Reference no: EM131198492
Personal Narrative Essay
For Essay #2, the Personal Narrative, you will be writing a short essay (at least 3-4 pages in length) about a significant event in your own life. This event need not --and probably should not--be inherently, overly dramatic. Sometimes the most influential moments in our lives are smaller moments, events that we may not recognize as influential until years after the experience. In the personal narrative essay, you will want to tell the story as accurately as you can-search your deep memory-and tell the story from your own perspective. You will also want to exercise your selectivity as a writer, choosing to summarize background information/exposition, and really dramatize important scenes for the reader.
Sample
Spc Shannon Thomas
Fort Riley, Kansas
"My Dancing Roots"
Like rain showers breaking the silence of midnight, the thunderous applause poured over that final sustained-for-emphasis A-flat and me. My friends were whistling and hooting like they just heard their favorite song by their idolized music artist at a sold-out concert. I was all smiles. Although it was only my first vocal music recital at my new high school, my new friends truly made me feel celebrated. We were all artists, born and made from the same peculiar passion that drives us to dedicate ourselves daily to the perfecting of whatever it is we do. Family oriented by choice, there was a nurturing and supportiveness that was contagious among the students and faculty. This school required a rigorous two auditions and an interview with the principal and a senior faculty member from the students intended major. The end result, I shared the hallway with only 200+ students from grades eight through twelve. I have experience singing in Italian, Latin, French, German, Hebrew, and Spanish. Being a vocal music major with a minor in performance piano is what I have always done and was always perfectly content doing. Imagine the awkwardness when I found out that this small performing arts high-school was so exclusively "artsy" that for Physical Education credits, students are required to take Ballet Technique Level I to fulfill the requirement! I distinctly remember thinking, "This is going to be the biggest, longest, stupidest waste of time."
Most non-dancers shared this depressing requiem. Over lunch the 16-year-old prodigy trumpet player laments how a dance teacher tried to make him stretch his legs open, "This wide!" with his arms outstretched like the crucified Man Of Sorrows. The Sophomore painter shows a doodle of the dizzying stars she saw when they tried to teach her to just spin and spin from one end of the dance studio to the other. A Communications student described his tragedy at Ballet I, as an event so calamitous it "should have been televised." Clumsily dodging the other beginners as he fumbled through each combination looked less like dancing and more like these beginners had synchronized the ants in there pants. "Anti-graceful" was the agreed upon description for all non-dancers. I was definitely not looking forward to my "first class" experience.
The dressing room was a mixed territory of veteran ballerinas and the tenderfoot wannabe's that would dare hold a class within a mile of their talent. The distinctions in dress between the two groups were strikingly obvious to me. We all hold to the same basic standard of black tights, leotard, and hair in a neat bun or chignon out of the face and off the neck. Still, there were details in the clothing itself that separated the novice from the seasoned. The experts wore hundred-times-washed, simple leotards, tights that used to be footed but now had lost fights with a scissor along the way up their bulging calf muscles, some had leg-warmers borrowed from the 1980's, with functional-looking shoes that looked danced to death. They were quite unashamed of their neat-pauper kind of look. The aspirants were like seventh-graders on the first day of school, all fixated on making a good first impression with every shred of dance apparel brand new. I noted that the vets looked prepared to break a sweat and the wannabe's were, of course, clueless.
We filed in slowly like wallflowers, utterly afraid of the open space with a tell-all-your-secrets mirror that spanned one entire wall. The instructor pranced in motivated to embarrass a fresh group of victims assembled for his viewing entertainment. He instead graciously encouraged this group of painters, musicians, and playwrights, with words of affirmation and empathy. He began as a graphic artist himself and got wooed into the dance world. A community of racing pulses instantly slowed to a shared sigh of relief as his speech ended with his humble admission of familiarity to our scary and new world. "Now class, approach the barres." It was time to begin.
Though he moved like molasses through the first combinations it was surprisingly tough to mimic. Contorting into strange twists and bends was taking a toll on my body after the first week. I finally decided to try to embrace and maybe even think about enjoying being a dance student though I truly would have been happy to simply learn the classical piano music we were wasting on the Dance Department. Over the passing weeks the class, as a whole, improved steadily and we began to respect and admire the craft as well as take on new challenges. One morning my teacher required of us an impossible task . In our first lessons we would do each combo with our beloved instructor in front of us as we all faced the mirror for reinforcement. Now we are being required to dance with him out of our sight for cues. Without him front and center to guide our intended outcome, it was much harder to remember what to make your leg and arm do simultaneously, plus when to do it! Not only did my muscles ache, my brain was now a cardholding member of the, "Organs and Muscle Groups Who Hate Shannon Association". After painful attempts with some few victories, we eventually got used to not being bottle-fed our choreography. A few of us even acquired a hole here and there in our tights and shoes. Yes!!
When women cry, I have heard it said from men that they can never really tell which emotion has surfaced, so either way a well-meaning hug is usually appropriate. The following year and several thousand dance steps later, I signed up for the next level in dance instruction. My request was denied. A knot got stuck in my throat then found it's way all the way down to my heart and I said to my self, maybe next semester. I cried. Disappointed, I began wrapping my mind around the fact that I was probably destined to just be a singer who played piano. I showed the transcript to a good friend who pointed out that a certain code did not denote a denial, but a skip to the next level higher than I originally requested. My dance teachers had decided I was progressing rapidly enough to skip all intermediate dance courses and proceed to Advanced level 1. I cried, again Then somewhere in between, this happiness made me jump up and down in the hallway clapping.
I remember the day I entered that same locker room with a new attitude. The newbie's were still dressed as newbies, and the experts were still identifiable as experts. Where do I fit in? I looked in a small mirror to see that I resembled an expert on the outside, but felt like a newbie that secretly acquired a backstage pass to an expert class. The weeks went by and there were a lot of times I felt like I was a kitten breathlessly struggling to run among cheetahs. The combinations were more precise, and the transitions from one combo to the next were quicker, almost seamless. I was beginning to accept my place in the rankings as the least experienced expert. You know the one who, as a peer, you never really go to with a question, but usually approach with your own good advice and tips. Whenever a new dance move is taught, we all attempt the choreography one by one in a sort of conga line across the floor. The student who performs it the most accurate is called out to express it alone so the rest of the class can learn a bit more about how to correctly execute. One day, we were all taught a brand new type of leap and after demonstrating our attempts one by one, I was called out! I thought I had done something so wrong, I would be told that I represent what NOT to do. Turns out I was the only dancer who demonstrated an understanding of what the leap should look like. I did the combination solo and received smiles, pats on the back, and a reassurance that I was in the right place. I leaped the highest I had ever leaped, right into the stride of a cheetah.
My report back at the lunch table that first day of a new school year was one animated with surprise and excitement as I learned that I was maybe multi-talented! My story began like theirs once did, but I discovered the lesson in my experience was in blooming where I was planted. When I perceived I was plopped into a rocky place unfit for the kind of growth I was interested in, I had to uncomfortably tunnel deeper to find that there was good soil beneath. My dancing roots can now be traced to that famous school of the arts where I had begun dancing and have yet to stop to this day.