expanding and contracting as I became closer
becoming enormous by the time I finally reached the cold metal handle leading to Mrs. Gail
Day’s advanced English course, a two year course that spanned throughout the 7th and 8th grade.
Entering the classroom, the door slammed shut sounding as though a prison cell had been locked
down behind me. Then there I was; a transfer student from Florida in a class where everyone
knew me and I didn’t know anybody. I recall how peculiar everything seemed in my hometown.
I had moved back to Tennessee because I was nostalgic for the quiet town I was raised in, yet
nothing in this place felt like home. Of the entire classroom, I took a seat next to a strange girl
sitting by herself, who looked as friendly as a pond full of starving alligators. She wore all black,
over-sized clothing with her eyeliner imitating the eyes of a panda bear. Those eyes, caked with
deep purple eye shadow, looked up at me with so much suspicion of my motives. Soon we were
joined by two equally awkward girls, who appeared to be from the same lower-class homes as
we did. The four of us magnetically banded together, representing a minority in an assembly that
was unmistakably overwhelmed by wealthy upper class students. As the two girls slouched into
their seats, the rustling of papers against rough plastic tables settled and the room fell silent as
Mrs. Day sauntered in.
Mrs. Day, to my recollection, was always perfectly poised with the stiff, haughty
demeanor of a queen, always appearing with her head held high lest a student dare to question
her teachings, and woe unto the student that captured the frost-bitten lecture that was guaranteed
to follow once he or she did. She held so much pride in her knowledge. She appeared as though
she detested the thought of teaching another year of tenacious youth. Pacing stiffly around the
square tables, she passed out row upon row of the fresh, shiny new book that her students would
come to hold no higher reverence for any other book, save for the Bible itself. The Writer’s Inc.
was to be carried on our person at all times for all assignments given in her class or any other
class for that matter. Upon calling roll, she realized that I was not listed and would unable to
participate in class for the next few weeks because, being a transfer student, I was unaware of the
summer reading list. Essentially, I was over joyed by that fact because the thought of reading
Huckleberry Finn was nowhere near as engaging as finding myself diving from a lofty oak tree
into the dangerous Florida fishponds I found myself in that summer. I should have read the book
nonetheless since, after listening to the rest of the class discuss it for a month, I certainly learned
the story. Casting those strict raccoon eyes upon me, it struck us simultaneously that I was
undeniably not going to be the teacher’s pet for the next two years. Her stern policies on
punctuation and punctuality were a far cry from my appalling parsing and absenteeism’s.
For the first three weeks of class, I squandered my days correcting improper sentences
and copying guidelines, testifying as to why the sentences were incorrect from our young
writer’s bible repetitively. Day upon day, my classmates and I would walk into the dungeon and
religiously find a single grammatically incorrect sentence posted on the dry-erase board awaiting
correction. The thin, yellow pages were painted so vividly in my mind that I still find myself able
to recite them. Rule 99.6: “`I’ before `E’ except after `C” or rule 99.8, “drop the `Y’ and add an
`ies.” Eager to prepare her students for the world, Mrs. Day placed many college level literary
novels into our course, such as Great Expectations, The Odyssey, and The Iliad. Every pupil was
required to read at least two books a week and test on the accelerated reading program, a
program that my friends and I often attempted to cheat on. Each of us would read a book and try
to take the test for the others, only to find ourselves planted in in-school suspension for a week
afterwards. Being the foolish youth that we were, the gravest challenge my new-found comrades
and I had discovered was creating innovative ways to revolt against my unanimously disliked
teacher. Mrs. Day, never the dupe, was always prepared for any precocious schemes we had
concocted to disrupt her course. Although she carried the authority of a general and the social
grace equivalent to that of Darth Vader, one needed only to listen to a single lecture to know her
passion came from reaching that one impossible student that fought knowledge as hard as she
taught it. Unfortunately, I found myself being that impossible one. After all, I was a whole
thirteen years old that year, and so it stands to reason that I knew everything.
During my first year, after I had missed twelve days of school in a month, she approached me
with her hazel eyes full of genuine concern, wanting to know if I was terminally ill or perhaps
something was wrong in my home-life, which was apparent considering no normal adolescent
misses that much school. Like any other troubled student, I told her absolutely nothing and tried
to ignore the fact that my absences had drawn the dragon’s glare to me. Making a mental note
that if I came to class she could possibly forget my existence, I soldiered on enduring the
daunting classes. She never allowed me to slip past her nose after that, and the more she
sincerely attempted to help me, the lower my average plummeted. By the time I reached my
second year in her class, the air of hope she had once held for me was gone; an expression of
disdain had taken its place. The passion the woman had for teaching was frozen somewhere deep
within those eyes. Rounding into my last term, I recollect pondering why I cared if she was so
unpleasant, because I wouldn’t have to see her much longer.
She handed our final assignment two months prior to school end. The assignment was 80
percent of our final grade and failing it meant failing the course. She addressed the class,
focusing mainly on me, stating that she expected the best any of us would score on the
assignment was a C. She knew that if I botched the assignment with my already C average, I was
going to summer school. I can’t discern my true inspiration, but what I would come to believe is
that the way she looked at me as if there was no way that I could ever pass the assignment
obligated me to show her that I could. Every evening I went home researched, read, and
summarized until my eyes felt as if they were going to tumble out of their sockets and onto the
pages before me. In reality, I did fall asleep during one of my evening studies once, only to arise
in a puddle of drool on the pages of the newspaper article I was attempting to cut out. I rehearsed
my presentation in the mirror with the confidence of an attorney. My files were organized
perfectly as if my life was on trial and I was defending it. My visual aids were my evidence,
chosen specifically for their rhythmic flow with the presentation. Never before had I
demonstrated such ambition in any of my scholarly endeavors before. The day of the
presentation my execution was flawless. While the other students timidly walked to the front to
give presentations, I ambled to the front with certainty. Recalling every tip and trick I had heard
Mrs. Day mention, I used hand gestures, pointed out details, and explained the relationships
between my visuals and speech. While using my specific charts and pointing out statistics, I
observed my teacher’s face change. As the presentation went on, she became more and more
enthused. She handed my grade out with pride. I received a 95, which was the highest grade
anyone in the class had received.
Recalling it now, my teachers determination to teach me led me to the realization that I
was capable anything. Without her constant drills, I wouldn’t have learned how to say what I
needed to say properly or why it was important to know how to address others in writing. It
amazes me how she knew that insinuating that I couldn’t do something only made me that much
more resolute in completing the task at hand. Realizing everything she expected of me, I can
honestly state that through our rivalry, we grew to respect one another. She showed me that hard
work achieves goals; that writing was an escape, a way to communicate when mere words fall on
deaf ears. She showed me that reading is a new journey each time I turn a page. She passed the
confidence she carried in her own knowledge down to each of her pupils. Each student that left
her class carried that same proud knowledge, regal confidence, and majestic power of language
that prepared us for life’s journey in today’s increasingly competitive world.
Writing Critique
My Best Work: “Grazing Past Mrs. Day’s Class”
Since I was the author of all my papers, it is hard to choose only one essay that could be
called my best piece of work without having a bias opinion. However, I am partial to my essay
“Grazing Past Mrs. Day’s Class” because I was able to have a genuinely fun time re-imagining
what her class was like. The many descriptive details and powerful verb usage was useful in
capturing my reader’s attention. It was also a good piece of writing because there was no
research involved, which allowed me to set my mind free to express the thoughts and ideas
floating around without having to go by the strict rules of writing for the public. The fact that it
wouldn’t matter who saw it because it was my story to be told from my perspective took tension
off the paper’s importance. The story incorporates a good setting and feelings that anyone who
reads it can relate to. It was fun to write and ten years from now I could pull it out only to find it
just as fun to read as it is today.
My Weakest Writing: “Going Home”
“Going Home” was probably my weakest paper this semester because the topic was hard
for me to write about and relay the emotions and feelings tied with it to my classmates. I felt like
I couldn’t get enough details into it while still staying focused on one memory so it drifted off a
little. Although the story gets back on track, I felt like some of the information in it was
somewhat unnecessary. The organization of the paper could have been done differently so that it
didn’t put the reader in the setting and then have to explain all the history behind it. The
rhythmic flow that I have come to enjoy in writing was absent. Also, the ending wasn’t strong
enough. A wise woman once told me that the ending should be like a bow that ties the paper
together. This paper I felt was left untied, and I struggled to find a way to add finality to it. I
could have avoided the whole problem by choosing a less complicated memory.