Thank you for reading!
1. a) What experience in high school has mattered most to you? How do you see this experience influencing your decision-making in college?
-----------------------------------
My Deformed Finger
It's ugly, it's pale and it looks rather distorted - it's my deformed finger. Family and friends wonder why I have it, but I'm not bothered by it at all. In fact, I'm quite fine with it lying on my shelf. Now before you begin to assume anything unpleasant, allow me to tell you the story of how I obtained it.
I remember that day very well. I was sitting in the school's office, my back hunched over and my eyes staring at the floor. The Vice Principal was standing in front of me, waiting.
"What's your decision, Tesha?"
I racked my brain for a reply but an assortment of faces flashed in my mind, impeding any rational thoughts. Among them I could see my mother, my father, and my art teacher, all nodding in approval.
"Tesha, I don't think you should continue with this," my parents explained.
"Girl, you're overworked," my art teacher added.
What was I supposed to say? There was a long pause.
"No," I finally stuttered to the Vice Principal. "I won't drop it."
No matter how hard my parents and my teacher tried to convince me to do it, I couldn't drop Art class.
It was the first year of Sixth Form*, and I knew I was stressed. You could walk into my bedroom and see it in the pile of juice bottles on my desk, next to the stacks of reading material and unfinished homework. In one night, I would be writing my Spanish speech with one hand, drafting my French essay with the other, while the rest of my work would be on the floor tickling my feet, waiting to be completed. Art was almost always at the bottom of my to-do lists, because it had the most time-consuming assignments. As a result, I was rather behind in Art.
But when the Vice Principal offered me the choice to relieve some of my burden, I just couldn't do it. Maybe it was my own stubbornness, or even pride, but I couldn't bring myself to tell her "Yes". I wouldn't just be saying, "Yes, I want to discontinue art," but I would be admitting, "Yes, I'm a coward. Yes, I want to give up." So out of the many voices that swirled in my head that day, I chose to listen to only one of them - my own. I left the office with a strange mix of complacency and anxiety. Although I felt glad to have followed my instincts, I was worried that I had made the wrong decision.
Now that I was stuck with Art and my other classes were out of the way, I wasted no time in getting started. I dragged a table into my room, plopped my art materials on top of it, and bolted my bedroom door. I had one week. One week to complete all my artwork to be mailed to the overseas examination office. Would I finish? I wasn't sure, but my hands already seemed to have an answer. My fingers started shaking terribly by the third day, but they didn't stop creating pencil stroke after pencil stroke. They continued to mold the noses and lips of my statues-to-be. By the end of the week, I was covered in so much clay that I resembled the sculptures themselves.
But then I messed up one of the ears, and my frustration reached its peak. I was about to hurl the piece of clay at the wall when I noticed the ridges running along the finger-like lump. There was water trapped between these eskers, unable to surmount the raised bumps of the clay. They reminded me of the obstacles I had faced, and had failed to overcome. I had failed to cope with my busy schedule. I had failed to satisfy the demands of my Art class, and I would probably even fail to finish all these pieces of art on time. Yet here I was. In spite of all the stress and all the suggestions made by my supervisors, I was still trying. I didn't know if my efforts would even amount to anything in the end, but I didn't care. I wasn't about to give up just yet. Inspired by my own perseverance, I placed the disfigured finger on the floor and continued sculpting.
Yes, I still remember that day, feeling completely defeated in the school office. I knew I had failed at that point, and I will probably fail many more times in my life. But I also learned that defeat will only be defeat if you let it be. The Vice Principal gave me a choice - to walk away from Art or to pursue it anyway. I chose to make an effort. As long as the bridge to success was there, no matter how shaky it was, I would still try to cross it.
That contorted clay finger was one such blunder in my string of mistakes, but I didn't smash it against the wall. Instead I rested it on my shelf, scribbling Marilyn vos Savant's quote at the bottom: "Being defeated is often a temporary condition. Giving up is what makes it permanent." That is the anthem of my life.
--------------------------------------
Please give me some helpful critique...and I need to shorten this thing, but I don't know which part to cut off/edit. Also, do you think this works better as my CommonApp essay instead?
Thanks again! :) Will crit back.
1. a) What experience in high school has mattered most to you? How do you see this experience influencing your decision-making in college?
-----------------------------------
My Deformed Finger
It's ugly, it's pale and it looks rather distorted - it's my deformed finger. Family and friends wonder why I have it, but I'm not bothered by it at all. In fact, I'm quite fine with it lying on my shelf. Now before you begin to assume anything unpleasant, allow me to tell you the story of how I obtained it.
I remember that day very well. I was sitting in the school's office, my back hunched over and my eyes staring at the floor. The Vice Principal was standing in front of me, waiting.
"What's your decision, Tesha?"
I racked my brain for a reply but an assortment of faces flashed in my mind, impeding any rational thoughts. Among them I could see my mother, my father, and my art teacher, all nodding in approval.
"Tesha, I don't think you should continue with this," my parents explained.
"Girl, you're overworked," my art teacher added.
What was I supposed to say? There was a long pause.
"No," I finally stuttered to the Vice Principal. "I won't drop it."
No matter how hard my parents and my teacher tried to convince me to do it, I couldn't drop Art class.
It was the first year of Sixth Form*, and I knew I was stressed. You could walk into my bedroom and see it in the pile of juice bottles on my desk, next to the stacks of reading material and unfinished homework. In one night, I would be writing my Spanish speech with one hand, drafting my French essay with the other, while the rest of my work would be on the floor tickling my feet, waiting to be completed. Art was almost always at the bottom of my to-do lists, because it had the most time-consuming assignments. As a result, I was rather behind in Art.
But when the Vice Principal offered me the choice to relieve some of my burden, I just couldn't do it. Maybe it was my own stubbornness, or even pride, but I couldn't bring myself to tell her "Yes". I wouldn't just be saying, "Yes, I want to discontinue art," but I would be admitting, "Yes, I'm a coward. Yes, I want to give up." So out of the many voices that swirled in my head that day, I chose to listen to only one of them - my own. I left the office with a strange mix of complacency and anxiety. Although I felt glad to have followed my instincts, I was worried that I had made the wrong decision.
Now that I was stuck with Art and my other classes were out of the way, I wasted no time in getting started. I dragged a table into my room, plopped my art materials on top of it, and bolted my bedroom door. I had one week. One week to complete all my artwork to be mailed to the overseas examination office. Would I finish? I wasn't sure, but my hands already seemed to have an answer. My fingers started shaking terribly by the third day, but they didn't stop creating pencil stroke after pencil stroke. They continued to mold the noses and lips of my statues-to-be. By the end of the week, I was covered in so much clay that I resembled the sculptures themselves.
But then I messed up one of the ears, and my frustration reached its peak. I was about to hurl the piece of clay at the wall when I noticed the ridges running along the finger-like lump. There was water trapped between these eskers, unable to surmount the raised bumps of the clay. They reminded me of the obstacles I had faced, and had failed to overcome. I had failed to cope with my busy schedule. I had failed to satisfy the demands of my Art class, and I would probably even fail to finish all these pieces of art on time. Yet here I was. In spite of all the stress and all the suggestions made by my supervisors, I was still trying. I didn't know if my efforts would even amount to anything in the end, but I didn't care. I wasn't about to give up just yet. Inspired by my own perseverance, I placed the disfigured finger on the floor and continued sculpting.
Yes, I still remember that day, feeling completely defeated in the school office. I knew I had failed at that point, and I will probably fail many more times in my life. But I also learned that defeat will only be defeat if you let it be. The Vice Principal gave me a choice - to walk away from Art or to pursue it anyway. I chose to make an effort. As long as the bridge to success was there, no matter how shaky it was, I would still try to cross it.
That contorted clay finger was one such blunder in my string of mistakes, but I didn't smash it against the wall. Instead I rested it on my shelf, scribbling Marilyn vos Savant's quote at the bottom: "Being defeated is often a temporary condition. Giving up is what makes it permanent." That is the anthem of my life.
--------------------------------------
Please give me some helpful critique...and I need to shorten this thing, but I don't know which part to cut off/edit. Also, do you think this works better as my CommonApp essay instead?
Thanks again! :) Will crit back.
