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.