artstudent /
Aug 7, 2013 #1
The prompt is: Describe the world you come from-for example, your family, community, or school- and tell us how your world has shaped your dreams and aspirations. Does my "world" have to be about my family or community or school? Does it make sense if I write that slowly overcoming my shyness and low confidence has inspired me to want to take more risks as a future artist and fully overcome this shyness/low confidence?
Here's the start to my essay. I got stuck and can't continue :/
Obeying the demand of my tough second grade teacher, Mrs. Sanderson, I slowly stood up from my plastic blue chair. With my heartbeat escalating and thin fingers slightly trembling, I quickly perused the large classroom in front of me. A sea of eyes was directed at me--my peers waiting for me to simply answer the question. "WHAT? I CAN'T HEAR YOU!!" Mrs. Sanderson vigorously cupped her ear with her hand and replied to my silent words with a sonic boom. I repeated my answer only slightly louder, and once again, received the same but an even more roaring response. Although I was standing above the other kids in the room, I felt completely miniscule and diminished by flushing embarrassment. It was the middle of my second year as a young student in America, and my unfamiliarity in a new American school and inability to speak fluent English had draped a heavy diffidence over me.
By the end of fifth grade, I had changed in many ways. That lonely foreigner in a formal floral dress cluelessly wandering around in the tan-bark playground was no longer me. I wore the same kind of clothes and spoke as fluently and clearly as my classmates did. But one thing did not completely change. The quiet and shy part of me in the classroom did not disappear.
Here's the start to my essay. I got stuck and can't continue :/
Obeying the demand of my tough second grade teacher, Mrs. Sanderson, I slowly stood up from my plastic blue chair. With my heartbeat escalating and thin fingers slightly trembling, I quickly perused the large classroom in front of me. A sea of eyes was directed at me--my peers waiting for me to simply answer the question. "WHAT? I CAN'T HEAR YOU!!" Mrs. Sanderson vigorously cupped her ear with her hand and replied to my silent words with a sonic boom. I repeated my answer only slightly louder, and once again, received the same but an even more roaring response. Although I was standing above the other kids in the room, I felt completely miniscule and diminished by flushing embarrassment. It was the middle of my second year as a young student in America, and my unfamiliarity in a new American school and inability to speak fluent English had draped a heavy diffidence over me.
By the end of fifth grade, I had changed in many ways. That lonely foreigner in a formal floral dress cluelessly wandering around in the tan-bark playground was no longer me. I wore the same kind of clothes and spoke as fluently and clearly as my classmates did. But one thing did not completely change. The quiet and shy part of me in the classroom did not disappear.