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The following is my college application essay. I hope you enjoy it.
The Slings and Arrows of Outrageous Fortune
The world is a vast and featureless expanse of sterile
white; an oppressive sea of nothingness that surrounds and consumes me from
every direction. I cannot tell if I am standing or floating in an invisible
current of potential. Now that is a
fascinating possibility, I think to myself, and I begin to feel the to and
fro motion of waves tugging at me. Concentrate. I take a slow, deep breath and focus on the
task at hand. I stare at the infinite
abyss that stretches out before me, and I will it to change. I summon my energy
and imagine the white burning away into… what? It should turn into something,
this much I know. I can feel it pressing against the boundaries of my mind, as
if it were from a dream I had almost forgotten. The whiteness seems to expand
further still, and I begin to feel the tugging of the waves, back and forth,
back and forth. This is useless. Angry
and beaten, I withdraw.
From my computer monitor a single blinking cursor seems to
mock me. I close Microsoft Word with disgust, and meet the devious gaze of the
Cheshire Cat as he grins knowingly from his fixed position in my Windows
background. “What good is a writer who can’t write?” I ask him and, as usual,
he does not respond- pictures are always such horrible conversationalists. I
continue anyway. “You know, I don’t think it’s possible to create a torture
device more ruthless than the blank page.”
I pause a moment to smile at the thought of MI6 agents threatening a
terrorist with a sheet of notebook paper, and then reluctantly open Word again.
This will be my fifth attempt at writing a college application essay. The topic
is one of my choosing, and for the life of me I cannot pick one. I give a
mirthless little grin at the irony of the situation. I am a writer who has
written countless stories and articles, has even published a few, and in the
moment I need every once of my ability to help me write the most important
essay of my short life- writer’s block.
Very well. We shall start the process over. Choose a topic. I glance at the bulletin
board behind my monitor, looking for anything that might spark an idea. A piece
of paper with “Don’t Panic!” written in large, friendly letters is tacked to
the board, and I mourn that Douglass Adams did not write The Hitchhiker’s
Guide to College Essays. Below that is a small medal- a bit of red, white
and blue ribbon that tapers down to hold a pewter eagle. The medal bears the
motto, “Be Prepared.” Memories flood into my mind. The cursor blinks patiently.
I’m dressed in a brown and green scout uniform, only vaguely
aware of the speaker beside me. “And so, in recognition of Matthew’s years of
service to the community, the Boy Scouts of America, and his leadership here in
Troop 787, he is awarded the rank of Eagle Scout.” A filled church, applause,
the flash of cameras. I stare at my feet in disbelief from my chair on the
stage, struggling to grasp the concept of what had just been said. These are words I never really expected to
hear. Of course, I have known for a month now that I have completed the
requirements for Eagle, but actually hearing someone acknowledge all of the
years of work, bug bites, and knot tying was-- “Matthew?” I look up to my
right, into the smiling face of Mr. Swanson. “Stand up,” he tells me, and I do
so in a hurried motion that is halfway between a leap and fall. He is holding
his hand out, so overwhelmed by the moment am I that it takes me a moment to
realize he wants to shake my hand. I grasp his outstretched hand firmly,
matching his grip, and he smiles again and tells me, “Congratulations.” Again I
wrestle with the word. In his other hand is a small ribbon with a pewter eagle
dangling from it, and this he pins to my chest with all the care and devotion
of a loving father. He has treated me like a son for years, I realize. His hands
are trembling slightly as he finishes pinning the medal, and when he looks back
up at me I notice something I have never seen from him before: there are tears
in his eyes.
The memory fades and I find myself dumbly staring, once
again, at my computer monitor. The cursor blinks at me in disgust. I furrow my
brow. How to capture the essence of my being in words? It is daunting task, and
I begin to wonder if it can even be done. In words, I would have to prove my worth;
demonstrate my love of learning. I do not count myself nearly so good a
wordsmith that I can fully transcribe the soul to paper- at least, not yet. One day, I think to myself. One day I will write a masterpiece that will live on after I am dead.
My life’s ambition is to write a novel with all the
intricate layers of meaning as Frank Herbert’s Dune. A book that
contains plots within plots, wheels within wheels, politics, philosophy; all of
the qualities that made me fall in love with Dune and writing itself. I
want to change the life of a child in the way Frank Herbert changed mine. I
work diligently towards that goal, following a longstanding duty to write every
day, and studying all I can of the craft. My bookshelf is filled with volumes
on writing techniques, studies of archetypes (I remember clearly the satisfyingly
baffled expression on the bookstore employee’s face when, at the ripe age of fourteen,
I told him I wanted to buy Joseph Campbell’s The Hero with a Thousand Faces
and a copy of Beowulf for my own enjoyment.) and studies of philosophy
and psychology.
I stand suddenly from my chair, nearly fall from the rush of
blood to my head, and manage to make my way to my bookcase. Kneeling, I look
through the titles- passing up such great works as The Gospel of the Flying
Spaghetti Monster, Citizen Soldiers, and Jung’s The Archetypes
and the Collective Unconscious-until I find the one I am looking for. The green
book I pull out is small, but thick with pages that have begun to succumb to
the yellowing of age. The cover reads, Come, Let Us Reason. My chest
tightens, and I pour through its words for the first time in years
I am in middle school, in Prestonwood
Christian Academy.
I am sitting at my desk in my sixth period World Views class, dressed in a
white and khaki uniform and tracing the grain in my desk’s wooden veneer with
my eyes. I understand the goal of the class- to teach us about other religions-
but it didn’t seem necessary in a school where, if someone dared present a view
slightly deviating from the infallible Bible, they were made fun of. I had
learned to stay quiet quickly. The teacher walks to the front of the room and
stands patiently in his tweed sweater. He is in his late fifties, and when he
speaks it is with a southern accent. In his hand is a small green book.
He starts off easily enough, and asks, “Does God have a plan
for our lives?” There is an immediate and unanimous “yes” from the class. I
remain silent; I no longer think so. “Why?” he asks the class. A few students
raise their hands, and he calls on one, who replies, “Because the Bible says
so.” The teacher- Mr. Littleton- quickly responds, “Yes, and the Bible also
says humans lived with dinosaurs, doesn’t it?” The student lowers his hand and
shifts uncomfortably; the entire room is caught off guard. I sit up in my
chair; he has my attention now. “I will ask again: Does God have a plan for our
lives?” I raise my hand. He looks at me and nods me to go ahead. “I don’t
know,” I admit. He smiles slightly, amused, and turns to write something on the
dry erase board behind him. “But I do know,” I continue, “That if God had a
plan it would mean we have no free will. Right? And I think,” I lick my lips,
“I think we have a sort of free will.” Mr. Littleton pauses for a moment, and
then writes two words on the board: “Causality,” and below it, “Nietzsche.” I
don’t know what either of the words mean. “Welcome to World Views,” Mr.
Littleton tells the class. He holds up the book he has been carrying. “This is
your textbook. With it, you will learn to use reason to defend your faith- not
just what your parents tell you is true. And in this class you will find that
there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your
philosophies.”
I set the book down and walk back to my computer. I still do
not know what to write. My college counselor made very clear the importance of
my essay, and I feel, not for the first time, angry at the reason that this is
so. I am ADD.
I did not know it for years. In elementary school I received
all As, and scored high on my tests. In middle school, however, these As
dropped to Bs- and these Bs to Cs. At first I thought I just needed to adjust
to the new school setting, but the grades never got better. It was not that I
did not understand the material- In class, I always scored the highest on my
tests. Homework was the problem. I would forget to do it, or leave it at home,
or lose it all together. My parents and
I tried everything to remedy this, from setting up elaborate day planners to
dietary supplements. Nothing worked. By the end of middle school my parents
suggested that I was ADD, and I was tested and found to be ADD positive.
Halfway through my freshman year of high school I was put on medication, and
the results were less than inspiring. I would get searing headaches, stomach
cramps, and nausea. I would refuse to eat as the medication suppressed my
appetite, and I lost weight. We tried several different medications, and each
one to the same effect. By the end of my sophomore year we gave up on medication
all together. For all the pain it caused me, I never saw the benefits of the
medication. My grades held at Cs, and despite scoring better than the vast
majority of my class on the TAKS tests and PSAT, I fell steadily into the
bottom fiftieth percentile; no man’s land, where colleges refuse to look at
you.
In the beginning of the second semester of my junior year,
my parents decided to try medication for me one last time, and I was skeptical.
I was skeptical all the way to the doctors office, I was skeptical on the way
to the pharmacy to get my Adderall prescription filled, and I was skeptical
when I first took the pill. By the afternoon of that first day, I was a
believer. I could focus, my mind didn’t wander, and despite a slight headache,
I could think with a clarity I hadn’t thought possible. And then, something
amazing happened. The first week went by, and I made As on all my assignments.
Then the second week went by, As on my papers and I didn’t miss a single due
date. This was unheard of. The first month went by, and soon the midterm test
went by, and later still, the school year ended. I made As in all of my classes
with ease. It was nothing short of a miracle to me. All of the frustrations of
the past were explained, all my suspicions that I wasn’t stupid were justified.
It was so unbelievable that I cried. I was a good student after all. But It was
too little too late.
We measure our lives in mathematical standards. Distance is
measured in meters. Time is measured in minutes, temperature is in degrees,
weight in pounds, intelligence in IQ, and students are measured in GPA. We
define our world by the cold indifference of scales, and we do it because we
love to think that everything can be expressed in terms of logic. If the
afterlife cannot be certain, then the physical world must be. When a six foot,
one hundred and fifty pound male Caucasian with an IQ of 131 finishes high
school with the impressive SAT score of 1410 and a perfect score on the reading
portion, and also has the fascinating GPA of 2.5, it tends to muck up the
scales. My success the latter part of my junior year was not enough to salvage
my GPA, that tiny little number that determines so much of my life. And so, I
pose a problem in the application process: I represent two extremes. It is a
cold scale that could be tipped in either direction, and it has come down to a
test of writing. I must prove my worth with words; show that I am more than a
name, an application, and a score.
My love is the love of learning.
I want a good education, one that will allow me every opportunity to develop my
full potential as a writer and a human being. I want the world to hear my
voice. College is more than a step after high school- it represents a doorway
to the future. Nothing is more important. Though I did not choose the path that
places me in such a tight corner, I must play the hand I have been dealt. It is
unfortunate that I did not find a working medication sooner, yes, but I do not
regret it. If I did not suffer from ADD, I would not have had the same
experiences and would not be the same person that I am today. In my studies of
philosophy I hold one thing as absolute certainty: everything happens for a
reason. Whatever decision is made concerning my application, I can at least
find comfort in that. Whichever direction my path may take me, I know it leads
to great things.
I think about these things, not for the first time, and
stare at the blinking cursor on my computer monitor. It awaits my words; a blank
page, a sea of potential. But this time, it is different. This time, I can see
past that white abyss to the story underneath, as if it were there the entire
time, in plain view. My hands find their places on the keyboard. I know now what
I will write. I take a slow, deep breath, and escape into the waves. |
