Option #4: Describe a place or environment where you are perfectly content. What do you do or experience there, and why is it meaningful to you?
As I adjust my tie, dust off my suit, and take a deep breath... I know it's go time. I quickly morph my body into an old and decrepit creature and mutter, "E.T. phone-home!" This is speech, and it's what I do. Coming to school on a Saturday, suited up, and giving a speech on the role of women in the media, pretending to be congressmen debating the budget crisis, or, in my case, telling the familiar story of an alien named E.T. Some of my friends think that speech is dorky and uncool-but I love it. Speech fuels my competitive needs, and motivates me to go to tournaments and win. Although I didn't fall for speech to take home plastic trophies: the skills and relationships I've developed from this unusual activity take credit for shaping a large part of my personality.
When I'm not in a round I spend most of my Saturdays staring at a wall. Moving around my body trying to learn the different movements, expressions, emotions that E.T. is experiencing. I think about what it would feel like to be an alien on a distant planet, and with each line, how he struggles with human language, "oh... ah...blah." When I like a certain movement I'll try it again, and with the wall as my only audience member, I'll keep perfecting each movement until my next round. I'm not crazy; I'm just practicing my speech. Whoever coined the phrase, "practice makes perfect" was right. I always see the same kids, practicing to a wall, on the stage accepting an award at the end of the tournament.
I walk into a Spanish classroom with five other competitors and we all find a seat. The judge calls my name, and I walk to the front of the room, smile at the audience, and begin my rendition of E.T. The Extra Terrestrial by William Kotzwinkle. Ten minutes later, I give a bow, and examine a sea of eye rolls, smirks, and discontent by the other competitors-this is typical. I used to be terrified when others didn't respond positively to my acting, and I would stumble on lines, or forget portions of the speech. Now I've learned to not always care about what others think, and to just do what I think is best. Speech tournaments have taught me the importance of being confident.
The round is over, and everyone makes their way back to the cafeteria. I'm stopped by one of the other competitors from that last round. We walk back together laughing, talking about the round, and enjoying each other's company. I admire speech competitors because of the friendly shifts in mood they allow when the battle is over.
Several hundred teenagers sit in the auditorium to await the results. Then I hear my name announced. I rise from my seat and step on stage. I grip my trophy close to my chest while the lights flash brightly in my eyes, and listen to the beat of hands clashing together in a sequence that mimics my rapid heartbeat. In this moment I feel unstoppable, but once the moment is over it's time to get back to work.
As I adjust my tie, dust off my suit, and take a deep breath... I know it's go time. I quickly morph my body into an old and decrepit creature and mutter, "E.T. phone-home!" This is speech, and it's what I do. Coming to school on a Saturday, suited up, and giving a speech on the role of women in the media, pretending to be congressmen debating the budget crisis, or, in my case, telling the familiar story of an alien named E.T. Some of my friends think that speech is dorky and uncool-but I love it. Speech fuels my competitive needs, and motivates me to go to tournaments and win. Although I didn't fall for speech to take home plastic trophies: the skills and relationships I've developed from this unusual activity take credit for shaping a large part of my personality.
When I'm not in a round I spend most of my Saturdays staring at a wall. Moving around my body trying to learn the different movements, expressions, emotions that E.T. is experiencing. I think about what it would feel like to be an alien on a distant planet, and with each line, how he struggles with human language, "oh... ah...blah." When I like a certain movement I'll try it again, and with the wall as my only audience member, I'll keep perfecting each movement until my next round. I'm not crazy; I'm just practicing my speech. Whoever coined the phrase, "practice makes perfect" was right. I always see the same kids, practicing to a wall, on the stage accepting an award at the end of the tournament.
I walk into a Spanish classroom with five other competitors and we all find a seat. The judge calls my name, and I walk to the front of the room, smile at the audience, and begin my rendition of E.T. The Extra Terrestrial by William Kotzwinkle. Ten minutes later, I give a bow, and examine a sea of eye rolls, smirks, and discontent by the other competitors-this is typical. I used to be terrified when others didn't respond positively to my acting, and I would stumble on lines, or forget portions of the speech. Now I've learned to not always care about what others think, and to just do what I think is best. Speech tournaments have taught me the importance of being confident.
The round is over, and everyone makes their way back to the cafeteria. I'm stopped by one of the other competitors from that last round. We walk back together laughing, talking about the round, and enjoying each other's company. I admire speech competitors because of the friendly shifts in mood they allow when the battle is over.
Several hundred teenagers sit in the auditorium to await the results. Then I hear my name announced. I rise from my seat and step on stage. I grip my trophy close to my chest while the lights flash brightly in my eyes, and listen to the beat of hands clashing together in a sequence that mimics my rapid heartbeat. In this moment I feel unstoppable, but once the moment is over it's time to get back to work.