Sherri Payne English 111 Portfolio

8/10/2019 Sherri Payne English 111 Portfolio

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Sherri B. Payne

English 111

December 8, 2014


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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Self-Assessment

Essay #3- Momma (revised)

Essay #3- Momma (original)

Writing Self-Critique


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Sherri Payne

Stacy Jones

English 111

December 8, 2014Self-Assessment

It had been 32 years since I had taken any type of English class, when I began this one.

I thought of myself as a better than average communicator, but never thought of myself as a

writer. I write letters very well because I write as if I am talking to someone. I am not

completely convinced that text messaging is a good thing; it lacks expression. It became

apparent in my writing that I lacked expression. More graphic details were desperately needed.

My content and order were pretty good, but I needed to elaborate more in order to make my

papers much more interesting.

I learned the most from the first essay that we read, How to Say Nothing in 500 Words.

The author used numerous ways to get and keep the readers attention such as hypothetical

sporting events. He used examples that would attract the reader and gave incredible details in his

text. He also discouraged what he referred to as padding the text, which in essence is adding

unnecessary words just to make the paper longer.

Another essay that I particularly enjoyed was The Myth of the Latin Woman by Judith

Cofer. I really noticed the depth of her descriptions, more specifically the way she described the

Latin womans way of adorning herself with bright colors. She not only made you visualize her

thoughts, but you felt her hurt, anger and confusion. I tried to incorporate these emotions in my

writing. I was successful at times, such as describing Gabriel Jr. in my literacy narrative and my

mother in my memoir. I also fell short at other times, like when I failed to give more details


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about the fishing trip for the elderly veterans. Im still learning, quite obviously, however I do

see improvement.

One of my shortcomings is the use of commas, in my grammar. This was something I

didnt worry about at the beginning of the class. I had good grammar teachers in the past and

made high scores in their classes, usually As and Bs. As it turned out, I had more teachers that

emphasized grammar than creative writing or literature. This class taught me that my grammar

skills are not what they should be. My papers had more errors on comma usage than anything

else. It also taught me the importance of proof-reading your text before submitting it for a grade.

I did find interesting, the lecture about the differences between ethos, pathos, and

logos. In the beginning, my papers were very strong in logos. They were quite logical but

not always interesting. In writing, I had been taught to give the facts: the who, what, when and

where, like a reporter would do. In this class I was taught that the ethos and pathos are the

characteristics that make the papers interesting. Its important to include feelings and details to

keep the readers attention.

One way the instructor challenged me, was to use stronger verbs. I was somewhat

amused and impressed when Ms. Jones asked, How do you do as particular passive verb,

such as be. That example seemed to stick with me in my memory. This made it easier for me

to seek out more lively verbs to use.

I have been challenged in this class and I strived to meet the challenges. I am pleased

with my writing, and the improvement thereof. I am not the best, and I dont claim to be. I am

however an above average communicator with better skills than when I first started.


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Sherri Payne

English 111

Stacy Jones

November 3, 2014

Momma

Ive always heard the phrases, Daddys little girl and Mommas boy. Growing up at

my house, things were somewhat different. Mommas boys were grown, by the time I came

along, and my older sister was definitely, Daddys little girl. I was the baby of the family,

affectionately referred to by my father as, Brat. When I was eleven, my father died at age 47,

because an aneurysm behind his heart burst. Life, as I knew it, had suddenly changed forever. I

wasnt Brat anymore, tagging along behind my Daddy to the coffee shop or where ever else he

might let me go. There was no one left at home but Momma and me. All of my siblings were

grown, married, and living in their own homes.

I was having a difficult time accepting my fathers death, so at the funeral home just

before the funeral, my youngest brother, Gary took it upon himself to have a heart-to-heart

discussion with me. He told me I had to be strong, for Momma. He said that Daddys death was

hard on her and that since I was the only one, still at home, I would have to step up to the task

and really be strong, moral support for her. I didnt quite understand how such a strong woman

could be so vulnerable but I took his words to heart.

Over the years, I became very close to my mother. I was her baby and the only one at

home with her. It was almost like being an only child because all of my siblings lived out of


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town. Momma and I did everything together. She was my rock. Momma was my softball coach

when I was in third and fourth grades. She was also my disciplinarian. I learned at an early age to

have manners and show respect to my elders. Talking back disrespectfully to my mother was not

allowed. It didnt take me long to realize that disrespecting my Momma was called back talk

for a reason. If I did it, the back of her hand would land across my lips before I knew what

happened and this was not a pleasant experience. With all of that being said, my Momma loved

me unconditionally and I knew that. She was the strongest woman in my world.

Momma began smoking cigarettes when she was sixteen. She quit 40 years later at the

age of 56. I was so proud of her for quitting, but the damage had already been done to her lungs.

In her latter years, she developed COPD, Cardio Obstructive Pulmonary Disease. The

progression of her condition was expedited by pneumonia. It was late summer in 2002, when I

first noticed the progression. I had just pulled into Walmart parking lot searching for the closest

parking space to the door, when I spotted my mothers little white Pontiac Grand AM. Sitting in

the drivers seat, with her head slumped over the steering wheel, was my momma. She had

gotten winded, walking to her car, and was attempting to catch her breath. I honked my horn to

arouse her attention. She waved me on in a manner reassuring me that she was okay.

I saw my mother every day and did not really realize how badly she felt until

Thanksgiving of 2002. Her health had deteriorated terribly fast. Momma loved the holidays.

She thrived on having her family around her and serving them. She would spend days planning

and cooking for the family gatherings. When we were all in attendance, there were in excess of

30 people there. She would cook enough for an army. The food lined the countertops of the

kitchen, winding around to the utility room. It was there that the various desserts sat perched

atop the washer and dryer. Before the meal, the entire family would meet in the kitchen, hold


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hands, and someone would pray for Gods blessings on our food. Momma was always the last

one to fix her plate. She never sat down to eat until each person had been fed.

Typically, our meal time was at twelve noon. This particular Thanksgiving I went early to

see if Momma needed any help. I arrived at 10:30 am. Normally, Momma would have been up

since at least 6 a.m., cleaned the kitchen, showered, and prepared herself for company.

My momma was a fashion conscious lady. She knew what type of clothing fit her body

and she knew how to flaunt it. Every time she bought a new dress she would prance around the

room and twirl like a little girl, a true Miss Priss. When company was coming, she always

looked good. Holidays were special occasions and she dressed up wanting to look her best for

family snapshots. I fully expected to see Momma all dressed up, with her apron on, and working

like a busy bee in the kitchen. Not this time. As I walked in the back door, the vision I saw was

not at all what I expected. My heart sank and I felt tears wanting to come forth, but I managed to

hold them back. I put on a smile and said, Good Morning! Happy Thanksgiving!

There at the kitchen table, sat my 76- year- old mother in her night gown and slippers.

Her hair had not been brushed, and it was lying flat against her head where she had nestled on

her pillow. Her hair was so thin you could see her scalp in places. My step-dad stood over the

kitchen stove cooking for the family that would soon be arriving. I told Momma that I was there

to help get things ready and all she had to worry about was getting herself together. A smile of

relief came over her face; she gently cupped my cheek with her hand, looked up at me and said,

Thank you Darlin. I love you. She went to the shower and I got busy.

I cleaned off the table and got smaller tables out of storage. I found the holiday linens

for the tables and presented the tables to Mommas standards. I swept and mopped the floors,


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vacuumed the carpets, cleaned off the countertops to make room for the food, emptied the trash,

and cleaned the bathroom before company arrived. That day I realized that my super-hero

mother was now a frail, little, old lady. From that day forward, things would be different.

Thanksgiving turned out nicely. It was typical in the sense that all of the family gathered

together to share a huge, delicious meal. This time was different; Momma wasnt the last to sit

down. Her children were all grown and we took care of ourselves, and the grandchildren. I took

care of Momma. Seated at the table as the matriarch of our family, was Momma; I served her. I

also made it a point to speak privately to each of my siblings about Momma and her dwindling

physical condition.

By Christmas, her breathing was shallower and she had to use a walker to assist her with

mobility. She had a portable oxygen tank to wear to church and a stationary tank to use at home,

with a line that would reach every room in the house. She usually left the back door unlocked so

people could just come right in. It was too difficult to answer the door.

In the fall, Momma had bought a lovely, white, lace, dress to wear to church for Easter.

She kept it hanging in her closet and never wore it, saving it for Easter. When Easter morning

rolled around, Momma woke up early so she would have time to primp. She needed the extra

time because by this time physically she had slowed down tremendously. She was determined to

wear her pretty, white, Easter dress. She got up, showered, put on her make-up, curled her cotton

white hair and slipped into the beautiful dress shed been saving for this special occasion. On her

shoulder she carried a purse sized oxygen tank. This was her first trip to church in a wheelchair.

Easter Sunday 2003, was Mommas last time to attend worship services and her last time to

leave home.


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As the days passed I saw her weaken and the white of her eyes was turning to blue. The

reality of my mothers mortality was coming to fruition. In April of that year a hospital bed was

delivered and set up in her living room. She was killing herself, trying to get from the bedroom

to the living room every day. The slightest exertion was so difficult for her.

My brother, Gary, put his life on hold and stayed with my mother every night for the next

four months. My step-dad was illiterate, and the hospice nurses only came twice a week.

Someone needed to stay with her. My sister worked and came when she could. I went by every

day after work. My sons got off the school bus there each afternoon and they, too, helped take

care of Momma. My brother Ronnie lived in Alabama, so he came up every weekend to help

Gary see after her.

I worked on a four day schedule and Mondays were my regular days off. I would stay on

Sunday night to give Gary a break. Someone had to stay up with her at night, to make sure she

didnt flail her arms and knock the oxygen tube out of her nostrils. Her breathing had gotten so

shallow that only of her lungs were working properly and she had tiny pinholes, in the rest of

them, where the air would leak out. On occasion she would struggle to breathe. When she had

difficulty, she would go into a panic attack. Panic attacks often cause hyperventilation, which is

much more severe when suffering from respiratory disease. We would have to administer

morphine drops, under her tongue, to calm her enough to breathe.

I was the choir director at our church that year and always went by to check on Momma,

after church. One Sunday, when I got there my sister, Yvonne, was already there. Momma was

struggling and Yvonne was fanning her. Sometimes pushing cool air directly into her nostrils

helped her breathing. Yvonne looked at me with fear in her eyes and said, Its not helping. I


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went to the head of Mommas bed and leaned over, putting my cheek next to hers and I coached

her.

Come on now Momma, breathe with meIn your nose and out your mouth. Breathe

deep.In your nose and out your mouth

I repeated the sessions a few more times; inhaling and exhaling with her was not working either.

The only thing left to do was to get her mind off of her breathing, so I did the only thing I could

think of. I stepped around to the side of her bed so she could see me, then I smiled and said,

Oh Momma! You should have heard the choir this morning. They sounded so good!

We sang an OLD song. Then I looked at my sister and said, Hey Voni, lets sing for

Momma.

As we began to sing, Mommas little eyes smiled, she calmed down, and began to breathe in a

somewhat normal pattern. We sang, Theres a New Name Written Down in Glory and Its

Mine. It gave her peace. Little did we know that would be the last song she ever heard.

That night, after church, I went back to Mommas house. When I got there, Gary was in

the living room trying to coax Momma into taking her breathing treatment. She refused by

spitting out the mouthpiece of her nebulizer. I told my brother to go into the kitchen, and I took

over. I looked deep into my mothers eyes and said lovingly, Now Momma, you know, you

have to do this. I know you dont like it, but its good for you, and it will help you breathe. You

also know, Im not going to quit until you take it. Now please, Momma, take the breathing

treatment and then Ill leave you alone and let you rest. She smiled at me with her eyes and

took the breathing treatment. After she finished, I smiled at her and said, Thank you, Momma. I


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love you. Now, Ill leave you alone and let you rest. Then I kissed her forehead and she closed

her little brown eyes and drifted off to sleep.

I went to the kitchen and reassured my brother, telling him that she was asleep and

resting peacefully. He could hardly believe it. Since she was resting well, Gary decided to go

home and sleep in his bed, for the first time in four months.

My husband worked at night so I brought my sons with me to Mommas house. My

oldest son slept in my old room, and my youngest slept with his Pappaw. I sat in a chair next to

Mommas bed, watching the frail little woman who had always been my rock, sleep.

It was the month of August, so we kept the air conditioner on high, to keep the room so cool it

was almost cold. It was easier for Momma to breathe the cold air. The house was quiet. All that

could be heard was the blowing of the air conditioner. The lights were dim, just light enough to

see but not bright enough to disturb anyone. Momma slept good from 8:30 p.m. until 3:30 a.m.

At three thirty she began to get a little restless, making a humming sound.

hmmm, sigh, hmmmm..

hmmm, sigh, hmmmm.

She repeated it in her sleep, over and over. I got up and started to fan her, to give her some relief.

It did not seem to help. It was not an uncommon sound, she often sounded that way, so I sat back

down in the chair, rubbed my eyes and forehead, and suddenly realized the room was quiet. I did

not hear Momma anymore. A sick feeling came over me. I got up and said, Momma, are you

okay?


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I felt of her hands, they were cold and stiff. Well, I thought, shes old and stiff, and

this room is cold. I tried to check her pulse but my heart was racing so fast and beating so hard I

could not tell if she had a one or not. Her breathing was so shallow; I could not see her chest rise

and fall. I immediately called my brother and my sister and told them, I think Mommas dead.

At 4 a.m. my brother and sister and I gathered in Mommas kitchen and began making

plans how to handle the next few hours. After calling our brother in Alabama, we called the

hospice nurse. Someone had to legally pronounce her dead. Then we woke up my fourteen-

year- old son. After we told Patrick, we gently woke my Step-father. The nurse came and then

the funeral directors were notified. Momma had a living will and in it were strict orders not to

resuscitate. It was at that time, I woke my nine year old, Joseph. I could not let him wake up to

see his grandmother being carried away to a hearse. Our family gathered around her with our

hands held tightly and we thanked God for taking her so effortlessly. With respiratory diseases

she could have struggled, gasped for air, and had a horrible suffering death, but she did not. God

allowed her to slip off, into paradise, in a quiet peaceful manner.

As I look back on her last day, now I understand why she suddenly settled down when

my sister and I sang to her. Momma knew there was going to be a New Name Written Down in

Glory and it was hers, Orah Pearl Phillips Bizzell Willcutt.


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Sherri Payne

English 111

Stacy Jones

November 3, 2014

Momma

Ive always heard the phrases, Daddys little girl and Mommas boy.Growing up at my

house, things were somewhat different. Mommas boys were grown, by the time I came along

and my older sister was definitely, Daddys little girl. I was the baby of the family,

affectionately referred to by my father as, Brat. When I was eleven, my father died at age 47,

because an aneurysm behind his heart burst. Life, as I knew it, had suddenly changed forever. I

wasnt Brat anymore, tagging along behind my Daddy to the coffee shop or where ever else he

might let me go. There was no one left at home but Momma and me. All of my siblings were

grown, married and living in their own homes.

I was having a difficult time accepting my fathers death, so at the funeral home just before

the funeral, my youngest brother, Gary took it upon himself to have a heart to heart discussion

with me. He told me I had to be strong, for Momma. He said that Daddys death was hard on

her and that since I was the only one, still at home, I would have to step up to the task and really

be there for her. I didnt quite understand how such a strong woman could be so vulnerable, but

I took his words to heart.

Over the years, I became very close to my mother. In her latter years, she developed COPD,

Cardio Obstructive Pulmonary Disease. The progression of her condition was expedited by


14/24

pneumonia. It was late summer in 2002, when I first noticed the progression. I had just pulled

into Walmart parking lot searching for the closest parking space to the door, when I spotted my

mothers little white Pontiac Grand AM. Sitting in the drivers seat, with her head slumped over

the steering wheel, was my momma. She had gotten winded, walking to her car, and was

attempting to catch her breath. I honked my horn to arouse her attention. She waved me on in a

manner reassuring me that she was okay.

I saw my mother every day and did not really realize how badly she felt until Thanksgiving of

2002. Her health had deteriorated terribly fast. Momma loved the holidays. She thrived on

having her family around her and serving them. She would spend days planning and cooking for

the family gatherings. When we were all in attendance, there were in excess of 30 people there.

She would cook enough for an army. The food lined the countertops of the kitchen winding

around to the utility room. It was there that the various desserts sat perched atop the washer and

dryer. Before the meal, the entire family would meet in the kitchen, hold hands, and someone

would pray for Gods blessings on our food. Momma was always the last one to fix her plate.

She never sat down to eat until each person had been fed.

Typically, our meal time was at twelve noon. This particular Thanksgiving I went early to see

if Momma needed any help. I arrived at 10:30 am. Normally, Momma would have been up

since at least 6 AM, cleaned the kitchen, showered, and prepared herself for company.

My momma was a fashion conscious lady. She knew what type of clothing fit her body and

she knew how to flaunt it. Every time she bought a new dress she would prance around the room

and twirl like a little girl, a true Miss Priss. When company was coming, she always looked

good. Holidays were special occasions and she dressed up wanting to look her best for family

snapshots. I fully expected to see Momma all dressed up, with her apron on, and working like a


15/24

busy bee in the kitchen. Not this time. As I walked in the back door, the vision I saw was not at

all what I expected. My heart sank and I felt tears wanting to come forth, but I managed to hold

them back. I put on a smile and said, Good Morning! Happy Thanksgiving!

There at the kitchen table, sat my 76 year old mother in her night gown and slippers. Her hair

had not been brushed and it was lying flat against her head where she had nestled on her pillow.

Her hair was so thin you could see her scalp in places. My step-dad stood over the stove cooking

for the family that would soon be arriving.

I told Momma that I was there to help get things ready and all she had to worry about was

getting herself together. A smile of relief came over her face; she gently cupped my cheek with

her hand, looked up at me and said, Thank you Darlin. I love you. She went to the shower and

I got busy.

I cleaned off the table and got smaller tables out of storage. I found the Holiday linens for the

tables and presented the tables to Mommas standards. I swept and mopped the floors,

vacuumed the carpets, cleaned off the countertops to make room for the food, emptied the trash,

and cleaned the bathroom before company arrived. That day I realized that my super-hero

mother was now a frail, little, old lady. From that day forward, things would be different.

Thanksgiving turned out nicely. It was typical in the sense that all of the family gathered

together to share a huge, delicious meal. This time was different; Momma wasnt the last to sit

down. Her children were all grown and we took care of ourselves, and the grandchildren. I took

care of Momma. Seated at the table as the matriarch of our family, was Momma; I served her. I

also made it a point to speak privately to each of my siblings about Momma and her dwindling

physical condition.


16/24

By Christmas, her breathing was shallower and she had to use a walker to assist her with

mobility. She had a portable oxygen tank to wear to church and a stationary tank to use at home,

with a line that would reach every room in the house.

In the fall, Momma had bought a lovely, white, lace, dress to wear to church for Easter. She

kept it hanging in her closet and never wore it, saving it for Easter. When Easter morning rolled

around, Momma woke up early so she would have time to primp. She was determined to wear

her pretty, white, Easter dress. This was her first and last trip to church in a wheelchair. Easter

Sunday 2003, was Mommas last time toattend worship services and her last time to leave home.

As the days passed I saw her weaken and the white of her eyes was turning to blue. The

reality of my mothers mortality was coming to fruition. In April of that year a hospital bed was

delivered and set up in her living room. She was killing herself, trying to get from the bedroom

to the living room every day.

My brother, Gary put his life on hold and stayed with my mother every night for the next 4

months. My step-dad was illiterate and the hospice nurses only came twice a week. Someone

needed to stay with her. My sister worked and came when she could. I went by every day after

work. My sons got off the school bus there each afternoon and they too, helped take care of

Momma. My brother, Ronnie lived in Alabama, so he came up every weekend to help Gary see

after her.

I worked on a four day schedule and Mondays were my regular days off. I would stay on

Sunday night to give Gary a break. Someone had to stay up with her at night, to make sure she

didnt flail her arms and knock the oxygen tube out of her nostrils. Her breathing had gotten so

shallow that only of her lungs were working properly and she had tiny pinholes, in the rest of


17/24

them, where the air would leak out. On occasion she would struggle to breathe. When she had

difficulty, she would go into a panic attack. Panic attacks often cause hyperventilation, which is

much more severe when suffering from respiratory disease. We would have to administer

morphine drops, under her tongue, to calm her enough to breathe.

I was the choir director at our church that year and always went by to check on Momma, after

church. One Sunday, when I got there my sister, Yvonne was already there. Momma was

struggling and Yvonne was fanning her. Sometimes pushing cool air directly into her nostrils

helped her breathing. Yvonne looked at me with fear in her eyes and said, Its not helping. I

went to the head of Mommas bed and leaned over putting my cheek next to hers and I coached

her.

Come on now Momma, breathe with meIn your nose and out your mouth. Breathe

deep.In your nose and out your mouth

I repeated the sessions a few more times; inhaling and exhaling with her wasnt working either.

The only thing left to do was to get her mind off of her breathing, so I did the only thing I could

think of. I stepped around to the side of her bed so she could see me, then I smiled and said,

Oh Momma! You should have heard the choir this morning. They sounded so good!

We sang an OLD song.

Then I looked at my sister and said, Hey Voni, lets sing for Momma.

As we began to sing, Mommas little eyes smiled, she calmed down, and began to breathe in a

somewhat normal pattern. We sang, Theres a New Name Written Down in Glory and Its

Mine. It gave her peace. Little did we know, that would be the last song she ever heard.


18/24

That night, after church, I went back to Mommas house. When I got there, Gary was in the

living room trying to coax Momma into taking her breathing treatment. She refused by spitting

out the mouthpiece of her nebulizer. I told my brother to go into the kitchen and I took over. I

looked deep into my mothers eyes and said lovingly, Now Momma, you know, you have to do

this. I know you dont like it, but its good for you, and it will help you breathe. You also know,

Im not going to quit until you take it. Now please Momma, take the breathing treatment and

then Ill leave you alone and let you rest. She smiled at me with her eyesand took the breathing

treatment. After she finished, I smiled at her and said, Thank you Momma. I love you. Now,

Ill leave you alone and let you rest. Then I kissed her forehead and she closed her little brown

eyes and drifted off to sleep.

I went to the kitchen and reassured my brother, telling him that she was asleep and resting

peacefully. He could hardly believe it. Since she was resting well, Gary decided to go home and

sleep in his bed, for the first time in four months.

My husband worked at night so I brought my sons with me to mommas house. My oldest

son slept in my old room and my youngest slept with his Pappaw. I sat in a chair next to

Mommas bed, watching the frail little woman that had always been my rock, sleep.

It was the month of August, so we kept the air conditioner on high, to keep the room so cool it

was almost cold. It was easier for Momma to breathe the cold air. The house was quiet. All you

could hear was the blowing of the air conditioner. The lights were dim, just light enough to see

but not bright enough to disturb anyone. Momma slept good from 8:30 PM until 3:30 AM. At

three thirty she began to get a little restless, making a humming sound.

hmmm, sigh, hmmmm..


19/24

hmmm, sigh, hmmmm.

She repeated it in her sleep, over and over. I got up and started to fan her, to give her some relief.

It did not seem to help. It was not an uncommon sound, so I sat back down in the chair, rubbed

my eyes and forehead. and suddenly realized the room was quiet. I did not hear Momma

anymore. A sick feeling came over me. I got up and said, Momma, are you okay?

I felt of her hands, they were cold and stiff. Well, I thought, shes old and stiff and this

room is cold. I tried to check her pulse but my heart was racing so fast and beating so hard I

could not tell if she had a one or not. Her breathing was so shallow, I could not see her chest rise

and fall. I immediately called my brother and my sister and told them, I think Mommas dead.

At 4 AM my brother and sister and I gathered in Mommas kitchen and began making plans

how to handle the next few hours. After calling our brother in Alabama, we called the hospice

nurse. Someone had to legally pronounce her dead. Then we woke up my fourteen year old son.

After we told Patrick, we gently woke my Step-father. The nurse came and then the funeral

directors were notified. It was at that time, I woke my nine year old, Joseph. I could not let him

wake up to see his grandmother being carried away to a hearse. Our family gathered around her

with our hands held tightly and we thanked God for taking her so effortlessly. With respiratory

diseases she could have struggled, gasped for air, and had a horrible suffering death, but she did

not. God allowed her to slip off, into paradise, in a quiet peaceful manner.

As I look back on her last day, now I understand why she suddenly settled down when my

sister and I sang to her. Momma knew there was going to be a New Name Written Down in

Glory and it was hers, Orah Pearl Phillips Bizzell Willcutt.


20/24

Excellent detail. There were only a few places that might be enhanced by a bit more detail or

elaboration. There are portions that would benefit from a bit of new sentence combinations; for

more information, take a look at the following site:

http://bccw3.wordpress.com/2011/06/15/combining-short-choppy-sentences/

Paper Grade: 95/A

A = Superior Work: All requirements are met and most are exceeded. The idea is developed withexactness, creativity, and originality. The thesis clearly presents all elements of the topic. The

essay is organized through topic sentences and paragraph patterns. The essay also contains

effective transitions: parallel structure, varied sentence beginnings, lengths, and types; lively

verbs; examples; concrete details. This essay has few, if any, errors in grammar, mechanics,

spelling, or usage.
http://bccw3.wordpress.com/2011/06/15/combining-short-choppy-sentences/http://bccw3.wordpress.com/2011/06/15/combining-short-choppy-sentences/http://bccw3.wordpress.com/2011/06/15/combining-short-choppy-sentences/


21/24

Sherri Payne

Stacy Jones

English 111

December 8, 2014

SELF-CRITIQUE

The memoir about my mother was my strongest essay. It was the easiest for me to write.

My memories of her are my most vivid and that made writing about her a simple task. The

thoughts would pop into my mind and simply flow right out the tips of my fingers. The

description of my frail little momma, on Thanksgiving, is a good example of that. I did a good

job drawing in the reader on an emotional level: when coaching my mother with her breathing

and when determining whether or not she was still alive. Overall I like this essay the best. It was

a memory I will never forget and now that it is in a literary form maybe my future grandchildren

will one day enjoy reading about their great- grand-momma.

My informative paper on the American Legion is definitely my weakest essay. It

contained very much information and statistics, which I found a challenge to make exciting. I

am impressedby the many good works done by the American Legion, however, there were too

many to mention without sounding like a list. In order to improve my paper, I would begin by

adding a more personal touch by adding more real life stories. The story about the major league

baseball player and the one about the fishing trip added more reality to the paper. Human

interest stories are usually a good read. I did add visuals and that was a good addition to the


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essay. To make the essay more enticing, and to draw in the reader, more personal stories are

needed.


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Documents

Sherri Payne English 111 Portfolio