My Hometown

Original Text: My Hometown - Essay with prompt: "Describe your relationship with your hometown:"

I never understood how I felt about my hometown until I left it. Like most small town children, I have a complicated relationship with the village that raised me. Every mistake, awkward phase, and slip up was projected onto a screen to be viewed and discussed over fried chicken at the church charity dinner by my tiny community. Clichés are clichés for a reason, and the exasperated small town teen begging for escape is as familiar to me as my brother, my friends, and myself.

On the other hand, what I could never seem to see was that every triumph was detailed equally meticulously and praised accordingly. Often, said triumphs were accompanied by a sweetly awkward photograph in our small town newspaper. Like a yearbook, my mother’s bulletin board displays carefully clipped gap-toothed, brace-face, and bright pageant smiles beside write-ups on theatre roles, charity work, and the occasional athletic achievement. These articles were never saved and clipped by me; instead, mailed by neighbors and friends who couldn’t stand the idea of my appearance in such an illustrious publication being overlooked. And while I never failed to write a thank you note like a good Southern girl, I wish I had understood how special and rare it is to be a part of something so deeply interconnected, to be a part of a community with so much love.

When I left home at seventeen for the University of North Carolina at Wilmington, I adored my newfound feeling of anonymity. I could walk down a street without a smile and not receive a phone call from my mother ten minutes later asking what is wrong. I loved my freedom and felt homesick only rarely. Four months later, when I decided that Wilmington, with its emphasis on partying rather than academics, was not right for me, I returned home for the semester to work, study, and save money while I prepared to transfer to **EDITED OUT** University.

Coming home again opened my eyes, and exasperation gave way to affection. I cleaned out old boxes filled with dusty cards from elementary school, congratulating me on a t-ball win or a successful solo in church, and found it difficult to feel anything but love for my community. My hometown is the smell of my grandmother’s house on Sunday afternoons after church. It is a blanket right out of the dryer in December, and ice-cold lemonade on a ninety-degree day. It can be a delicious comfort, but it is not a place to spread wings. While it’s size can be secure and safe, travel and education remain my biggest goals. Travel and education are precious commodities here, in my hometown where many still do not feel it necessary to complete high school. My relationship has simplified. It is a beautiful safety net that is not going anywhere, giving me the freedom to go everywhere.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Revised Text:

I never understood how I felt about my hometown until I left it. Like most small town children, I have a complicated relationship with the village that raised me. Every mistake, awkward phase, and slip up was projected onto a screen to be viewed and discussed over fried chicken at the church charity dinner by my tiny community. Cliches are cliches for a reason, and the exasperated small town teen begging for escape is as familiar to me as my brother, my friends, and myself.

On the other hand, what I could never seem to see was that every triumph was detailed equally meticulously and praised accordingly. Often, said triumphs were accompanied by a sweetly awkward photograph in our small town newspaper. Like a yearbook, my mother’s bulletin board displays carefully clipped; gap-toothed, brace-face, and bright pageant smiles beside write-ups on theatre roles, charity work, and the occasional athletic achievement. These articles were never saved and clipped by me. Instead, they were mailed by neighbors and friends who couldn’t stand the idea of my appearance in such an illustrious publication being overlooked. While I never failed to write a thank you note, like a good Southern girl, I wish I had understood how special and rare it is to be a part of something so deeply interconnected, to be a part of a community with so much love.

When I left home at seventeen for the University of North Carolina at Wilmington, I adored my new-found feeling of anonymity. I could walk down a street without a smile and not receive a phone call from my mother ten minutes later asking what was wrong. I loved my freedom and felt homesick only rarely. Four months later, when I decided that Wilmington, with its emphasis on partying rather than academics, was not right for me, I returned home for the semester; to work, study, and save money, while I prepared to transfer to **EDITED OUT** University.

Coming home again opened my eyes, and exasperation gave way to affection. I cleaned out old boxes filled with dusty cards from elementary school, congratulating me on a t-ball win or a successful solo in church, and found it difficult to feel anything but love for my community. My hometown is the smell of my grandmother’s house on Sunday afternoons after church. It is a blanket right out of the dryer in December, and an ice-cold lemonade on a ninety-degree day. It can be a delicious comfort, but it is not a place to spread your wings.

While it’s size can feel secure and safe, travel and education remain my biggest goals. Travel and education are precious commodities here, where many still do not feel it necessary to complete high school. My relationship with my hometown has simplified. It is a beautiful safety net that is not going anywhere, giving me the freedom to go everywhere.


Editor:

1. Please review the text carefully to ensure your intended meaning was not mistakenly changed.

2. Before you leave this page, please take a moment to use the "Click here to post comments." link at the bottom of the page to rate the proofreading and leave a comment if you wish.

Proofreading and editing pages that receive ratings and comments are moved to the top of the list.