essay feedback!

 Hi 

I need help with giving a feedback to two different essays. Simply write comment ( on the papers ) about whats wrong ( grammer…etc ) and what you like most. I need this to be done within 9 hours please.

 

Thanks.

Anna Meine

The Backseat

Following an extended period of bouncing from job to job, my dad chose to start a company with one of his old friends in Montana. Although our family had relocated quite a few times before and I was used to moving, we had always stayed in the Seattle area. It was all I knew, it was my home. And now, at eleven years old, I was faced with the prospect of leaving altogether. Shortly after announcing his decision, Dad had left Washington and was in some place called Missoula. Our lease was ending so my mom bought a used Mazda which she said she, my older brother and I would be taking on road trip to see family in several states until Dad found a place for us to live.

When it was time to leave, I was reluctant to climb into my seat in the back of the Mazda for the first time. The upholstery was plain, grey, and rough to the touch like sandpaper, I thought. I could feel it scratching through my clothes, making me itchy, antsy. I squirmed under the seatbelt, unable to get comfortable. In preparation for the move, and living out of a car indefinitely, we had stripped our belongings down to the bare minimum, which were now piled to the ceiling of the cramped sedan. A wall of suitcases in the center of the backseat isolated my brother and I from each other. Up front, Mom was kept company by a stack of boxes in the passenger’s seat and her Beatles’ top hits tape in the cassette player.

We headed south through Oregon and California, stopping occasionally to visit family and friends along the way or stay the night at a cheap motel. My mom tried to keep the mood positive during the long drives. Every once in awhile she would break the raw silence by blurting out something hopeful, using words like ”expedition” or ”adventure.” But it fell mostly on deaf ears. I felt trapped in my blocked off section of the backseat, listening to my mom play the same Beatles tape again and again and again. I couldn’t wait to get out of the car on the many pit stops that punctuated our trip.

My attitude began to change, however, as we drove through the Nevada desert on the strip of I-80 between Reno and Elko. Somewhere between replays of The Beatles’ Yesterday and Let it Be, I started to adjust to the idea of living in the car, of being on the road. I began to realize my mom was right, as cheesy as it sounded, we were on an adventure. For now, I could forget my doubts about moving to city I had never even heard of before I was told we would be moving there. I rested my head against the window and allowed myself to be hypnotized by the miles of seemingly endless desert in all directions. It was hot and the air conditioner in our ”new” car could barely cough out enough cool air to make it tolerable, but somehow I didn’t mind.

However, my new found sense of freedom didn’t last. A little over a month into our travels, Dad called to tell us he found a house. We immediately packed in to the Mazda one last time and headed North to our new home. As we arrived in Missoula and pulled into the driveway, all the uncertainty and dread came flooding back. I sank into the plush seat in the back of the car as if trying to bury myself in its soft cushions. I ducked until I couldn’t see the ugly house in front of us, with its dirty paneling and flimsy red shutters. The thought of going inside and facing the bare walls and empty, unfurnished rooms made me sick. I crossed my arms decisively. I was not going to get out of the car.

It was a nice enough motel. A u­shaped motor inn built,probably, in the fifties. Recently
renovated, from outside the rooms appeared to be clean neatly painted doors lined the u, a bland
white and khaki. Benches dotted in between several rooms. A decent patch of green grass grew
in the middle of the u, a tree provides shade for hot summer days, a picnic table and a bbq
offered warm nights to be spent drinking beer and eating burgers. The sign offered weekly rates
at 200 dollars. “Yes, this will do nicely until we can find an apartment.” My boyfriend offered with a
smile. I smiled back at him as he parked. I placed my beer on the floor and went into the lobby. I
was greeted by a massive, hairy, dopey, slobbering dog. He came up to just over my waist but
he wasn’t the kind you would be afraid of he was the kind that lacked any aggressive bone in his
body. I pet him and then gave my attention to the receptionist, she was early forties with a head
of short tight curls. I offered to pay for a month, she had me sign some papers, and explained the
rules of the motel then gave me my key. I walked over to the car grabbed my beer and had my
boyfriend park.

Our room was small but bigger than some others we had stayed in before. It offer all the basic
amenities, a queen sized bed took up most of the living area, a large tv stand stood in the corner
at the foot of the bed, it had drawers for our clothes. Nightstands with lamps sat on both sides of
the beds also with drawers but only a top one. A bland desk, no keyboard tray or drawers, just
flat on top with some legs sat up against the wall behind the door. This was very pleasing, a
place to sit that wasn’t a bed to listen to youtube videos! Awesome. Through a small entry way
led to a dining area almost as big as the living, cold spotted linoleum covered the floor and a
haphazard shelf, counter ejected from the wall. The area could have easily held a full size fridge
but instead a mini fringe had been shoved under this counter and it beared the weight of a
microwave. To the left was a decent sized closet for all the things we lacked, and to the right of
the closet was the bathroom. It held a bathtub! Finally I could take bubble baths and drink wine
after my long graveyard shifts at the factory! A small sink, with no counter space was where we
would do our dishes. I had gotten this set of ugly dishes from the goodwill, cream with brown
speckles and brown flowers. One couldn’t complain too much they were dishes.

It was here in this nice little motel where I started to feel at home, where I started to dare to
dream, of better places, of better days, of better things. This was the first place I felt at home, I
suppose I had felt at home in my childhood home before we moved to idaho. I never fit in and I
had always felt left out, overlooked, out of place. I’d started drinking and smoking at fourteen
looking more to stand out so I would fit in and be accepted. Acceptance through rebellion, never
try that. It doesn’t work, it just pulls you down a dangerous path of reckless abandon. It was
always a romantic notion, to be a complete fuck up. The kind of person who is so far gone that
you can’t help but stare and wonder how they came to be such scum, the kind of person who
you want to get to know and help but you don’t even try because they will just spit in your face
and laugh off your help. A complete trainwreck.

It was here in this little motor inn, my place of firsts, firsts of being an adult. That this romantic
notion began to fade away. I began to realize as I lovingly cared for my ficus from my
grandmothers wake, as I precisely folded paper into origami ornaments for our christmas tree,

and I cooked many dinners in our electric skillet. That I wanted more! I loved our little motel room,
it was home but I wanted a living room and a full sized fridge and a real kitchen. I didn’t want to
drink the beer we drank every night any more. I dreamt of saving all that money for a beautiful
place to live.