GOOD ESSAY PART 1

1 The lure of Possibility

I stand silently in the cool, crisp air. Around me, the houses cast off a sullen light in the covering
darkness. I slowly walk forward, my thundering footsteps the only disturbance in an otherwise
quiet night. Inside the house, the television blares on with soap operas. The moon is rising,
emitting a faint light as it appears over the horizon. The stars are clearly visible, tiny jewels of
light studded in the black quilt of the night sky. I look to the stars, and my mind wanders.

A majesty is evident in the quiet brilliance of these points of light. I lose myself in their shine. Out
there are wonders. Millions of balls of gas, planets and even black holes exist up beyond the black
veil of night. Hundreds of galaxies swirl gracefully out in the vast emptiness of space. The universe,
with all its mysteries, looms just beyond the horizon.

I had read about space when I was in 2nd grade, spending many evenings sprawled on my bed,
devouring books by Isaac Asimov on asteroids, comets, stars, planets and black holes. These
heavenly objects represented the unknown and their enticingly mysterious names Enceladus,
Andromeda, Io called to me. As a high school student, I read Stephen Hawkings A Brief History
of Time and watched a Nova series on string theory on the Internet to get a better idea of how our
universe works.

Something about the heavens draws me in. A hint of something exotic, beyond the mundane
interactions of daily life. Up there, stars with so much gravity that not even light could escape
twisted the fabric of the universe, quasars blew out large bursts of radio waves and dark energy
stretched the universes boundaries. Scientists could explain neither how the universe began nor
how the universe was going to end. Up beyond the black veil of night, something remains out of
reach of human knowledge, wafting a scent of mysteries unsolved.

When I learned that we were going to cover space in school, I became thrilled at the prospect of
discovering the universes secrets. I fervently hoped that the teacher would tell me about the Big
Bang and black holes in detail. However, I was bitterly disappointed. The teacher glossed over
black holes, instead focusing on teaching the names of the planets and moon phases, in the order
that they both occurred. The universe, with all its mysteries and complexity, was condensed to 16
easy to remember words. Class focused more on the sparse words inside the McDougall-Little
textbook than on the universe that lay outside, beckoning to us to view its wonders.

Yet, I cannot stay out forever. Already, I can hear them. The soft, insistent lisp of my opened
textbook. The accusing hum of my computer. The grim tramp of duties coming to drag me away
from my galaxies and dark matter. My heavy sigh tumbles into the night air; many days could
pass before I could escape their grasp to come out again. With one last longing glance, I plod
towards the door. As the door clicks behind me, I return to the comfortable, mundane sounds of
television soap operas and clanging spoons in the sink.

Behind me, the stars smile mysteriously behind their black veil.
2 My Inspiration
I was a week into my second trimester of freshman year when my mom lost all feeling in her left
side. She tried to blame it on a pinched nerve for days until we convinced her to see a doctor. The
day of parent-teacher conferences at my school I met her in front and could tell she had been
crying. She assured me that everything was fine and we went in, but she could barely walk up the
stairs and refused to tell me what the doctor had said. She just smiled and tried to stay cheery.

That night we ordered pizza and my mom ate in bed because she was so tired. After dinner my
dad told my brother and me that we needed to have a family talk. As I sat on the foot of my
parents bed watching my mom struggle to tell us what was going on, I heard the two words that
would alter my whole universe: multiple sclerosis.

I was only 14 and hardly well versed in neurological disorders so, naturally, all I could do was
burst into tears. She explained to us that multiple sclerosis (MS) is a chronic neurological disease
that involves the central nervous system specifically the brain, spinal cord, and optic nerves
and that MS can affect muscle control and strength, vision, balance, and mental functions.

The tone in my house was a mix of mourning and solitude in the weeks that followed. My moms
condition got severely worse before it got better. She was on steroid treatment to reduce the
swelling in her brain, and was chronically fatigued and often confused.

In the months after her diagnosis I took on a new role in our family. I cooked dinner every night,
did laundry, went to the supermarket, and even paid bills. It wasnt hard at first, but after a while
my schoolwork started to catch up with me. If only you knew my mom: she was one of those
super-moms who found time to get everything done and was never crazed or disheveled but calm,
collected, and great at everything! And then I lost all of that in what felt like the blink of an eye.

I had never felt so alone and helpless. Im sure if I hadnt gotten help I would have gone crazy.
After a few months I went to my first MS support group. By then I had read every article on
neurological disorders. I was excited to attend these meetings and ask the doctors all the
questions the articles hadnt answered. When the speaker that night stood and introduced herself,
I was surprised to hear she was a registered nurse who specialized in multiple sclerosis. I had
never heard of a nurse having such a specific field, and as she spoke I discovered how much Rita -
understood about how this disease was affecting my family.

I continued going to the support group, and over time I realized what Ritas job really entailed. I
had no idea how interactive a nurses career could be. I told her that I had been curious about a
career in medicine but had never felt as passionate about it as when I realized how much an
illness can affect a whole family. Thats when I discovered I wanted to be a nurse.

I felt a huge weight lift off my shoulders, because I knew that I had finally found something I could
be passionate about for the rest of my life. The work my moms doctors and nurses have done
with her has vastly improved the quality of her life. They teach her to be optimistic and supply her
with many types of support.

I think the best people to help others through hardships are those who have experienced them
firsthand. And I feel that my experience will help me become an amazing nurse who can help other
families through the difficulty of having a loved one with an illness.
3 My Moment
In movies and books, people often describe a defining moment when they figure out who they are.
However, I never thought it actually happened in real life. I never expected to have a moment of
my own. When it arrived, mine was much more powerful than I could have ever imagined.

During the spring of my junior year, my class watched a documentary called The Invisible
Children. It was about three college students who take a trip to Africa and document their
experience. At


Photo credit: Bonnie S., Fremont, CAfirst the film was slightly humorous; the filmmakers clearly
had no idea what they were getting into. One said at the beginning, I dont really know what to
expect. I hope we dont, like, die or something.

However, once the group arrived in northern Uganda, the mood changed. They learned what the
consequences of a 23-year war had been for thousands of children. Many had lost family and
friends, some had younger siblings who were captured by the rebel army and recruited as child
soldiers, others had no home and slept in alleys too cramped for us to comprehend. There was
footage of night commuters and child soldiers, many younger than me.

Before long, I was sobbing. I just kept thinking, What have I been doing with my life? I couldnt
believe these things were happening, yet at the same time I knew they were. I just hadnt been
paying attention. For 17 years I was blissfully unaware in my little bubble of Salt Lake City, Utah.

When the movie ended, I couldnt get it out of my head. Later at swim practice it was hard to
understand how my teammates could laugh and joke after what we had just seen. When I got
home that night, I tried to tell my parents about the film, but I couldnt get the words out. I
hiccupped and choked my way through a description and what I thought I had to do now. I was
able to convince my parents to donate $300 to The Invisible Children (I am still repaying them $20
a month). I went into my room and drew a big A on my white board with a circle around it, the
following day I went looking for a job to save money for a trip to Africa.

For the next week, I was not myself. Every bite of food I took I thought of Grace, the 15-year-old
who was eating for two. When I went to bed, I pictured Sunday, the 14-year-old boy sleeping on a
straw mat on the ground in a displacement camp. My whole perspective shifted.

Since that day, I havent been able to picture my future in a way that doesnt involve going to
Africa and doing what I can to help. Ultimately, this is why I decided to major in engineering.
When I found out about the Engineering Without Borders program, it was as if the clouds in my
head cleared and sunshine burst through. After the initial shock of discovering what I wanted to do
with my life, I could see myself accomplishing everything that had now become so important to
me. I could not only go to Africa, but I could use my education and skills to make a difference.

With an engineering degree, my potential for change will be limitless. I will build wells, schools,
and houses. I will design irrigation systems and orphanages. Engineering is tough, but I know in
what Yeats called my deep hearts core that this is what Im supposed to do with my life.
4 Silence
Silence. A subtle ostinato of coughs begins; whispers fill the concert hall. Some guy breathes as if
his trachea is seized in a death grip. Thousands of uncomfortable people shuffle. Theyre conscious
of every sound: every high-pitched ring in their ears, every low beat of their hearts. Meanwhile,
the trumpeters are frozen, their lips silently kissing their mouthpieces. The violinists sit in
suspended motion on the stage, as if space and time do not exist. The conductor stands, his baton
ready,


Photo credit: Faith D., Holland, PAas still as ever.

Those in the audience who know nothing of composer John Cages 4'33 fail to understand the
silent symphony gracing their ears. It is a composition of no notes only the seemingly
insignificant rustlings of the concertgoers make up the score.

As a violinist, I originally thought Cage was insane. I have spent years appreciating intricate
classical melodies. Who would compose four minutes and 33 seconds of silence? How is that music?
When I first heard about the piece, I was annoyed that anyone would waste five minutes that
could be devoted to sweet, melodic music.

I was mystified by the piece until I realized that silence is one of the most important aspects of my
life. Wordless moments when the TV is off, when Im snug in my bed with a book, when
everything stops are when I feel truly at ease. Every care or worry in my day dissolves like Alka-
Seltzer hitting water. Ive discovered that time spent in silence allows me to deconstruct my life
and think about simple things.

I realized Cage is the master of making something out of nothing. In music, I was always taught
that rests are not empty spaces in a piece; they should be played as if they are notes themselves.
Rests are not empty moments devoid of thought. They are moments to count, to breathe, to
absorb the impact of the phrases just played.

Every Thanksgiving, my family starts the feast with a silent prayer our own real-life rest. Every
year we say our thanks then bow our heads. Since my grandfather, the rock of the family and
most honorable man Ive known, passed away nearly three years ago, silence has been the most
meaningful language my family can speak. The silent conversations at holidays have taught me
much about the strength and stamina of the human condition. As we stand holding hands,
crowded in my grandmothers living room, lighting candles to honor the twinkle Papa always had in
his eyes, silence is the perfect tribute for a powerful love lost. It instills more hope in our hearts
than any poorly constructed words.

As I begin to make the largest transition in my life, I will remember John Cages 4'33 when life
seems too hard, too hectic, or too meaningless. I will sit in my own symbolic concert hall, making
symphonies out of my thoughts, learning everything about myself in total silence.
5 The Bitter and The Sweet
The candys smooth wrapper crinkles as I trace its edges with my fingertips, imagining its contents.
The wrapper tears like a fine fabric, revealing a corner of dark chocolate. I break off a piece and
take pleasure in its creamy essence. I have always had a sweet tooth, but it is not just sugary
snacks that I crave. Being raised by a single parent has been a bittersweet experience, but one
that has given me resilience and ambition.

When I was young, my mother would tell me that the racks of candy in the stores checkout line
belonged to the cashier. She said this not to confuse me, avoid spoiling me, or even to teach me a
lesson about earning rewards, though she inevitably did. She said it because she didnt want me to
worry because she could not afford a 50-cent chocolate bar. Nevertheless, I saw through her tactic
and made a promise to myself that I would grow up to be prosperous enough to buy my family all
the Hersheys on the stand.

Instead of focusing on our economic instability, my mother selflessly pushed me to strive for
success so that I could lead a more comfortable life than hers. She worked long hours every night
and struggled to pay the minimum due on her bills. Still, she would find time to read and snuggle
with my sister, Emily, and me. Mom taught me the value of perseverance, education, and moral
fiber. Although I did not have two parents, I was loved and nurtured just as much.

Not all of lifes milestones were easy; some left an insurmountably bitter taste in my mouth.
Domestic abuse, divorce, and homelessness, for example. I dealt with these when my mother
married a man in Maryland and moved us several states away from our roots in Georgia. The first
few months were great: baseball games, family trips to the mall, dinners together, and movies. It
felt like we were the perfect All-American family. Then things changed. Baseball games were too
expensive, and trips to the mall were replaced with days Emily and I spent isolated in our rooms
on his orders. Screaming matches between my stepfather and my mother interrupted dinners, and
he swapped movie tickets for vodka.

We spent five years living in a family setting that had turned into a war zone. I remember the
verbal spats became so routine that I would no longer rush to my little sisters room to cradle her
in my arms and wipe away the tears spilling down her cheeks. Emily and I grew so used to this
lifestyle that we just turned on the televisions in our rooms to drown out the screams. We became
immersed in the world of sugar-coated sitcoms, pretending the spiteful cursing matches
downstairs were normal.

Then one evening, an argument erupted. My sister and I had begun to predict the start of these
altercations. We called our system ETF, Estimated Time of Fight, named for its accuracy. Emily
joked about patenting it some day. But on this night my mother swung open my bedroom door
and told me to pack we were leaving and not coming back. I could hear Emily sobbing in her
room.

We loaded our things into Moms Ford, my stepfather barking hatefully all the while. We drove for
a long time before Mom pulled into the parking lot of a large store. I gazed out the window,
watching people carry bags to their cars and head off to their warm homes. They were oblivious to
our bittersweet tears. They had no idea how relieved and traumatized we felt, all at the same time.
I was 14, my sister 11, school was still in session, and we were homeless.

Were not the first people to go through this, and we wont be the last, Mom assured us.

A friend of my mothers let us stay with her. Each day, Mom would wake us before dawn so we
could commute from Virginia to Maryland for our last three months of school. I remember looking
out at the gleaming Washington Monument from the Potomac bridge, wondering how many others
in the nation had suffered in silence. How many had packed up and moved on?

We eventually relocated to Texas, where Mom is still working to re-stabilize her life. And now, as I
compose this essay with some dark chocolate my favorite candy close at hand, I realize my
family and I are at the best point in our lives. I have triumphed here, both academically and
personally. I satiate my hunger for knowledge by remaining dedicated to my intellectual pursuits
for example, the Distinguished Graduation Plan with its rigorous course of study and community
service, and the learning opportunities it offers.

I savor the fact that I am not a bitter product of my environment; I am not a person who lets
trying times interrupt her focus, for I know that they are learning experiences also. Success, like
candy, can be the sweetest treat of all


6 Tenagersims
My name is Meagan. There is nothing extraordinary about me. I am a seventeen year old, counting
down the days till graduation, just like every other senior in the world. Ive accomplished a lot in
my short seventeen years of life, as have I made mistakes. Im not perfect; show me one person
who is. Im on the path of self discovery, which, as I have come to realize is not an easy conduit.
Trials and tribulations have presented themselves in great abundance. Adolescence; something we
all must fight to overcome.
I clearly remember the last time I had to move. I was eleven going on twelve. It was the summer
before my seventh grade year. At that point, starting a new school wasnt really THAT big of a deal.
I spent the next four and a half years going to Mountain Home. I made four of the best, most
amazing friends anyone could ever ask for. When I had to leave them I was crushed. Ive never
had to deal with letting go of people I was friends with for so long. Leaving people Ive known for a
year and leaving people Id been around for most of my teenage life was so much harder than I
had expected.
Over the majority of the summer, I convinced myself that I wasnt going to meet anyone that
didnt already have their established group of friends. It was my senior year, what else could I
expect? I was sure that the majority of people I was about to call my classmates had been at this
school for most, if not all of their high school years.

I soon realized that starting a new high school was way different than being the new girl in
elementary or even middle school. It wasnt as easy to gain approval of my classmates now as it
had been back then.
I felt like a freshman all over again. However, at least as a Freshman I had my friends; people I
knew. I could very easily name well over ninety percent of my class. Here, at this new school, I
knew no one.
I am usually not a shy person. I am very outgoing and bubbly. But for some unexplainable
reason none of my previous qualities followed me to this new school.

As the day progressed, I was dreading lunch time more than anything. I didnt want to be the
weird girl that was forced to sit in the corner by herself due to her lack of friends. Yes, I know
what youre thinking. It was the first day of school, there were bound to be other new students in
my position, right? Well that may have been true, and Im sure it was, but in my mind I didnt see
it that way. I saw it as: I was alone.
I am still struggling to meet new people, havent really made much progress yet. I just cant seem
to put myself out there. Ive never had to worry about what others thought of me because socially,
Ive been around the same exact people for the last five years. I didnt realize that as I grew older
things that didnt use to be so important, all the sudden seemed so dramatic and life-changing.

Ive been told over and again by my mom that I will eventually have to enter the real world and
that the worry I have over all of the things that have happened in high school will almost
immediately evaporate upon said entrance.

What adults fail to realize is that every day in a teenagers life is a battle. Were no longer children,
but not quite adults. We struggle to make the right decisions. We struggle to find out who we are
and what we stand for. We struggle to just fit in.

As I looked at through the list of topics we were given to write about I only found one that was
applicable to me. And believe me; I struggled for the longest time, deciding which moment in my
life to write about, after all, there were so many. So, I decided to look at the bigger picture. And it
occurred to me that all of my struggles have come with being a teenager. From there, it just made
sense; it sort of clicked. And although I still have about a year and a half left, I honestly believe
that being a teenager has been the hardest experience in my life; something Im sure that I will
carry with me for the rest of my existence.


7 Who Am I
I like reading The Economist and watching "I love the 80s." I like tennis, Fazoli's breadsticks and
writing assignments. I value honesty,


Photo credit: Ashley F., Quincy, MAcommitment, scholarship and kindness. These are hard and
true facts, but there is a lot I do not know about myself. I don't know how I feel about the death
penalty, I have mixed feelings about religion, and I don't know what I think about a cashless
society. I have no stock answer to offer about a life-changing experience or a moment of
enlightenment, and it is hard for me to give a comprehensive proclamation of who I am, for my
identity unfolds more every day as my experiences grow. Since I am only 17 years old, life has a
lot of unfolding to do.

I dislike saying "I am trying to find myself" because my identity is not lost, it just needs more
uncovering. Luckily for me, what I love to do and want to be helps me uncover more about myself.
I want to be a writer. I may not end up a professional writer but I will always write, even if I am
the only one interested in my work, because writing is my self-reflection.

When writing, I sometimes get worked up into such a fervor that I barely know what I am saying.
I just let my fingers fly over the keyboard and the ideas pour from my head. When I go back
through the jumble of unpunctuated ideas, I notice a theme running through the writing. I don't
try to put a moral in the theme, but invariably it happens. Evaluating the theme and the rest of
the writing helps me interpret my own character and decipher my at times bottled-up feelings. In
opinion essays, my values show. In stories, the fictional characters express my beliefs.

Every day my experience and knowledge increase, and I learn more about myself. Each time I
write what is in my head as honestly as I can, another piece of the identity puzzle is revealed.
Mostly, I like what is unearthed (though this varies depending on how "teenage girl-ish" I'm
feeling). I am not worried that I don't know everything about myself. As I get older, I'll figure it

8 The Lure Of Possibility
I stand silently in the cool, crisp air. Around me, the houses cast off a sullen light in the covering
darkness. I slowly walk forward, my thundering footsteps the only disturbance in an otherwise
quiet night. Inside the house, the television blares on with soap operas. The moon is rising,
emitting a faint light as it appears over the horizon. The stars are clearly visible, tiny jewels of
light studded in the black quilt of the night sky. I look to the stars, and my mind wanders.

A majesty is evident in the quiet brilliance of these points of light. I lose myself in their shine. Out
there are wonders. Millions of balls of gas, planets and even black holes exist up beyond the black
veil of night. Hundreds of galaxies swirl gracefully out in the vast emptiness of space. The universe,
with all its mysteries, looms just beyond the horizon.

I had read about space when I was in 2nd grade, spending many evenings sprawled on my bed,
devouring books by Isaac Asimov on asteroids, comets, stars, planets and black holes. These
heavenly objects represented the unknown and their enticingly mysterious names Enceladus,
Andromeda, Io called to me. As a high school student, I read Stephen Hawkings A Brief History
of Time and watched a Nova series on string theory on the Internet to get a better idea of how our
universe works.

Something about the heavens draws me in. A hint of something exotic, beyond the mundane
interactions of daily life. Up there, stars with so much gravity that not even light could escape
twisted the fabric of the universe, quasars blew out large bursts of radio waves and dark energy
stretched the universes boundaries. Scientists could explain neither how the universe began nor
how the universe was going to end. Up beyond the black veil of night, something remains out of
reach of human knowledge, wafting a scent of mysteries unsolved.

When I learned that we were going to cover space in school, I became thrilled at the prospect of
discovering the universes secrets. I fervently hoped that the teacher would tell me about the Big
Bang and black holes in detail. However, I was bitterly disappointed. The teacher glossed over
black holes, instead focusing on teaching the names of the planets and moon phases, in the order
that they both occurred. The universe, with all its mysteries and complexity, was condensed to 16
easy to remember words. Class focused more on the sparse words inside the McDougall-Little
textbook than on the universe that lay outside, beckoning to us to view its wonders.

Yet, I cannot stay out forever. Already, I can hear them. The soft, insistent lisp of my opened
textbook. The accusing hum of my computer. The grim tramp of duties coming to drag me away
from my galaxies and dark matter. My heavy sigh tumbles into the night air; many days could
pass before I could escape their grasp to come out again. With one last longing glance, I plod
towards the door. As the door clicks behind me, I return to the comfortable, mundane sounds of
television soap operas and clanging spoons in the sink.

Behind me, the stars smile mysteriously behind their black veil.

9 Waiting For The Bus
Last summer, I found myself sitting on a couch opposite a 38-year-old Filipino man named Peter
who smelled like stale tuna, dirt, and a dream deferred.
WheRe are you from? I asked.
Here.
What made you homeless?
I need my green card.
Where do you stay and get food?
I need my green card. I need my green card. I go clean the mall. I make plans for the future."
later discovered, by talking with the soup kitchen staff, that Peter is mentally handicapped. He
moved to the U.S. when he was five, but he still had an accent. He probably already had his
citizenship.

This was an unconventional way to explore a social topic. My best friends mother was the
manager at a homeless shelter, and their fund-raising event was coming up. My friend was a film
major at our school, and I was a theater major, so we pooled our talents and made a documentary
about the causes of homelessness and how the shelter had helped many find counseling, food,
shelter, and showers. I interviewed; she filmed.

It quickly became apparent that Peter wasnt the only homeless person with seemingly
insurmountable problems. There was Don, a 58-year-old professional drunk who had been in and
out of rehab and jail most of his life. He was a colorful storyteller he recalled in vivid detail being
there the first time Ozzy Osbourne bit off a bats head. A marijuana stem was tattooed on his arm.
When he was 15, his friend started to ink the tattoo, but Don decided to stop halfway through the
process an appropriate metaphor for his life. Every time he went into rehab, every time it looked
as if he had found steady employment, he quit halfway through.

Then there was the woman simply known as the Bag Lady. A paranoid schizophrenic, she had
amassed a collection of detritus and kept it in a grocery cart, never letting it out of her sight. She
spent her days waiting for a bus that never came; she would scrutinize each one that passed her
stop, invariably deciding it was the wrong one. She kept all her clothes layered on her body, even
during the oppressively hot and humid Georgia summers. One day, she uncharacteristically tried
to remove her clothes to take a shower at the shelter. She couldnt. Sweat and dirt had plastered
them to her body, and my friends mother had to rip them off her. She became hysterical when we
asked to interview her.

As I helped set up the camera in the cafeteria to pan across the room, I became overwhelmed
watching everyone. Peter prayed for his green card. Don displayed the tattoo that was never
completed. The Bag Lady stared out the window at her stop in hopes that her bus would finally
arrive. I could only think of that dream deferred.

My studies in homelessness continued long after the camera stopped rolling. I conducted more
interviews, this time for myself. Most of these people were thrown onto the streets because an -
unexpected debt had upended their already volatile paycheck-to-paycheck existence, or because
they were addicts who had never found adequate rehabilitation, or because they had a mental
illness. Realizing the fragility of the line that separates person from homeless person has
helped me treat everyone with compassion.

Instead of lecturing the homeless on not using welfare to buy drugs or hugging my purse as I
speed by a park bench, I take time to listen to them. This experience also helped when I worked
for the Obama campaign. I registered more people to vote in one day than most interns did in a
week, because I approached the people lying on park benches, the ex-felons and homeless people
who didnt know that they could vote in Georgia. One man cried as he filled out the registration
form; the State of Georgia had taken his vote from him 20 years ago. After that, the Savannah
campaign held drives at all the homeless shelters.

Learning about the plight of homeless people has made my world a little more beautiful. I learned
the difference between a mandolin and a guitar from a street musician named Guitar Bob.
I learned about the history of metal music from Don. Al taught me how to weave a rose out of
palm tree leaves. Most importantly, I learned that these people are not welfare leeches, drug
abusers, or societys cross to bear. Homeless people have specific problems that arent impossible
to manage, and with a modicum of effort and ingenuity, perhaps one day their bus will finally
come.
10. Where Do I Belong
A few days ago, I saw a tiny black ant making its way up the pink-tiled wall of my bathroom.
Oddly amused, I watched this little creature climb up three feet and then fall to the floor. I found
two things extremely shocking. First, I had never seen an ant fall; second, I was actually getting
worried about the little guy, and tried to explain to him that he had to stay away from the vertical
lines of grout. Never mind the fact that I was talking to an ant.

But the most amazing part was that just a second after falling from well over 500 times his height,
this little genius found his way back to the wall and started climbing again. One would think that
he would either hurt himself or learn a lesson, but he insisted on going up that wall again and
again. And he kept falling, keeping me absolutely mesmerized, as though I had witnessed Medusa
herself and not an ant, hypothesizing as to where exactly he was trying to go.

Finally, I gave up and went on to what I had to do that day. My final theory was that he was
simply trying to get home, because it was already quite late, and he seemed to be scurrying along
in the general direction of the crack between the window and the wall. I guess Ill never know
whether he made it.

There is, however, a point to my ant story: In the summer after sophomore year, I took a rather
uncommon and extensive vacation to a post-Communist developing country. Having been born
and raised in Bishkek, the capital of Kyrgyzstan, I was, on the one hand, returning home to visit
my grandparents. But as soon as my mom and I stepped into the Bishkek airport, I realized how
out of place I felt.

My mom was right at home, speaking her native language with the people she spent most of her
life with. But I spoke Russian hesitantly and with an accent, and insisted on talking to my mom in
English. The place I had once called home had become a foreign country, and that little girl was
now an American a dreadful thing to be in a Russian-speaking Asian country.

When I returned to my now well-appreciated South Florida town, I once again felt like a stranger
in a place I had called home. I realized that I wasnt like most of my friends, who had been born in
Fort Lauderdale and spent their entire childhood in the suburbs. I had come from an alien world
and could never be a flag-waving American.

Sometimes, you see, I feel just like that ant on my bathroom wall. I try to get home but the world
is so big and dangerous that I dont even know where home is. Yet I keep trying and trying, no
matter how many times I trip over the grout and fall to the floor, because Im convinced that
eventually I will reach a place that will really be my home not my mothers and not my
stepfathers, and not my best friends.

My visit to and return from Bishkek taught me, among other things, that I will never feel truly
at home either in the U.S. or in Kyrgyzstan. I realize I must let go of both the places I have
called home. Caught between two cultures and belonging to neither, I have to focus not on what
country Im from or what language I speak, but on who I am. And though not belonging isnt -
exactly the best teenage condition, I am beginning to understand it is actually to my advantage to
be an outsider. In my cosmopolitan epiphany, I may have lost a national flag or two, but I gained
something truly worthwhile an irreplaceable freedom of the soul that can never be taken from
me.

Thats not to say, however, that Ive given up scaling that pink-tiled wall. But that little crack
between the window and the wall isnt a country or a house anymore; its me.
11. Music In My Life
0Posted by Dhyra at Friday, December 10, 2010
For a young person with little experience, music can be a hard concept, especially singing. At the
age of nine, I stepped into the field of music. Little did I know that it would be life-changing.

My story begins in 2001. My mother asked if I would be interested in singing. I hadnt given it
much thought. She suggested I join the Phoenix Boys Choir. She explained what it was and how
successful it had always been. I decided to try out.

When I arrived, I met the conductor in charge of the younger boys. She had me sing Twinkle
Twinkle Little Star. A few moments later the conductor announced that I had passed my audition
and would soon be a member of the training choir. I was so thrilled I couldnt say a word. This
would turn out to be one of the most memorable moments of my life. I was going to be a member
of the internationally known Phoenix Boys Choir!

I moved up through the levels of the choir quickly. Every boy longs to be in the most elite group
the Tour Choir. After two years, I made it. At 11 I had learned more about music than I could
possibly have imagined. I learned music theory and how to read music. By the end of seventh
grade I had been to Spain, Italy, and France. In Rome we performed at Saint Peters Basilica. It
was a blessing to be able to sing in such a holy setting. We also sang in the Florence Cathedral.
We traveled around the United States performing with other choirs. Often we sang for dignitaries.

I think God blessed me with this talent because he wanted me to share my voice with others. Ive
heard it said that when you sing, you pray twice. I have learned hundreds of songs. We sing in
many languages, and since our director always explains the songs meaning, I understand and
really become part of the music.

If my mother had not inspired me to try something out of my comfort zone, I never would have
experienced what the world of music has to offer. More importantly, I might not have unveiled my
true self if it were not for my mom and singing. Singing makes me happy, and it is a huge part of
who I am.

I hope to keep singing and increasing my knowledge of music. I have graduated from the Phoenix
Boys Choir, and I now sing with the phenomenal Mens Choir, a group for former Boys Choir
members, which has provided me with many opportunities. Last February, I took part in the
American Choral Directors Association Honors Choir of 186 students chosen from five states.
Because of this, I was offered a scholarship to the Idyllwild Music Academy for summer camp to
become a better singer. Unfortunately I couldnt attend.

I am very grateful for all I have accomplished musically and want to keep striving to become a
superior musician. God has blessed me with the gift of music, and Id love to share it with others
so that they too can find the music in their lives
12 . A Black Stool
Posted by Dhyra at Friday, December 10, 2010
A black stool, as black as the night sky, stood alone. There was nothing special about it that
anyone could see. It was simply a cheap black stool, but it was not ordinary to me. To me it
symbolized something special in my life: time spent with my brother.

Our family purchased the infamous black stool because my brother told my parents that he must
have an electric piano. And he needed something to sit on while he played. True to my brothers
nature, he rarely played the must-have item. And the black stool sat there reminding us of the
impulsive purchase. No one ever went near it. That is until the day my parents purchased
computers for my brother and me.

When, out of the blue, my father decided to buy us computers, I knew the people in the next town
must have heard me yelling with joy. Of course my older brother got a much nicer and faster
computer. He was even given a new computer chair with wheels. I, on the other hand, did not get
the executive chair. Use the piano stool, my father said. With my lip sticking out a mile, I went
to the basement to get the filthy old stool.

In the weeks that followed, that stool became my favorite item in the playroom. After school I
would run into our house like a madman to use my computer. My brother and I would play the
same video game. Having a ball, we loved our time together. For the first time, I felt like I really
connected with him. Previously I had only seen him at dinner. Now we shared adventures on the
computer.

On that stool I have learned many life lessons. I learned to deal with sorrow and anger. From time
to time my brother would get depressed, thinking no one loved him. But I was there, on that stool,
loving him and helping him get through those dark emotions.

Because of that stool and a pair of computers, I gained a best friend. This ordinary object will
always remind me of that special time I shared with my brother.
13. Failing Successfully
My day in the sun had arrived my magnum opus would be revealed. I had just delivered a
memorized speech that I had labored over for weeks, and I was about to learn how the panel
judged my performance. The polite but sparse audience leaned forward in their folding chairs. A
hush fell across the room. The drum rolled (in my mind, anyway).


The contest organizer announced the third-place winner. Alas, the name was not mine. Then he
read the second-place winner, and once again it was not me. At last, the moment of truth came. -
Either I was about to bask in the warmth of victory or rue the last several months spent preparing.
While neither of these came to pass, my heart felt closer to the latter.


Losing is a part of life, and I have dealt with the emotional baggage that travels shotgun with it on
more than one occasion. However, it was an indescribably underwhelming feeling to drive 200
miles round trip, get up obscenely early on a freezing Saturday morning, and yet still finish fourth
out of four contestants. After Lincoln lost the 1858 Illinois Senate race, he reportedly said, I felt
like the 12-year-old boy who stubbed his toe. I was too big to cry and it hurt too bad to laugh. Oh
yeah, I could relate.


I had spent many hours in front of a computer and in libraries doing research for the Lincoln
Bicentennial Speech Contest. As I pored over several biographies, one notion stood out: Lincoln
was handed many sound defeats, but he never allowed them to (permanently) hinder his spirit or
ambition. While I believe many history lessons can be applied to modern life, I hadnt considered
the agony of defeat as a historically valuable learning experience. I never dreamed I could relate
to Lincoln! A president no less, and the greatest at that. I thought failing successfully was a very
appropriate topic, given the many letdowns Lincoln experienced, and so this became the title of
my speech.
After not placing in the first year of the speech contest, I really wanted to compete again. Lincoln
had been the epitome of persistence, so I was not going to give up on a contest about a historic
individual who did not give up! I reworked my speech for the following year, and while I did not
come in last, again I did not place. Some days youre the dog, and some days youre the hydrant,
and this was definitely a hydrant day that brought me down for a while.


I couldnt accept the fact that I had failed twice in something that I had worked so hard on, until I
contemplated the individual whom Id spent so much time learning about. Never mind the lost
prize money (ouch, major) and praise (ouch, minor) I had learned, really learned, about a great
man who had experienced failure and disappointment, and had many chances to give up. We
remember Lincoln because he didnt take this route; he didnt throw lavish pity-parties, and he
persevered to become, according to many, the greatest American president.


While I did not earn monetary awards as a result of this contest, I did gain a new perspective.
Through learning about Lincoln, I discovered that I can fail successfully, and that it is possible to
glean applicable wisdom from the lives of those who have come before us. Now, whenever Im
faced with a setback, I remember what Lincoln said after his unsuccessful 1854 Senate race: The
path was worn and slippery. My foot slipped from under me, knocking the other out of the way,
but I recovered and said to myself, Its a slip and not a fall.
14. A Better Barbie
I dont have any alumni ties to Brown, though its possible I could be the long-lost granddaughter
of James S. Miller. Never have I sailed the Pacific Ocean on the back of a humpback whale, nor can
I wrap sushi with the skill of former Iron Chef Masaharu Morimoto. I havent done much research
regarding podiatry, and chances are I will never win the Michigan Mega-Millions lottery. I am,
however, the proud owner of a Little Mermaid Edition Barbie.
At some point in almost every
A little girls life, she becomes engrossed in the Pepto-Bismol-pink world of Barbies, a place I
entered at the age of seven. My sister, Hannah, and I decided to take our collection of 11-inch
plastic friends for a dip in the pool one sweltering summer day. Hours of giggling resulted from
tossing the Barbies as high as we could into the air and watching them dive gracefully into the
waves. Three two one, I launched my Little Mermaid doll in the same fashion as Apollo 11. We
watched her rocket into the sky. I glanced at my sister, who was scrambling through her
scorecards to make sure she had the well-deserved 10 ready. My eyes returned upward,
anticipating the gymnastic stunts Barbie would undoubtedly deliver to her enraptured audience.
Where was she? The crowd was growing restless. Had she landed on the moon?


Utterly bewildered, we combed through the freshly mown grass and woods, but unfortunately, our
search bore no fruit. After a moment of sorrow, our tiny attention spans directed us to a different
game, and our minds fluttered away.


Over the years, I encountered many of my own quirky adventures. As a field biologist intern, I
camped for 15 days on an uninhabited island, purified my own water, surveyed the endangered
Piping Plover, tested the water quality of lakes, and found my way out of 70,000 acres of northern
Michigan wilderness. My view of the world broadened through travels and encounters with the
Costa Rican, German, French, and Australian cultures. I won varsity letters, had my poetry
published, and volunteered at a local hospital, and as I grew older, the mystery of the once-
beloved Little Mermaid Edition Barbie faded into a misty memory.


One recent fall day, rainbow-colored leaves swirled through the air and the chilly breeze carried its
pleasant scent, an amalgamation of bonfire and pumpkin. Upon the rooftop was not good Saint
Nick, but rather my dad, cleaning the leaves off our house. Tied to the branch of an ancient oak
tree, the tire swing moved my body in a pendulum motion. My dad approached with something
dark in his hands. Eh does this belong to you, or Hannah? he said with a look of perplexity
painted on his face. I couldnt believe my eyes: It was the Little Mermaid Edition Barbie! The poor
girl she was an absolute disaster. I affirmed my ownership of the traveler, and took her battered
body in my hands.

Nine years had passed since I had seen the almost-world-renowned Olympic diver. I recalled that
summer day and smiled as memories flooded my mind. She looked as though shed been struck by
lightning a few times, weathered heavy monsoons, and held onto the gutter for dear life during
tornados. Her mangled arm appeared to have been mistaken for a worm by a ferocious momma
bird. Leaves, dirt, and other debris were entwined in her once shiny, cherry locks. Her attire was
tattered she seemed to have fashioned herself a Tarzan-esque ensemble. Her ingenuity was
impressive; it reminded me of an experience in which I had to craft socks out of a garbage bag
and medical tape, then wear them for three days in pouring rain. Nevertheless, one thing stood
out as I ogled my long-lost friend: her face.


She wore a radiant smile, a look of contentment, self-confidence, and accomplishment. With head
held high and a positive attitude, she had battled lifes unexpected challenges. She knows now
what it means to strive and succeed. I realized the world of pink doesnt fit someone with so much
potential, so much passion for learning, so much heart, independence, and creativity. I looked at
her and saw myself reflected in her sapphire eyes.


Like her, my dreams lie far beyond those of a Stepford wife, and with the ability to bend and not
break, I am ready to step out of my plastic box society, through the Van Winkle gates, and into a
world of endless possibilities. I crave the works of Thoreau and Emerson, not mall directories or
grocery lists. I desire adventure and the opportunity to study new cultures. I long to write what I
want and voice my opinions with my whole heart behind them. And as the Little Mermaid Edition
Barbie sits on my shelf, next to musical and athletic trophies, behind silly pictures of friends, and
alongside books by Maya Angelou and Lewis Carroll, she reminds me of myself. For this ambitious
girl, pink is not enough; she is ready to dive into Brown