In need of an IMMEDIATE essay critique

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I have a rough draft due tonight via email to my English Composition I teacher. I'm seeking a proofreader for any grammatical mistakes and such. I haven't officially written anything in over a decade. This is my first college essay, and I want to do well. The assignment was to remember a place that you once were and upon revisiting, describe whether it has remained the same or changed. It was to be inspired by EB White's "Once More to the Lake," which I still haven't managed to get through.

I was writing this relatively last minute and began in stream of consciousness. When you read it, it's obvious where there were intervals of inactivity, because I switch from right to left-brain thinking and style. Yeah, it's sloppy, but I couldn't get my creative side back and was initially intending to write this piece from a political perspective, which I ended up grazing a few times, anyway.

I am guessing that the teacher really intended this to be a creative writing project in the vain of White's short story, instead of just a comparative essay. My main concern is my grammar. Next time I'll make sure to write the whole thing in one sitting rather than pausing to eat or nap, so that the style remains seamless.

Anyway, from any of you who were English majors or are fluent in the technical nature of writing, I would appreciate an evaluation before my submission. I have until next Thursday to render this into a final draft but can only make up to 10 points more than the grade I receive on the rough draft, which means I have little margin for error. And yes, the actual piece is in MLA format contained within a .doc file. Following is just the text-version...

I also need to fill in the blank to complete the pattern contained within the paragraphs...and...come up with a title. As I stated before, I'm not in creative mode, so any clever wordplay escapes me, which is effecting my ability to write a meaningful title:


The place of my youth was riddled in despair. The four walls which enclosed me were speckled in paint colored Pain and Fear. These walls were intended for safety, to provide a shelter from the cruelties of this world, but the cruelty faced within hardened my spirit and prepared me for a life on the outside. It was my prison. It was my home.

Returning to this place, after many years have slipped between my fingers like the sands of time, has unlocked a floodgate of memories that were long ago pushed to the far recesses of my mind, a cold, concrete barrier of stability. I constructed this wall to act as my true home, my protector, a support beam. Now the demons have been resurrected and fight to bound heights seeking freedom. I stand alone in my thoughts -- they are but mine; this place won't move others to tears for it is merely a house with unknown secrets that will remain confined, as they cannot be forcibly extracted. In this, I maintain my strength.

As a child, the bricks appeared to climb to the sky, while palm trees laughed against the curb. The neighborhood rested with neatly cropped yards and precisely trimmed hedges. In the autumn, when death was in nature's wind, the brittle leaves that descended from the heavens were immediately swept away and collected to maintain order and disguise the cycle of life as it passed into the realm of the deceased. I would sit upon the grass and stare up at these massive Hydras shedding their skin. If I were to have been a happier girl, perhaps my eyes would've seen a flock of birds molting, their feathers riding the breeze, as they pulled from the earth, ascending toward the clouds, but I wasn't a happy girl, yet this was serenity. When glimpsing these trees again, the wonderment has disappeared. I note the sorrow in their neglect, their feathers littering an overgrown lawn, as they droop beyond fences and mask street lamps and signs, contributing to vehicular disturbances, begging for attention in their old age, but instead of empathy, they encounter rage and wrath. However, it isn't by fault of the trees that they aren't loved as they once were.

In my youth, the streets were without obstacles to maneuver. Vehicles sat in their appropriate drive or slept enclosed within the encasement of a masoned box. The wide canals of travel were given as much care as the facade of each yard. The pavement was smooth with distinct division lines as cars kept near the centre while children played at the side. This was harmony. Looking upon these very streets twenty years later, automobiles motionlessly crowd the roadways, disturbing the line of sight, and children can no longer be seen laughing and frolicking, riding their bikes and skipping rope, as fearful parents use locks to stand guard, restricting their own from escaping and freely exploring the outside, in hopes of preventing an early claiming of life on a busy commuter's channel. The streets have become the moon, textured with craters and dark blobs of tar patches, uneven to traverse. Cracks from ritualistic expansion and contraction, branch like tributaries, creating seams which factor into complications when determining the previously perfect flow-symmetry, making accidents a common occurrence.

Once there was a neighborhood without fear of poverty or burglary. As a suburban bubble of middle-class life, troubles seemed to leave the residents untouched. Doors welcomed entry for those who frequented their thresholds as guests. Verbal invitations traveled down the streets while barbeque scented the air on many a weekend. Friendly conversation echoed into the night as if everyone were old school chums catching up on lost time. This was security. To where did this sense of safety disappear? Very few of those I had known remain -- many have been pushed away by social decay; no longer a community of the middle-class, poverty wandered in and set up camp, breeding crime to mark its territory. Bolted doors and still tongues create a distance of deafening silence, which amplifies the fired shots that graze the air and pierce the skin. Police patrol the streets stopping those who are out after dusk for a friendly round of interrogation. This is the atmosphere, thick with fear and fumes seeping from the local meth-house docked on a rental property.

There was a time of open fields and makeshift parks, places for a game of tag or hide-and-go-seek. Dandelions grew wildly; rabbits darted and burrowed; squirrels gathered and scampered. While returning from school I often found myself beckoned to relax amongst the reeds, as they formed a blanket to cradle me; entranced by the sky, my gaze fell upon the clouds as they melded, morphed, parted, and conjoined hypnotically. This was sanctuary, but the hand of change mocks peace. With a sprouting population from an influx of people, the land has been harvested. Nature was stripped away to lay foundation for structures that presently serve a swarm of human locusts, ignorantly intent on devastating any lingering ecological life. Multilevel apartment stacks and parking lots, which seem to stretch for miles, dot the roadsides. Sparse instances of meticulous landscaping with fresh saplings have replaced the wisdom held inside the expansive journals of ancient oaks, maples, pines, and willows which kept a watchful eye over me when I was still a child.

Ma-and-pop shops were plentiful, places where owners personally managed their establishments and greeted each customer by name with genuinely warm smiles and friendly conversation. These establishments offered a small inventory of specialty items and were relatively noncompetitive with others in the area, each independently significant to the community. Although stores were typically small, the size was actually beneficial, as they were easily run by single families sharing in the day-to-day duties. There was a wealth of warmth and efficiency. This was prosperity. However, as the population is expanding, large companies are taking notice and dig their claws into this economic potential to squeeze the livelihood from many small business owners. Entrepreneurs are being buried by intimidating corporate machines fueled by our consumerism. Franchises serve as the modern day equivalent of “ma-and-pop shops” but with a lackluster veneer. The buildings are larger, as are the payroll rosters; employees are trained to deliver scripted lines and smile on cue; competition is fierce as the big names move in and battle it out on adjacent corners. It is no longer about quality, but rather quantity and the profit margin which lines the pockets of upper management as the community suffers and our wallets grow thinner.

While I was just a little girl, we would drive 30 minutes at the crack of dawn to attend church service on Sundays. The wheels of time spun a charmingly beautiful cathedral – just like wine, it became finer with age. Mass was structured with hymns and readings that were symbiotically applied to real life situations. A finely polished collection plate would be passed around during the Holy Eucharist to accept coins and prayers for loved ones, which were read at closing. It was a place of peace to feel the embrace of God. This was celestial. Aside from industry, a boom has also been experienced in religion. Churches have cropped up like fast food joints. Tickers, reminiscent of McDonald’s “1 billion served,” can even be spotted from a mile down the road. These temples are gigantic monsters upon large black pools of pavement. Just as in commerce, massive prefabricated buildings are being erected and strategically placed to pose as warring forces, though touting the same principle, Christian versus Christian. Attendees play hopscotch as they are snatched and reclaimed by nearby battalions. It has become about who can offer the best perks and amenities, such as when joining a country club or being recruited for a college sports team. Giant LCD screens lower electronically from their ceilings; on-site cafes and coffeehouses offer free broadband access; the church stores bring to mind souvenir stands at NFL games selling branded merchandise of anything you can fathom which encourage individuals to become mobile billboard advertisements. Service is now about bullying you into breaking the bank in support of the Lord and church, chattering of neighborhood gossip, and badmouthing the competitors. There are more places to worship yet less worshiping being done.

I was raised in a home of pain but could look out the window and observe tranquility to find comfort and hope, which allowed me to relinquish my fears and carry on for another day. My cage was surrounded by a beautiful world filled with those who took pride in its maintenance. Though I wished to confine secrets and keep the outside untainted, time has delivered cracks and the bars have weakened. Suffering has seeped through and infected my once harmonious and peaceful neighborhood, eroding its quality and instigating indifference. The evils within could not be contained by four walls and once released, spread like a plague. Now I live in a much larger prison, a room without a view, a place without hope. The only thing that stays the same is the bite of change which tears the floor from beneath us.

If you read this before 9:45PM CST, press refresh...I've made some alterations on a couple paragraphs. Still attempting to find a word to fill in the blank.



***11:51pm CST. Still haven't received any thread responses. Filled in the blank with prosperity...may or may not be the best choice. Padded the paragraph to ease in the word.



The classmate who was supposed to do my peer review, never got in touch with me. The email address she gave me was incorrect, so I waited all weekend to receive an email of her essay to obtain the correct address for the exchange. That was a big part of my grade for the week. This is why I don't like when my grade relies on others. I text messaged the teacher to let her know that I hadn't heard from my classmate, and asked if she just wanted me to go ahead and send in the paper without having a peer review, but...she hasn't responded. I hope this doesn't mean that I will be given a zero on my paper.