I want to give people a sense of who I am, and I want the readers to think they may like me. But I don't want to sound trite or fake, because I mean to be sincere. I would greatly appreciate any comments or advice, no matter how harsh. As you'll read, I truly believe honesty is the best policy!
Also-any suggestions on an interesting TITLE?
The prompt is: Describe an experience you have had, a person who has influenced you, or an obstacle you have overcome, and explain why this is meaningful to you.
I am frantically drying my sweaty hands on my jeans, as I can tell that "The Pink Panther" is coming to a close. I'm up next. I steady my shaky fingers, because I know they are a necessity for what I am about to do. I smell the aroma of the thick, hideous dark green velvet curtains, a mix of must and old cafeteria food. I look down at the floor, its beat-up maple flooring a familiar comfort. I take a deep breath, look up, and exhale the jitters away. When I hear the hush of the crowd as they await their next performer, I confidently step forward. A flood of yellow stage lights momentarily blinds me. I peer out into the audience, and see my cafeteria packed with parents, teachers, and most intimidating of all, my fellow second graders. I know my parents are somewhere in the sea of fold out chairs. I seat myself on the hard wooden piano bench and open my book to the bunny-eared page for "Hurry Scurry". Once my left pinky hits that C note, any lingering stage fright rushes out through my hands and into the staccato melody. Before I know it, I've reached the Coda, and something doesn't feel right. I see that I have repeated the same section, and missed the second ending. Realizing my mistake, I immediately stop playing. Turning and meeting the gaze of my adoring fans, I declare, "Oops, I messed up!" To my astonishment, two hundred kids and adults burst out laughing. I wanted to finish my song, but before I can utter a word of protest, the spotlight dims. I am shooed off the stage, the howling laughter still echoing in my ears.
Flash forward ten years, as I sit at my kitchen table on a Sunday afternoon, staring intently out the window. As the quiet hands of our old kitchen clock tick away, I recall the memory of my second grade talent show, and I can't help but laugh. No matter how old I was, my unabashed honesty has definitely gotten me into trouble sometimes. At age six it was enforcing the proper way for my mom to tuck me in (hands trapped under the covers, kiss on the forehead, and a "Goodnight punky-dew"). At age nine it was telling my brother the right way to spell "university" on his college applications, and my sister that her new shirt did indeed make her look fat. At thirteen, it was correcting my mom's best friend's use of "lend" versus "borrow", and at sixteen, it was telling my AP Euro teacher that he got the date wrong of the French Tennis Court Oath.
However, my raw honesty has also made me a better person. According to the Merriam-Webster dictionary, honesty is defined as "fairness and straightforwardness of conduct; adherence to the facts. Integrity, truthfulness, veracity, sincerity." In my last soccer game, I admitted I kicked it out; last Friday night I was truthful to my parents where I was. The words of my English paper are entirely my own, and I didn't look at my mom's cards in last night's gin rummy game. Honesty has given me the loyalty of my friends and the love of my family. It has allowed me to be true to myself. I can admit my mistakes, but I can also look at myself and be proud of who I see.
The peace that has come with being honest about who I am, imperfections and all, is astounding. The night of my fatal "Hurry Scurry" incident taught me that no song has to be perfect. It is okay to make mistakes, and it is most important to be honest with yourself and others.
I'm back in the crowded cafeteria, unabashedly declaring "Oops, I messed up." As I'm being pushed backstage, this time I don't hear the audience howling and making fun of me. I recognize the laughter as parents and friends who are refreshed at the unapologetic and unafraid honesty of an eight (or an eighteen) year old girl.
I simply loved the descriptive essay you wrote. You are a good writer. I did make one correction, as it is indicated below. I would also probably change the word "mom" and write "mother" each time it appears in the essay. Otherwise, I think that you have an excellent essay here.
--Mark
I am frantically drying my sweaty hands on my jeans, as I can tell that "The Pink Panther" is coming to a close. I'm up next. I steady my shaky fingers, because I know they are a necessity needed for what I am about to do.
