A non-journalistsic effort, needs critiquing

[Point of Order]

** Okay guys. I'm not sure exactly what this is for, but there's a possibility it could become the "personal statement" for my law school application, or the essay one school is requiring about a character-building moment. I know it's probably a little different, but I want to be different if different works here. Else, maybe I'll turn it into a non-fiction novel. Thanks in advance for your constructive criticism.


An Essay About My Mom
By Point of Order

My mother taught me how to swim.

I was thinking the other day about my mom. I give her a hard time because she can be really negative (that's where I get it from) in her use of words. She can really take the wind out of my sails with one biting line – sometimes without even trying and without even realizing it. She has cut me off at the knees so many times I have come to expect it. Talk about being kicked while you’re already down.

I know I give others that feeling a lot of times, and I'm sorry for it. When my friends call me out for the impropriety, I think about how my mom does it to me all the time. I get angry with her for being like that and at myself for not having better control.

But there's another side to my mom. The side all her friends tell me about when I come home. My mother has "adopted" grandchildren, school-aged kids that are the children of a Mexican immigrant she worked with at the doctor's office. These first-generation Americans get birthday presents, Christmas gifts, and a lot of times they get things from my mom for no particular occasion at all. It’s enough to make my brother and I jealous.

The mother of mom’s “grandchildren” who I don't even know came up to me at a family gathering and hugged me, telling me that my mom was an angel, that she has been so good to her and her kids.

I remember a particular occasion when I was about five or six years old. Mom saw two poor little boys walking along the road where we lived picking up aluminum cans to take to the scrap yard for money. They were brothers, one about my age and the other maybe a couple of years older, but they weren’t from our neighborhood.

Literally, they lived on the other side of the railroad tracks. To be more specific, there was a one-lane wooden bridge that went over the tracks about a mile down from Main Street. When the train came through town everyone went over the rickety, scary wooden bridge – only one car at a time. The boys lived in a small, unkempt home that sat by itself just about 100 yards away from the wooden bridge.

My mother pulled over and asked the boys where they lived, and they gave her exact directions to their house without any hesitation. When we got back to the house mom went to the garage where we kept all of our empty cans. We had two huge garbage bags full. Mom loaded them up, and delivered them to the house where the boys lived. It was barely a shack that they lived in, and their mom seemed a little skeptical about why in the world my mom was pulling up in her driveway. To the best of my knowledge, the kids’ mom never came out beyond the doorway. I don’t even think my mom ever spoke to her, except maybe to yell out the window of our S-10 Blazer, “Brought y’all some cans!”

That wasn't the last time we saw them. She knew both of their names. Mom would always bag up used clothes that my brother and I had grown out of and bring them to the kids. While I think they were slightly older than me, I know they were skinnier, and thus could probably get good use out of my clothes as well as my older brother’s.

I vaguely remember asking her once why she kept bringing things over to that house. I must not have paid close attention to the answer, but I think it was something generic: because they needed them more than we did.

I never thought about it much when I was younger, but there is always someone my mom is helping out. That instance exemplifies what was probably hundreds of simple acts of kindness I watched my mom perform throughout my formative years. Acts that were contradictory to some of the other impressions I had of my mom as an unfeeling, hard-hearted and tough lady. Her father was a very stern, seriously religious man. She barely cried at his funeral.

But there were always those beyond-belief stories about her: Mom trying to buy toys at Christmas for the girl whose house burned down. There was kid who wandered away from her parents drug house, and across the street into my mom’s arms when she was visiting a family member (she eventually, tearfully, returned the child to the house after the police came.)

I watched her take care of her friends’ kids, her brother's stepson and all the kids she gave swimming lessons to over the years. Since I never remember taking a swimming lesson, I used to take credit for teaching myself how to swim. After all, I never remembered a time in my life when I couldn’t swim.

Now I realize she taught me. It took me a long time to figure this out.

Mom is full of contradictions. They are contradictions I see within myself more with each passing year. I hope my friends see that kinder side in me. The side I missed in my mom for many years.

My mother showed me another good example, too. She went back to school late in life, and actually graduated from college within days of my own high school graduation. I didn’t pay much attention to the example she was setting then, but now as I have gone back to school after three years working for a master’s degree, and plan to go to law school, I think about the effort she made more often, too. Mom has helped countless others in her career as a nurse, and through law school, I hope to eventually help people they way my mother has done all her life.

 

[MartinEnigmatica]

POO -- ok, maybe making your handle an acronym isn't the best idea -- this might be a non-journalistic effort, but you can apply some of the same rules. I waded through the first couple paragraphs without too much interest because they were so general and non-specific. Reading "I was thinking the other day about my mom" out of the gate made me feel like I was about to read a journal entry.
Instead, take the Can Anecdote and move it to the top...much more interesting, and you can draw the same conclusions from it later on, when the reader can draw the same conclusions too. The way it works now is you're telling the reader your mom's a certain way, then providing the evidence. Reverse the process and extrapolate the meaning from the story, and (at least I think) you risk losing readers, so long as the anecdote isn't winding and stuffed with verbiage.
Depending on how you use the essay, I might be wrong in my take. Maybe applications want the thesis-evidence structure you have working on now.

Though, story concerns aside, I'm happy to see you found your mom's good side.

 

[Point of Order]

I'll take a look at how I can tighten it up and have a more compelling lede. Thanks for taking a look. I'd appreciate any other opinions.

EDIT: A re-write trying to get a better hook up top:

When I was about five years old my mother and I saw two poor little boys walking along the road where we lived picking up aluminum cans to take to the scrap yard for money. They were brothers, one about my age and the other maybe a couple of years older, but they weren’t from our neighborhood.

Literally, they lived on the other side of the railroad tracks, but it wasn’t too far from us. There was a one-lane wooden bridge that crossed over the tracks about a mile down from Main Street. When the train came through town everyone went over the rickety wooden bridge – only one car at a time. The boys lived in a small, unkempt home that sat by itself just about 100 yards away from the wooden bridge.

My mother pulled over and asked the boys where they lived, and they gave her exact directions to their house without any hesitation. When we got back to the house mom went to the garage where we kept all of our empty drink cans. We had two huge garbage bags full. Mom loaded them up, and delivered them to the house where the boys lived. Their mom seemed skeptical about our good motives. Why in the world my mom was pulling up in her driveway? To the best of my knowledge, the kids’ mom never came out beyond the doorway. Mom didn’t speak to her except maybe to yell out the window of our old S-10 Blazer, “Brought y’all some cans!” The boys were thrilled.

That wasn't the last time we saw them. She knew both of their names. Mom would always bag up used clothes, which were nothing fancy to begin with, that my brother and I had grown out of and bring them to the kids. Each time we pulled up in their driveway they’d come running out to see what my mom brought them. I vaguely remember asking her once why she kept bringing things over to that house. I didn’t pay much attention to the answer, but I think it was something generic: because they needed them more than we did.

I give her a hard time because she can be really negative (that's where I get it from) in her use of words. She can really take the wind out of my sails with one biting line – sometimes without even trying; without even realizing it. She has cut me off at the knees so many times I have come to expect it. She has an impressive ability to kick me when I’m already down.

I know I give others that feeling a lot of times, and I'm sorry for it. When my friends call me out for the impropriety, I think about how my mom does it to me all the time. I get angry with her for being like that and at myself for not having better control.

But there's another side to my mom. The side all her friends tell me about when I come home. My mother has "adopted" grandchildren. They are school-aged kids that are the children of a Mexican immigrant she worked with at the doctor's office. They get birthday presents, Christmas gifts, and a lot of times they get things from my mom for no particular occasion at all. It’s enough to make my brother and me jealous.

The mother of mom’s “grandchildren” who I don't even know came up to me at a family gathering and hugged me, telling me that my mom was an angel, that she has been so good to her and her kids. I never thought about it much when I was younger, but there is always someone my mom is helping out.

These instances exemplify what were probably hundreds of simple acts of kindness I watched my mom perform throughout my formative years - acts that were contradictory to the other impressions I had of her as an unfeeling, hard-hearted and tough lady. Her father was a stern, seriously religious man. She barely cried at his funeral.

If she came to watch me play baseball at all she would just sit in the parking lot and watch from the car. My dad always coached the teams, and he was the big influence on me, I thought.

But there were always those beyond-belief stories about her: Mom trying to buy a doll at Christmas for the girl whose house had burned down. There was the kid who wandered away from her parents’ drug-infested house, and across the street into my mom’s arms when she was visiting a family member (she eventually, tearfully, returned the child to the house after the police came.) I watched her take care of her friends’ kids, her brother's stepson and the scores of kids she gave swimming lessons to over the years.

Since I never remember taking a swimming lesson, I used to take credit for teaching myself how to swim. After all, I never remembered a time in my life when I could not swim. Now I realize Mom taught me how to swim, too, not just the other kids. It took me a long time to figure this out.

My mother is full of contradictions. They are contradictions I see within myself more with each passing year. I hope my friends see that kinder side in me. The side I missed in my mom for many years.

She showed me another good example, too. She went back to school late in life, and actually graduated from college within days of my own high school graduation. I didn’t pay much attention to the example she was setting then, but now as I have gone back to school after three years working for a master’s degree, and plan to go to law school, I think about the effort she made more often. Mom has helped countless others in her career as a nurse, and through law school, I hope to follow her example again.