Pers.Essay: A Time When I Encountered Something Greater Than Myself--Poverty in India

My teacher gave me a B+ on this essay, but I would like to rewrite it for an A since he is giving me the option to get a better grade. How should I rewrite this?

He had made the following comments on the essay:
2nd Paragraph- "Be more vivid--an actual image of a real child"
5th Paragraph- "Let us hear and see him"
The End- "B+ You have the intensity, you find yourself in a crummy place. But neither the poverty nor the family get to be present"

How can I redo this essay for an A? Any specific suggestions would be greatly appreciated. Here you go:

The Conflict of Guilt and Hatred

In life there are moments holding more substance than others. To predict them is hard, to measure them upon occurrence is impossible. They are gifts, or curses, or disasters, whose worth only time will tell. Within their invisible walls are worlds disconnected from the ordinary patterns of a person's life; intimate domains where every move is significant and holy. To taste such a moment is to understand the power of transformation. They are moments of change.

For as long as I live, I know I will remember each moment in that room; the quietness that seemed to be too loud, the tense waiting on that plastic chair, the reheated old fast food, the sickeningly gentle heat of the cup against my skin. I can still smell the the scent of spice in the air and still see the brown hand fisted in the knee of my black sweats as I listened to the casual and derelict speech of my aunties and uncles. I remember false security and loosening suspicion clouding my better judgment as I turned my head and caught sight of poverty-stricken children outside the window; the smell of the dank basement. All these memories enter me like light does the eye or music a lonely soul. Unknowingly, their presence has become a weight inside me as it has turned into a moment of change. So I will never forget and never forgive those who let me live my life as a child, foolishly blind to the world I lived in.

I envy the days inside which I lived life so naively, inexperienced and easily enthralled by the slightest changes in status quo. I always wanted to grow older-always wanted to see more, experience more, learn more-know more. I regret my silly misconceptions on what life was, for once you learn about the calamity life is capable of holding, I've learned that you can never go back. I resent those that had let me foolishly live on in a state of ignorance, for when you finally grow and gain that sense of self-awareness, you realize how much of an idiot you had truly been. They thought they were hiding it for my own good, but it only bred an immense amount of self-hatred within me.

Since that day and after experiencing that particular moment of change, which I have often likened to a nightmare, I have felt like a jack-o-lantern on a daily basis. The unappealing guts of my abdomen had been yanked out with a fork and dumped in a heap while a grinning smile has been left plastered on my face. I try my best to not be a stereotypical, angst-ridden teenager who can't confront her own inner demons, but sometimes it is simply challenging. On some level, I feel more mature but at the same time, much too small for what my mind seems to contain. I feel guilt, hatred, and disgust for all the privileged people around me. Living and going to school on the Upper East Side of Manhattan just makes me wonder what I've ever done to deserve this privilege. The questions have been eating away at me from the inside and resentment has turned into appreciation, which has only added to the amount of guilt buried within my fingertips. In another world, another lifetime, I could've just been another beggar on the streets of Calcutta, a single step away from being sold into child prostitution.

I remember wanting to punch my uncle in the face as he casually ignored the begging children. He looked at them with disdain and a demeanor that reeked of a deep superiority complex; they annoyed him, knocking on the windows of his Mercedes Benz and dirtying up his new cleaning. To this day, disgust wells up inside me when I think of him, my favorite uncle, and even greater than disgust, guilt-because I've cultured a hatred inside me for my own living family. I know that they cannot help being disgustingly privileged in a country where more than half the population is starving, but it still does not keep me from hating them for it. On my trip, I learned about metaphors, euphemisms, and hatred.

Though I would like to believe that my experience has enriched me, it certainly has not. I live every single day now in fear, pointedly trying to feign ignorance in order to hopefully avoid any appearances of other significant moments in life. I've learned to understand what 'ignorance is bliss' truly means, and I've learned to doubt it.

Though they didn't let me walk the streets alone in Calcutta, in my fine South Asian clothes and even more extravagant finery, they didn't understand that somehow the quietness in the car was even more stifling than the sight of the poor outside the window. It choked me from the inside out; and as my spoiled and self-absorbed aunt petted my hair as she asked me what was wrong, her perfume pulled the last straw and strangled me, her long fingernails turned into my own personal guillotine.

It was not the realization and sight of poverty that stifled me, it was hatred. I felt the sting of lashes on my back as the waves of kept on crashing against me, one after another. The feelings of conflict and anger felt too large for my nine-year-old self and I had no idea what do with such a massive, immense amount of resentment and anger. The reasoning behind the hatred, too, was much larger than myself. There was nothing I could do to solve the problem of poverty, or the destructive and angry feelings it inspired within me, for I knew it was self-inflicted; my own personal moral issues. My sister had adopted the nonchalant, casual, and blasé nature of my aunts and uncles in India, seemingly unaffected by the sight of the dirty unwashed children and men sleeping by the side of the street. I had not the gall to bring up my problems with my parents or other family members because I had been so accustomed to loving and embracing them wholeheartedly, I could not fathom to imagine the disappointment I'd inspire within them once I let them know how revolting they were to me.

So I sat quietly by, and let them continue their lives in a charade of bliss and happiness.

___________________________________
Suggestions please? I want to get this up to an A.

Looking good, but I think it needs more references to the actual family, and to actual circumstances. The style of writing is good but, as your teacher said, I think it needs to relate to the actual experiences you had. Also, just to let you know, if you need a Proof-reading or Typing services to help you with these essays. You should check out uk proofreading. Good luck with your re-write.

The advice is talking about imagery words. Imagery words are the ones that give the reader an experience. For example, perfume is not really an imagery word, but a "nostril-burning, chemically smell" might give an experience.

The words orange, red, blue, etc... these also put images in the mind...

This is awesome: I remember wanting to punch my uncle in the face as he casually ignored the begging children.---- but how about an adjective or two?How about letting us see what that face looks like...

The teacher wants to bring out your ability to give the reader an experience.

:-)

The Conflict of Guilt and Hatred


Very abstract, very philosophical, also quite original metaphors. Impressive overall, but one wonders if you are not being a little precocious.People do not banter around with such deep ideas. It is hard then to keep the rest of the writing at this level.


What is this place you're talking about ? And why are you waiting? Whose brown hand ? What was your uncle and aunty's speech about ? Why 'loosening' suspicion ?

This is nice -- memories enter me like light does the eye or music a lonely soul.


Well expressed, one can feel your resentment. But whom is it directed at, your parents, which is what one thinks; or your uncle and aunty. If the latter, why is it them ? The reader feels a need to know.


Again, the first sentence brings up the question, what are you talking about ? Which moment ? This sentence ... the unappealing guts .. is out of tone with the rest. It sounds like school-boy lingo, Manhattan kind. Lovely expression and thought here .. In another world, another lifetime, I could've just been another beggar on the streets of Calcutta, a single step away from being sold into child prostitution.


Suddenly from the basement you're now in the car. It's impressive how you recognize and now talk about your feeling guilty for hating .. the family, but again, whom do you mean. Your family in the US, or back in India ?


You're a sensitive girl, going by your writing . I hope putting it in words in this essay helped you grapple with these emotions.


This has stretched out a bit too much ..her perfume pulled the last straw and strangled me, her long fingernails turned into my own personal guillotine.

But, maybe that's how you actually feel, then you might want to tweak it a bit. I am having difficulty with imagining 'fingernails' as 'guillotine'.


The strength of feeling is strong ... your aunt's 'perfume' feeling like lashes. You've actually missed out the word, I'm assuming is perfume or such like. Or was it something else ?

All the rest of the para is very well expressed.


I specially like how you recognize the hatred as consequence of the guilt you feel about your own 'privileged' life. A sort of coping don't you think, shifting its responsibility to the other elders in the family ? Also, is there really a conflict of these two emotions as your title suggests ? The hatred is quite unjustified, unless there is more than what you've said in your essay.

Thank you so VERY much for all the feedback.
I wasn't expecting any at all; your comments were more useful than ever.

I'm having difficulty doing what my teacher suggested i do--e.g. bringing the poverty and the family members to the "present." I don't know HOW to do it. Considering the entire thing is written in the narrative past, rather than the literary present, I think it would detract from the intensity and reflectiveness of the essay if I suddenly add in dialog--which is what I feel like he expects me to do. I completely understand the fact that I need to make finer details about the family alot more concise for the sake of clarity.


Haha, I'm not actually sensitive. I simply wrote an essay for school. Experience had taught me that an average high school teacher wants you to write as if small details of your life are incredibly poignant, so thats what I served him.