Prompt: Alumna and writer Anna Quindlen says that she "majored in unafraid" at Barnard. Tell us about a time when you majored in unafraid.
A child raised as I was, in a house filled with tension, grows intuitive enough to know not to press or push. As a survival instinct born of a child's self-preservation and the long-standing habit of judging the mood of others, the practice takes hold as easily and familiarly as setting pen to palm. At fourteen, I watched my mother exercise a silence familiar to both of us as her body turned bruised beneath my father's fist once again.
I finally pushed through, fighting against the instinct to flinch and pull back from the sound rising from my throat. My lungs rose in peace and my throat sung with relief, in breathless swells, crestfallen chokes. One word, shaped into coherency by my lips, told of David's performance on the harp before King Saul, of Samson's defeat at Delilah's treachery, of a broken Hallelujah whispered. The chord rung with tears in C Major, unafraid:
"Stop."
A child raised as I was, in a house filled with tension, grows intuitive enough to know not to press or push. As a survival instinct born of a child's self-preservation and the long-standing habit of judging the mood of others, the practice takes hold as easily and familiarly as setting pen to palm. At fourteen, I watched my mother exercise a silence familiar to both of us as her body turned bruised beneath my father's fist once again.
I finally pushed through, fighting against the instinct to flinch and pull back from the sound rising from my throat. My lungs rose in peace and my throat sung with relief, in breathless swells, crestfallen chokes. One word, shaped into coherency by my lips, told of David's performance on the harp before King Saul, of Samson's defeat at Delilah's treachery, of a broken Hallelujah whispered. The chord rung with tears in C Major, unafraid:
"Stop."
