First Draft
The click-clack of her heels on the shiny tiled floors was distinct even from the kitchens.
She served a timid smile along with my milkshake and promised that she’ll follow not long after. Her shift was about to end, anyway. As she walked to another customer asking for a drink, I could see her weary face sigh. She’s done this for ten hours each day for six days a week for five years. You can see it from the calluses on the back of her foot where the heels dug in, her quick responses to the typical complaints, the way the ugly yellow uniform clung to her thin, wiry figure and how everything requires so little concentration when they’ve been done countless times that it’s already second nature to bark an order in the kitchens or smile sweetly at an annoyed customer.
She sat tiredly in front of me half a milkshake later. Veins have cropped up on her hands that pulled up her auburn hair. It took me a while to convince her of the interview. “Why would a life like mine interest anyone?” Wouldn’t anyone like their story to be highlighted, I replied. That hardly bought her either. Her voice was a husky one, as if the cheerfulness faded little by little. She never dreamed of being a waitress. I doubt anyone did. Growing up from Ohio, she had always been a devout Christian and a loving daughter, friend, neighbor until that fateful day she found out that she was pregnant. Her kind family turned against her. The shame of the daughter’s sin could not be borne by the family. “You step out of this house Carol. I don’t have a daughter who gets knocked up like you.” Even after
several years, the pain was etched deep on her eyebrows and clear in her eyes.
Rick promised to take care of her and their child. Rick said he’ll support them. Rick said he’ll work hard and give them a decent home to live in. At least he said that before he left them for good. With only a handful of cash left, she wound her way up in the Big Apple. Determined to make something of herself and her child, she grabbed the only job that was viable to her: waitressing. She scraped a little money a day, paying the bills for their measly apartment downtown, barely supporting her son, Lawrence. She took up whatever other job she could to stay afloat. She has worked as a cashier and a waitress in various other establishments; most of them at the same time. It never seems to be enough. Several times, she even considered working as a stripper, if only her morals could let her.
Her slim figure claimed that it was in its mid-thirties until she told me she was only twenty-three. Her face was wry and tired and she seems to held up only by willpower. And perhaps that is the only thing that has held her up until now. Despite the whole world rearing its ugly head at her, she chose not to cower in fear and throw everything away. She still fought each day, working and working for her son to have a better future than she did. They still heard mass every Sunday and she taught him all the prayers she knew. Her principles were left intact even after enduring the worst possible outcomes in life. Although life took a toll on her, she’s doing her best for her son, if her life was beyond salvaging already.
Eventually, that was how it turned out: living the rest of her life for the sake of someone else. The only satisfaction in working overtime shifts at different diners is to know that it was all for the sake of her son. It was all in the hope that her son would repay her sacrifices. Hope lit her eyes up at every mention of Lawrence. She believed that no matter how difficult it would be for the two of them, she was willing to fight the battles.
Final Draft
The click-clack of her heels on the shiny tiled floors was distinct even from the kitchens.
She served a timid smile along with my milkshake and promised that she’ll follow not long after. As she walked to another customer asking for a drink, I could see her weary face sigh. She’s done this for ten hours each day for six days a week for five years. You can see it from the calluses on the back of her foot where the heels dug in, her quick responses to the typical complaints, and the way the shabby and overused yellow uniform clung to her thin, wiry figure. By now, everything requires so little concentration when they’ve been done countless times that it’s already second nature to bark an order in the kitchens or smile sweetly at an annoyed customer. It makes one wonder what cruel fates would cause such a tragedy on her. Would anyone ever think she deserved it?
She sat in front of me half a milkshake later. Anyone with less strength would’ve succumbed to the exhaustion she endured each day. It took me a while to convince her of the interview. “Why would a life like mine interest anyone?” Wouldn’t anyone like their story to be highlighted, I replied. Her voice was a husky one, as if the cheerfulness faded little by little as time wore on. She never dreamed of being a waitress. I doubt anyone did. Growing up from Ohio, she had always been a devout Christian and a loving daughter, friend, neighbor until that fateful day when she got pregnant. Dreams shattered, she was left no choice but to admit to her parents. Her kind family turned immediately against her. “You step out of this house Carol. I don’t have a daughter who gets knocked up like you.” Even after several years, the pain was etched deep on her eyebrows and clear in her eyes. The mother who bore her, the father who raised her, her elder sister who was her best friend: they all seem like strangers after time took its toll. Not even an occasional phone call or a yearly postcard changed anything. But Rick promised to take care of her and their child. Rick said he’ll support them. Rick said he’ll work hard and give them a decent home to live in. “I’ll just go get some milk for the baby.” Rick said.
And that was the last she saw of him.
With only a handful of cash left, she wound her way up in the Big Apple. Determined to make something of herself and her child, she grabbed the only job that was viable to her: waitressing. She scraped a little money a day, paying the bills for their measly apartment downtown, barely supporting her son, Lawrence. She took up whatever other job she could to stay afloat. She has worked as a cashier and a waitress in various other establishments; most of them at the same time. It never seems to be enough. Several times, she even considered working as a stripper, if only dignity would let her. Somehow, Carol and Lawrence slowly made it through.
Her slim figure claimed that it was in its mid-thirties until she told me she was only twenty-three. Her face was wry and tired and she seems to held up only by willpower. And perhaps that is the only thing that has held her up until now. Despite the whole world rearing its ugly head at her, she chose not to cower in fear and throw everything away. She still fought each day, working and working for her son to have a better future than she did. Her principles were left intact even after enduring the worst possible outcomes in life. Although life took a toll on her, she’s doing her best for her son, if her life was beyond salvaging already.
Eventually, that was how it turned out for her: living the rest of her life for the sake of her dear son. Her greatest motivation in working overtime shifts at different diners was the idea of her son having a better future than this. Hope lit her eyes up at every mention of Lawrence. She believed that no matter how difficult it would be for the two of them, she was willing to fight the battles. And one day, when she could no longer fight them, he would fight them for her.
Reflection
The composition of the essay was largely a narrative carried by its imagery. I felt that the persona would be brought to life more in terms of imagery instead of a lengthy recount of every detail of her life. Given only two pages to bring out the persona’s character, I highlighted the most pivotal events of her life. Since the essay’s goal is a profile, I focused on the event that molded her into what she was now. One careless move was what snowballed into her perennial troubles. The work necessary to keep herself and her son afloat turned her into woman of iron will she was now. That much could be seen in how weary she looks even though most women of her age look much younger and healthier. However, the challenge was not to overdo the imagery so much so that it would be two pages of flowery description and no point to it. My first draft was running the risk of that.
Although the organization of thoughts was executed well enough, the transition was rather blunt. There was little narrative and an abundance of imagery. The revisions helped in that aspect. On grammar, most problems I encountered were run-on sentences. I have a tendency to cram three ideas in once sentence all joined by conjunctions. This leads to confusion on the part of the reader. This was easily remedied by splicing the sentences up. The thesis which was Carol holding her life together all for the sake of her son was thoroughly written about in the essay. Most of the problems I encountered were caused by poor transition devices. The structure of the first draft was poorly constructed because of blunt transition. But in the final draft, it was modified to have a more fluid transition for the reader to appreciate that the essay was one complete narrative about the struggles and triumphs of Carol.
Editing it proved difficult at first because it seemed that nothing was wrong with it. It was an essay that I wrote and through my eyes, everything seems to be in order. But after reviewing the techniques of editing and modifying, it grew clear later on what my mistakes were. Editing isn’t purely proofreading; it also entails a lot of reorganization on the part of the writer. Sometimes, the problems in an essay aren’t as clear or as specific as mistake in subject-verb agreement. It could be that the organization of ideas may come off as confusing to the reader or the thesis hasn’t been developed as thoroughly and as clearly. Since this is a profile essay, other problems such few details about the persona could also lead to a poorly written paper. Details about the persona’s habits, clothing, and environment: these could make a whole lot of difference between a vaguely written profile and a meticulously written one.
In my paper, I believe I’ve done my best to thoroughly revise it. Most changes were attributed to the structure, transition and clarification of thesis. Not much was done to rearrange the organization of the points and topics at hand since upon modification of the transition devices, the narrative was more fluid. Changes to the organization of topics were no longer necessary. Polishing of grammar and sentence structure was also applied. All in all, I believe I’ve done a better job than my first draft especially with carefully applied revisions done.
