A typical good day.

((current status = hollow))

Shelonda is a junior. She’s buff, easily twice my size, with the kind of face that says, I grew up hard. She’s assertive but soft-spoken, and, like most of the bigger kids, great to work with–sure, they clown around, but they respect the teachers and will usually pull it together after being coaxed. Shelonda was self-motivated; she brought her essays to me without me asking to see them. I had to lean in to catch her words as she handed me her two attempts at a personal statement. What she was saying was, “This is all I got right now. I don’t think it’s any good.”

The main issue is that she, like most of these kids, talks around things rather than illustrating them directly for the reader. But after reading a half-page about her drug-addict mother, abusive foster parents who used her to get money, beat her, and worked her like a slave, a mention of being raped, a hint that she became pregnant and had an abortion, and the violent death of her father before she could be reunited with him, how am I supposed to tell her to write more?



We are academics. We are halftime, part-time, anywhere/anytime. We are degreed. Underpaid. Overworked. Our name is adjunct, and we are many.
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