Hi guys, I was wondering if this essay answered the second part of the UC prompt (what about this makes you proud and how does it relate to the person you are?) I think it does subtly, but should I say it more explicitly? Any other constructive criticism would help. Thanks!
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6:00. Beep. Beep. Beep. This is it. Click. The day I've been waiting for, for a whole week - weeks, months. I need to be there early. I'm never early. But today is different.
On the way to school, I recite the information quietly to myself; I know it all from the top of my head. Kingdom: Animalia. Phylum: Annelida. Class, order, family... okay, I don't know all of it, but it's an earthworm. Nevertheless, anticipation builds up within me and threatens to burst from my body from the inside out if I have to wait five minutes longer. I can only imagine the absolute ecstasy I would be in upon the clink of metal tools, the snap of rubber gloves, the gruesome vision.
I jog briskly up the stairs and across the courtyard and arrive at my destination: Room 52, my haven of boyish wonder and potential for the future. Today, the aroma pervading the lab is delightfully repulsive as the scent of formaldehyde kisses my nostrils. I take a seat and listen to the Mr. Morris, the instructor: "This is a scalpel. These are forceps..." I become so engulfed in the lesson that it seems only seconds have passed since I entered the room, but finally, it's time to begin.
The operation commences. As I watch my peers saw zigzags playfully into the specimen, I take my time, caring for my gift of life and knowledge. I jot down some notes: Subject is 33 centimeters. Tan. Segmented. Gently grabbing the specimen with a pair of shiny yet slightly rusting tweezers, I proceed to the first incision, cutting a vertical line cleanly into the creature, exposing its organs. I pull back the sides of its epidermis and pin it to the hard, black waxy surface of the tray. I label more parts with a pin and masking tape: Cerebral ganglia. Gizzard. Accessory hearts. Coelom. Minutes pass without me noticing, and by the time we finish the dissection, I have labeled my specimen from top to bottom. I now know it intimately: its life, its habits, every inch of it I am now very familiar with.
8:06. Ding. Ding. Ding. Wiping my hands, I leave the room even more enlightened and even more fascinated than I entered. I see myself twenty years from now, in a bright white lab coat, centrifuging test tubes, fine-tuning electron microscopes, collecting data, sharing my knowledge, exposing life for all to see, and displaying my work to audiences. Now I know, science is an art. I am the artist.
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6:00. Beep. Beep. Beep. This is it. Click. The day I've been waiting for, for a whole week - weeks, months. I need to be there early. I'm never early. But today is different.
On the way to school, I recite the information quietly to myself; I know it all from the top of my head. Kingdom: Animalia. Phylum: Annelida. Class, order, family... okay, I don't know all of it, but it's an earthworm. Nevertheless, anticipation builds up within me and threatens to burst from my body from the inside out if I have to wait five minutes longer. I can only imagine the absolute ecstasy I would be in upon the clink of metal tools, the snap of rubber gloves, the gruesome vision.
I jog briskly up the stairs and across the courtyard and arrive at my destination: Room 52, my haven of boyish wonder and potential for the future. Today, the aroma pervading the lab is delightfully repulsive as the scent of formaldehyde kisses my nostrils. I take a seat and listen to the Mr. Morris, the instructor: "This is a scalpel. These are forceps..." I become so engulfed in the lesson that it seems only seconds have passed since I entered the room, but finally, it's time to begin.
The operation commences. As I watch my peers saw zigzags playfully into the specimen, I take my time, caring for my gift of life and knowledge. I jot down some notes: Subject is 33 centimeters. Tan. Segmented. Gently grabbing the specimen with a pair of shiny yet slightly rusting tweezers, I proceed to the first incision, cutting a vertical line cleanly into the creature, exposing its organs. I pull back the sides of its epidermis and pin it to the hard, black waxy surface of the tray. I label more parts with a pin and masking tape: Cerebral ganglia. Gizzard. Accessory hearts. Coelom. Minutes pass without me noticing, and by the time we finish the dissection, I have labeled my specimen from top to bottom. I now know it intimately: its life, its habits, every inch of it I am now very familiar with.
8:06. Ding. Ding. Ding. Wiping my hands, I leave the room even more enlightened and even more fascinated than I entered. I see myself twenty years from now, in a bright white lab coat, centrifuging test tubes, fine-tuning electron microscopes, collecting data, sharing my knowledge, exposing life for all to see, and displaying my work to audiences. Now I know, science is an art. I am the artist.
