abhilasha12
Oct 9, 2011
Undergraduate / Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear: a commonapp essay. [4]
Essay prompt: Evaluate a significant experience, achievement, risk you have taken, or ethical dilemma you have faced and its impact upon you.
"Don't worry about winning. That'll happen. Just concentrate on feeling Noor's pain and you'll be fine."
My drama teacher's encouraging words did not bolster my rapidly waning self-confidence. They did not quench my burning desire, my acute need to be triumphant. I had to win the award of Best Actor in this year's interschool Theatre Competition. I was driven by an alien force; I had to win. I was standing at the edge of a precipice, in a situation so precarious that I could either soar or plummet. Why was it so important for me to win this competition? I didn't have an answer to that question.
The stage is my home. Few places fill me with such a sense of purpose and fulfillment. Stepping on to the familiar, polished planks of the wooden stage feels like treading on hallowed ground. Playing a role, or singing my heart out- the two ways that I can truly express myself are best done on that stage. It came as no surprise when I decided to audition for the school's theatre competition. The theatre entries for this competition had a time limit of ten minutes, and the theatre theme was the omnipresent sign on rear view mirrors, "Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear": a topic open to a myriad of interpretations.
Our school's play was about a girl called Noor. She had everything a girl wanted- a good education at an expensive boarding school, extravagant presents and gifts. The only thing wanting in her life was her parents' time and affection. The play depicts Noor's deep seated anguish and frustration; her latent grief that rises to the surface and finally erupts in an intense emotional outburst. I was both honored and terrified when the role of Noor was given to me. To build a complex character in a mere ten minutes seemed like a Herculean task. However, I connected with Noor. Having had studied at a boarding school myself, I understood the pangs of separation. I felt like I could make Noor my own.
The rehearsals began with an unprecedented ferocity. They were so intense, that at the end of a rehearsal, I would feel shaken and emotionally drained. My state of mind was in sync with Noor's state of mind- I started feeling frustrated with my parents, and began doubting myself. This took a toll on my relationship with my mother. She would often comment on how preoccupied I was with the play and how I was neglecting my academics. I felt perturbed whenever she spoke to me about this, though I knew she was right, and it led to many heated arguments between us. Slowly, I began to feel resentment and frustration, because her predictions were coming true. My schoolwork and other priorities had taken a backseat in the most crucial year of my school life. Despite the warning bells that my falling grades sounded, I continued with my drama rehearsals with continued vigor. However, I was not happy with my performance in the last and most dramatic scene of the play. I couldn't seem to summon the required emotional force, the intensity needed. Something was missing.
The morning of the competition dawned. The night before, my mother and I had had a bitter disagreement about my lack of structure and focus and my falling grades. Neither of us understood each others' point of view. She could not possibly understand how much the play meant to me. It came as a sickening shock when on the morning of the competition, my mother refused to let me leave the house to perform. Furious and indignant, I fought tooth and nail to make her see reason. My father intervened, and I did go for the play, but I was traumatized. I felt that the very foundation of the loving relationship I shared with my mother had been shaken. But I had no time to ruminate upon that. The curtains were up.
"Who is Noor? Who was Noor? What happened to Noor? She lost her way..."
The opening lines of the play seemed to perfectly illustrate my current state of mind. Noor and I were one. Emotions ran high as I took in the faces of the judges before me. I felt like I was going to win. But these images of triumph were constantly interrupted my my mother's anxious face, her look of consternation. No, I said to myself. Push it out of your head. The last scene of the play was about to begin.
"Mummy was my best friend...and Daddy was my hero."
These lines had never filled me with such deep emotions they did now. I gazed upon the silent, expectant audience, and I saw my mother sitting in the front row.
"You've pushed my away so far that I can't even find my way back to you...you don't know me anymore."
I looked at my mother's warm, familiar face. I was not Noor. I was me. I realized my own mistakes and misinterpretations. My mother would always be there for me, not as my enemy but my best friend who knows me better than anyone. At that moment, I shed Noor's skin and stepped into my own, to the tumultuous applause that resonated in the auditorium, as my tears flowed faster and thicker. My mother's proud, beaming face shone at me from a blur of faces.
I didn't win Best Actor. I came a close second. It didn't matter. I had already achieved my moment of triumph.
Essay prompt: Evaluate a significant experience, achievement, risk you have taken, or ethical dilemma you have faced and its impact upon you.
"Don't worry about winning. That'll happen. Just concentrate on feeling Noor's pain and you'll be fine."
My drama teacher's encouraging words did not bolster my rapidly waning self-confidence. They did not quench my burning desire, my acute need to be triumphant. I had to win the award of Best Actor in this year's interschool Theatre Competition. I was driven by an alien force; I had to win. I was standing at the edge of a precipice, in a situation so precarious that I could either soar or plummet. Why was it so important for me to win this competition? I didn't have an answer to that question.
The stage is my home. Few places fill me with such a sense of purpose and fulfillment. Stepping on to the familiar, polished planks of the wooden stage feels like treading on hallowed ground. Playing a role, or singing my heart out- the two ways that I can truly express myself are best done on that stage. It came as no surprise when I decided to audition for the school's theatre competition. The theatre entries for this competition had a time limit of ten minutes, and the theatre theme was the omnipresent sign on rear view mirrors, "Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear": a topic open to a myriad of interpretations.
Our school's play was about a girl called Noor. She had everything a girl wanted- a good education at an expensive boarding school, extravagant presents and gifts. The only thing wanting in her life was her parents' time and affection. The play depicts Noor's deep seated anguish and frustration; her latent grief that rises to the surface and finally erupts in an intense emotional outburst. I was both honored and terrified when the role of Noor was given to me. To build a complex character in a mere ten minutes seemed like a Herculean task. However, I connected with Noor. Having had studied at a boarding school myself, I understood the pangs of separation. I felt like I could make Noor my own.
The rehearsals began with an unprecedented ferocity. They were so intense, that at the end of a rehearsal, I would feel shaken and emotionally drained. My state of mind was in sync with Noor's state of mind- I started feeling frustrated with my parents, and began doubting myself. This took a toll on my relationship with my mother. She would often comment on how preoccupied I was with the play and how I was neglecting my academics. I felt perturbed whenever she spoke to me about this, though I knew she was right, and it led to many heated arguments between us. Slowly, I began to feel resentment and frustration, because her predictions were coming true. My schoolwork and other priorities had taken a backseat in the most crucial year of my school life. Despite the warning bells that my falling grades sounded, I continued with my drama rehearsals with continued vigor. However, I was not happy with my performance in the last and most dramatic scene of the play. I couldn't seem to summon the required emotional force, the intensity needed. Something was missing.
The morning of the competition dawned. The night before, my mother and I had had a bitter disagreement about my lack of structure and focus and my falling grades. Neither of us understood each others' point of view. She could not possibly understand how much the play meant to me. It came as a sickening shock when on the morning of the competition, my mother refused to let me leave the house to perform. Furious and indignant, I fought tooth and nail to make her see reason. My father intervened, and I did go for the play, but I was traumatized. I felt that the very foundation of the loving relationship I shared with my mother had been shaken. But I had no time to ruminate upon that. The curtains were up.
"Who is Noor? Who was Noor? What happened to Noor? She lost her way..."
The opening lines of the play seemed to perfectly illustrate my current state of mind. Noor and I were one. Emotions ran high as I took in the faces of the judges before me. I felt like I was going to win. But these images of triumph were constantly interrupted my my mother's anxious face, her look of consternation. No, I said to myself. Push it out of your head. The last scene of the play was about to begin.
"Mummy was my best friend...and Daddy was my hero."
These lines had never filled me with such deep emotions they did now. I gazed upon the silent, expectant audience, and I saw my mother sitting in the front row.
"You've pushed my away so far that I can't even find my way back to you...you don't know me anymore."
I looked at my mother's warm, familiar face. I was not Noor. I was me. I realized my own mistakes and misinterpretations. My mother would always be there for me, not as my enemy but my best friend who knows me better than anyone. At that moment, I shed Noor's skin and stepped into my own, to the tumultuous applause that resonated in the auditorium, as my tears flowed faster and thicker. My mother's proud, beaming face shone at me from a blur of faces.
I didn't win Best Actor. I came a close second. It didn't matter. I had already achieved my moment of triumph.