Please let me know what you think. It's a bit long, so bear with me.
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I've always been a bit different. My parents frequently tell stories to friends and family about how overwhelming my curiosity was as a toddler. They reminisce of the times when we would go down to the beach and walk along the bike path. I would regularly stop bike riders and skateboarders and ask them questions. Questions like "where are you going?" or "when are you coming back?" seemed to evoke only blank and stupefied looks. Even when just walking down the street with my nanny, questions constantly hummed in the back of my brain. Like the insistent buzzing of a fly trapped in a room during the night, the questions I had drowned out all my other thoughts and desires, making me unable to focus on anything but the buzzing. After passing an interesting house, I would quickly retract my hand from my nanny's grasp and dart to the door that had become the center of my universe. I didn't care that she was yelling at me from the sidewalk in Spanish, because, weather she liked it or not, I had to know what was hiding behind that door. I was a bird. I was a plane. I was superman; not even kryptonite could stop me as I flew to that barrier shielding me from the unknown. After ringing the doorbell, I would stand there and wait for someone to come out. I had to know what was behind that door. I had to find that fly that was buzzing in my head.
I looked up at the door. The low drone of curiosity was always loudest when I thought of Mr. Beals. He was an old, crusty man of about sixty who lived in my neighborhood and who seemed to be at odds with the world. Kids were convinced that he was secretly an alien from Jupiter, sent on a mission to observe and report on the human race. He lived in "The Alamo House," dubbed by the children of the block due to its eerie resemblance to the Alamo. It had a door with grey wood and a black, wrought iron doorknob, and two windows that were perpetually covered with a thin coat of dust- they seemed to watch at you as you walked by on the sidewalk. It was that door that captivated me.
I am a history addict today. The bookshelf in my room is lined with biographies of men like Abraham Lincoln and Theodore Roosevelt, of former Secretaries of state and power-hungry dictators. These men interest me, but their ideas captivate me. Ideas are fickle things. They can hide in the farthest reaches of the mind or they can jump to its forefront; they can be ideas of humanitarian endeavors, or they can be ideas of egocentric, individual glory. However, no matter how different or controversial they may be, ideas are what define the world we live in. Lurking within the confines of biographies, petrified by the ink of a pen, are the ideas of some of the greatest minds to have ever walked this earth. It is my obsession to search for these creatures that play such crucial roles in the grand scheme of things. Although my doorbell-ringing craze ended twelve years ago, the constant buzzing of curiosity continuously drones on in the back of my brain.
I rang the doorbell. I would have dreams of space ships and aliens emerging from the Alamo House, of Mr. Beals asking me if I wanted to go with him to Jupiter. They were never scary dreams; I never woke in the middle of the night in a cold sweat like in the movies. If anything, these dreams drove my curiosity. One day, while walking by the Alamo House, the droning of the fly in my head became unbearable. I sprinted up Mr. Beals' redbrick steps that led to the Count-Chocula like door and I rang the doorbell.
Life as a senior has not been as grand as I was previously led to believe. I grind through the endless school week that pushes me to the boarder between sanity and insanity; the classes I take ensure that I get no more than 6 hours of sleep per night. My Saturdays are then usually spent driving to the middle of nowhere for a soccer game or two. By the time I get home, I usually have enough time to get a bite to eat with some friends down by the beach, or watch a Will Ferrell flick before I pass out from exhaustion. My Sunday mornings, however, are different- providing a respite from the all the stress and exhaustion that come with being a teenager. I wake up, warm a cup of hot cocoa, play some Bach of Schubert on the speakers in my room, and then choose a book to read while lying in bed. I see the works of Johann Sebastian Bach and Franz Schubert as riveting masterpieces that evoke sharp emotions and images within the mind's eye- yet they are also gentle lullabies, perfect for my Sunday mornings. The books I choose to read vary greatly. They can be my any one of my beloved historical biographies, a good Michael Crichton thriller, or even one of my childhood favorites- Harry Potter. No matter which book I choose to read or which concerto I decide to listen to, the simple fact that I am perusing my own intellectual pleasures always makes my heart smile.
I waited. The world around me went silent. I was a prisoner of my own thoughts. Filled with pictures of aliens and firefighters, secret agents and evil masterminds, anticipation of who would answer the door overwhelmed my senses. As I stood there in my Velcro sketchers and Power Rangers t-shirt, the anticipation of an alien opening the door did not frighten me- it exited me.
I have a need to understand the world around me, a drive that cannot be satisfied by the bare minimum. I have to go above and beyond to be fulfilled, and once I get there, I have to keep going. My intellectual curiosity keeps me from ever becoming complacent, but I would have it no other way. I am the five year old that has questions for everyone and everything and who rings doorbells no matter what people say. I am the five year old who is not scared of aliens, of the unknown- of the future. I am the five year old who is searching for the endless droning of a fly.
The door opens
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I've always been a bit different. My parents frequently tell stories to friends and family about how overwhelming my curiosity was as a toddler. They reminisce of the times when we would go down to the beach and walk along the bike path. I would regularly stop bike riders and skateboarders and ask them questions. Questions like "where are you going?" or "when are you coming back?" seemed to evoke only blank and stupefied looks. Even when just walking down the street with my nanny, questions constantly hummed in the back of my brain. Like the insistent buzzing of a fly trapped in a room during the night, the questions I had drowned out all my other thoughts and desires, making me unable to focus on anything but the buzzing. After passing an interesting house, I would quickly retract my hand from my nanny's grasp and dart to the door that had become the center of my universe. I didn't care that she was yelling at me from the sidewalk in Spanish, because, weather she liked it or not, I had to know what was hiding behind that door. I was a bird. I was a plane. I was superman; not even kryptonite could stop me as I flew to that barrier shielding me from the unknown. After ringing the doorbell, I would stand there and wait for someone to come out. I had to know what was behind that door. I had to find that fly that was buzzing in my head.
I looked up at the door. The low drone of curiosity was always loudest when I thought of Mr. Beals. He was an old, crusty man of about sixty who lived in my neighborhood and who seemed to be at odds with the world. Kids were convinced that he was secretly an alien from Jupiter, sent on a mission to observe and report on the human race. He lived in "The Alamo House," dubbed by the children of the block due to its eerie resemblance to the Alamo. It had a door with grey wood and a black, wrought iron doorknob, and two windows that were perpetually covered with a thin coat of dust- they seemed to watch at you as you walked by on the sidewalk. It was that door that captivated me.
I am a history addict today. The bookshelf in my room is lined with biographies of men like Abraham Lincoln and Theodore Roosevelt, of former Secretaries of state and power-hungry dictators. These men interest me, but their ideas captivate me. Ideas are fickle things. They can hide in the farthest reaches of the mind or they can jump to its forefront; they can be ideas of humanitarian endeavors, or they can be ideas of egocentric, individual glory. However, no matter how different or controversial they may be, ideas are what define the world we live in. Lurking within the confines of biographies, petrified by the ink of a pen, are the ideas of some of the greatest minds to have ever walked this earth. It is my obsession to search for these creatures that play such crucial roles in the grand scheme of things. Although my doorbell-ringing craze ended twelve years ago, the constant buzzing of curiosity continuously drones on in the back of my brain.
I rang the doorbell. I would have dreams of space ships and aliens emerging from the Alamo House, of Mr. Beals asking me if I wanted to go with him to Jupiter. They were never scary dreams; I never woke in the middle of the night in a cold sweat like in the movies. If anything, these dreams drove my curiosity. One day, while walking by the Alamo House, the droning of the fly in my head became unbearable. I sprinted up Mr. Beals' redbrick steps that led to the Count-Chocula like door and I rang the doorbell.
Life as a senior has not been as grand as I was previously led to believe. I grind through the endless school week that pushes me to the boarder between sanity and insanity; the classes I take ensure that I get no more than 6 hours of sleep per night. My Saturdays are then usually spent driving to the middle of nowhere for a soccer game or two. By the time I get home, I usually have enough time to get a bite to eat with some friends down by the beach, or watch a Will Ferrell flick before I pass out from exhaustion. My Sunday mornings, however, are different- providing a respite from the all the stress and exhaustion that come with being a teenager. I wake up, warm a cup of hot cocoa, play some Bach of Schubert on the speakers in my room, and then choose a book to read while lying in bed. I see the works of Johann Sebastian Bach and Franz Schubert as riveting masterpieces that evoke sharp emotions and images within the mind's eye- yet they are also gentle lullabies, perfect for my Sunday mornings. The books I choose to read vary greatly. They can be my any one of my beloved historical biographies, a good Michael Crichton thriller, or even one of my childhood favorites- Harry Potter. No matter which book I choose to read or which concerto I decide to listen to, the simple fact that I am perusing my own intellectual pleasures always makes my heart smile.
I waited. The world around me went silent. I was a prisoner of my own thoughts. Filled with pictures of aliens and firefighters, secret agents and evil masterminds, anticipation of who would answer the door overwhelmed my senses. As I stood there in my Velcro sketchers and Power Rangers t-shirt, the anticipation of an alien opening the door did not frighten me- it exited me.
I have a need to understand the world around me, a drive that cannot be satisfied by the bare minimum. I have to go above and beyond to be fulfilled, and once I get there, I have to keep going. My intellectual curiosity keeps me from ever becoming complacent, but I would have it no other way. I am the five year old that has questions for everyone and everything and who rings doorbells no matter what people say. I am the five year old who is not scared of aliens, of the unknown- of the future. I am the five year old who is searching for the endless droning of a fly.
The door opens
