Blog #4 College Essay

27.You have just completed your 300-page autobiography. Please submit page 217. (University of Pennsylvania)

“Lopez is up, Honan on deck, Butler holding”

I exhaled a deep breath and glanced at the woman in white polo grasping the clipboard. Everything started to sink in at that moment. This was it. This was what I had been wishing for. This could be my moment.

It was June 8^th 2012 at the New York State Public High School Athletic Association’s State Track and Field Championship Meet. All around me were some of the best athletes in the state and some were the best in the nation. I stood miserably at the long jump pit.

I was ranked as the number one seed for the Girls Divison II Long Jump. This was only written on paper but it felt like it was carved in stone and that the expectation that I would win was planted in everyone’s mind. My first jump I had fouled by beginning my jump over the twelve foot board. My second jump was a measly sixteen footer. I was supposed to win this event and I might not even make it to finals. I felt pressure.

My shoulders felt heavy as if doubt had physically manifested itself into a creature hanging on my back. Thoughts swirled in my head. Why am I here? Who am I kidding I can’t do this. I’m not as good as these girls. That girl right there is going to Cornell, that one Dartmouth and that one Penn State. This is my first year long jumping and I think I can win a state title? That’s unrealistic. Just last year, I was injured and couldn’t even compete. I’m just embarrassing myself. I don’t belong here.

“Honan up, Butler on deck.”

At this point I must have looked like I was ready to jump off a bridge. My coach locked eyes with me and told me to relax and calm myself down. She reminded me that practices are physical but meets are all mental. All of the girls on the seed sheet were all within a few inches of one another. We all had a chance of winning if it was our day. The deciding factor would be who had their composure that day and would not let pressure manifest itself into a bad day.

I went off to the side and paced back and forth, talking myself down from the ledge. I took a deep breath and envision all of my doubts and negative thoughts melting off of me and falling into a pool around my feet. In my mind, I did a play by play of my best jumps of the season. 17’ 10” Tri-Valley. 17’ 10 ¾” MHALs. 18’1” Sections. I’ve done this before and I can do it again. I’ve won meets and I’ve broken school records. I believe in myself. I’ve come so far. I deserve to be here. This is my moment. I deserve this.

I remembered the laminated four leaf clover my little sister had given me before I left yesterday. I slid it into my shoe underneath my left foot, my takeoff foot.

 “Butler up. Final Jump”

I stepped onto the runway and locked my eyes onto the sandy white pit that suddenly appeared to be miles away. I silenced the world and felt like I was the only person left on the planet. With my eyes locked shut, I exhaled and envisioned myself soaring. I opened my eyes and had primitive short thoughts. Speed. Agility. Confidence. Hit the Board. Open up. Power. Fly. Faith.

Rhythmically I took fourteen steps, with each my pace quickened. My penultimate step rolled off of my foot, heel to toe. I was airborne. The feeling of defying gravity and hurling yourself through the air is the best feeling in the world. I stretched my arms back, pointing my chest towards the sky. I tossed my head back and enjoyed my brief moment of power where I wasn’t contained by the boundaries of gravity.  I floated through the air.

The parabola of my leap began descending as I reached for my toes, assuming a piked body position. My legs were parallel to the ground until my heels hit the sand. My feet were sucked into the pit of quicksand. White sand sprayed everywhere. The abrupt interruption of the ground came as a shock. Inertia threw my body forward. I stumbled out of the pit breathless.

I held my breath until the track officials had measured it and grinned. “Eighteen feet and three inches.” A new personal record that would put me in the lead. I exhaled and clutched my heart. The world came rushing back and flooded my mind. Relief swelled inside of me.  I thanked my lucky stars that I executed that jump under that pressure.

………………………………………

The rest kind came as a blur. I knew I had placed in long jump but when they called my name for the podium and the only spot available on it was smack dab in the middle, high above the other five girls, I knew I had won.

That’s when it hit me. I was a State Champion. Even though the elevation of the podium was only three feet, I felt like I was on top of the world. I laughed as I remembered all of the doubt I had before. I grinned at my coach as I clutched my gold medal. This is my moment…

Book Talk

“When I look back on my childhood I wonder how I survived at all. It was of course, a miserable childhood: the happy childhood is hardly worth your while. Worse than the ordinary miserable childhood is the miserable Irish childhood and worse yet is the miserable Irish Catholic childhood.”

                                                                             ~Frank McCourt

                                                                                Angela’s Ashes

            Do you ever feel you have a rough life? Everyone has experienced this feeling of self-pity and sympathy but after reading this memoir I doubt I’ll ever experience that feeling again. Angela’s Ashes by Frank McCourt is a powerful memoir that will bring tears to your eyes, make you laugh out loud and make you count your blessings. McCourt recalls his childhood memories of growing up in poverty in gloomy damp Limerick, Ireland in the 1930s and 1940s with a drunk for a father, an over whelmed pious mother, an ever expanding family of mouths to feed, pretentious priests and many “arseholes”. His story comes full circle as he describes his life from when his parents first met at a bar in New York to his heart wrenching childhood in Limerick to his struggle to fill his father’s void place as the provider of the family to his return to America, the land of opportunity age nineteen.

            This memoir about poverty is ironically very rich in every other sense. McCourt has a strong voice, sharp wit and a remarkable memory.  The way McCourt remembers the little minor things about his childhood like his father’s drunken request that he be prepared to die for Ireland, the petty childhood jealousy of his golden child of a brother, Malachy, or dubbing the warm dry second floor of their house “Italy” will stir up sentiments about your own childhood. Through intense imagery he recalls haunting images such as his mother smoking a Woodbine trying to rouse the ashes of the fire while her children are running in the lane and her husband is out spending the dole money on a pint. The colloquial diction like “kiss my arse” “bloody disgrace” “ ’tis” and “take’in a piss” in Angela’s Ashes is charmingly from the slums of Ireland.  

The beautiful thing about this memoir is McCourt’s humor enlightens the heavy depressing tone of the tale. This is the first book that I’ve ever read and laughed out loud until tears came to my eyes (my sisters saw me do this and thought it was the most peculiar thing.) For example on Frank’s Communion day, a typically deeply religious and serious day, his grandmother proudly makes him a large breakfast only for him to vomit it all over her yard. His grandmother is hysterically screaming “I have God in me backyard.” And orders him to talk to the priest and find out what he should do. After explaining his story to the priest who tries to hide his muffled laughter, he is instructed to clean it up with water. His grandmother isn’t satisfied with this answer and sends him back to the confessional to ask whether to use ordinary water or holy water. Little incidences like this plague Frank but uplift the feeling of the book.

             Everyone should read this book. It will change your perspective on what’s truly important in life and how things could always be worse. For instance I’ve always associated hunger with that grumbling noise my stomach makes before dinner but after this book hunger has a whole new meaning. I’ve never had to beg for food or have been ecstatic to eat a pig’s head. The hardships Frank McCourt endured will pass on a new found appreciation for our modern lifestyle, our country and our family to future generations through his memoirs. McCourt describes how he discovered his knack for writing and dream to be a teacher in this book and carries it out his other memoirs, ‘Tis and Teacher Man.  I highly recommend buying the audio version of his books which are actually read by the author, Frank McCourt; it just makes the story even more touching. Now matter what format you read the book in, I guarantee this book will touch your heartstrings and offer a fresh perspective on life.

The E-Reader Debate

I usually read books the traditional way of actually opening a book. This is the way people have read books for generations and there seem to be few drawbacks except the possibility of paper cuts and that books are extremely flammable. These two dangers never really cross my mind while reading though. When I fist heard about e-readers I initially assumed it was just a fad that would die out. Why would someone buy an expensive e-reader and then spend even more money on books? (Ever heard of a library???) I just never really got the point of it until I got one for Christmas.

Honestly I didn’t want an e-reader for Christmas. My mother kept showing me different ones such as the Amazon Kindle or the Barnes & Noble Nook; and I wasn’t fazed a bit. But then my sister cunningly pointed out to me that the Nook Color connected to wireless internet and was remarkably similar to an I-pad. This was a clever loophole to my parents rule against having a laptop. I imagined I could check my email whenever I wanted to, watch stupid videos on youtube, watch Netflix on it; the possibilities seemed endless. This was what convinced me to get one; honestly I didn’t care about reading more books.

When I got my Nook, I was thoroughly impressed. Easy to navigate, full touch screen, and access to tons of applications, I think I procrastinated for a week before I downloaded an actual book on it.

Once I actually went to the Barnes & Noble site on it, it was simple to find a book. It was just like searching for a book online. I was awed by the array of choices. You can even read magazines and picture books on it. It’s actually very convenient to read these on the Nook Color because it’s easy to zoom in on small captions and photographs without the resolution of the screen interfering. I ended up looking up a Nicholas Sparks novel but decided against it after glancing at the book reviews. Fortunately the site recommends other books to you based on your previous novel selections. This led me to finding a new favorite author and a fresh genre.  I ended up downloading a Jill Mansell novel and was introduced to “British chick-lit” which is more entertaining, humorous and witty than your typical American gooey romance novel. It’s like having your own personal librarian to recommend books to you. There are special deals on books just like at a book store. I’ve found that the books cost about the same as they would in paperback but are much cheaper than hard cover editions of the book.

The greatest thing about reading a novel on a Nook is that it is adaptable to you. You can change the brightness of the screen as well as the font, font size and color of the text. Book marking pages and highlighting text is really just at the touch of your fingers. Some novels can even be read aloud to you. There is even a way to lend a book to a friend; this device is really the future of books and libraries.

I would recommend a Nook to anyone who really enjoys reading. It’s great if you blaze through a book and want to read the sequel immediately after; it’s just a click away. If you travel a lot and don’t want to carry around heavy novels, this is a lightweight solution. If you always lose your bookmarked page, a Nook is made for you. Barnes & Noble really addressed the most common reading complaints when making a Nook.

There are a few drawbacks though. The Barnes & Noble account is hooked up to a credit card which could present problems to some people but to others this could be viewed as an advantage. The biggest drawback for me (not that I really want to complain about it) is that I use this device to procrastinate from doing work on a daily basis. I watched almost six seasons of “How I Met Your Mother” in less than a month on my Nook. Honestly this is probably a personal problem though.

Overall I have changed my views on e-readers and think they could definitely be a prominent tool for schools to utilize in the future. Although libraries are more cost effective, e-readers offer a more adaptable and personalized experience with the novel since you can’t highlight and notate library books. I give e-readers two thumbs up (and my thumbs proudly have no paper cuts from books).

Why Can't I Have A Happy Ending?

I hate reading school assigned texts. Why do we always have to read depressing books? The themes of the novels we have had to read have always been suicide, death, tragedy etc. Most of the books we read in English class leave me wanting a box of tissues or angry at the lack of empathy humans have. Whatever happened to reading a book with a happy ending?

 I think this goes all the way back to fifth grade when we had to read Bridge to Terabithia by Katherine Patterson. I won’t dwell into a whole plot summary but I’ll state a brief synopsis: a young boy and girl become best friends, they build a club house and dub the area where they hang out Terabithia, girl dies tragically, the end.  This really struck me because the girl in the novel, Leslie Burke, was my age when she died. She wasn’t sick or in some terrible situation (like in the middle of a war torn country); she was just an average kid who died in a freak accident. She slipped off of a rope, fell in a river, hit her head and drowned. It could happen to anyone. After reading Bridge to Terabithia I was left gloomy, depressed and with a feeling of mortality.

Ever since fifth grade it seems the books we are forced to read in English become more distressing, weighted with heavy issues and pessimistic. In sixth grade we read Number the Stars by Lois Lowry set during the Nazi occupation of Denmark in the late 1930’s. I remember being haunted by the fact Annemarie’s sister died and that she never heard from her neighbors the Rosens again. Seventh grade we had to read The House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros which discussed rape and domestic abuse and The Cay by Theodore Taylor which depicts the heart wrenching story of a man dying during a hurricane in the attempt to save a young boy while stranded on an island. The Outsiders by S.E. Hinton in eighth grade introduced me to gang violence and I can’t even recall how many teenagers die in that novel.  High school English followed this pattern of tragic endings to stories as we read Night by Elie Wiesel, Montana 1948 by Larry Watson, “Romeo and Juliet”by William Shakespeare, To Kill A Mockingbird by Harper Lee, “Hamlet” by William Shakespeare, “Macbeth” by William Shakespeare, Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck, Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad, Ordinary People by Judith Guest and many more depressing books.

I understand that we are supposed to experience ‘catharsis’ and feel others painful experiences through reading but could we read an upbeat pleasant novel once in awhile? I’m not saying that we read sugarcoated books that sound like Disney princess stories but there should be some middle ground. I wouldn’t mind having a Nicholas Sparks novel added to the curriculum one year. Reading depressing novels in English class for the past six years has started to take a toll on me and my view of the world has become a lot more cynical as a result.

Literacy Impact

I remember my parents were so excited when I read them my first book. I think I was three at the time. This sounds impressive; but it’s not. I memorized the book. My real first experience reading on my own was probably when I was kindergarten, but I have to back track a bit.

My mother is the oldest of seven kids in her family so I am closer in age with some of her siblings than her. Two of my aunts are only three and a half and five years older than me. They just felt like older siblings to me when I was younger since they lived across the street from me. I remember I always wanted to be like them and I was jealous that they went to school every day (crazy, huh?) and could read. This sparked the motivation for me to learn to read.

My mother and grandmother were the family members who would consistently read to me. My mother would always read bedtime stories to my sister, Honour and me. Sometimes we would be at my grandmother’s house late at night and we would listen to her read the Harry Potter series to my aunts. Honestly I didn’t understand Harry Potter books until a few years later when I saw the first movie and it recaptured my interest but it’s still a fond memory. When I was in grade school, I would read bedtime stories to my youngest sister, Willa.

Once I was in kindergarten, I was blown away at the size of the library. I remember there were tables where they would put out books that were the appropriate reading level to select to bring home. This bothered me a lot in kindergarten; I didn’t like being told what to read (and I still don’t!) I remember the first time I got hooked on a book. It was a collection of like three short stories about leprechauns, it was called Seeing is Believing. I brought it home for my mother to read to me a few times and then I returned it to the library. A few weeks later I would do the same thing with the same exact book. I think I probably checked that book out of the library at least ten times. When I was in first grade, my parents caught on to this and bought me the book so I would check other books out of the library. By the next year I could read to myself and I was obsessed with chapter books like the Junie B. Jones and the Cam Jansen series.

My grandmother was the person who encouraged me to write and express myself creatively. After raising seven children, my grandmother was determined to go back to school and establish a career besides being a farmer’s wife. She took classes at SUNY New Paltz and later at the University of Rhode Island to achieve her Ph.D. in English. Eventually she would be the head of the Writing Center at St. Andrews University in Laurenburg, North Carolina. She passed away in December but its astonishing looking back now, how much she affected my attitude towards reading and writing.

My grandmother taught me how to use all of my energy creatively. I remember for my birthdays she would always give me art supplies, journals and books. I was really into drawing as a kid; I even thought I would be an artist when I grew up (this lost its appeal when I learned the term ‘starving artist’ so I looked for a new career path). My grandmother would read me silly poems and short stories I would draw what I felt or envisioned. Just this year I learned that this is a popular notion and is called ekphrastic art. Eventually this would lead to me writing my own poems and stories. She would pay me a dollar for my pictures and poems (can you see why I didn’t learn about starving artists until much later?). I know this sounds like bribery but I enjoyed it and I ended up writing and drawing a lot.

Just last fall, when my grandmother’s cancer diagnosis got progressively worse we helped her move her belongings to my aunt’s house and came across a lot of the projects I made for her. Among several drawings and letters, I found a framed poem with a Crayola washable marker drawing underneath it. It was the first poem I had ever written. I can’t believe she kept it.

Through the years my grandmother stopped paying me to read, write and draw because I was doing it on my own and enjoying it. She would always tell me and my mother good books to read. Glancing now at my bookshelf, I have a whole shelf full of her books that I never returned because they were so enjoyable. She would always pack at least three books when she would visit my family and from nine until midnight every night just read.

I never really thought about how much these experiences over the years would impact me. I don’t think I would get good grades in school or still take art classes if my childhood was different. Its surprises me how much of an impact these little things have had on my life.