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.