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  1. #1
    yeecharles is offline Junior Member
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    Default I don't love Papa enough--check my use of grammar

    I wrote a long essay on my relationship with my father. I hope you will read it and correct my use of grammar. My writing is always riddled with errors.
    Thanks in advance.

    Title: I Don't Love Papa Enough

    I always feel that I do not love my father enough.

    As a child, I was ashamed of him. He was unable to give
    a decent life to the family after suffering bankruptcy in
    his soy-sauce selling business. Being a good cook, he eked out a living for the family by selling steamed buns in an open-air market at nights. We lived a very frugal life. I always became the subject of mockery in school because everyone knew that I had no television, pocket money, toys and comic books. They found Papa's car amusing in particular. Whenever I arrived at school in it, they would laugh out loud and say "Here comes the lousiest car in town!" The derision deeply mortified me and I hated Pa for causing it. I can still remember how the car looked and sounded. It was a rusty second-hand car which made a lot of squeaking sounds when chugging clumsily along the road.

    As a teenager, I was always at odds with Papa over many things. He wanted me to take woodwork as my elective subject but I took commerce instead. He disallowed me to spend much of my time on making comic books but I did it openly to arouse his anger. He berated me for being girlish and I retorted that he could not fulfill my needs. I disliked the shabby way he dressed and avoided walking with him in town (he always wore a singlet and a pair of khaki shorts). I never informed him to come and witness me receive awards in prize-giving ceremonies. I feared that other fellow recipients would speak ill of him. If he scolded me for failing my mathematics or arguing with my siblings, I would throw his bible from upstairs or filch some notes from his money container. My hatred towards him escalated when he decided to stop selling steamed buns and let Mum work in Brunei to support the family. I blamed him for being an irresponsible husband and called him a parasite in one heated argument. I thought my impudence would be rewarded with a slap on the face but he walked out of the house instead, looking hurt and enervated. When I was accepted into teacher training college, I refused his congratulatory handshake. I hardly returned home throughout my four years in college. Even if I did, we would quarrel.



    I was posted to a well-reputed school after graduation. I moved out of home into a relative’s vacant house in my ninth year of teaching. I could not bear living under the same roof with Papa any more. We had had far too many rows within the previous eight years. I was confident to live a calm life of my own. However, I was wrong. My life was riddled with problems. I hurt my head in a self-accident three years ago. The serious injury impaired certain nerves in my right ear, causing me to have permanent tinnitus. I also failed to cope with the growing workload in school and soon succumbed to depression. Many a time I was absent from work because I had repeated bouts of panic attacks.



    Papa came to my rescue when I was in dire need of support. Knowing that I was too depressed to take care of myself, he came to my house every day to do house chores for me. He cooked my favourite dishes, swept the dust-encrusted floor and washed my dirty clothes. When I needed to attend counseling sessions, he drove me to the psychiatric unit in hospital. He also prayed over me when I was down with panic attacks. He insisted on taking me to school too. Papa still does most of these things up to these days. Under his meticulous care, I feel more secure emotionally. I can cope with my tinnitus and workload with a stronger endurance. I no longer have panic attacks. Papa's love infuses me with hope and strength.



    I have never stopped feeling ashamed of myself for treating Papa with contempt before. To salve my conscience, I give him more money every month; treat him to meals, share jokes with him, return to his home and thank him more often. However, all these gestures are so mediocre compared to his selfless love and forgiving heart. If I could go back to my childhood days, I would try my best to be an obedient kid and tell all my mean friends that I was proud of him. I want to undo the pain I caused him.

    Papa, you are the best father in the world. May God shower you with endless blessings.
    Last edited by yeecharles; 25-Jun-2010 at 14:46.

  2. #2
    tedtmc is offline Key Member
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    Default Re: I don't love Papa enough--check my use of grammar

    Quote Originally Posted by yeecharles View Post
    I wrote a long essay on my relationship with my father. I hope you will read it and correct my use of grammar. My writing is always riddled with errors.
    Thanks in advance.

    Title: I Don't Love Papa Enough

    I always feel that I do not love my father enough.

    As a child, I was ashamed of him. He was unable to give a decent life to the our family after suffering bankruptcy in his soy-sauce selling business. Being a good cook, he eked out a living for the family by selling steamed buns in an open-air market at nights. We lived a very frugal life. I always became the subject of mockery in school because everyone knew that I had no television, pocket money, toys and comic books at home. They found Papa's car particularly amusing in particular. Whenever I arrived at school in it, they would laugh out loud and say "Here comes the lousiest car in town!" The derision deeply mortified me and I hated Pa for causing it. I can still remember how the car looked and sounded. It was a rusty second-hand car which made a lot of squeaking sounds noise when chugging clumsily along the road.

    As a teenager, I was always at odds with Papa over many things. He wanted me to take woodwork as my elective subject but I took commerce instead. He disallowed me to spend much of my time on in making comic books but I did it openly to arouse his anger. He berated me for being girlish and I retorted that he could not fulfill my needs. I disliked the shabby way he dressed and avoided walking with him in town (he always wore a singlet and a pair of khaki shorts). I never did not inform him to come and witness me receive awards in the prize-giving ceremonies. I feared that other fellow recipients would speak ill of him. If he scolded me for failing my mathematics or arguing with my siblings, I would throw his bible from upstairs or filch some notes from his money container. My hatred towards him escalated when he decided to stop selling steamed buns and let Mum work in Brunei to support the family. I blamed him for being an irresponsible husband and called him a parasite in one heated argument. I thought my impudence would be rewarded with a slap on the face but he walked out of the house instead, looking hurt and enervated. When I was accepted into the teacher training college, I refused his congratulatory handshake. I hardly returned home throughout my four years in college. Even if I did, we would quarrel.

    I was posted to a well-reputed school after graduation. I moved out of home into a relative’s vacant house in my ninth year of teaching. I could not bear living under the same roof with Papa any more. We had had far too many rows within the previous eight years. I was confident to live of living a calm life of my own. However, I was wrong. My life was riddled with problems. I hurt my head in a self-accident three years ago. The serious injury impaired certain nerves in my right ear, causing me to have permanent tinnitus. I also failed to cope with the growing workload in school and soon succumbed to depression. Many a time I was absent from work because I had repeated bouts of panic attacks.

    Papa came to my rescue when I was in dire need of support. Knowing that I was too depressed to take care of myself, he came to my house every day to do house chores for me. He cooked my favourite dishes, swept the dust-encrusted floor and washed my dirty clothes. When I needed to attend counseling sessions, he drove me to the psychiatric unit in hospital. He also prayed over for me when I was down with panic attacks. He insisted on taking me to school too. Papa still does most of these things up to these days this day. Under his meticulous care, I feel more secure emotionally. I can cope with my tinnitus and workload with a stronger endurance. His love infuses me with hope and strength.

    I have never stopped feeling ashamed of myself for treating Papa with contempt before. To salve my conscience, I give him more money every month; treat him to meals, share jokes with him, return to his home and thank him more often. However, all these gestures are so mediocre compared to his selfless love and forgiving heart. If I could go back to my childhood days, I would try my best to be an obedient kid and tell all my mean friends that I was proud of him. I want to undomake amends for the pain I have caused him.

    Papa, you are the best father in the world. May God shower you with endless blessings.
    .

  3. #3
    nitink12 is offline Newbie
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    Default Re: I don't love Papa enough--check my use of grammar

    great comments. Can we get more frequent comments on writings from somewhere?

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