The essence of my senior year.
Here is my college essay #1 on the topic: tell the admissions board something about yourself. Please comment. Is it good? Can you see me in it? Is it well written?
I bang my hand down on the keyboard in frustration: k-d-;-s-#-l. I’ve been searching for it for hours. The perfect story. That special anecdote or personal experience that brings out the essence of me.
I have always considered myself to be a writer. I have boxes of my stories, poems, newspaper articles, and essays stacked in my attic. I am an artist who paints with words. This should be easy. But here I sit, poised to create a masterpiece, a perfectly accurate self-portrait, a work that is me in every sense, and I can’t do it. The problem is not that I cannot find the words; it is that I cannot choose a medium. There isn’t a single story that aptly describes me.
I am a linguist. I’ve devoured almost every foreign language credit that Briarcliff High School has to offer. I am fascinated not only by vocabulary and grammar rules, but also by the origin of each language, by its dialects and regionalisms, and by its unique slang. There is something about the perfectly rolled “r” that sends shivers throughout my body. I think Spanish speaking assignments are fun. I want to study as many languages I can because language is not just a means of communication, it is the fingerprint of a culture. Language is what makes every cultural group unique. To learn a language is to learn about a country, its people, its customs, its past, present, and future. Learning a language opens a door that would otherwise be locked, and I want to hold the key to many doors.
I am that girl who can’t tell right field from the pitchers mound, who has no idea what a first down is, who couldn’t make a jump shot if her life depended on it. But I have worked through my athletic handicap, and have grown into a gymnast. I have put on a leotard three nights a week since the eighth grade and have gone to the gym, returning weary and sweaty but usually proud of my achievements. I have waited for my turn to compete, wiping my sweaty palms on my legs and taking deep breaths of stale air with a light scent of chalk. I’ve stood on the winners’ podium, wearing a fourth place medal and watching a nine-year-old receive the gold (with perhaps a twinge of embarrassment). I’ve fallen down only to get right back up. I’ve cried tears of both happiness and frustration. But it has all been worth it, because through all of my hard work I’ve learned to rely on myself.
When I first started gymnastics, I didn’t realize that it was the sport’s emphasis on the individual that made it so attractive to me. That point was made blaringly obvious as I presented to the uneven bars judge at my first meet. I realized then that while my coaches and teammates had helped me get to where I was standing, everything after my stoic salute was up to me. To succeed I needed to find in myself the passion and desire to do so. Gymnastics helped me find little bits and pieces of myself that I didn’t know were there. And so even though I’ve lost the gold medal to many a nine-year-old in my career, I’m proud of every routine I performed because I worked hard to prepare them.
But I have always known that I started too late to call gymnastics anything other than a passionate hobby. And so I have become a teacher. Standing in that same chalky, dusty gym, I have watched a line of tiny five-year-olds march in, wearing sparkly leotards and eager smiles. I have patiently explained to them the artistry of a perfectly executed skill and have then watched their attempts with pride whether they did it correctly or not. I have tried to give these girls a chance to have what I desperately wanted but couldn’t achieve. I have let their every success reinforce my hope that even if I can’t compete at the highest of levels, I can help someone else do just that.
I am a hopeless bibliophile, a competent cellist, a diligent student, and a realist most of the time. I am a composite of family vacations, gymnastics meets, books, and conversations. I realize now that I cannot describe myself with one witty anecdote or touching story. I am a puzzle with many pieces drawn from memorable experiences, important lessons, and pivotal moments, and I am adding pieces every day.
I bang my hand down on the keyboard in frustration: k-d-;-s-#-l. I’ve been searching for it for hours. The perfect story. That special anecdote or personal experience that brings out the essence of me.
I have always considered myself to be a writer. I have boxes of my stories, poems, newspaper articles, and essays stacked in my attic. I am an artist who paints with words. This should be easy. But here I sit, poised to create a masterpiece, a perfectly accurate self-portrait, a work that is me in every sense, and I can’t do it. The problem is not that I cannot find the words; it is that I cannot choose a medium. There isn’t a single story that aptly describes me.
I am a linguist. I’ve devoured almost every foreign language credit that Briarcliff High School has to offer. I am fascinated not only by vocabulary and grammar rules, but also by the origin of each language, by its dialects and regionalisms, and by its unique slang. There is something about the perfectly rolled “r” that sends shivers throughout my body. I think Spanish speaking assignments are fun. I want to study as many languages I can because language is not just a means of communication, it is the fingerprint of a culture. Language is what makes every cultural group unique. To learn a language is to learn about a country, its people, its customs, its past, present, and future. Learning a language opens a door that would otherwise be locked, and I want to hold the key to many doors.
I am that girl who can’t tell right field from the pitchers mound, who has no idea what a first down is, who couldn’t make a jump shot if her life depended on it. But I have worked through my athletic handicap, and have grown into a gymnast. I have put on a leotard three nights a week since the eighth grade and have gone to the gym, returning weary and sweaty but usually proud of my achievements. I have waited for my turn to compete, wiping my sweaty palms on my legs and taking deep breaths of stale air with a light scent of chalk. I’ve stood on the winners’ podium, wearing a fourth place medal and watching a nine-year-old receive the gold (with perhaps a twinge of embarrassment). I’ve fallen down only to get right back up. I’ve cried tears of both happiness and frustration. But it has all been worth it, because through all of my hard work I’ve learned to rely on myself.
When I first started gymnastics, I didn’t realize that it was the sport’s emphasis on the individual that made it so attractive to me. That point was made blaringly obvious as I presented to the uneven bars judge at my first meet. I realized then that while my coaches and teammates had helped me get to where I was standing, everything after my stoic salute was up to me. To succeed I needed to find in myself the passion and desire to do so. Gymnastics helped me find little bits and pieces of myself that I didn’t know were there. And so even though I’ve lost the gold medal to many a nine-year-old in my career, I’m proud of every routine I performed because I worked hard to prepare them.
But I have always known that I started too late to call gymnastics anything other than a passionate hobby. And so I have become a teacher. Standing in that same chalky, dusty gym, I have watched a line of tiny five-year-olds march in, wearing sparkly leotards and eager smiles. I have patiently explained to them the artistry of a perfectly executed skill and have then watched their attempts with pride whether they did it correctly or not. I have tried to give these girls a chance to have what I desperately wanted but couldn’t achieve. I have let their every success reinforce my hope that even if I can’t compete at the highest of levels, I can help someone else do just that.
I am a hopeless bibliophile, a competent cellist, a diligent student, and a realist most of the time. I am a composite of family vacations, gymnastics meets, books, and conversations. I realize now that I cannot describe myself with one witty anecdote or touching story. I am a puzzle with many pieces drawn from memorable experiences, important lessons, and pivotal moments, and I am adding pieces every day.